A minha primeira caixa de charutos foi me oferecida pela Ana.

Conheci a Ana no meu décimo ano de escolaridade... numa das minhas "gazetas".
O "pessoal" estava sentado no chão, eu a tocar viola...alguém cantava... ela na altura enamorara-se pelo Ricardo mas fodia com o Sérgio... um freak "agarrado" ao "cavalo"
Estes circulos que se formavam no chão do liceu em redor da minha viola eram por vezes puras emanações de testosterona e feromonas ...

(foda-se, era fantástico, puta que parisse as aulas ... o futuro era aquele instante... as preocupaçoes situavam-se a anos luz...)
Não tendo sido brindada pelos Deuses com a benção da beleza, refugiava-se na poesia que escrevia na solidão.
O seu corpo era brutalizado por homens sedentos como o Freak ... lembro de este fazer escárneo do poema que ela tinha composto a celebrar a união fisica dos dois.
No final desse ano lectivo o acaso juntou-nos numa loja de vicios urbanos... eu tinha ido la para comprar charutos ...
No ano a seguir, em que supostamente ela deveria iniciar o ensino superior, soube que fugira de casa... desapareceu.

Dizem Que Não Sabiam Quem Era

Ah! Ah! Ah! Dizem que fazia amor com qualquer um
E que se drogava

Ah! Ah! Ah! Dizem que foi apanhada a ver o mar
Com outra mulher

Hum! Hum! Hum! Dizem que foi encontrada morta
Os pulsos cortados ...

Ontem, já a noite se perdia nas horas, dei por mim a relatar mais uma derrota que sofri na demanda pela assertividade...

The Long Black Veil


Ten years ago, on a cold dark night
Someone was killed, 'neath the town hall light
There were few at the scene, but they all agreed
That the slayer who ran, looked a lot like me

The judge said son, what is your alibi
If you were somewhere else, then you won't have to die
I spoke not a word, thou it meant my life
For I'd been in the arms of my best friend's wife

Chorus
She walks these hills in a long black veil
She visits my grave when the night winds wail
Nobody knows, nobody sees
Nobody knows but me

Oh, the scaffold is high and eternity's near
She stood in the crowd and shed not a tear
But late at night, when the north wind blows
In a long black veil, she cries ov're my bones

GARRINCHA

Nascido com as pernas tortas, em arco, no dia 28 de outubro de 1933, Manuel dos Santos é filho de um cafuzo (mestiço de negro com índio) e de uma mulata.
Desde os seus quatro anos, uma irmã nota que ele é pequeno como uma garrincha, um passarinho bobo, marrom, com o dorso listrado.
Destaca-se na infância e adolescência como excelente caçador de pássaros, sedutor de meninas (iniciou-se sexualmente com uma cabra, diga-se) e jogador de futebol.
Por causa desta sua terceira habilidade, em 1950, aos 17 anos, Garrincha começa a viajar de Pau Grande ao Rio (então Guanabara).
Só para registro do torcedor, Vasco, São Cristovão e Fluminense são os clubes que não enxergam talento algum em Garrincha e o devolvem a Pau Grande sem dar chances ao tímido ponteiro de pernas tortas de mostrar o seu talento.
Em 10 de setembro de 1953, dia do primeiro treino de Garrincha entre os jogadores profissionais do Botafogo, começa a história. E, junto com ela, a criação do mito e das lendas sobre o mito.
Ao final de 1962, Garrincha contabiliza, entre outras conquistas, dois títulos mundiais pela seleção brasileira e três títulos de campeão carioca pelo Botafogo. Nesse ano marcante, em que começa um romance com a cantora Elza Soares, Garrincha já soma sete filhas com sua mulher, Nair, uma menina e um menino com Iraci, sua amante oficial, e um filho sueco, concebido numa noite de junho de 1959, durante uma viagem do Botafogo. Além destes, Garrincha ainda teve uma oitava filha com Nair, um filho com Elza e uma filha com Vanderléa, sua última mulher, totalizando 13 herdeiros. Dos três filhos homens de Garrincha, só Ulf Lindberg, o sueco, vive. Garrinchinha (filho de Elza) e Nenem (de Iraci) morreram em acidentes de automóveis. Entre 1963, quando o seu futebol começa a sofrer por causa de uma artrose no joelho, e 1983, quando morre em consequência do alcoolismo, Garrincha enfrenta uma série de episódios trágicos quase sempre associados à compulsão pela bebida.Duas tentativas de suicídio, três acidentes de automóvel, num dos quais a mãe de Elza Soares morreu, dezenas de internações por alcoolismo: o calvário de Garrincha, deve - se ao álcool e não, como se convencionou dizer, aos dirigentes desportivos que o enganaram, aos contratos em branco que assinou, aos amigos que o abandonaram.

