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arrependida Carmita
mirava desconsolada
plástica taba apache
derreter-se mortalha:

"fósforos não fazem firme forte
mas sim flamejante fornalha"


possible schizophrenic attack: what the hell to do with all those voices in your head

forenote one: in English, to hit a bigger number of readers throughout the world (dreamfully).
forenote two: I am very, very suspicious of certain aspects of Western medicine and don't quite believe in shrinkage - meaning, psychology and psychiatry as I know them depend too much on irreversible pathologies, syndroms, neurosis, psychosis (and loads of happiness pills to fix them) to go on profitable business. nowadays everyone can have a disorder for their own. if you believe in those things, stop reading now and go to the doctor; he'll assist you on emptying your pockets the most convenient way. in case you're not quite sure, well, go on, a simple text can harm you no more than you've already harmed yourself, if you stumbled this humble article somehow and read this far.
forenote three: these are my personal conclusions on the matter based on my own experiences; not to be taken as medical truth.

recalling that recent post which said

"she heard a voice in her head saying -

ela ouve vozes"
(she hears voices")

- Stimme im Kopf
(- Voice in Head)

a short schizoid poem in three languages I spat out while healing myself. yesterday I randomly googled "Stimme im Kopf" to see what would the results be in German, if any of them were directly related to schizophrenic disorder (or spontaneous mediunity, as some may call it). surprinsingly not - on the first page, at least. then i tried in English and the response was more optimistic. I came across a message from a confused girl in a health forum, left two years ago, that read:

A couple of weeks ago I heard a voice in my head. I was under the influence of marijuana at the time, but I can't just brush it off because of that. It was a man with an american accent, and it sounded like it was coming from the air above me (like radio quality sounding) but there was noone in the room and the tv was off so obviously it was in my head. It said things like "she's horrible, yeah noone likes her, shes disguisting, look at her yeah her, she's real yuck ay" and it went on for about 15 minutes. The whole time I was at the computer and tried to distract myself with the tv after a while and it went away. I have never been so terrified. The other thing I have been noticing lately that is scaring me is I dont know when to finish my sentences when I speak and I mumble off. Two people have commented on this to me. Does anyone have any comments about this at all? I need some opinions here. Thanks!

this request is perfectly suitable not only for me to try and explain her what might be happening (though two years late, almost nothing), but to verbalize it concisely to myself, who suffered the same and I even daresay more intensely, whilst using my own problem and solution to help other people who feel similar and are as confused as I was for quite a while. it follows:

