Thursday, August 30, 2007

Variations of an Echo in Si Minor

This poem is a translation of the previous post and could not sound more fluent without sacrificing its original meaning. I did my best to try to preserve the impact of words and poetic touch inserted in the Portuguese version.


Frigid, silent, dark
I will certainly return
To where I came to be
In the very beginning

When the saga began
Inclined me to move forward
And take a steady walk
Along the orbit of existence

The cycle of a life
With rights to many deaths
Building deconstructions
Fragmenting each layer

I shall then return
To be what I am not
To be what once I was

To be not being
Like a rain drop falling
Into the ocean
Becomes itself the ocean

Because the mirror outlines
My body, the idea
Of counterfeit unity

While deeper within
Multiplied are the “mes”
I never got to meet

Of all, I’m a collector
Wishing to hijack the “mes”
Subconsciously, and hang them
To dry on a string

Once they’re parched
I put them on
Just like a brand-new t-shirt

And go out for a stroll
Exposing the latest
Version of me
Reviewed and up-to-date



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Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Variações de um Eco em Si Menor

Escuro, mudo, negro
Com certeza irei voltar
Para onde eu vim a ser
No começo, bem lá no começo

Quando a saga se iniciou
E só restava seguir em frente
Para dá uma passeada
Na órbita da existência

O ciclo de uma vida
Com direito a muitas mortes
Construir desconstruindo
Desfragmentando por camadas

Voltarei então,
A ser quem já não sou
A ser o que já fui

Para ser um ser não-ser
Como uma gota d’água
Que se dilui no oceano
Para ser o próprio oceano

Porque o espelho delimita
Meu corpo, a contemplação
De uma pseudo-unidade

Enquanto mais adentro
Multiplicam-se os “eus”
Que não cheguei a conhecer

No mais, sou colecionador
Quero seqüestrar os “eus”
Do inconsciente, pendurá-los
Para secar em meu varal

Quando estão bem enxutos
Os visto como quem acaba
De ganhar uma nova camiseta

E saio pra caminhar
Expondo a mais nova
Versão de mim mesmo
Revista e atualizada

Thursday, August 23, 2007

if I were a girl...



This is the kind of painting that is better exteriorized when I’m in tune with myself. My hands can be two things: an annex to my arm or an annex to my soul. It’s all about connecting the hands to the soul, which obviously is not always possible. But I do try to take advantage of those inspirational moments and believe that the purpose of art is one worth seeking. Funny thing to say that through out the painting I kept thinking to myself: “If I were a girl, this is probably who I’d be.”

Este é o tipo de pintura que melhor se exteriorize quando estou em sintonia comigo mesmo. Minhas mãos podem ser duas coisas: um anexo para meu braço ou um anexo para minha alma. O alvo é conectar as mãos com a alma, o que obviamente nem sempre é possível. Mas eu tento tirar vantagem dos momentos de inspiração e acredito que o propósito da arte é um que se deve buscar. Engraçado dizer que ao longo da pintura pensei: “Se eu fosse uma menina, isto seria eu.”

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

The Stillness Residing

Clare tagged me to write 8 random things about myself and I thought poetry was the best way of doing so. It was very fun to do and a it's pleasure to share. I was supposed to tag eight more fellows but most of them had already gotten tagged so I’ll leave it for another opportunity. Here goes the following.


Silence has a drive
To give my thoughts voice
Where details gain life
And texture is surfaced

I dwell on small things
The ones we take for granted
For being so simple
Are then found complex

A closer look I’ll give
To view the view with heart
And grasp the greater whole
Within the whole my part

Of function and of duty
Of feelings and of beauty
Of never letting go
And loving all I know

In smiling there’s a gift
To teach us about art
A precious loving gift
To words I choose omit

While sleeping on a branch
Extension of a dream
My roots have punctured earth
And earth has punctured me




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This poem has also been posted on Monday Poetry. For more click here

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Unearthing Bonds

Photo by jkairvar on Flickr


I love my dear siblings
My partners in hunger
We feed off of hugs
And float around like nothing
Touching the surroundings
With a light that bleeps red
Every time zero becomes one
And void becomes form
Because I can’t be grasped
But I find myself where others find me

Saturday, August 11, 2007

Goosebumps (Sunday Scribblings)