Garrincha e Elza Soares

Curiosidade
O ``bráulio´´ do jogador media por volta de 25 centímetros. A média do brasileiro é de 14 centímetros e os urologistas consideram casos raros os pênis de 21 centímetros. ``


Ora posto isto, em vez de Anjo das Pernas Tortas, também ficaria bem Anjo Tripé

Ain't Love A Kick In The Head?

How lucky can one guy be;
I kissed her and she kissed me
Like the fella once said,
Ain't that a kick in the head?
The room was completely black
I hugged her and she hugged back.
Like the sailor said, quote,
"Ain't that a hole in the boat?"
My head keeps spinning;
I go to sleep and keep grinning;
If this is just the beginning,
My life's gonna be beautiful.
I've sun- shine enough to spread;
It's like the fella said,
"Tell me quick
Ain't love like a kick in the head?"

Like the fella once said,
Ain't that a kick in the head?

Like the sailor said, quote,
"Ain't that a hole in the boat?"
My head keeps spinning;
I go to sleep and keep grinning;
If this is just the beginning,
My life's gonna be beautiful.
She's telling me we'll be wed;
She's picked out a king size bed.
I couldn't feel any better or I'd be sick;
Tell me quick, oh ain't love a kick?
Tell me quick, ain't love a kick in the head?

Autum in Coimbra

Estas primeiras chuvas trouxeram um certo aconchego, um calor inesperado...

Gosto de deixar a tepidez dos lençóis...embrulhar - me na manta e ir fumar cachimbo para a janela... olho para a cama... delicada... fêmea... dorme tranquilamente.
As ruas da cidade...vazias...
ah... vita bella

!CLICHE!

Apareceu aqui ha tempos um post sobre a propencao da mulher para o cliche (o Homem caminha mais facilmente pelas palavras salivadas pelo azimute de outros)... hoje, terca feira, nada faz mais sentido: mulher, cliche... cliche, mulher.

...que eu tenho um violao e nos vamos cantar.

WHO'LL STOP THE RAIN

Long as I remember The rain been comin' down.
Clouds of myst'ry pourin' Confusion on the ground.
Good men through the ages, Tryin' to find the sun;
And I wonder, Still I wonder, Who'll stop the rain.

I went down Virginia, Seekin' shelter from the storm.
Caught up in the fable, I watched the tower grow.
Five year plans and new deals, Wrapped in golden chains.
And I wonder, Still I wonder Who'll stop the rain.

Heard the singers playin', How we cheered for more.
The crowd had rushed together, Tryin' to keep warm.
Still the rain kept pourin', Fallin' on my ears.
And I wonder, Still I wonder Who'll stop the rain.

C.C.R

WILD AT HEART

I'd like to apologise to you gentlemen for referring to you all as homosexuals. You taught me a valuable lesson.

Sentei-me na areia húmida da praia a observar a imensidão oceânica.
Uma nuvem de gaivotas paira sobre uma traineira que dá por terminado o dia.

Lá vai o maluco, lá vai o demente
assim te chama toda essa gente...

A individualidade; "This snake skin jacket symbolizes my individuality and belief in personal freedom!"

