Obrigatory introduction for next chapters of the narrative!
According to Safatle, the exposure of the mode of production is the artifice modern art uses to emphasize its distance from the psychosocial mimetic compulsion (reproduction of mechanical behaviors) and reinforce the idea that it is defined by autonomy in relation to "naturalized representations in social reality."
Here photos of Maraú peninsula in Bahia and a guesthouse called Bahia Boa in same beach place
.jpeg)
.jpeg)
.jpeg)
.jpeg)
.jpeg)
.jpeg)
For exemplo, who is Carmen and Beatriz
ResponderExcluirWho is Carmen
Here I can make a first text where Carmen make her appear
It s very rudimentary, seminal, maybe ontic and magmatic
Here I can post a first text where Carmen make her appear
ExcluirIn worst form of writting, these proto text was wrote in a beach over a old notebook in pieces, while I was readimg a months ago newspaper founded between dead coconuts - in Maraú, Bahia
ResponderExcluirreading
Excluir2013
ResponderExcluirI walk down from the training room to the inn's balcony, holding a cup of coffee, and see the sea, stretching horizontally between the coconut trees and poolside kiosks, like in an engraving. There's no one on the beach in front, which gleams under the scorching sun of a tropical Saturday morning. "Because today is Saturday," I repeat to myself, imagining how hot the metal of Vinícius de Moraes's statue must be at this very moment in that square in Itapoã, Salvador. Now he will remain forever immersed in the smoke of the palm oil from the Bahian acarajé woman in front of him, staring fixedly and perplexedly at the glass of cachaça that they carved in front of him, on the table. The poet's life has a different rhythm/ It leads him wandering along the paths, treading the earth and looking at the sky/ Trapped, eternally trapped by the unattainable extremes... (I am the unattainable extremes in Jack's soul)... I am all sticky with sweat after those kung fu movements in the training hall, thinking about the "path to distance" that the little poet traveled within his "forms and exegeses" and considering taking a dip in the sea.
The wind is northeast, and it blows here and there, in the beautiful blue reflection of the water, small foams that march for a few seconds and die like animals that humbly fall to the sand... I light a cigarette. "Write with blood, for blood is spirit" (Nietzsche). "Flesh cuts flesh, blood runs down the sink, and so I write" (Carl Solomon). To justify the intellectual nonsense of some good essayist or other temporarily without a subject... (I am Jack's corrosive literary critic)... Now I'm staring perplexedly into space like a statue of Vinícus de Moraes into its glass of cachaça, my blurred vision immersed in the paradisiacal scenery before me. Near the sand, the wave is green at a point where a thin beard of seaweed can be seen churning in the foam. But I notice movement in one spot in the sea... it's a girl swimming: my girl swimming: Carmen. She swims a certain distance from the shore, with slow and precise strokes, swimming with the water and the wind, and the small bubbles that appear and disappear seem to move faster than she does. Fair enough: bubbles are light, made of nothing, their entire substance is water, wind, and light, and the girl's flesh is white, her bones well formed, her heart brimming with life, her entire body perfectly sculpted by nature to carry her through the water.
ResponderExcluirShe uses her delicate muscles with calm energy, moving forward. She certainly doesn't suspect that a stranger is seeing her and admiring her from afar for the second time in her life, in love, because she's swimming on a virtually deserted beach, early in the morning. I try to listen to my own heart and immediately know where this passion comes from at first and second sight, but now I find in this radiating center of energy a calmer nobility. I feel solidarity with my own heart, following its solitary effort as if it were fulfilling a beautiful mission amidst a jungle of other feelings, some very ugly and discordant. She swam in my presence for about three hundred meters before I realized it was her. I don't know, I lost sight of her twice, when she passed behind the trunks of coconut trees and the kiosks at the edge of the pool, but I waited with complete confidence for her head to reappear, and for the alternating movement of her beautiful arms. Another fifty meters, and I'll lose sight of her completely... the image of her swimming is doing my spirit a world of good on this tropical Saturday morning.