first of all, everyone has voices in their heads. most of them are unnoticeable and harmless, which can be controlled over and represent a kind of necessary self-questioning; but can be quite dangerous if misdealt on major transformation periods, such as end of teenage years, sudden death of a dear one, traumatizing divorce, living by your own, etc.
the two symptoms our friend there so kindly exposed, disorganized thought and, consequently, speech, are usually associated with a pre-schizophrenic onset. the most important thing at this moment is not panicking, there is nothing supernatural or unexplainable going on. it's all in your mind, always. I am not a doctor to diagnose any kind of psychosis, but there is nothing to worry about if you take control over it. DO NOT let anything lead you but your will and conscious self. stifle away negative thoughts (they only feed the next negative thought), don't believe what you're hearing, although sometimes it might seem the voices are attached to you inevitably, more like a thought you have no control on. if you experience comments on your head, start singing and say out loud and clear, with determination: LALALA, I CAN'T HEAR YOOOOU, I WON'T TALK TO YOU! if it comes again, then: I ALREADY SAID I WON'T LISTEN ANYMOOORE, LALALAAAAA! and how many times it proves necessary for you to get rid of them. this might sound like actual craziness at first but it REALLY works. pursue your goals in life, try remembering what you enjoyed doing as a little child and why you quit it. when did serenity evade me? try and be honest and sincere to yourself - finding out what is bothering you in your general life is the very first key to understanding why you hear such things.
unfortunately, most people realise they've been hearing "voices" (more accurately misguided thoughts) only when they divide themselves in a third person. indeed, it starts off with a seemingly innocent but obsessive I, I, I: "what was I thinking?, I am not capable, I am much more or I am much less than something or someone, I need something or someone to feel like a complete being, to feel happy, I am a low and vile person", etc.; a powerful destructive determinism. also, VERY IMPORTANT: the sickness doesn't lie exactly on negativity, but on ILLUSIONS. it might come shaped as "I am fantastic, everyone likes me, what a marvelous genius I've got, no one is up to me, the others are sooo down below!". the tormented self-elevation is securely followed by negative examples of the prime sort. it's like one illusion fighting the other. these addicted thought threads spin around a momentaneous reward mechanism - certain images bring instant pleasure or known feelings, thus comfort, so your mind gets used to them and starts applying that same logic whenever a problem or a difficult, unexpected, situation arises. it is easier to deal with known things. at this point, if you keep unawares that these sick mind patterns lead to threatening enclosurement, soon the fast reward process will cease its benefits and leave you in a kind of eternal hangover, without knowing why. it is exactly the same basis as any kind of addiction - the quantity of released endorphyn decreases with constant higher doses of the substance, which might be internal, brain-based illusions, or external. a very common behaviour for ill minds is to express themselves in ill habits like alcohol and drug addiction, overeating, compulsive shopping and even compulsive masturbation.
when your subconscious tries to do something about it, perceiving the difference between healthy and unhealthy thoughts, divides itself in personas with distinct procedual lines: most commonly a Good and a Evil side, but quite different from the multiple personality disorder. the mind starts losing its delicate balance to preconceived ideas that trigger themselves constantly hoping for a pleasurable reward - that gets diminished each time. at this stage the most common is the you, you, you: "what are you doing?, you are ridiculous at times, you have to go on, you have to stop, you are happy only because of self-deceit, you are losing it". I consider a self-warning process, an artificial way to make yourself heard. in other words, if you pay close attention it actually says - "look, these kind of thoughts aren't doing any good here, you are splitting yourself into distinguished parts, seeing things from the outside like in self dialogue, but could go back to normal if you find a mean". in my case particularly, it evolved to "we" - "let's go to sleep, we are tired from all the thinking", but it can easily become "his" or "her", thus giving the impression of someone narrating you life and stating conclusions about it. my first language is Portuguese, but that didn't stop an English thought-mode in my head, usualy when I was upset without much noticeable cause, or in blown proportions; so it's pretty normal our friend there from the top hearing a different accent or even another gender on her head. I bet the source for that, on her case, is lots of American television.
now i'll open up my journal on 1st January 2009 for you guys to see a real example of a mental dialogue with FIVE voices, the second being my own personality fighting the others. I wrote it down consciously as voices and numbered them back then, but didn't know it was actually an issue to be worked on and found it amusing, under the title of "mental dialectics in five voices". it started with a common out-of-proportion dream of work recognition:

voice I - who knows, it might become something big, I might get international fame, people will get inspiration from me and...
voice II - WAIT A SECOND, this is delirium, if you spend the rest of your life imagining these situations they'll NEVER become reality.
voice III - but I am a Capricorn, the mountain goat, I am capable of climbing that high
voice IV- if you are going to trust the sign fatalism...! wake up, the stars don't guarantee anything, the key to it all is keeping a humble attitude
voice V - (you are not capable)
voice I - buuut, on the other side, thinking not capable is just a mask, like reverse psychology, using negativity to stimulate positivity, quite normal and effective...
voice V - (are you capable then?)
voice II - not that I am not capable, I mean, keeping a negative pattern attracts more negative things, isn't it true...?
voice III - besides, I am a Dragon, they are lucky, I'm going to do well
voice V - so there is no fallen Dragon out there whatsoever? c'mon, maybe your life gets real shitty. nothing prevents that.