As águas cintilam no doce balanço da brisa que se vai levantando... as endorfinas... o pénis saciado...
Que bela tarde de Outono...

Começou a palhaçada...

Coimbra dos Drºs ...

Se é "triste" ver os adolescentes que chegam, a submeter-se a rituais microcefálicos,
é ainda mais arrepiante ver adultos licenciados a tentar reviver esses tempos idos.

eferrrreeeeeeeeeeeáááááá

Estive a ver o site da sala de espetaculos e econtrei isto...
(Pleo desculpa mas achei que era a melhor maneira de picar o "nosso" rockabilly)

17 de Julho de 2004 - Brixton Academy, London
http://www.briansetzer.com/straycatsbrixton170704_main.html






Entao...sempre viajas de aviao?

Caros Colegas....tenho o prazer de vos anunciar que recebi o seguinte mail

"
Event: Pogues
Venue: Carling Academy Brixton
211 Stockwell Road
Brixton
London, 0 SW99SL

Seating: CIRCLE UNRESERVED SEATING/STANDING
Time: Tuesday, December 21 at 7:00 PM
Quantity: 1
Delivery: By Post"

Se o Shane nao morrer entretanto ... JA CA MORA!

"
The Pogues will be touring the UK and Ireland in December. This is the classic 1987-1993 line-up of Shane MacGowan, Spider Stacy, Jem Finer, Philip Chevron, Terry Woods, Andrew Ranken, James Fearnley and Darryl Hunt which last toured the UK in 2001.

This time, fans will be delighted to know that the band will be joined on vocals by Cait O'Riordan! Cait was The Pogues’ original bass player from 1982-1986 and sang ‘I’m A Man You Don’t Meet Everyday’ on the ‘Rum, Sodomy & The Lash’ album. Recently, she has been playing and singing with Philip Chevron in a reformed line-up of The Radiators (Plan 9).

The dates are as follows:
DECEMBER

13th: GLASGOW Academy
14th: GLASGOW Academy
16th: NEWCASTLE Arena
17th: BIRMINGHAM Academy
18th: MANCHESTER MEN
20th: LONDON Brixton Academy
21st: LONDON Brixton Academy
22nd LONDON Brixton Academy
23rd: DUBLIN The Point Theatre "

Companheiros! Estao muito... "gostava que estivesses aqui"

What have we found?
The same old fears

Por isso pastilhas elasticas com banana para todos!

And did they get you to trade...

A walk on part in the war
For a lead role in a cage???

running over the same old grounds...

"Guru Nanak (गुरु नानक)
(20 October 1469 - 7 May 1539)



The founder of Sikhism and the first of the ten Gurus of the Sikhs, was born in the village of Talwandi, now called Nankana Sahib, near Lahore in present-day Pakistan. His parents, Mehta Kalu and Matta Tripat, were Hindus and belonged to the merchant caste. Even as a boy, Nanak was fascinated by religion, and his desire to explore the mysteries of life eventually led him to leave home.

Nanak married Sulkhni, of Batala, and they had two sons, Sri Chand and Lakhmi Das. He continued his religious pursuits as always. His brother-in-law, the husband of his sister Nanki, obtained a job for him in Sultanpur as the manager of the government granary. One morning, when he was twenty-eight, he went as usual down to the river to bathe and meditate. It was said that he was gone for three day. When he reappeared, filled with the spirit of God, he said, "There is no Hindu and no Muslim." It was then he began his missionary work.

Tradition states that he made four great journeys, traveling to all parts of India, and into Arabia and Persia; visiting Mecca and Baghdad. He spoke before Hindus, Jains, Buddhists, Parsees, and Muslims. He spoke in the temples and mosques, and at various pilgrimage sites. It was during this period that Nanak met Kabir (1441-1518), a saint revered by both Hindus and Muslims. Wherever he went, Guru Nanak spoke out against empty religious rituals, pilgrimages, the caste system, the sacrifice of widows, of depending on books to learn the true religion, and of all the other tenets that were to define his teachings. Never did he ask his listeners to follow him. He asked the Muslims to be true Muslims and the Hindus to be true Hindus.