ResponderExcluirShe emerges from the water, her golden hair streaming, her hands clasped close to her neck. I see her body as if walking on a small golden step of sand with the velvety blue of the sea in the background, looking down, her eyes blacken like bronze in the sun. Fall all the angels of heaven! From a distance, I felt her walking toward me like a delicious, warm secret, like a heart of lava that had just been spurted from the center of the earth. My eyes brush her face and drenched hair and jump hungrily to her moving legs, a goddess with impenetrable metallic eyes like marbles and snow shapes rhythmically evolving over the boiling sand. She quickens her pace a little so as not to burn her feet (I am the scent of fairy feet in Jack's nostrils)... I see a fallen coconut leaf in her path and I go down to the beach pretending to be fulfilling one of the inn's duties: collecting fallen coconut leaves on the sand... my cigarette is still half-smoked, she might ask me for a drag, a cigarette, fire, who knows (I am the short circuit in Jack's imagination)... She's walking past me, not even turning to look at me or say good morning. She's leaving, do something Jack, she's leaving like a wind, do something quick, Jack, a wind that vanishes into the middle of nowhere, quick Jack... "Want a cigarette, miss?", I say.
ResponderExcluirShe turns and greets me "'Sorry, good morning... I was walking a little distracted'', she says and walks a few steps towards me'' (I'm Jack's cheap trick)... I drop the coconut leaf on the ground and hand her the cigarette, her hands are small and well-manicured, her nails are painted purple. She puts the cigarette in her mouth and waits for the light "Sorry, here it is...'' I say and bring the matchstick against the side of the matchbox to the end of the cigarette in her mouth. May all the angels fall from heaven for the second time! It really is a perfect baroque angel face with a red filter cigarette between her teeth... I strike a match and it goes out in the wind, I strike a second, a third, a fourth and she immediately loses her patience and takes the cigarette out of her mouth and looks at me, twisting her face into a stupid and temperamental grimace. "Sorry," I laugh awkwardly... She was really irritated by that, it seemed little to me for so much irritation... she simply turned her back on me and walked away without saying a word. In a fit of dementia, I still have the courage to say: "Hey, wait a minute (!) There are still about forty more matches (...)", she laughs incredulously and makes a deprecating okay sign behind her, without turning around... with her back turned, she is a small quarter horse mare. It's over.
ResponderExcluirMan overboard! You can cut the shark-filled board, Captain Jack: I want to walk naked into the Fukushima plant and turn on all those faulty nuclear reactors at once, I want to breathe toxic fumes, I want to drink molten metal, I want to enter a burning Rome just to shake Nero's hand firmly... (I am Jack's inflamed feeling of rejection)... I walk into the sea wishing I'd be ripped apart by a hungry tiger shark. (I am Jack's bloodied surfer carcass)... I dive headfirst into a wave and suddenly I'm at the bottom of a muddy river with a motorized dredge trembling in my hands. When I'm not diving forty meters deep to dredge muddy material from the bottom, breathing through a grimy hose that fills my mouth with slimy drool, I'm smoking on the deck of the ferry over our torn clothes and backpacks. The wrinkles on Mr. Adamastor's face are as deep beneath his eyes as craters on the reddish surface of Mars, his cut face a faithful portrait of that canine, sub-Saharan life. I lift my head out of the water and rediscover the blue sea and the beach with the inn in the background. Then I think of that athletics referee who had his body pierced by a javelin thrown hundreds of meters away, and I feel chosen, blessed, someone suddenly spared by the divine's flashes of mercy.