that was enjoyable at the moment, though freaky to recall, but on my worst days I couldn't accomplish a SINGLE COMPLETE IDEA. it spun out of control when i smoked marijuana: I'd find myself on another room, holding something on my hand and not knowing how the hell I got there. I mean - it was not a blackout, I KNEW I had the idea that guided me there, but I realized it was a broken inserted thought with no visible coherent objective that made me stop my doings and act aimlessly: "why don't we try that coat on your wardrobe?, i bet it would look nice... go, c'mon, what's the big deal? why are you doing that?, stop reading, why don't we go to the kitchen and get..." and another zillion bizarre examples. I'd leave the whole house lit up because I went from a room to the other, from the kitchen to the bathroom (walking through living room and bedroom) and back again and again and again and again - until one day I got the frightening feeling I wasn't alone, but being controlled by external forces that toyed with me, taking over my mind and living through my body. now - THAT is a definite schizophrenic symptom, that was result from some previous neuroses such as:

I. thought-stealing: I was certain people could unconsciously know what went through my mind, or that I broadcasted it into everyone. one freaky example was when I looked at something at my friend's house and thought - is that blablabla? and right after - no, it can't be because blablabla. no longer than five seconds later, a friend of mine asked - is that blablabla?, and the other answered, - no, i can't be because blablabla. I won't act skeptically now and say "oh, just a great coincidence, that was!" because I do not believe in coincidences; but the explanation doesn't have to be scary or evil, like I used to think, and can be a good thing if wisely put. it got out of proportion when I started to take every act of people surrounding me like an individual message. for instance: in class, I thought the teacher was referring to me on his phrases, that he'd realized what went on inside me and found an indirect manner of speech to warn me; I thought my friends were aware of my sick mind and made jokes about it, which made me even worse. I feared every friend I cared for would leave me alone as soon as they saw through my worries. walking out on the street was uncomfortable because I thought people would recognize my face and sort of spy on me. the thing is - when you are experiencing problems, you project them into close relations, and in severe cases, total strangers on the street. it gets to the horrible point of not knowing what is real and what is not. but of course they can't be aware of it! it is complete nonsense and paranoid bullshit, and if you relate to these, stop reading and start shouting to these voices RIGHT AWAY.

II. mind-reading: much like the previous, but backwards. I was pretty sure my ideas weren't my own and I was infected with other people's point of view; that I knew what went on in other's minds and could read them like a book - again, even total strangers. I had the feeling everyone was looking at me, and made comments after I was gone. this was endorsed by occasional disgusting flirting, but after I got better I realized - men do not hide anything, it is quite clear when they make sexual suggestions to you as you walk by, noises being the most common, from grumping and whistles to a more polite and sung "good evening". thinking again on the matter, if I believe in some kind of thought transmission, like a mind-channel, these two ideas are based in something - but it doesn't work like that, and if it becomes oppresive and confusing, it means you are channeling your energies to the wrong things; trying to answer the wrong questions.
the torment is caused, again, by projection - they are not other person's thoughts, but your own mind splitting up and not aware of it, so you jump to the conclusion that is something else besides yourself - everyone you come across, desincarnated souls, unknown entities, aliens from outer space. it depends on your personal repertoire.

ok, let me breathe a little, it was an extenuating review of all my temporary sickness. I was sure to be diagnosed "schizophrenic" had I visited a shrink at the time and soon be on medication, which would cause more despair. you see, the medical statement MENTAL ILLNESS, SCHIZOPHRENIC makes you believe even more you are a sick helpless person. but actually, the diagnose is only valid after six months of continuous psychosis that I just described above. I consider myself quite lucky, for something came to save me: my grandfather's death. I know it sounds illogical, but on his funeral I looked myself in the mirror and saw his sparkle living bright on my eyes. he always took care of everyone, now we are supposed to take care of ourselves. I stopped smoking marijuana, drinking alcohol and biting my nails (the cigarette I'd left a couple of months ago) - it just didn't make sense anymore and misguided me from my real self. I have to be strong as he was! my sanity depends on myself only, no one can help me if I can't. and that is the most valuable lesson of all -