After the last of his great journeys, Guru Nanak settled in the town of Kartapur (in Punjab) on the banks of the Ravi where he taught for another fifteen years. Followers from all over came to settle in Kartapur to listen, and sing, and be with him. During this time, although his followers still remained Hindu, Muslim, or of the religion to which they were born, they became known as the Guru's disciples, or sikhs. It was here his followers began to refer to him as teacher, or guru. It was here that the Guru told his followers that they were to be householders and could not live apart from the world—there were to be no priests or hermits. Here is where the Guru instituted the common meal; requiring the rich and poor, Hindu and Muslim, high caste and low cast, to sit together while eating. Here is where Lehna, later to be Guru Angad, came to be with Guru Nanak.

Just before Guru Nanak died, he called his disciples together and requested them to sing Sohila, the evening hymn. To satisfy both his Hindu and Muslim follower as to the funeral arrangements it is said he did not allow his body to remain behind."

"-quem e
quem e o
orra dadinho nao chega assim na minha boca, meu amigo

-quem falou que a boca e tua rapaz?

- e quem falou que a boca e tua cara?

- qual e dadinho?

- dadinho e o caralho, o meu nome agora e ze pequeno porra!"

seguido de um funk magnifico

Great hornets!

paaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
parara pa parara pa pa,
parara pa parara pa pa,
paaaaaaaaaaaaaaa




a desconhecida (por mim) banda sonora da Cidade de Deus surpreendeu-me...pela positiva. Nem a musica "Metamorfose ambulante" (Raul Seixas) com acordes a fazerem lembrar outros grupos passados (...aquele refrao faz mesmo lembra: "looove, loove, looove") estraga o ambiente, e "tem aquela" do anuncio : "ah ah ah ah! Vamos voltar a pilandragem! EHEHEHEH! deixa comigo, uma musiquinha para machucar os coracoes" "2, 3...4" "nem vem que nao tem, nem vem de garfo que hoje e dia de sopa, esquenta o ferro e passa a minha roupa..." e algumas faixas divinais: "Alvorada", "Convite para a vida", "No caminho do bem".
MAS, nao desculpo uma coisa.... o disco comeca com o ze pequeno a tomar conta da boca e a ultima faixa "se chama": A morte de Ze pequeno....Malandro ha so um um!

Uma mensagem ... um telefonema e momentos depois lá estava eu em casa do João Carlos
Com ele estava o Lima; fora ele quem enviara a mensagem.
Já tinham fumado alguns charros... cumprimentámo-nos com os dois beijos da praxe.
Fazia tempo que não nos juntávamos os três... ecoou-me na mente a afirmação do "Ti" Quim... "a vossa foi uma geração de alcoólicos... são uns bêbados de MERDA".
Falámos de mulheres, do futuro...celebrámos a cumplicidade que já nos une há anos...
Em seguida fomos para as Anexas...a freakalhada da praça ( eles os dois incluídos ) ia jogar uma "futebolada".
Ora à chegada la fumaram todos um charrito ... era o aquecimento.
O desafio começou; acendi o meu cachimbo.
Enquanto a "partida" se desenrolava dei por mim a constatar as mudanças que aquele espaço tinha sofrido desde o tempo em que era o Magistério Primário até se tranformar na E.S.E.C...
Os sitios onde dera os meus primeiros beijitos na boca...
O jogo acabou... fumaram mais uns charritos ... estes rodaram por quem quis... foi uma bela demostração de
fair play.
Depois de todos os outros terem abandonado o recinto, nós permanecemos sentados na bancada. Enquanto entardecia fomos discutindo os beneficios de "tocar uma punheta" ... a sua influência na vida quotidiana.

Ha coisas que posso dizer: "ja fiz!"