ResponderExcluirI glance back at the inn and notice she's talking to Carmen on the porch. I climb out of the water, pick up my pack of cigarettes and matchbox from the ground, and move forward. They're chatting excitedly on the porch. I approach, standing two meters away in the sun, soaked through. I make no attempt to interrupt or join in, but listen attentively. Carmen looks at me as she continues talking: "It was then that I realized that all those trains of thought that we consider so "ours", that basically contain emotions, are not ours at all, they are a pile of garbage that we share", she says... "Hi hi, you have a funny way of talking about these things", Carmen observes amiably in her psychedelic nymph voice and she continues talking: "The only word that comes to me to define this process is "THE BEAST". Carmen intercepts her voice with a comment that seems to reference what they were saying before: "My sense of it is very similar, Kundalini energy, tantric yoga, the ascending serpentine force, the Caduceus, the Fleur-de-Liz (...)", she lights a cigarette and agrees, she was once Carmen's age, but is impressed by the precociousness of the girl's interest and knowledge:
ResponderExcluir
ResponderExcluir"And when quantum physics evokes the role of the observer to see light as a wave or particle, it is in fact co-opting only the average perception of cosmic energy, since more trained minds could see energy even more accurately." Now Carmen is definitely enchanted by her conversation, looking at her almost unblinkingly with a cigarette between her lips, a tenth-dimensional Virginia Woolf: "Unconscious emotional flows. Always referring to the mastery of negative emotions, the first quagmire of the 'MACHINE.'" Good nutrition, stretching, breathing, restructuring, and breaking routine produce their results, such as alertness. Mastery over the emotional body, which is to say that here we will deal with the patterns of emotional reaction and the games of symbolic or literal mental representations behind these reactions. NEGATIVE IMAGINATION IS LIKE A DISEASE'', she says and then walks over to a chair on the porch and throws me a towel that was lying there. Carmen now looks at me more deeply, curiously, wondering who I am or what my true relationship with her is, as she continues speaking with authority:
"Blavatsky gave a general overview of the energies in the Secret Doctrine, and Alice Bailey later organized it all into a tome called "Treatise on Cosmic Fire"... it deals with the fires of friction, the solar-magnetic, and the electric. These fires are part of the Kundalini, identical to the Caduceus. Only then does the initiate truly perceive a significant increase in their energetic coefficient, since most of our energy is "trapped" in these unconscious emotional flows that are like endless mantras or a scratched vinyl record that always plays the same passage. The very revitalization of blood circulation seems to only develop from the most palpable results of recapitulation, self-remembering and self-hypnosis (...) but without the practice of stalking at its most advanced levels, none of this makes the slightest difference'', Carmen interrupts her and observes that she has become accustomed to keeping a navigation notebook where she records the impressions and results of her mystical practices: ''now I write down everything that comes to mind every day (...) the other day I went to read through everything I had already written and I didn't understand a thing (...) he he, I think I'm going crazy (...) sometimes I think I'm really going crazy (...)'', Camen said, lit a new cigarette and
ResponderExcluirand continued: "I always keep my programming island updated. Deprogram and reprogram, load and unload, like a shotgun. Psychic technology(.)" and abruptly halts her train of thought, if we can even call it reasoning. I confess that it takes some imagination to follow her through these subconscious poetic meanderings. She helps the girl organize her thoughts a little, concluding her speech: "There is still the Fourth Fire, which in the time of Blavatsky and Bailey was still little known to science; it is plasma, now in vogue in scientific circles and even in industry. This "four-dimensional" fire also has an inherent sound aspect. The Hindu saying goes that SOUND is the UPADI (vehicle) of ENERGY, hence the buzzing sound you mentioned in the presentation when you were talking about your meditative practice. Hence the fourth (heart) chakra being called Anahatha, which means unceasing, untouched, pure." The complete picture of the "fires" includes some useful techniques for working with the energies(.)'', then she suddenly stops talking and formally introduces me to Carmen, who makes a face similar to the one she made on the beach and enters the inn without saying anything else after giving me two kisses on the cheek and repeating my name out loud, as if to engrave it in her memory or remember to forget it forever.
ResponderExcluirBut I no longer have a name, I am no one, I no longer exist to Carmen, I no longer have any desire, I don't want to know, it's the end... (I am Jack's nameless existential liquefaction)... And the last word I hear her say is precisely... my name! I heard a light sigh and my heart stopped beating, mortally stopped by a scream of disillusionment inside me, by the scream of an inconceivable melodramatic failure. Now it's just me and her again, as always. She comes close to me and says: "Carmen is cute(.) But she's a baby(.) Get a grip, mayor(!)", I feel my stomach growl, I'm hungry and have no desire to listen to her reprimands, but she still finishes, before entering: "...if I were you I would give up while there's still time(...)", and starts laughing in my face, continues: "She asked me who you were(...), she reveals. "And what did you say(...)'', I ask.. "I said that you work here(.)'' she says and enters, laughing even more mischievously.. Time to return to reality. I knew it - I was sure! She knew it. She was sure.
