TRACKS OF REMAINS
All wet below, like the widest kiss of fixed nourishment in her domains of liquid sex. It's funny that she puts on her bra before putting on her panties; when she puts them on, I'm suddenly aware of her legs as separate things, shapely, liquid pink rolls that undulate down to her ankles, receiving the rosy light of each other's reflection. She moves slowly, and, before me, Sunday is a slow fact too, exploding against the air in the undulating strands of Sabrina's hair, in the sleepless legacy of that humid mental dawn, successfully liquefied under our eyelids. A beautiful Catholic and colonial Sunday, amidst a picturesque population. The Victory Corridor is alive and quiet down there, under the shadows of giant old trees and ancient buildings. The bells of a church ring thunderously. I go to the window and raise the curtain a few inches: the church's rose window is dimmed and the sun shines on a blue facade, casting the shadow of the bell tower on the ground, a fresh and reduced reflection of the morning, where some gentlemen with flowers in their lapels are chatting with prayer pamphlets in their hands, among many common sheep, they stand out in their bearing and attitude. The flock enters the church with their heads bowed, while the thought that those people had the bold idea of leaving home early to pray there pleases and reassures me. I bow my head with my eyes closed, a gesture so discreet that Sabrina doesn't notice it. "Help me, Christ. Forgive me. Show me the Way. Protect A, B, C, D, etc., up to Z... forgive all the others as well. Amen." I have perpetual life, and where the Lord points, I plant roots, or through fantasy or blindness I decide to leave them... I say: Christ or Antichrist, always both. I want the husks of my creative pleasure. Creating is a terrible agony and unbearable suffocation, as Artaud wrote in Rodez—a controlled madness that requires great energy to be practiced successfully. A duty and a martyrdom, continues the fainting Artaud, slumped in his cell—a duty and a martyrdom without joy for oneself, except for states of grace, and that is all. A suffering sustained by opium. Understanding is found in obscenely enjoying without retreating from everything one wants to destroy to transform opium into shit. As for the priests, they laughed, they are "reborn clots who, over time, wanted to recover illusion, the reflection of quicksilver... Christians abuse my disillusionment in the face of everything to drag me out of the flesh produced by my own effort, sex on the breath to the right, scissors. – I seek a nature more beautiful than the unusual. – My daughters fight with a knife, they are shameless with the world, when they are enmeshed, they put my name and my ass on display, they are not afraid to speak shamelessly or denounce the truth of the truth."
Leaving the bedroom for the kitchen, that morning that, through the balcony window, announced itself as a full day at the beach, I remained alert, sometimes merely suspicious that "it" couldn't go on, but it did. The fabric of the countryside I explored was continuous, yes, but it threatened to erode at every moment—no murmur, no sign in the form of a furrow in the road separated the eroded territory from the water that flowed and eroded there. Life was becoming empty of mantras, and my mind raced to ever greater distances, searching for a new one. Opening the local newspaper that was slipped under the door every day, I searched for a subject on which to "fix my vertigo"—Je fixais des vertigo—Ce fut d'abord une étude...—then, somewhere in the reading, my head grew and attested to the world as an accumulation of poorly constructed dreams, which life itself engendered in an aerial assembly full of clashes between skulls. Another voice, radiating from all the Orphic crossroads, welled up within me to end the attack. That new song came brokenly, emerging from beneath my skin, as Sabrina rematerialized in that room after the last of her yawning sleep, her trails of sea fumes, mermaids, and surroundings. The Void there spun like a roulette wheel.
ResponderExcluir--- It can happen when you least expect it, and a photo-story about the affair can appear on Facebook. At the end of a party, the hottie the couple met befriended them and asked for a ride. Nothing is unexpected in------------------------------------------
ResponderExcluir--------------------------------------path: the invitation for an extra drink is the work of the more excited partner and betrays their need for "supplements." Without drinking too much beforehand, a certain nervous exhaustion can still be seen in the desire to seek an "exotic sexual adventure." You know, isn't it crude? With the agreement of the three, things even take on a special color; you know, the person outside the circle of relationships is the prostitute, that's how it works. Behind a ménage, there's always money involved. If it's public, it goes without saying. Sabrina's breath spoke to me of unsweetened coffee and cigarettes, expensive cognacs, "aperitifs," Pernods, and scented cocaine. Hooray! – Baudelaire was the Poet of Whores. Her legs raised on the sofa, looking sometimes at the ceiling, sometimes at me, even though she practically moaned as she said the words, it was good, an appropriate demonstration of sincere emptiness, in the strangeness of her intentions. He seemed to be melancholically counting bedbugs on the wall – his mind stuck on that nameless intimate business, speaking in that voice you always want to hear when fucking a woman.
