terça-feira, agosto 28, 2007
As palavras que saíram da minha boca, sem que eu desse por elas, demonstraram uma fé tão grande, como só eu sei que tenho, na vida. Fiquei surpreendida, a sorrir, sem saber muito bem que desculpas ia inventar para os meus discursos amargos, que ficaram comprometidos com tamanho acto de fé.
Confio na vida para me trazer o que for melhor para mim.
São estas pequenas coisas que nos apanham desprevenidos, que nos fazem ver quem somos e que não nos deixam cair quando tropeçamos nas linhas gigantes que nos enleiam numa teia de aranhas vivas.
Quero dizer muitas coisas muitas. Mas digo-as baixinho na minha cabeça e deixo que a vida as repita alto por mim. Que ela não gosta de ser usurpada no seu papel de apresentadora desta novela, questionada na sua autoridade. E eu rebelo-me devagarinho, discretamente, para ela não perceber que está a fazer-me as vontades.
Só agora percebi que "não pegar um touro pelos cornos" não significa que não o façamos. Significa que o fazemos vir até nós em vez de nos lançarmos ao seu encontro, quebrando-nos contra a força esmagadora da realidade. Mas não confundam actos de fé com falta de principios, é uma linha ténue mas muito presente na minha cabeça.
Confio na vida para me trazer o que for melhor para mim.
São estas pequenas coisas que nos apanham desprevenidos, que nos fazem ver quem somos e que não nos deixam cair quando tropeçamos nas linhas gigantes que nos enleiam numa teia de aranhas vivas.
Quero dizer muitas coisas muitas. Mas digo-as baixinho na minha cabeça e deixo que a vida as repita alto por mim. Que ela não gosta de ser usurpada no seu papel de apresentadora desta novela, questionada na sua autoridade. E eu rebelo-me devagarinho, discretamente, para ela não perceber que está a fazer-me as vontades.
Só agora percebi que "não pegar um touro pelos cornos" não significa que não o façamos. Significa que o fazemos vir até nós em vez de nos lançarmos ao seu encontro, quebrando-nos contra a força esmagadora da realidade. Mas não confundam actos de fé com falta de principios, é uma linha ténue mas muito presente na minha cabeça.
sábado, agosto 25, 2007
Contra toda as minhas convicções pessoais, parece que hoje temos mesmo um sáaaabado de sol, aluguei um caminhãaaaoooo...enfim, não percebo nada deste tempo. Depois de uma semana de inverno anunciaram um fim de semana de 25 graus. Eu achei que eles estavam maluquinhos, mas não, parece que os senhores que trabalham naquela coisa da previsão do tempo sabem mais qualquer coisa que eu.
Countdown - duas semanas.
terça-feira, agosto 21, 2007
Happy Place
segunda-feira, agosto 20, 2007
...e quando for grande vou ter livros com imagens de terras, lá muito longe, noutros idiomas, que terei aprendido e que se enrolam na minha língua, junto com memórias de muitas luas que terei visto em latitudes mornas. Vou ter muitas saudades guardadas na estante, junto às conchinhas da praia, e muitas letras para fazer histórias que vão ser metade fantasia e metade o meu coração.
Vou ter receitas que aprendi a fazer com sabores que se derretem ao lume de um fogão, pelas minhas mãos, enquanto me lembro de todos os sorrisos que me ensinaram a cadência de todos os mantras que repito, baixinho, para que os possas ouvir.
Vou ter receitas que aprendi a fazer com sabores que se derretem ao lume de um fogão, pelas minhas mãos, enquanto me lembro de todos os sorrisos que me ensinaram a cadência de todos os mantras que repito, baixinho, para que os possas ouvir.
Bairro do Oriente
Os meus gostos musicais inclinam-me para rimas antigas que ficaram na minha cabeça desde há muito, quando ainda não sabia o sigificados destas letras, mas que soavam bem na minha cabeça.
"Tenho uma lamparina
Que trouxe das arábias
Para te amar à luz do azeite
Num kama-sutra de noites sábias"
"Tenho uma lamparina
Que trouxe das arábias
Para te amar à luz do azeite
Num kama-sutra de noites sábias"
sexta-feira, agosto 17, 2007
Mais de 20 graus centígrados na pele, doces do Algarve, tortas de Azeitão, acordar em tendas, a minha praia favorita, peixe grelhado, o meu sobrinho, o céu azul (se a meteorologia não me falhar) e Lisboa em Setembro.
