Heterocromia

Foi nos olhos de minha amada que entendi a dicotomia no amor. Ela tinha, como de praxe, dois olhos, que lhe eram mais espelhos que janelas, fechada em si como todo crente. Eu, mergulhador, via em suas íris as tonalidades dos seus dias e os fragmentos de tímidas aventuras diárias calcadas em padrões e variáveis calculáveis até pelo amador. Os mistérios do meu amor não estavam em seu rosto, mas algo nesses receptáculos de luz multicolorido me chamava a atenção para algo além, e, se me conhecem, sabem que transcender é um vício do qual nunca me abstive.

Heterocromia é o nome dado à natureza bicolor dos olhos da minha inimiga. No esquerdo habitava o mar, o azul, e nele afundei-me; nele nadei e me perdi; encontrei-me e nada encontrei nas profundezas daquele lago. Também enfrentei o magma resfriado do âmbar do olho direito daquela que amei e que nunca me amou, e era como uma parede que jamais atravessei; vi que essa era a essência do órgão, decidi não desafiar a natureza.

Passei por pupila, íris, córnea, cristalino, retina, ligações nervosas, cheguei ao cérebro, à memória, à alma. Viajei, fui herói, nada vi que pudesse relatar; talvez nada houvesse, talvez fosse cego.

E desse modo compreendi que na profundeza ou na superficialidade não há nada a ser encontrado nos olhos desta ou das outras que me torcem, contorcem, distorcem, quando meramente me refletem por janelas fechadas ou abertas para uma casa vazia.

How, in so many ways, I killed Vicaria

It was the knife on monday. They say it was harsh, I say it was practical. Not as Tuesday. The rope took some minutes, the neck didn't break. Not as in the movies. The pills took even longer. Wednesday. I couldn't try anything else that day; you know that. For Thursday I had the car show planned, and the fire was beautiful. On Friday I took her to the Zoo, and she loved the tigers. Saturday night was the day for party, with the mob, and those so many holes made me feel sorry for her.

On Sunday I rested, on Sunday I healed her memory, for I loved and mourned for her. On Sunday I wrote this poem, I read it to her - and she loved it.

War

It was not the smell of death that shocked me, even though I could feel it, but the impossibible silence of the scene. It could have been the first bullet that made me deaf, but, still, all those things I saw seemed to me as images from a dream, nothing more than symbols, the writings of God in the walls of my vision, telling me of things forbidden, of things that should not be, and maybe are not, but were there, in front me, defying all I knew as true and trustworthy, the sacred and miraculous state of the immovable, the Universe, the mind of God, made flesh and, now, unmade.

Soft Construction with Boiled Beans (Premonition of Civil War), 1936
Salvador Dali

Desenhos na areia, de Kseniya Simonova

Outro dia, no carro, com minha irmã, ouvi uma música que me tocou. Estava meio deprimido, e comecei a pensar: nossa, são coisas assim que fazem a vida valer à pena. A beleza no mundo. Não as pessoas; elas te abandonam, te esquecem, te decepcionam, fazem coisas horríveis, indizíveis umas com as outras. Mas às vezes fazem coisas belas, que não devem ser manchadas pelo sangue nas mãos dos seus autores. Diferencie o homem das coisas, boas ou ruins, que saem de dentro da sua mente e coração.

Esse vídeo contém beleza em quantidade emocionante.

Baal's Hymn

Belissima (e fantasmagórica) interpretação de Bowie:

Whilst his mother's womb contained the growing Baal
Even then the sky was waiting quiet and pale
Naked, young, immensely marvellous
Like Baal loved it, when he came to us

That same sky remained with him in joy and care
Even when Baal slept peaceful and unaware
At night a lilac sky, a drunken Baal
Turning pious as the sky grows pale

So through hospital, cathedral, whiskey bar
Baal kept moving onwards and just let things go
When Baal's tired, boys, Baal cannot fall far
He will have his sky down there below

When the sinners congregate in shame together
Baal lay naked, revelling in their distress
Only sky, a sky that will go on forever
Formed a blanket for his nakedness

And that lusty girl, the world, who'll laughing yield
To the men who'll stand the pressure of her thighs
Sometimes gave him love-bites, such as can't be healed
Baal survived it, he just used his eyes

And when Baal saw lots of corpses scattered round
He felt twice the thrill, despite the lack of room
"Space enough" said Baal, "then I'll thicken the ground
Space enough within this woman's womb"

Any vice for Baal has got its useful side
It's the man who practices it, he can't abide
Vices have their point, once you see it as such
Stick to two for one will be too much

Slackness, softness are the sort of things to shun
Nothing could be harder than the quest for fun
Lots of strength is needed and experience too
Swollen bellies can embarrass you

Under gloomy stars and this poor veil of tears
Baal will graze a pasture till it disappears
Once it's been digested to the forest's teeth
Baal trod singing for a well earned sleep

Baal can spot the vultures in the stormy sky
As they wait up there to see if Baal will die
Sometimes Baal pretends he's dead, but vultures swoop
Baal in silence dines on vulture-soup

When the dark womb drags him down to its prize
What's the world still mean to Baal, he's overfed
So much sky is lurking still behind his eyes
He'll just have enough sky when he's dead

Once the Earth's dark womb engulfed the rotting Baal
Even then the sky was up there, quiet and pale
Naked, young, immensely marvellous
Like Baal loved it when he lived with us

The Second Coming

.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all around it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Poema de William Butler Yeats

A Gross of Goblins

Genial. Mais no site.

The Tale of How

Essa curta animação, de autoria de The Black Heart Gang é uma das coisas mais belas e inspiradoras que eu já vi em animação. Visualmente estonteante, contém uma história por demais exótica e surreal, que lembra muito mitos antigos (especialmente histórias de tricksters).

Essas imagens parecem tiradas de um sonho *-*

Nesse site você pode conferir tanto o vídeo quanto a letra da música e o belo livro ao qual a animação deu origem.

Omar Khayyam

"Sê pois, dia e noite,
um ser destruído,
uma ruína,
uma desagregação!"



Omar Khayyam

Fim

Dormi
E quando acordei
Você não era mais você

Tentei te encontrar no seu novo eu
Um labirinto de espinhos e ovos de mariposa
E eu soube que antes da aurora
Eclodiriam os ovos antes de se abrirem os botões de rosa