ResponderExcluir– Baudelaire was the poet who sought the Devil through the use of words. In The Beautiful Ship, he compared the woman he admired to a ship and then to a wardrobe. YOUR LADY PANTS UNDER THE FLUID AND VARIOUS DRESS / YOUR VICTORIOUS LADY IS LIKE A BEAUTIFUL CABINET / WHOSE CLEAR CONVEX SEGMENTS / LIKE BUCKLES CAPTURE GLITTERING REFLECTIONS. / PROVOCATIVE BUCKLES WITH SHARP PINK TIPS! / CABINETS FULL OF PRECIOUS DELICACIES / WINES, PERFUMES, AND LIQUEURS / THAT FLOOD THE HEART AND MIND WITH TORPOR. The poet and the reader go from the woman's breasts to the ship, the vessel, the closet and its effects, hence the shields, perfumes, and liqueurs... also in the poem "Perfume," the scent of musk is a subtle and strange charm that transfigures the image of the past in our present. Therefore, it refers to the body, to other smells, hair, bedrooms, women's underwear, damp... Baudelaire -----------------------------------------------
ResponderExcluir------------------------------- was also, therefore, the poet of living sensations, smells that are colors, that are sounds, that are memories and emotions. His poem Correspondances leads directly into Rimbaud's Sensation. Sensation Par les soirs bleus d’été, j’irai dans les sentiers, Picoté par les bles, fouler l’herbe menue: Rêveur, j’en setirai la fraîcheur à mes pieds. Je laisserai le vent baigner ma tete nue. Je ne parlerai pas, je ne falerai rien: Mais l’amour infini me montera dans l’âme, Et j’irai loin, bien loin, comme um bohémien, Par la Nature, – heureux comme avec une femme. March 1870. On summer afternoons, I will go through the orchards, Stung by wheat, treading on the small grass: Dreamy, I will feel a coolness under my feet And the wind will bathe my bare head. I will walk silently, I will think of nothing: But infinite love within my breast I shelter, And like a bohemian I will go, far down the road, Happy – as if I took a woman with me.
ExcluirSabrina returned with a different voice, having finished reading the poem. I continued with the newspaper firmly in my hands, committed to reading it and "certifying" it. Arrow and support, I transformed her every pause into a scholarly wait, my blood bubbling in anticipation of any seeds. Contained until I found the space of shock ----------------------------------------------
ResponderExcluir--------------------------------- where she had decided to tie so deeply the intrigue of those elements that, under the sunlight, made visible her dedication to the orange scene, the color of northern beaches, the orange-red hue of an athlete, a beach volleyball player. "I think if you tried to become delicate all of a sudden, I would even be offended," I said, turning another page of the newspaper. MARKET. "And what man would want that from me? When a man is burning with desire, he doesn't want to feel the delicacy of a feminine soul. He just wants to 'see things,'" she said. Now you could see the dust on her face, that stardust that connected her East, where the light receded in small reflections of shiny sweat, a damp close-up, her voice more sinister than ever, a throbbing representation of greed, the charm of a newlywed, in total disarray of the base reality of things.
ResponderExcluir"Certain things only serve to excite us in the movies," Sabrina said, from the sidelines, "they become low-quality chatter, with poor vocabulary and a touchy-feely approach." Those bedroom secrets of yours, those accounts of "things that can happen naturally," narrating every step of your advances, create a favorable climate for many new forms of expression, which some even claim are utilitarian, in the broader sense of the possibility of acquisitions and deals. I write mine too, but women love to change their minds from one moment to the next and miss the opportunity." The light was now incredibly favorable to her. PERSISTING WAS FAVORABLE! It wasn't a specific event, but the setting of a vague, vociferous landscape, and this time, perhaps it wasn't exactly a story of compelling adventures. The narrative didn't even have a clear beginning: nothing punctuated, defined, or enhanced it!
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ResponderExcluirHer interest throughout the paragraphs. Only occasionally did images flash, reminiscent of reflections of waves on the beaches of Flamengo, even the Sereia de Itapuã, where, six years earlier, I had spent a week's vacation in a black glass apartment, visiting these same people. Sabrina's way of speaking at that moment reminded me of the monotonous, vague undulation of the ocean waves ahead, the same one I mentioned above, but that passion for speaking softly and slowly had vanished from her within the first few minutes of the conversation, just as it had at the party. What she said now had a much more sincere and anguished tone. What came out of her mouth gave the impression of a force trying to draw me into the sand, into its shadow, sucking in my thoughts. A relentless logic paralyzed my heart, permeating the narrative with its slurry of clichés. Sabrina glanced at the yellow watch on her wrist. I desperately wanted her to open up to me without fear, at that moment, but only if I was already as certain, including about the duration of the encounter, as she was. It was only three minutes to one in the afternoon... what was happening to me was also a shame in her, in my bohemian exile in Rio Vermelho, where I had learned to take care of my own home and to produce my work as a supplement to my life.
ResponderExcluirAt the end of the day, after a long nap, we stared at each other with an ironic expression that meant I KNOW YOU every time she discussed communism, flinging rotten displays of activism on social media, or when the rottenness of the left advanced over society, to the point of appropriating discourse on some fronts. A caramelized look, of festive irony, that began the day she pretended to be pregnant with me and called a bunch of people. "Something I wanted to tell you, K," she said, "and forgive me if I'm butting in where I'm not wanted, but I expect you to always take precautions against trouble, the calm and sovereign step of the vampire "on the edge of time," ahistorical in its chronologically insensitive soul---------------------------------------
ResponderExcluir---------------------------------in which concepts were replaced by archetypes. She is retrouvée. What? - Eternity. BUT LET'S TURN THE PAGE! See what Shakespeare tells us: the face of heaven blushes! Yes, before such a work, the universe is distressed and takes on a somber aspect. Murilo Mendes has incredible poems about the Last Judgment, from his Esau and Jacob phase of Catholic enthronement, and anticipates his friend Umberto Eco in Apocalyptic and Integrated. Sabrina was sincerely distressed by the cult-like reach of her afflictions. At first, that's exactly what I thought: projections of images that disrupted the nervous system in a cult-like way, with precautions of taste and the futility of a fashion shoot, nothing more. I limited myself to taking some photos of her in that "ambiance" and posted them along with the most recent translations.
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