------- ~ ---------
Mais ainda: através de um daqueles fenómenos que acontecem muito raramente, denominado "descoberta de um blog que de facto tem conteúdo interessante e não está no círculo hierárquico elitista da blogosfera", fiquei a saber que na China é, a partir do próximo mês, proíbido reencarnar sem a autorização do governo.
Isto para uma pessoa como eu, que tem poucos conhecimentos políticos por pura preguiça, é inconcebível. Não se trata de acreditar ou não na reencarnação, trata-se de usar jogos políticos para alterar todo um sistema de fé, aniquilando a liberdade de um povo, só porque sim, porque lhes apetece, porque lhes convém.
Esperemos que o Karma não demore a fazer efeito. Fica o blog adicionado aqui à lista porque aqui quem manda sou eu, e apetece-me anexar mais um nome aqui ao lado.
Isto para uma pessoa como eu, que tem poucos conhecimentos políticos por pura preguiça, é inconcebível. Não se trata de acreditar ou não na reencarnação, trata-se de usar jogos políticos para alterar todo um sistema de fé, aniquilando a liberdade de um povo, só porque sim, porque lhes apetece, porque lhes convém.
Esperemos que o Karma não demore a fazer efeito. Fica o blog adicionado aqui à lista porque aqui quem manda sou eu, e apetece-me anexar mais um nome aqui ao lado.
quinta-feira, agosto 16, 2007
Afinal não sou a única...
"Nightclubs are hell. What's cool or fun about a thumping, sweaty dungeon full of posing idiots?
Charlie Brooker
Monday August 13, 2007
The Guardian
I went to a fashionable London nightclub on Saturday. Not the sort of sentence I get to write very often, because I enjoy nightclubs less than I enjoy eating wool. But a glamorous friend of mine was there to "do a PA", and she'd invited me and some curious friends along because we wanted to see precisely what "doing a PA" consists of. Turns out doing a public appearance largely entails sitting around drinking free champagne and generally just "being there".
Obviously, at 36, I was more than a decade older than almost everyone else, and subsequently may as well have been smeared head to toe with pus. People regarded me with a combination of pity and disgust. To complete the circuit, I spent the night wearing the expression of a man waking up to Christmas in a prison cell.
"I'm too old to enjoy this," I thought. And then remembered I've always felt this way about clubs. And I mean all clubs - from the cheesiest downmarket sickbucket to the coolest cutting-edge hark-at-us poncehole. I hated them when I was 19 and I hate them today. I just don't have to pretend any more.
I'm convinced no one actually likes clubs. It's a conspiracy. We've been told they're cool and fun; that only "saddoes" dislike them. And no one in our pathetic little pre-apocalyptic timebubble wants to be labelled "sad" - it's like being officially declared worthless by the state. So we muster a grin and go out on the town in our millions.
Clubs are despicable. Cramped, overpriced furnaces with sticky walls and the latest idiot theme tunes thumping through the humid air so loud you can't hold a conversation, just bellow inanities at megaphone-level. And since the smoking ban, the masking aroma of cigarette smoke has been replaced by the overbearing stench of crotch sweat and hair wax.
Clubs are such insufferable dungeons of misery, the inmates have to take mood-altering substances to make their ordeal seem halfway tolerable. This leads them to believe they "enjoy" clubbing. They don't. No one does. They just enjoy drugs.
Drugs render location meaningless. Neck enough ketamine and you could have the best night of your life squatting in a shed rolling corks across the floor. And no one's going to search you on the way in. Why bother with clubs?
"Because you might get a shag," is the usual response. Really? If that's the only way you can find a partner - preening and jigging about like a desperate animal - you shouldn't be attempting to breed in the first place. What's your next trick? Inventing fire? People like you are going to spin civilisation into reverse. You're a moron, and so is that haircut you're trying to impress. Any offspring you eventually blast out should be drowned in a pan before they can do any harm. Or open any more nightclubs.
Even if you somehow avoid reproducing, isn't it a lot of hard work for very little reward? Seven hours hopping about in a hellish, reverberating bunker in exchange for sharing 64 febrile, panting pelvic thrusts with someone who'll snore and dribble into your pillow till 11 o'clock in the morning, before waking up beside you with their hair in a mess, blinking like a dizzy cat and smelling vaguely like a ham baguette? Really, why bother? Why not just stay at home punching yourself in the face? Invite a few friends round and make a night of it. It'll be more fun than a club.