ResponderExcluirShe was certain. Carmen couldn't hear me crying, my face buried in my hands, because that simply wouldn't happen. My heart was hardened by countless traumas of death. But it seemed like before I entered, that inn would collapse, the sky would fall on my head. But none of that happened. The sky doesn't fall for so little. I simply couldn't do anything, and it was too dark, it seemed to me at its most terrifying at that moment... I went to sit down in the distance under a coconut tree to smoke, absent and silent, in the pose of a meditating Buddha. For a while I remained motionless. It was as if I were the captain of a steamship in a hurry and had missed the beginning of the ebb tide. Suddenly, I raised my head. The horizon of what until then had been a perfect sunny tropical Saturday now had a bank of dark clouds across it, and the calm path of the sea waters that Carmen had just cut with pure, feminine strokes, now ran dark under a somber sky—one would say it was taking me to the heart of infinite darkness... because today is Saturday. Damn it!
ResponderExcluirEnd first Carmen appearance here!
ResponderExcluirMaybe late at these evening I will post others old literary exercises wich form the old astral nucleo of my personal Recherche
ResponderExcluirThe first version of PORTAL PINEAL's Work Group told us about real persons from pre historic Nagualist Society and the entity called INGENERATUS or The EL, from Argentina's Tariqas and trationalists lists from scotland's ocult operativd esotericism
ResponderExcluirHere I wrote a poem about The El or INGENERATUS
ResponderExcluirReading the El, I don't think of Argentina
Reading the El, I don't think
of Argentina
but of the summer solstice
on the Third Avenue El
and of myself back then
reading that copy I found
on the El.
The El with its hanging fans
and "unexpected papers"
and its "SPITING IS PROHIBITED" signs.
The El
gliding through its world
with its "etc."
looking as if it had never heard of
The Ground.
An old lady
or a straw clown
putting a pin in his
MINT TIE
and looking
like he had nowhere to go
but Coney Island
rocking in his rocking chair
watching the El pass
as if he expected it to be a little different
each time.
But reading the El,
I don't think of Argentina.
Its forests that Borges
thought were dead.
I think of them instead.
First fragment of Work Group called AT THE RECEPTION from 2013
ResponderExcluirAnother van with her guests had just arrived and vomited four or five exotic characters onto the red carpet in front of the reception area. A blonde girl of about eighteen caught my attention by lying down on the surface of a huge red Teflon ball. I lit a cigarette and wanted to go over and carry her bags. The sauna was turned on exactly at midnight as she requested, and I directed the staff. I entered the dining room in a state of total reverie, thinking about why not between the wooden walls and the linoleum of the hallway. She was still there in her kung fu training clothes, keeping company with a couple of foreign friends who had also recently arrived. She got up from the table and headed to the small pantry where I had just entered and was watching everything from afar, invisibly. She seemed determined and confident with all that workout sweat running down her neck, even though the general opinion was that she was going crazy riding on all that money and with a life full of possibilities open before her.
For everyone who knew her, it was at the very least extravagant that she was still stuck in that seaside inn left for her by her ex, training in martial arts and buying fourth way books online... the idea of setting up a "working group" was my ex-husband's. What did she say? I asked, and she started feeling around for a new mattress wrapped in plastic in the pantry behind me... what? I asked again... that girl with the foreigner is my ex-sister-in-law, they'll definitely be watching us, she said... I didn't understand, I said... But now they'll know, she said, she seemed to be talking to herself, even though it was all directed at me... yeah, I thought, I understand, but so what? I asked... but you're going to have to act scandalized and that you would never dream of such a thing, and that here you're just an employee like any other, she said...... don't be fooled, she continued, she just finished medical school and knows more about my current life than you do... um, suddenly she called me and asked me to accompany the couple to one of the suites on the fourth floor... her ex-sister-in-law, a girl in her thirties with silky brown hair, combined firm, young-girl ankles with an experimental, uncertain walk as she climbed the stairs in front of me, hand in hand with her foreigner...