it's ALL in the mind. you whether have the power to use things that happen to you in a constructive or destructive manner. that is the concept of free will; the choice is yours. remember always - all the answers are in mind strength, YOU and you only have the whole power to shut the invisible mouths, and restablish control over yourself. desperation is not only useless but intoxicating, and martyrdom (oh, how I suffer!) won't take you anywhere. you are a powerful being which has all the tools in hand - just learn how to use them to your advantage (if you thought manipulation, well, you didn't get a thing I just wrote and better see a shrink, yeah).

I hope this helps someone out there, someday.


Grande Relatório de Visita ao Museu de Arte

muita vez é uma certa ingenuidade inerente que me guia nos mais variados assuntos. não sei de onde vem, para onde vai e qual seria o seu propósito em minha vida, mas ao passar pelo prédio decadente ao lado do museu a que nos dirigíamos já despontou- como pode, um prédio desses, plena avenida (mais) importante, abandonado...? abandonado, pois sim, o que se passa em suas entranhas é da mais alta obscuridade, só não se transparece tão óbvio, e é por isso que persiste, sem que nenhum dos milhões de transeuntes diários tirem cinco minutos de sua aterafada e preciosa vida na sociedade paulistana para dedicar uma centelha de reflexão sobre qual a função daquela estrutura umedecida e aparentemente estática ao lado de um dos cartões-postais da Cidade Grande - não excluindo hipocritamente a minha própria pessoa, que ao invés de lhe creditar uma razão de ser no meio de tantas outras construções de importância convencionada, prefere acreditar na poética ruína de tempos outros ainda subsistindo, tal maldição inquestionável de vilarejo brejeiro.
afinal de contas, morei durante dois anos pelos arredores e nem ao Museu de Arte de São Paulo dignava-me a ir pelas terças-feiras, quando é de graça. se moro ao lado está à minha serventia, de que serve o agora se existe o depois...?, mas o dia de hoje era diferente, já não tenho ao meu alcance quando por meu capricho apetecer o passeio artístico, então subitamente esqueço o prédio descaído para frustrar mais uma vez minha ingenuidade logo à frente: é claro que há um monte de gente, uma turba, como aprendi recentemente, um murundum, como diz a avó, aproveitando que às terças-feiras não se paga meia entrada ou inteira, coisa que já saberia por instinto se tivesse o costume de frequentar a vizinhança na qual me inseri nos últimos dois anos.
a motivação motriz para tal visita foi um relatório de História da Arte (Kunsthistorie, como mais me apraz) que tenho de entregar nesta quinta-feira agora, sobre a exposição que abrange o período de 1860-1960. Realismo francês, bom dentro de sua proposta, vários Blübeni des Finefoi, 1879, com detalhes composicionais, pinceladas e paletas interessantes. mais valia era fazer recortes e reassemblar todos os pontos de interesse, aquela mão, aquele fundo, aquela bunda, aquele olhar, aquela cor, mete-se tudo numa tigela com farinha e ovos e fermento e pimenta à gosto e deita-se ao forno pré-aquecido durante vinte minutos. o Frankenstein estético resultante seria de maior primor do que toda a coleção pop(verty) sessentista que confia mais na pretensão do público do que numa coerência compositiva. é Arte, querido, não é suposto entender, não é suposto achar belo, sabe, o belo é passado, água corrida, mas que enfadonho atraso mental essa sua mania clássica, já vi que não se abre nem um bocadinho para...; diz o público saído do subsolo embriagado de Vik Muniz. um grande chacoalhar de ombros blasé a todos os realismos projetados, e para não dizer que era tudo ruim invade-me a ânsia, novamente, de retalhar algumas composições em metades, terços, quartos, enviar ao artista de origem com um bilhetinho num alfinete, tava indo tão bem até aqui, tivesse parado e poderia ser alguma coisa, POR QUÊ, SENHOR?, EXPLIQUE, A SÉRIO QUE NÃO COMPREENDO, QUE QUE É ESSA FUMAÇA, DE ONDE RAIO SURGIU ESSE FOGO...?!