One summer evening drunk to hell
I stood there nearly lifeless
An old man in the corner sang
Where the water lilies grow
And on the jukebox Johnny sang
About a thing called love...

Nas minha bebedeiras não me lembro de nenhum velho a cantar "Where the water lilies grow" ou de ouvir o johnny cash a cantar:

Six foot six stood on the ground, weighted 235 pounds
But I saw that giant of a man brought down to his knees by love
He was the kind of man who would gamble on love
Look you in the eye and never back up
But I saw him crying like a little whipped pup because of love

Can't see it with your eyes, hold it in your hands
Like the rules that govern our land
Strong enough to rule the heart of every man, this thing called love"

mas recordo-me efectivamente de estar num estado catatónico a olhar para o cigarro a consumir-se... das tascas povoadas de meretrizes, proxenetas, camionistas...
Nos locais "bem", o olhar reprovador, às vezes superior ou até mesmo jocoso... atitude que sempre me divertiu

"gosta da forma como os homens respeitáveis se engasgam quando falam dele e
da forma como as mulheres murmuram... fora-da-lei"

Nas viagens do Gulliver do Jonathan Swift existe uma passagem em que a égua fica muito admirada por no país de Gulliver os homens beberem sem terem sede. Ao reflectir, a decisão era a de largar a "bebida", mas seguidamente vinha-me à cabeça a frase do Pessoa " Dêem-me de beber que eu não tenho sede"... lá se ia o esforço.

Foram precisos ainda uns anitos para eu perceber que não era nenhum Fernando Pessoa...

Acho que me estou a apaixonar...

Essence of TRIZ :

Recognition that
technical systems evolve
towards the increase of ideality
by overcoming contradictions
mostly with minimal introduction of resources.

Thus, for creative problem solving,
TRIZ provides a dialectic way of thinking,
i.e.,
to understand the problem as a system,
to image the ideal solution first, and
to solve contradictions.

Tu, a mais bela forma de todas...
O teu sopro delicado começa a dissipar as pesadas nuvens ...
Que saboroso... o teu calor na minha face

One sad irony of Shane MacGowan's life is that by the time he was accepted into the pantheon of Irish poets, he'd already passed his peak. Back in 1985, he was reviled by his compatriots as a corrupter of the noble folk tradition--however, MacGowan knew that any tradition which valued Val Doonican as one of its upholders needed corrupting. Harder to put into words though, is its brilliance. Put simply, it beggars belief that MacGowan was getting drunk in order to spin tales as heartrending as "The Old Main Drag" and "A Pair Of Brown Eyes"--surely the lyrical equivalent of drinking ten pints to improve your driving. Yet it worked: allied to his colleagues' poignant accompaniments transformed Irish folk.


Turkish Song Of The Damned

(Shane MacGowan)

I come old friend from hell tonight
Across the rotting sea
Nor the nails of the Cross
Nor the blood of Christ
Can bring you help this eve
The dead have come to
Claim a debt from thee
They stand outside your door
Four score and three

Did you keep a watch for a dead man's wind
Did you see the woman with the comb in her hand
Wailing away on the wall on the strand
As you danced to the Turkish song of the damned

You remember when the ship went down
You left me on the deck
The captain's corpse jumped up
And threw his arms around my neck
For all these years I've had him on my back
This debt cannot be paid with all your jack

And as I sit and talk to you I see your face go white
This shadow hanging over me
Is no trick of the light
The spectre on my back will soon be free
The dead have come to claim
A debt from thee

O ultimo post fez-me lembrar,

Agora eu era o herói
E o meu cavalo só falava inglês
A noiva do cowboy
Era você
Além das outras três
Eu enfrentava os batalhões
Os alemães e seus canhões
Guardava o meu bodoque
E ensaiava um rock
Para as matinês

Agora eu era o rei
Era o bedéu e era também juiz
E pela minha lei
A gente era obrigado a ser feliz
E você era a princesa
Que eu fiz coroar
E era tão linda de se admirar
Que andava nua pelo meu país