Life
Is one big goosebump
Is one big ride

An active volcano
Boiling sensitivity
Feelings

That tinkles the skin
Slip ice cubes on bones
Of will and of longing

Of wanting to be
Of being to want
And reaching

Stomach eccentricity
Its upper part screams
In silence

Yet screams indeed
Higher than throats
Louder than amplifiers

It has its own amplifier
Rocking inside me
With mosh pits of tension

And leads of anxiety
Oh well, life
Is one big goosebump

Is one big ride
If one lives for real
If one does not hide


http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/

Thursday, August 9, 2007

Plant like Dreams


Colored leafs
Exhale glory
Surfaced soil
Sunshine Mornings

Watered grass
Sips the earth
Drizzling rain
Faded thirst

Sprinkled herbs
Soaked in green
Roots that grab
Dirt that feeds

Showered light
Drawing shades
Bathes the grass
Glared by rays

Evening sets
Twirls the sky
Down below
Petals sigh

Crickets hymn
Owls peek
Drips of stars
Moonlight beams

Tuesday, August 7, 2007

Poem by John Frusciante / Poema de John Frusciante



Here’s the John Frusciante poem I promised. I transcribed it out of a movie directed by Johnny Depp in 1993/94 at JFs Hollywood Hills home. There’s a You Tube link below where you can watch this short movie. John was having trouble with drugs at this time and anyone who knows his work now-a-days must be glad he got out of it. The words in the poem are strange but I can clearly see the beauty.

Aqui está o poema de John Frusciante que prometi. Foi transcrito de um filme dirigido por Johnny Depp em 1993/94 na casa de John em Hollywood. Tem um link do You tube mais embaixo onde você pode assistir ao filme. Nesta época, John estava tendo problemas com drogas e qualquer um que conheça seu trabalho recente deve estar feliz que ele tenha saído dessa. As palavras do poema são estranhas, mas eu consigo ver sua beleza.


“Stuff”

Cherries you were one way ahead to sour through their fake little back black cloth. It’s a passage way to drive, walk, or run through, or the wind and water to carry you. I expect what didn’t happen just now but it just happened. It lifted me up part of the pouring sky’s wine, embodied the trail designed by the shadow never forward or up or down or climbing. The top is the bottom so there’s no rush and you don’t get tired. Just nows. When, if you burn the stream, it’s around your time. Bearing it with whatever dooms itself to the wrath of light, coz’ down, it means like “me bes”, coz’ you do it to them. I’ve been falling around so long mistaken to kill for being so thin. I could flip the inside out: the song of trash that could rise in depression noon. ( ? ) I assume that whatever slides and runs around spending life figured flip each day to the night that holds itself in conviction, folding pain tightly so it knows what it means. But its silence bows to be all that bleeds. Like me, it knows the sides, and what it needs to keep trying, and it didn’t mean to be any “I ache you”. My body is light coz’ the weight of whatever is carrying it through the weak traps around will bleed. I’ve stepped anyway, not fallen, like being on my way to be. I’ll never go empty, but thanks. To: F.E. Sitting around feels like running in clouds dangled me from their thighs who I didn’t even cross where life is here, coz’ my love is crying. I’ll share the way I’ve lost, coz’ I’m a pretend me. And I’m real coz’ I can hit me softly and bleed. Blood, I can hear, coz’ I’m near now, and it’s far from me, fall back into the ground, flipped out though its holes, then, when the whole thing landed is unimportant as long as I’m given the thing that swirls like selling dreams to cannabis, telling to the jump three.

"Coisas"