ResponderExcluir... in an imperceptible impulse the husband looked back and sought my eyes, making a twisted face of an annoyed boss as if the air in his nostrils were loosely obstructed by cloths (he had an aged and wrinkled jaw and gnarled hands with reddened fingertips typical of alcoholics: he was shorter than her, although denser and pot-bellied). As soon as we entered the room, she said her name was Susana, and while the man hurried into the bathroom, he explained that Arthur was her husband and a writer, and that they had come here to relieve the stress of the metropolis, since he had become enraged with his own book and abandoned the project of writing it once and for all. He had requested a cancellation from the publisher with whom he had signed a delivery contract, which was about to expire and he would die in a damned financial loss within a month... and how long will it take? I asked... a week, she said... He left the book half-finished and started taking them every day. She said, "It's a book of good luck," he repeated from inside the bathroom, apparently letting out a strange growl that was a strange kind of laugh. He seemed to be sitting on the toilet listening to our conversation, with his reddened face and breathless appearance, paraphrasing Montagne in that early morning that seemed more like the substance of the nocturnal dreams of some Hollywood Chinese opium smoker...
ResponderExcluir
ResponderExcluir...that Frenchman reminded me of a Belgian agent from a diamond processing company who had landed by helicopter at a mining site where I'd been working for three years, and the fourth reminded me of the specially arranged dump they'd created in the middle of the jungle to welcome the agent, in front of which we'd gather in the cheap Curutela camp to negotiate precious stones for tense, endless hours. "How similar these Europeans are to each other," I thought... "It doesn't matter if one is a writer and the other a millionaire gangster from the black market for precious stones; back in the 1970s, Castaneda said that Italy was a spiritually dead place: "In Italy, you're either Catholic or Communist; there's nothing left," I thought, visually recalling the scene in the jungle and the table with the gem, and how no one had the courage to leave that jungle carrying a gem that size in their backpack. I said goodnight to the couple and ran downstairs. She returned from the bathroom with her makeup freshly touched up, a bikini on, and walking barefoot toward the wide door that led to the beach. She lit another cigarette and checked the coffee pot on the counter. She poured herself a cup of coffee and pulled her sarong aside, exposing one leg entirely.
She walked to the balcony, holding her coffee and cigarette, and just by seeing her hips swaying inside her beach cover-up, anyone could tell she was good in bed. But that woman had been transplanted to another dimension during those days because of that spiritual gathering she was organizing; she seemed to refuse to admit to having dimensions or sex, as if in an affront to Nature. I found it amusing that she referred to the commotion I was seeing forming in the reception area of the "Working Group" inn. "We have to admit," she said, "take an honest look at yourself for once in your life," she continued, after compulsively lighting another cigarette and casting a wild look toward the beach in the darkness outside the restaurant. "Go to the mirror," she continued, "Look at your face." She seemed suddenly choked with some feeling of extraterrestrial revolt. 'IF YOU DON'T BELIEVE THAT LIFE IS A NIGHTMARE, THEN START LIVING AND SEE FOR YOURSELF!!' she concluded. I was immediately forced to stifle a volcanic laugh that rose from my abdomen, churning my guts and ended up exploding in the coffee cup next to my mouth. FUCK, she said FORGIVE ME. I begged. YOU SPOILED ME ALL OVER WITH COFFEE. I ran and got a cloth to clean her up. She was now desperately feeling everything around her, looking for her cigarettes again.