Não, não fuja não

Finja que agora eu era o seu brinquedo
Eu era o seu pião
O seu bicho preferido
Vem, me dê a mão
A gente agora já não tinha medo
No tempo da maldade
Acho que a gente nem tinha nascido

Agora era fatal
Que o faz-de-conta terminasse assim
Pra lá desse quintal
Era uma noite que não tem mais fim
Pois você sumiu no meu mundo
Sem me avisar
E agora eu era um louco a perguntar
O que é que a vida vai fazer de mim

Estes finais de tarde impregnados de melancolia...
Os Morphine a tocarem...
A mulher que recentemente entrou no meu mundo...
Hum, uma suave brisa quente que me envolve... coloco-me na posição fetal...

Continuo com os pensamentos algo desconexos ... fica para outro dia o post sobre o jogo do sabado passado entre England x Wales...

FRANCISCO FERRER GUARDIA
(Fuzilado a 13 de Outubro de 1909)(biografia)

Este sax rouco...
Smoking, Driking never thinking of tomorow...
O outono veio para ficar... as árvores de folha caduca principiam um striptease melancólico...
Os vermelhos, os amarelos e os castanhos coroam a paisagem.
Da minha boca vai se desprendendo um cinismo cada vez mais corrosivo e intolerante...

estive ocupado...mas,

ART BLAKEY
born on 11th October of 1919



Quantas vezes nao pus no repeat o disco Moanin' .... a abertura e fabulosa...monanin'


THELENIOUS MONK
born on 10th October of 1917

Monk's manner was idiosyncratic, even for a jazz musician. He would seldom speak, he would wear odd clothes and hats, and had an unusual percussive manner in playing piano. At times he would stop playing, leave the piano, and dance while the other musicians in the combo played.

In the documentary film Straight, No Chaser, Monk's son T.S. Monk reported that Monk was on several occasions hospitalized due to an unspecified mental illness that worsened in the late 1960's. No diagnosis was ever made public, but some have noted Monk's symptoms match bipolar disorder and schizophrenia.

Este fim de semana teve sem dúvida um toque oriental.

O meu amigo Nuno mandou-me de Londres umas "pérolas"; O vinyl do Jimi Hendrix - Axis Bold as Love



e o Boppin' the Blues do Carl Perkins... provavelmente assaltou a torre de Londres para obter este último...



Esta pinup encontrei na pesquisa da capa do vinyl do Carl (que não encontrei) e não resisti à sua sensualidade

E eu a tocar as baleias em orgão com as duas mãos...estou maravilhado
levou-me quatro horas mas valeu o esforço.

Apareceu por lá um orgão... a minha amiga Catarina deu - me "some pointers" e voilá

Mão esquerda: Fá (F), Mi (E) dim e Ré (D) m
Mão direita: começa em Dó (C) e o resto só tendo o teclado à frente para contar os tons...

Uso as pretas que são meios tons...e tudo... Martins desculpa se digo alguma barbaridade
Tu és sensivel a este pequenos promenores...foda-se... mais vale prevenir

As Baleias

Não é possivel que voce suporte a barra
De olhar nos olhos do que morre em suas mãos
E ver no mar se debater o sofrimento
E até sentir-se um vencedor neste momento

Não é possivel que no fundo do seu peito
Seu coração não tenha lágrimas guardadas
Pra derramar sobre o vermelho derramado
No azul das águas que voce deixou manchadas

Seus netos vão te perguntar em poucos anos
Pelas baleias que cruzavam oceanos
Que eles viram em velhos livros
Ou nos filmes dos arquivos
Dos programas vespertinos de televisão

O gosto amargo do silêncio em sua boca
Vai te levar de volta ao mar e a fúria louca
De uma cauda exposta aos ventos
Em seus últimos momentos
Relembrada num troféu em forma de arpão

Como é possível que voce tenha coragem
De não deixar nascer a vida que se faz
Em outra vida que sem ter lugar seguro
Te pede a chance de existência no futuro
Mudar seu rumo e procurar seus sentimentos
Vai te fazer um verdadeiro vencedor
Ainda é tempo de ouvir a voz dos ventos

Les Trois Danseuses (1925) (Tate Modern, London)



Tal como na danca, tambem num bom romance as voltas tem sempre 6 bracos.