as modernices tupinas como Anita e DiCavalcanti e Portinari eles - eles, curadores e espectadores -fingem nunca terem estado lá, oh, toda vez que olho para isto é como se fosse a primeira. e por mim, na minha modesta opinião, poderiam nunca ter estado que minha disgestão fruitiva seria mais harmônica. uma paisagem ou outra me agrada, sou bucólica incurável, destaque para as realistas que por sua segurança não podem dar muito errado. em especial me comove uma paisagem de inverno que nem possui tanto vigor assim, mas vai entender esses processos mentais que convencionam o gosto... e um deles me faz ter uma panca por quadros escuros, com escassa e indireta fonte de luz.
uma quase abstração vegetativa já desprezei, MAX ERNST FAZ MELHOR, para três segundos depois encontrá-lo numa geometria grattajada três molduras adiante (inclusive vale frisar que algumas das molduras da ala Realista deviam separar-se de suas obras e ter uma ala em especial para Barrocada). sem dúvida não é o seu melhor, ainda prefiro o cânion avermelhado e orgânico em decalcomania do acervo permanente, apesar das dimensões diminutas.
indiscutivelmente destestável é Léger, que tem a pachorra de aprender luz e sombra diante do público inocente.
a uma dada altura vi um colega de classe ao fundo de uma representação minuciosa de uma banda em concerto, galantemente resumido em sua protuberância suprafrontal de modo a dissipar quaisquer dúvidas sobre a identidade da figura. é ele e prontes, não me venham com discussões. e como ruindade é questão de ponto de vista, decidiu-se que a excursão continuaria no subsolo para que as críticas elevadoras de ânimos caíssem sobre Vik Muniz, o homem da geleia com pasta de amendoim. disse sabiamente Diogo Mainardi há duas semanas: Neil Buchanam faz obras gigantes no chão com um esfregão e água e lhe dão uma merda de um programa infantil no Disney Channel, Vik Muniz copia a Mona Lisa em geleia e lhe dão reconhecimento internacional; alguma coisa anda seriamente errada no mundo da arte. não foram exatamente essas as suas palavras, confesso, mas o sentido é praticamente o mesmo. seus trabalhos são verdadeiramente ruins porque até para chacotas não dão material decente. a minha teoria é que parte da excitação do público é devida às cores (e sua sequência no espaço expositivo) nas paredes em que se penduram as "obras". quando vislumbrei no andar debaixo uma Santa Ceia davinciana como quebra-cabeças (POR FAVOR não digam ou sequer pensem O Código DaVinci) fiquei tão atordoada que a primeira reação foi sentar no gélido banco e tentar direcionar a mente para gazelas saltitantes nos bosques verdejantes atrás de berryshrubberies e um regato para matar a sede.
mais uma vez a minha ingenuidade me faz vítima, porque uma parte sincera do meu ser consciente até acreditava que alguma coisa válida havia para se ver no subsolo - o que se provou terrivelmente equivocado quando vi uma foto de Alice Liddell tirada por Lewis Carroll, que por acaso estudava na noite anterior, The Beggar Maid, baseada no poema de Lord Tennyson, coisa fina naturalista - materializada em brinquedos vagabundos. PÂNICO. talvez não estivesse tão errada na minha relutância aparentemente sem motivos a visitas mais regulares e solitárias ao Museu. afinal, sem companhia para desenvolver as más impressões o que fica é um sentimento de desperdício de tempo (e certa rabugentice), o que bradei bem quando passava pelo público que ouvia apaixonadamente o monitor discursar - eis aí vinte minutos de minha existência que jamais se recuperarão.


as enfermidades todas acabaram por envelhecer-me.



para os fãs de Mars Volta como eu. os gritinhos de now i'm lost Cedric dão mesmo um trampo extenso.
sempre essa fita de Misheard Lyrics é meio forçada, remember the loss, p.e., não convence. mas a qualidade está justamente no autor nunca ter procurado a letra original. e acho que ficaria surpreso se soubesse que de fato acertou em its musk was fecal in origin e pinkeye fountain, por mais piada absurda que soe.