ResponderExcluirIt was a pathetic scene from a German expressionist film: that crazy young woman with dark circles under her eyes, recently separated and converted by me to a mock kung fu lifestyle, complete with smoking, drinking, and a dissolute sex life. Once again, stunned behind cigarettes while taking stock of the negative spirituality of the West, while a reggae radio in the background faded against the night sea breeze at the beginning of the beach in front of us, while a strange couple probably snored boredly on the fourth floor, while the reception area was crowded with spiritualist luminaries of all kinds and from the most unexpected backgrounds. Thinking about it, a perfect Fellini-esque scene! How she had managed to organize a meeting of that magnitude was for me one of those mysteries that only the most schizophrenic corners of the internet could explain. Some time ago, I had met her on a couch, in the middle of a party. She looked me in the eye for a few seconds and began to speak compulsively: "Would you like to marry me? We would open a coffee shop. Yes. A coffee shop. In a cold city. Coffee shops only work in cold cities. Yes. And then, imagine! Us counting our change at the end of the day. The damn distillation of coins. Soon we would lose patience with our meager income, and I would elbow the profits off the table.
ResponderExcluirEye to eye, I would tell you: "FUCK THIS CAFETERIA(!)". Or we would sit on the porch at night, staring at the monotony of suburban life with a Rimbaud book open on our laps. Oh, the warm February morning. The importunate south wind came to revive our memories of absurd indigents, our youthful misery. Then you would come up behind me and say, possessed by an inexorable sense of self-destruction: coffee shop, tobacconist, aborted literary projects, it was all nothing but a damned, dirty dream. And she would recite the poem again: It was much sadder than mourning. We would take a stroll through the suburbs. The weather was cloudy, and this south wind stirred up all the bad odors of devastated gardens and dry fields. I am "not available" for you, I am not a "voluntary partner" in the excrement of your life and your writings. Of course, you would say this in another language, full of incomprehensible slang and neologisms she said. A salivating dialect, I said, while she still recited the poem mentally and soon recited it aloud again: The city, with its smoke and noise of trades, followed us so far along the paths. Oh, another world, a dwelling blessed by sky and shadows!
ResponderExcluirThen you and I wouldn't come up behind me and say, possessed by an inexorable sense of self-destruction: coffee shop, tobacco shop, aborted literary projects, all of it was pure gratuitousness. I'm "not available" to you, I'm not a "voluntary partner" in the excrement of your life and your writing. Of course, you'd say this in another language, full of incomprehensible slang and neologisms. A salivating dialect, I said. And, for the first time, she spontaneously beamed at me, and continued adding an endless list of details to the initial image of the coffee shop. But she was just waxing poetic in free verse, raving lyrically at my expense, indifferent to my presence, my person, and my existence in general. "What for?" she asked insistently, as if to make me speak even more confusedly, pressured by her "theater of cruelty." When NOW. Where NOW. Who NOW. Let's go forward. Call it "going." Call it "forward." Of ordinary and current reality too she said, as if reciting disconnected pieces from a dark book.
ResponderExcluirIn the bedroom, she drunkenly let herself undress, after two or three sips of that sweet pink stuff we were drinking. Then I pushed the dress aside from her shoulders, and she stood naked before me. I didn't even pay attention to her panties. I'd already lost half a hand inside her when she ripped off the little pink accessory and lay back on the bed. "Come here," she said, unsmiling. (A psychological succession of cuts of friezes, atmospheric bands, and geological accidents. ¾ Intense and prolonged dream of sentimental groups with creatures of all kinds among all appearances.) She rolled exhausted onto the side of the bed an hour later and reached out to rummage through her bag on the floor for her cigarettes. I remained silent, lying on my back on the bed, staring at the patterns the cracks in the ceiling formed here and there.
ResponderExcluir(A psychological succession of friezes, atmospheric bands, and geological accidents. ¾ Intense and prolonged dream of sentimental groups with creatures of all kinds among all appearances.) She rolled exhausted onto her side of the bed an hour later and reached out to rummage through her bag on the floor for her cigarettes. I lay still, lying on my back on the bed, staring at the patterns the cracks in the ceiling made here and there. I smelled the smoke from her cigarette and asked for a drag, without turning to look at her. She passed the cigarette over my stomach, almost burning me. And she said: "A smoker is always a smoker, when the going gets tough. Nobody can stop...". I woke up from all these memories, throwing some water from the sink on my face in a hurry. In the end, it was already five in the morning and soon another batch of her "guests" would arrive for what promised to be the most bizarre spiritual encounter in the history of humanity and which would begin soon with one of those paradisiacal sunsets on the lawn behind the inn that overlooked the sea.