Anyway, back to Saturday night, and apart from the age gap, two other things stuck me. Firstly, everyone had clearly spent far too long perfecting their appearance. I used to feel intimidated by people like this; now I see them as walking insecurity beacons, slaves to the perceived judgment of others, trapped within a self- perpetuating circle of crushing status anxiety. I'd still secretly like to be them, of course, but at least these days I can temporarily erect a veneer of defensive, sneering superiority. I've progressed that far.
The second thing that struck me was frightening. They were all photographing themselves. In fact, that's all they seemed to be doing. Standing around in expensive clothes, snapping away with phones and cameras. One pose after another, as though they needed to prove their own existence, right there, in the moment. Crucially, this seemed to be the reason they were there in the first place. There was very little dancing. Just pouting and flashbulbs.
Surely this is a new development. Clubs have always been vapid and awful and boring and blah - but I can't remember clubbers documenting their every moment before. Not to this demented extent. It's not enough to pretend you're having fun in the club any more - you've got to pretend you're having fun in your Flickr gallery, and your friends' Flickr galleries. An unending exhibition in which a million terrified, try-too-hard imbeciles attempt to out-cool each other.
Mind you, since in about 20 years' time these same people will be standing waist-deep in skeletons, in an arid post-nuclear wasteland, clubbing each other to death in a fight for the last remaining glass of water, perhaps they're wise to enjoy these carefree moments while they last. Even if they're only pretending."
Dado eu ter vivido numa terreola que era um clube em ponto grande, depressa cheguei a estas conclusões. Pena não as ter escrito n' O Expresso.
Charlie Brooker
Monday August 13, 2007
The Guardian
I went to a fashionable London nightclub on Saturday. Not the sort of sentence I get to write very often, because I enjoy nightclubs less than I enjoy eating wool. But a glamorous friend of mine was there to "do a PA", and she'd invited me and some curious friends along because we wanted to see precisely what "doing a PA" consists of. Turns out doing a public appearance largely entails sitting around drinking free champagne and generally just "being there".
Obviously, at 36, I was more than a decade older than almost everyone else, and subsequently may as well have been smeared head to toe with pus. People regarded me with a combination of pity and disgust. To complete the circuit, I spent the night wearing the expression of a man waking up to Christmas in a prison cell.
"I'm too old to enjoy this," I thought. And then remembered I've always felt this way about clubs. And I mean all clubs - from the cheesiest downmarket sickbucket to the coolest cutting-edge hark-at-us poncehole. I hated them when I was 19 and I hate them today. I just don't have to pretend any more.
I'm convinced no one actually likes clubs. It's a conspiracy. We've been told they're cool and fun; that only "saddoes" dislike them. And no one in our pathetic little pre-apocalyptic timebubble wants to be labelled "sad" - it's like being officially declared worthless by the state. So we muster a grin and go out on the town in our millions.
Clubs are despicable. Cramped, overpriced furnaces with sticky walls and the latest idiot theme tunes thumping through the humid air so loud you can't hold a conversation, just bellow inanities at megaphone-level. And since the smoking ban, the masking aroma of cigarette smoke has been replaced by the overbearing stench of crotch sweat and hair wax.
Clubs are such insufferable dungeons of misery, the inmates have to take mood-altering substances to make their ordeal seem halfway tolerable. This leads them to believe they "enjoy" clubbing. They don't. No one does. They just enjoy drugs.
Drugs render location meaningless. Neck enough ketamine and you could have the best night of your life squatting in a shed rolling corks across the floor. And no one's going to search you on the way in. Why bother with clubs?
"Because you might get a shag," is the usual response. Really? If that's the only way you can find a partner - preening and jigging about like a desperate animal - you shouldn't be attempting to breed in the first place. What's your next trick? Inventing fire? People like you are going to spin civilisation into reverse. You're a moron, and so is that haircut you're trying to impress. Any offspring you eventually blast out should be drowned in a pan before they can do any harm. Or open any more nightclubs.
Even if you somehow avoid reproducing, isn't it a lot of hard work for very little reward? Seven hours hopping about in a hellish, reverberating bunker in exchange for sharing 64 febrile, panting pelvic thrusts with someone who'll snore and dribble into your pillow till 11 o'clock in the morning, before waking up beside you with their hair in a mess, blinking like a dizzy cat and smelling vaguely like a ham baguette? Really, why bother? Why not just stay at home punching yourself in the face? Invite a few friends round and make a night of it. It'll be more fun than a club.