Pois e ... o fim de semana aproxima-se, mais um com aroma asiatico

EDGAR ALLEN POE

Passed away

17 de Outubro de 1849
(sera que o gato ainda mia?)

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;
Only this, and nothing more."


Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,.
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Nameless here forevermore.


And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.
This it is, and nothing more."


Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;---
Darkness there, and nothing more.


Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,
Lenore?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,
"Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.


Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,
"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lattice.
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.
" 'Tis the wind, and nothing more."


Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.


Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore.
Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."


Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."


But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered;
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."


Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,---
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never---nevermore."


But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!


Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath
Sent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"


"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore:
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me I implore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."


"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore---
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."


"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."


And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming.
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted---nevermore!

Talking about Jazz Dance

Quando comecei a devorar "tudo" (esta palavra dava para uns vinte posts) que fosse jazz, houve um filme que me marcou "Cotton Club" do Francis Ford Coppola. Nao que gostasse do Richard Gere ou do Nicolas Cage... mas adorei o papel de Gregory Hines (a primeira escolha para o "48 hrs" se nao estivesse a filmar o Cotton Club) e a sua tap dancing.

Tres momentos fabulosos:
1) "After discovering the dancer and Lila heading up to the roof, a spot forbidden to employees, a powerful white supervisor (a known racist and lecherous voyeur) goes berserk. The burly man pulls Sandman into the club's kitchen, holds him down on a table, and grabs a huge cleaver, which he slams repeatedly into a head of cabbage next to Sandman's head. He hurls racial insults at the dancer, and Lila is so frightened that she immediately leaves her job at the club.

Sandman, outraged, wants justice. He sputters about his vengeance to his friends at the Hoofers' Club, plotting how to kill the supervisor. The central moment of the sequence comes when Bumpy Rhodes, a black racketeer, faces him down: "I'm a pimp and a gambler and a thief. I don't have your talent to dance myself where I want to go. . . . There's only two things I gotta do in this life: I gotta stay black and I gotta die. The white man ain't left me nothing out here but the underworld, and that is where I dance. Let me ask you something, Sandman: where do you dance?" After a long pause, while they stare at each other, Sandman says decisively, "I'm gonna kill him with my tap shoes."
"
Quem preside o "Hoofer's Club" e apenas o Charles "Honi" Coles, de quem se disse "Honi makes butterflies look clumsy"(comeco a sentir arrepios...);


(Honi Coles)

2) A ultima actuacao a solo no Cotton Club do Sandman quando o Dutch e assassinado ao som do TAP;

3) O reecontro na pista de danca entre os dois irmaos - "tap dancers" - ao som de uma cavalgada de George Gershwin,

In this fast and troubled world we sometimes lose our way
But I am never lost I feel this way because...

I got rhythm, I got music, I got my girl
Who could ask for anything more?
I've got good times, no more bad times
I've got my girl, who could ask for anything more?

Old man trouble I don't mind him
You won't find him around my door
I've got starlight, I've got sweet dreams
I've got my girl, who could ask for, who could ask for more?

Old man trouble, I don't mind him
You won't find, you're never gonna find him 'round my door
Oh, I've got rhythm, I've got music
I got my girl, who could ask for anything more?

I've got rhythm, I've got rhythm ...