ResponderExcluirEnd AT THE RECEPTION here
ResponderExcluirEste comentário foi removido pelo autor.
ResponderExcluirI said these fragment is the firs I wrote in years or the firs I published after long years working in brazilian rivers with gold extraction dive - but the primordial genese of these text are in a much more little fragment from 2005 founded by me when I return from a long journey to Pará rivers in 2008 - these first old fragment was wrote for a girl from Brodoski, a little town in Sao Paulo state, wich stay with me in Orkut for a long time, and she maybe contain some elements of the creature called Beatriz that was much more enriched after multiples direct contacts with famous models and brazilian global actresses - just her name BEATRIZ linking with this perverted period of my life - BE - ATRIZ, than is like wrote ACTRESS in portuguese
ResponderExcluirHere the seminal fragment quoted above
ResponderExcluirCafé Ethiopia (for alcoholics only) 2005
ExcluirCafé Ethiopia (for alcoholics only)
ResponderExcluirA while back, I met her on a couch at a party. She looked me in the eye for a few seconds and began to speak compulsively: "Will you marry me? We'd open a coffee shop. Yes. A coffee shop. In a cold city. Coffee shops only operate in cold cities. Yes. And then, imagine! Us counting our change at the end of the day. Twos and dimes. We'd soon lose patience with our meager income, and I'd elbow the profits off the table. Eye to eye, I'd say: "Fuck me from behind(!) Now(!)." Or we'd sit on the porch at night, watching the monotony of life: old women with dogs, bored couples, etc. Then you'd come up behind me and say: coffee shop, tobacco shop, aborted literary projects, it was all just a dream, pure gratuitousness. Of course, you'd say this in another language, full of incomprehensible slang and neologisms. A dialect full of salivation. "Carmen, how can you live like this, orgasm after orgasm, flipping through magazines?" tourists looking for an ideal cabin, an ideal fuck(?)’. And soon two thick fingers would invade my vagina. ‘You don’t even know how to smoke, waste of joint(.)’. I see the continuation: ‘How about this here(?)’, and you would take your dick out and rub it in my face.
(Continue ame paragraph)And we could employ minors from the favela, so we wouldn't have to keep climbing up the hill to buy marijuana. Besides, they could make our sex life more—how can I put this, the most appropriate word?”
Excluir“Hot!” I said, after a long silence, in which I felt the words catch in my throat. She lit cigarette after cigarette, sipping a glass of whiskey, and staring at the ground. I couldn't help myself, and added: “We wouldn't even have to wait for the end of the workday. We could close the door in the middle of the afternoon, for a few minutes. While outside, a line of drunks would wait, standing, cigarettes in their mouths, hands in their coat pockets. Everyone listening to our moans. As for the minors, we'd have a lot of legal trouble.” She interrupted me with a brusque gesture and continued: “NO! I'd just have to show the garter belt to the courthouse guys, and I'd take them to the back, while you'd work the counter. But what about the café's name? It could be a tribute to a jazz musician, a Black poet from the Last Poets. What do you think of jasmine on the tables? Soundtrack: a fife band from Caruaru.
Excluireveryone talking about trivial college topics,
ResponderExcluirafraid to say it, I just want to fuck each other,
the best friend's girlfriend's ass,
up to the top, where bridges intersect with
unusual adjectives,
it's not beautiful,
it's not supposed to be beautiful,
that blue light of boats,
arriving shaking or crawling at your ex's feet, is the same as nothing,
or at least seeming to suddenly, ragged, unveiling petite bourgeois hardness,
No one has that key, betrayals, bloody fights, everything happening as if inside boiling saunas,
the sexual immensity of the world devouring small secret consumer dreams,
times of low sensuality, mon cherr,
you close your eyes and enter the dark room, I've been waiting for you to come up for two hours, delighted by all that mental apparatus of a disgusting little whore, recovering the heaven of orgasm before sleep, imagining my future obscene phrases postponing the nothingness of the outside world with its invisible cores...”.