Anyway, back to Saturday night, and apart from the age gap, two other things stuck me. Firstly, everyone had clearly spent far too long perfecting their appearance. I used to feel intimidated by people like this; now I see them as walking insecurity beacons, slaves to the perceived judgment of others, trapped within a self- perpetuating circle of crushing status anxiety. I'd still secretly like to be them, of course, but at least these days I can temporarily erect a veneer of defensive, sneering superiority. I've progressed that far.
The second thing that struck me was frightening. They were all photographing themselves. In fact, that's all they seemed to be doing. Standing around in expensive clothes, snapping away with phones and cameras. One pose after another, as though they needed to prove their own existence, right there, in the moment. Crucially, this seemed to be the reason they were there in the first place. There was very little dancing. Just pouting and flashbulbs.
Surely this is a new development. Clubs have always been vapid and awful and boring and blah - but I can't remember clubbers documenting their every moment before. Not to this demented extent. It's not enough to pretend you're having fun in the club any more - you've got to pretend you're having fun in your Flickr gallery, and your friends' Flickr galleries. An unending exhibition in which a million terrified, try-too-hard imbeciles attempt to out-cool each other.
Mind you, since in about 20 years' time these same people will be standing waist-deep in skeletons, in an arid post-nuclear wasteland, clubbing each other to death in a fight for the last remaining glass of water, perhaps they're wise to enjoy these carefree moments while they last. Even if they're only pretending."
Dado eu ter vivido numa terreola que era um clube em ponto grande, depressa cheguei a estas conclusões. Pena não as ter escrito n' O Expresso.
segunda-feira, agosto 13, 2007
Eclipse Total da Lua
28 de Agosto
Penumbral Eclipse Begins: 07:53:39 UT
Partial Eclipse Begins: 08:51:16 UT
Total Eclipse Begins: 09:52:22 UT
Greatest Eclipse: 10:37:22 UT
Total Eclipse Ends: 11:22:24 UT
Partial Eclipse Ends: 12:23:30 UT
Penumbral Eclipse Ends: 13:21:01 UT
Perdi o último, em Março, porque estava um frio desgraçado e eu estava em Londres, no meio de um Council Estate, com prédios a tapar tudo à volta, e ninguém quis sair comigo à rua para ver a Lua a desaparecer temporariamente. Dado que agora moro na "village" (how posh!) pode ser que consiga ver este da janela do quarto. Ou à beira do rio. Do riacho, que aquilo mais parece a ribeira do Entroncamento. [/winge mode]
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nem vou comentar...
sexta-feira, agosto 10, 2007
Vencida pelo Wireless
O wireless do pub nao gostou do meu lap top. Tentei, mas nao consegui. Vencida, e sem acentos nesta merda, ficam duas fotos da minha casinha nova.
quinta-feira, agosto 09, 2007
Obssession Art
Afinal o jornal "Metro" tem alguma utilidade. Para além de uma vez me ter deparado com um artigo sobre La Nuit Intime (explico noutro post), ontem havia um artigo sobre arte erótica disponível online.
Obsession Art is a "specialist in nude, erotic and figurative fine art and canvas prints, originals and books."
Curioso foi o comentário de um grupo de raparigas sobre o website: "Se o meu namorado tivesse pornografia em casa, ficava chateada, mas se ele tivesse um destes quadros ficava impressionada."
Browse it. It's worth it.
Obsession Art is a "specialist in nude, erotic and figurative fine art and canvas prints, originals and books."
Curioso foi o comentário de um grupo de raparigas sobre o website: "Se o meu namorado tivesse pornografia em casa, ficava chateada, mas se ele tivesse um destes quadros ficava impressionada."
Browse it. It's worth it.
segunda-feira, agosto 06, 2007
Queria muito postar fotos da minha casita tipo maison nova, e das minhas janelas não tipo funetre, mas tipo bay windows. Mas o blogger nao deixa. Como dizia a Joana, amanhã talvez. Senão, lá terei que ir ao pub local com wireless gratuito, beber cerveja de morango e actualizar o blog. Que chatice.
E agora vou ali ver se consigo enrolar-me nuns panos de seda.
E agora vou ali ver se consigo enrolar-me nuns panos de seda.
I can has cheeseburger
quarta-feira, agosto 01, 2007
A Shakira estava enganada. As ancas mentem, e muito. Especialmente quando nos dizem: "Claro que consigo levar a caixa com um aspirador de 6K apoiada em mim até chegar a casa!".