Saturno sorria -
já Inverno aparecia
num soturno dia

aproveitem as longas noites.

(começou hoje também mais um Akhet, primeiro período do calendário egípcio - vulgarmente conhecido como Ano-Novo. é a cheia do Nilo, quando as águas primordiais derramam todo o seu potencial germinativo sobre a terra...)


(aproxegando-se) .............(apercebendo-se)

- de boa? .............................- de boa

---------------------------------..............-... o quê?


- isto .......................................- isso

-------------------------------...............--...o quê?

- de boa?

------------------ esperançoso)

-------------------------------¬de boa...!


é preciso acoleirar o Leão Dragontino em tempos Saturnos (soturnos).


about the neighbours across*


as pessoas não costumam sair à sacada por mero prazer


pela manhã, as pessoas saem à sacada pendurar coisas
(na grande maioria das vezes as toalhas)


se não por higiene, as pessoas só saem à sacada (eletricamente) quando estão ao telefone

*or: amateur voyeurism


o homme não era perturbado coisíssima nenhuma.

- anglicano conservador?
- balela. mais para místico neoplatónico, membro da sociedade de investigações paranormais.

- solteirão condenado?
- you wish - fato pouco conhecido, pegava várias; romances algo escandalosos para o padrão da época.

- reprimido e enrustido?
-...em que sentido? só porque o homme era matemático e espiritual e vitoriano?

- pedófilo?!
- ...
(pergunta que não se digna a qualquer resposta)

desde quando veneração de inocência e simplicidade infantil é problema patológico?
desde quando os génios têm de ser torturados, martirizantes?
desde quando genialidade implica em desequilíbrio emocional?

facinho rebaixar os grandes à treva mediana,
pervertidamente dizer que os outros é que são pervertidos.
por que não aprendemos com o sujeito ao invés de lhe buscar falhas incessantemente?

um basta convicto às romantizações de caráter.


once upon a time

eu pequenina passeando pelo jardim zoológico quando finalmente chego ao rinoceronte, que se esfregava contra a borda da piscina até que algo obscuro surgiu da água e lançou um jato forte de qualquer coisa, fazendo-me apontar e perguntar ao pai, QUE É ISSO?, o que deixou minha tia em pânico, é... é... É UMA PLANTA AQUÁTICA, VAMOS PRA OUTRA JAULA, SIM?, me arrastando pelo braço, e viveram felizes para sempre.


os testes*

ó meus pobres pèzinhos nãoo ag uentam, coitados.



.................................alou, q uem fa la,?
- é, por acaso, a srta Beatrix?
- eu mesma, senhor. o que deseja?
- receio que tenha más notícias para lhe dar - seu irmão morreu ontem pela tarde. lamento muitíssimo.
- meu irmão... morto??? mas... como, senhor, diga-me como1

jjjj.jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk

..............(ô vida braileira. brasileira, quis dizer.
adoro isto de não poder apagar. t~o mais emocionante)

o volpi chora.
chora chora chora


*ou: descobrir uma Lettera.


se alguém encontrar um senso de humor por aí perdido favor encaminhar à minha caixa postal - porque o meu parece ter tirado umas férias demasiado longas.

porcos! III

percebo que é hora de tomar banho quando engorduro o visor do celular.



Luiz Peigo "Pixoxó";

(vocativamente - "Vô")






"she heard a voice in her head saying

ela ouve vozes!"