Cerejas, vocês estavam um caminho à frente para azedar o pequeno-falso-preto-pano das costas deles. É uma passagem para dirigir, andar, ou correr nela, ou o vento e a água para lhe carregar. Eu esperava o que não aconteceu agora, mas aconteceu. Levantou-me a fazer parte do vinho do céu jorrando, incorporou a trilha designada pelas sombras, nunca para frente, nem para baixo, nem subindo. O topo é o fundo então não existe pressa e você não fica cansado. Apenas “agoras”. Quando, se você queimar a correnteza, está pelo seu tempo. Suportando-o com qualquer coisa que se condene ou furor da luz, porque embaixo, tem o sentido de “eu seres”, porque você faz isso a eles. Eu tenho caído por ai por tanto tempo, enganado a matar por tão magro ser. Eu poderia virar ao avesso: a música de lixo que poderia se levantar na depressão do entardecer. ( ? ) Eu presumo que qualquer coisa que escorregue e corra solto gastando vida resolveu transpor cada dia para a noite, que se segura em convicção, dobrando a dor apertadamente de forma que ele sabe o que significa. Mas seu silencio se submete a ser tudo o que sangra. Como eu, ele é ciente das laterais, e daquilo que ele precisa continuar tentando, e não tinha a intenção de ser qualquer “eu faço você doer”. Meu corpo é leve porque o peso de seja lá o que tiver o carregando pelas fracas armadilhas irá sangrar. Eu pisei de todo jeito, sem cair, como estando no meu caminho de ser. Eu nunca esvaziarei, mas obrigado. Para: F.E. Ficar sentado parece como correr nas nuvens me entrelaçaram pelas coxas deles, de quem eu nem mesmo cruzei, onde a vida está aqui, porque meu amor está chorando. Eu irei dividir do mesmo jeito que perdi, porque eu sou um eu faz-de-conta. E eu sou real porque eu posso me bater levemente e sangrar. Sangue, eu posso escutar, porque estou perto agora, e ele está longe de mim, cair de volta ao chão, virou-se por seus buracos, e quando tudo caiu não importa desde que me seja dada a coisa que rodopia como vender sonhos à cannabis, dizendo para pular três.
You Tube Link

Sunday, August 5, 2007

How do we decide? (Sunday Scribblings)


Foto by: Thomas Hawk
http://www.flickr.com/photos/thomashawk/500005223/



There is something about decision making that seems to burn a fuse in my head, it only happens when I stop to think about it, as if thinking while acting were to be an impossible task because of the amount of information overloading my brain. (Have you ever tried talking to two people at the same time? It’s the same kind of feeling.) Given some attempts, I tried to figure out how my decisions came to be. I was trying to become aware of the exact moment in which my brain fired the impulse that made me realize that I wanted this and not that. Picking a movie to watch, choosing which color socks to wear, or the songs in my play list, or the desk I wanted to sit on in class… the list just goes on. Doing this meant turning off the internal auto-pilot button so I could try to figure out what it was that triggered a particular decision. It soon came to mind that this was no easy task, and many times I would just let it go out of exhaustion. Somehow it came to me that my decisions were being conditioned by a certain momentum and taking place prior to my conscious conclusions. Anyhow, it wasn’t very effective for me. If it’s difficult to make up your mind, imagine making up your mind and thinking about how you do it at the same time… Sometimes the auto-pilot button is required for the sake of efficiency!


Prompted by this week's Sunday Scribblings = "Decision."

Saturday, August 4, 2007

Fear and Being / Medo e Ser


Fear / Medo


Being / Ser

These two paintings are somehow combined. I was trying to illustrate two different (if not opposite) moods: during the last rays of sun (fear) and later in the night (being). It’s mostly about going for something peaceful and being able to find harmony within chaos. “Being” is trying to collect the silence and warmth of the late night hours.

Estas duas pinturas estão vinculadas de alguma forma. Eu estava tentando ilustrar diferentes (se não opostos) estados de espírito: durante os últimos raios de sol (medo) e mais tarde na noite (ser). Estes retratos têm muito a ver com a busca pela tranqüilidade e de poder encontrar harmonia no caos. “Ser” esta tentando coletar o silêncio afável das horas tardes.

Thursday, August 2, 2007

The Blank Space Within

I live on white sheets of paper
Where all is still to be
And everything is possible
The words to be written
The lines to be drawn
The feelings retained
In the flick of an instant
A beautiful passage way
From emptiness to form
Molds views out of clay

I sleep on white sheets of paper
Universal in its own right
Laying its open arms
To embrace my warmth
And carry forth fearlessly
The part of me that bleeds
Eagerly spilling
The life in each phrase
Shaped by each character
Traced out of the vague

With my restless brush
I will dress my thoughts
In a thick stroke of ink
I will squeeze my anguish
And give away the excess
Transposing the weight
So they too can sleep
On white sheets of paper
Coz’ they have grown tired
Of meandering inside me