Say what you really mean

At my residential hall we receive, $for free$, the European Finantial Times... and for now it is the only newspaper that I read ...when I am at the toilets. Curiously, one of its supplements is "Creative Business". Inside one of them I found the very helpful "software":

Two weeks ago, Creative Business decoded the dialogue between corporate executives. In response to huge demand from marketers, we’ve developed our own tool - the Bullshit Buster - to help protect them from everyday linguistic assault in the workplace. The Bullshit Buster© will scan documents and e-mails for utter nonsense, highlight phrases in italics and offer users the real meaning

Motivating examples ;)

- From the marketing director “We will shortly be investing in a customer benchmarking research programme.” Bullshit Buster©:

”I have no idea why our customers buy our product but we will be asking them and we hope they’ll tell us.”

- From the HR department: “Change is never easy, but we are confident the merger offers all staff the opportunity to reflect on their skills, and think about the future in interesting ways.” Bullshit Busterc©: “Get your coat. Go see an employment lawyer.”

Imagine the potential of using it between man and woman relationships...

I´m gona swing this one...ready cats... 1,2,3



It don´t mean a thing if you ain't got that swing



It don't mean a thing, all you've got to do is sing,
It makes no difference if it's sweet or hot,

Just keep that rhythm, give it everything you've got!

My friend Martins once told me that he had been blown away by a book written by Khalil Gibran.
At the time i didn´t know the poems of Gibran.
Gibran was a Poet,a philosopher, and an artist.
Born in Lebanon in the year 1883. Died on April 10,1931 at St. Vincent Hospital, New York. In the autopsy he is said to have suffered of "Cirrhosis of the liver with incipient tuberculosis in one of the lungs."

Now the Toughest part, I´ll try to translate from the Portuguese his greatness.

The Wise Dog

Once upon a time a wise dog
was walking when he saw a group of cats.

The cats seem real worried
Talking between them selfs
they didn't noticed de dog standing around

A big sumptuous cat rise
and talking to he´s fellow cats said:
- My brothers, pray!!!
for if you pray with faith
I'm sure it'll rain rats from heaven

hearing this words, the dog laugh
and walking away said:
- Blind and foolish cats

it is not written, and didn´t i always known
and may forefathers before me,
that what rains from heaven when we pray
are not rats but bones?

(in the Madman by K.Gibran)


(ArtWork by Gibran)

WAXY O'CONNER'S




Domingo a noite... pint na mao e musica dos chieftains.

Shane MacGowan surgiu na minha mente...inevitavel? talvez nao.

I am going, I am going
Any which way the wind may be blowing
I am going, I am going
Where streams of whiskey are flowing

O placard de Jameson "The Irish Whiskey" aparece a minha frente...

A propensão da mulher para o cliché sempre me fascinou...

Hello darkness, my old friend,
I've come to talk with you again...

A tela está no cavalete... os pincéis estão lavados e erectos nos frascos
o cheiro de óleo de linhaça há muito que desapareceu...
A terbentina evaporou-se...
Os esboços não são mais do que isso
Onde estas tu pintor?
Porque não pintas?


"What if I'm an uninspired, untalented fake? What if its permanent?"

"Can you start over again? Can you choose something and be faithful to it?"

(In Fellini 8 1/2)

MERDA!!! até na mediocridade sou presunçoso...

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Jack Kerouac best describes the type of stream of consciousness poetry and writing that defines the Beats. Kerouac writes in the opening of his first book of poems San Francisco Blues written in 1954:

In my system, the form of blues choruses is limited by the small page of the breastpocket notebook in which they are written, like the form of a set number of bars in a jazz blues chorus, and so sometimes the word-meaning can carry harmonically from one chorus into another, or not, just like the phrase-meaning can carry harmonically from one chorus to the other, or not, in jazz, the form is determined by time, and by the musicians spontaneous phrasing & harmonizing with the beat of the time as it waves & waves on by in measured choruses.

It's all gotta be non stop ad libbing within each chorus, or the gig is shot. (Kerouac credits,on San Francisco Blues)

San Francisco Blues

Por trás de um homem triste
Há sempre uma mulher feliz
E atrás dessa mulher
Mil homens, sempre tão gentis

(Chico Buarque)