- Stimme im Kopf.



página primeira de um quadrinho feito em 2007.
só postei a primeira porque foi só essa que fiz, mesmo. picaretage, auto-sabotage.
tenho a história do filminho já toda desenvolvida em narrativa, mas a estaticidade da câmera achei que na época não daria bom material para um interesse visual dinâmico - e acho que agora, dois anos depois, já não sei pintar como antes.
mas digo isso sem tentar pegar nas aquarelas outra vez, shame.
quem sabe amanhã.


painel de azulejos
2o semestre 2008
1m x 0.5m

(fico devendo melhor foto)


huit ans après...


- ...que é essa tatuagem de sangue?
- a minha lista de compras, você diz?



após distantes peregrinações é com deleite que vos reencontro - as conectividades são restabelecidas num ritmo perceptível somente aos impressionistas congénitos. diversos estímulos me trouxeram de volta, dentre eles a veia expositiva que me permite expandir e aprimorar ideias de toda a sorte, além de colaborar para anárquica database do conhecimento humano.

no fim, o objetivo é sempre experimentar, aprender e divertir-me,
com a única diferença de poder fazer disso algo frutífero a outrem.

seguem-se cenas passadas-


NA.MO.RO sm;

1. envolvimento emocional necessário à pré(pós)-descabaçagem;
2. maneira de provar a si mesmo e aos outros que é-se desejado e querido;
3. mostrar aos parentes que não se é homossexual.



 Paulo Neto de Freitas - Pesado 13

paródia do tango El Penado 14
Noël Rosa

num quarto solitário
na rua do Rosário
com o treze bem na porta
um turco lá morou
e disse o seu patrício
- ele morreu no hospício
e cheio de aflição
porque engoliu um tostão

seu nome era Rachid
Abdula, ou Farid
nascido na Turquia
criado na Bahia
ele era prestamista & vigarista
nunca perdeu de vista
o bolso de ninguém
por falta de um vintém

seu quarto todo escrito
com contas de somar
e de multiplicar
não tinha dividir
e por economia
pra não gastar seu sangue
com as pulgas já famintas
ficava sem dormir

em uma carta escrita
deixava como herança
ao filho ainda criança
as contas por cobrar
ele era precavido:
pro caixão ser pequeno
morreu bem decidido
de cócoras - encolhido

e o pesado treze
numa sexta-feira
também de dia treze
faz hoje quase um ano
que teve o intestino
por choque fraturado
pois foi atropelado
por um aeroplano

no dia em que um amigo
ao lhe pedir abrigo
ao ver aberta a porta
quase morreu de horror:
pois viu por sobre a cama
o terno de Farid
e viu dependurado
Abdula num cabide

(não se acha esta letra completa pela internet e não é lá muito fácil entender...)




epílogo: memórias são melodias

(escrito para o last.fm)