She stared at me eccentrically. Two ruby-red eyes, set deep in her pale, adolescent face.
ResponderExcluir"How about: Café Ethiopia (for alcoholics only), named after Rimbaud?" And for the first time, she smiled at me, and continued adding an endless list of details to that initial image of the coffee shop. But she was just waxing poetic in free verse, raving lyrically at my expense, indifferent to my presence, my person, and my existence in general.
Continue in one minute
ExcluirNow I met her again, under similar circumstances. I was off guard when she approached me, her red braids falling over the neckline of her dress. She asked, out of the blue, "Why are you so quiet? Want a beer?" and brushed her leg against mine. "Not bad..." "Want to go drink in my room?" "But..." “The SS said you are a writer, I didn’t know, but I can also create a fictional character as common as the common reader, I have superb breasts, no (?), you want to suck me, don’t you (?), and I have thick thighs, as much as you want, your sick imagination, you can desire it between my legs (!) when you see a dancer on a talk show raise her leg above her head, you get hard as a stake, you are a barbarian, a nigger (!), and imagine the pink and pulsating crack closing, on all fours on the floor, leaning on the sofa, looking back, your face closing, feeling the glans, the sweat on your face, fuck her good, fuck her good, from behind, from behind, but in the pussy”.
ResponderExcluirI didn't know what to say. And so we both went, in silence, to the bedroom. It was as if I were being rescued from a terrible night of waiting among strange people who just kept spinning and screaming in the middle of a room that could soon be consumed by four-meter-high flames. Naked bodies flying desperately through the windows of the burning house, spewing out teenagers with empty souls and standardized minds.
ResponderExcluirIn the bedroom, I let her undress me, after two or three sips of that stale beer. Then, I pushed the dress aside over her shoulders, and she stood naked before me. She had beautiful little breasts, with ripe nipples, bursting with the desire to be bitten. I didn't even pay attention to her panties. I'd already lost half a hand inside them when she ripped off the little pink trinket and lay back on the bed.
"Put it in my ass," she said, without smiling.
.................................................................................................
"How horror! How horror!" she screamed!, turning her face back to look. I held her hips tightly with both hands and pushed her body forward so hard that the sounds I heard were probably her head hitting the wall. "How awful! How awful!" she continued screaming with every breath she took, until I tightened my grip on her hips and practically ripped a chunk of skin off her ass when I came.
ResponderExcluirShe collapsed exhausted on the bed and reached out to rummage through her bag on the floor for a cigarette. I lay still, face down on the bed, staring at the patterns the cracks in the ceiling made here and there. I smelled her cigarette smoke and asked for a drag, without turning to look at her. She passed the cigarette over my stomach, almost burning me. She said, "A smoker is always a smoker when the going gets tough. No one can quit..."
I limited myself to smoking the cigarette, savoring the compound of toxic substances that had already grown accustomed to traveling through my respiratory system, from the most withdrawn auveoli to the dilated nostrils, to spread through the air of these increasingly constant boarding house rooms. (A psychological succession of frieze cuts, atmospheric bands, and geological accidents. — Intense and rapid dream of sentimental groups with creatures of all kinds among all appearances.)
ResponderExcluir"Do you feel like eating churros, babe?"
The devil, broken wax cellos, untied shoelaces, misshapen vests, new horrors of Hades, globules of mercury, unremoved viscous matter...
Young woman who swallows sights
Of which touch is ONLY a seed.
Inside her,
The unbearable clarity
Obscures contact.
AND THE FLIES RESPOND
TO HER REMOTELY GUIDED CLAPS
And lucid, distant,
Her thought comes
(Without contentment,
a tiny grain!)
And to her eyes offer
A few small movements
Against the wall
And she thinks:
“If they were dangerous toxins
they would cut off the path of souls!”
(November 13, 2006)
Este comentário foi removido pelo autor.
ResponderExcluirI quoted a wrong time for these text
ResponderExcluir(November 13, 2006)