surprisingly the Fiery Furnaces peak on 1331. does that make them my "favourite band"? not at all - just reminds me of last July's compulsive sick behaviour, which relied on the Furnaces for some kind of redemption, and then almost discarded them completely from my musical urges (although Blueberry Boat's and Rehearsing My Choir's verses have left permanent echoes). also, pure oblivion kept me from pausing the player nights in a row - and there you have 23 Bitter Tea reprises. Matthew Friedberger's weary piano goes on playing forever. he and his sister are pastiche masters, with sudden transitions and dissonant chords that at first seem out of place, but pair up in another dimension. clever lyrics, most of the time. plus: mucho gusto singing along every time because i think my voice has a similar pitch to Eleanor's, and when they come with the blues i can say they almost - almost - match up to Jack White.
Calexico, not so close second with 1037, can vomit dazzling wonders as well as profound shit. seek patiently through the albums and there'll be a reward. the Latin melancholy grip keeps me alive, even though sometimes "but they're not even from Calexico, nor California or Mexico, not folk music thus, Kitschfolk (pseudofolk?) would be more accurate" crossed my mind.
what's to say about Neutral Milk Hotel and its folksurrealism? even the White Stripes jam both their feet on Folkmud, in a dirtier way. can Noel Rosa be considered more keen on his society for composing sambas, as expected to, talking sarcastically about Rio de Janeiro's bohemian life on the 30s, which was his own? almost 800 and he still fascinates me. (when did the Calexico guys actually live in Mexico?) but likewise - one might go deeper on the matter and think pure Brazilian folk music comes from tribes established here long before anything. (one might as well say that our native language is Tupi, not Portuguese, like Lima Barreto's Policarpo Quaresma.) Calexico's excuse is "being Texan", which gives them plenty of reasons to go Latin, but other Texans called the Mars Volta got straight connections with Mex culture and do not turn it in the band's special feature. they go much farther and much closer at the same time, bringing stuff like jazz and punk together, creating a new perspective on melodic fusion, their own musical and lyrical approach.
deeper: if the Volta create more than Calexico, as in new possibilities to be explored, in a sense they mark a different moment of society, becoming not just a revival, but the new folk itself. or progressivism is the direct opposite to folkism (and here you could easily replace by the heavy metal x punk long dated disagreement)? does folk suggest a steady rhythmic base and working it to the last drop? i've always thought of it as closing oneself up in a box just to see how many spots you can reach and amplify. squeeze out every detail. and there is another turn of the screw when you come to think about Hindu music: there is a fixed base, called "cicles", but the musicians improvise freely inside that agreed start point; much like jazz.
i like them both(Calexico&Volta)in different states of mind, but discussing which one is "folker" is pointless conservative stupidity, fearfulness; a desperate quest for lost origins, a taxonomic frenzy. interesting to think about the open questions, the problems we face in classification, but without hoping for definitive conclusions.
what IS folk music, indeed, before any attempts to labeling bands? theoretically "music from the people", Volksmusik, natural expressions from a certain community. for sure MPB (Brazilian Popular Music) is another way of saying "folk" without realizing it, right next to samba! in fact, both genres can be summed up under the folk label. doubtlessly "Folk" shatters itself everywhere (America's got the blues), we're just not interested enough to learn about it. perhaps if i studied musical theory i'd be able to tell them all apart.
after munching for an awful good while on differences between the folk bands' thematic, melodic and geographical coherence, surely the screaming conclusion is - nonsense. quality music is sincere music above all, so if it is heartfelt, soulful, born from passion channeled to reason, it doesn't matter where or whom it comes from. and that, i guess, is much more alike the Folkspirit: the music balm preventing us from bursting at the seams, let it be out of joy or sadness, keeping our pieces working together when no one (nothing) else can.

a friend of mine used to say
- in this life you're whether a folker or a jazzer and i'm the latter
(sounds lyrical in English)
and i'd have to say i am a folker before denying there is any necessary antithesis between them.


o fim, quando o percebemos, é assim curto e abrupto.




época de revisões. é ótimo olhar por cima de dois anos e ver que não precisei de terapia alguma para entender a minha fascinação por árvores secas; bastaram-me aulas de estética, filosofia & matemática. depois estendo o assunto, quando começar formalmente a so-called Reforma.
é fim de semestre, vou viajar ao meio disso e as coisas andam bem apertadas, por isso ainda não me decidi o que vou fazer com este blog, exatamente - que rumos ele vai tomar, o que vou continuar publicando, quais serão as policies. ainda não me interessa escrever para os públicos. aos poucos que ainda me frequentam, peço desculpas pelo relapso em manter um formato temático coerente, todo o subjetivismo, o egocentrismo e por vezes a pedância. quando falo dos eventos da minha vida, falo do mundo: mas ainda falta-me dedicação para tornar a mim mesma a menor parte do assunto, somente o gatilho propulsor para outras questões de maior importância. sujeito-me aqui a servir de instrumento leitor e permutativo reconstrutor dos fragmentos que vou coletando, com dignidade.

hup-la, senhores.


há um ano

between land & sea