o fantasma da obra

Tenho uma pomba branca no parapeito da varanda

todos os dias! No início achei muito giro e até romântico, uma espécie de sinal.
Só depois é que comecei a notar que a varanda e o dito parapeito estão cheios de merda da pomba.
Merda para a pomba. Todos os dias me lembro que tudo - absolutamente tudo - perde a graça ao fim de algum tempo.

máquina do tempo

Há cerca de três minutos atrás, deparei com um comentário a este blogue na minha caixa de entrada email. Já cá não vinha há mais de 2 anos.

Nem pensei que alguém visitasse este lugar recondito da blogosfera, que por acaso, até chega a ser bastante coerente: um autêntico fantasma! Com imagens e links desactivados, deve ser o blogue menos blogue que eu conheço.

Fiquei espantada com a surpresa de me deparar com o meu próprio site, subitamente, atravéz de um estranho - assim como quando deparamos com notícias de alguém que teve algum significado na nossa vida mas que, de repente, perde totalmente a relevância e a quem nunca mais recordamos. De repente, essa pessoa adquire, como por magia, as matizes, os cheiros, sabores, sentimentos do tempo passado.

Uma autêntica máquina do tempo.

Regressei, portanto, mais uma vez, como quem folheia uma agenda antiga ou como quem regressa à última bifurcação da vida e quiçá não resolve seguir o caminho da direita em vez do da esquerda.

PALAVRAS PARA QUÊ

REABERTURA

TOO FAST 4 YOU

FluteJazz
Terje Gewelt, Upright Bass / David Williams, Flute and Lexicon
"Swedish Pastry" (Barney Kessel)

mais lindo ainda

Piccolo Amati

É lindo, não é?

!!!

"The way leads from playing the flute to pleasure, from pleasure to laziness, from laziness to sleep, from sleep to sin, from sin to death, from death to the devil and hell."

Stephen Cossman, of Puritan England

The flute is not an instrument that has a good moral effect - it is too exciting.

Ademais a flauta não é da ordem dos costumes mas é, sim, orgiástica, de modo que se se deve servir dela naquelas circunstâncias nas quais o espectáculo tem o poder de purgar, não o de ensinar.

Aristóteles, 'Política'.

BLOW-UP

inversamente proporcional

à escala real

TOO FAST FOR YOU

John Devitt's Fast Beat op.1
flute-jazz from the "THREE MINUTE JAZZ" album.

black hole

just like water ...

.......spiraling down a plughole

P/1995 S1 (de Vico) © Copyright by the observers T. Credner, S. Kohle.

[...] je compris que ce n'est pas le monde physique seul qui diffère de l'aspect sous lequel nous le voyons; que toute réalité est peut-être aussi dissemblable de celle que nous croyons percevoir directement et que nous composons à l'aide d'idées qui ne se montrent pas mais sont agissantes, de même que les arbres, le soleil et le ciel ne seraient pas tels que nous les voyons, s'ils étaient connus par des êtres ayant des yeux autrement constitués que les notres, ou bien possédant pour cette besogne des organes autres que des yeux et qui donneraient des arbres, du ciel et du soleil des équivalents mais non visuels.

[...]

[...] une personne n'est pas, comme j'avais cru, claire et immobile devant nous avec ses qualités, ses défauts, ses projects, ses intentions à notre égard (comme un jardin qu'on regarde, avec toutes ses plates-bandes, à travers une grille), mais est une ombre où nous ne pouvons jamais pénétrer, pour laquelle il n'existe pas de connaissance directe, au sujet de quoi nous nous faisons des croyances nombreuses à l'aide de paroles et même d'actions , lesquelles les unes et les autres ne nous donnent que des renseignements insuffisants et d'ailleurs contradictoires, une ombre où nous pouvons tour à tour imaginer avec autant de vraisemblance que brillent la haine et l'amour.

Marcel Proust, À la recherche du temps perdu -
- Le Coté de Guermantes I

Éditions Gallimard, 1988.
(Tome II, p. 366, 367)

NGC 3718

panther-observatory

This galaxy is one of the most interesting and beautifull of the northern skies.

This galaxy most likely supports a massive black hole at its center.

S.O.L.

Spacecraft/missionRelease date: 1988
Source: Nasa
Anim. by Calvin J. Hamilton

Credit: NASA/JPL/Space Science Institute

Despite its Death Star look,

Saturn's moon Mimas means you no harm.

What Type of Killer Are You?
brought to you by Quizzilla

Assassin

You are an
assassin.
That means you are a professional and do your
job without mixing any emotions in it. In your
life you have probably been hurt many times and
have gotten some mental scars. This results in
you being distant from people. Though many
think that you are evil, you are not. What you
really are is a person, trying to forget your
pain and past. You are the person who never
seems to care and that is why being an assassin
fits you good. Atleast, that's what people
think. Even if you don't care that much for
your victims, you still have the ability to
care and to generally feel. It is not lost,
just a little forgotten. In crowds you tend to
not get to noticed, and dress in black or other
discrete colours. You don't being in the
spotlight and wish people would just leave you
alone. But once you do get close to someone you
have a hard time letting go and get real down
if you loose him/her.

Main weapon: Sniper
Quote: "The walls we build around
us to keep out the sadness also keep out the
joy" -Jim Rohn
Facial expression: Narrowed eyes

" 'Going to be a storm,' said Ralph, 'and you'll have rain like when we dropped here. Who's clever now? Where are your shelters? What are you going to do about that?'

The hunters were looking uneasily at the sky, flinching from the stroke of the drops. A wave of restlessness set the boys swaying and moving aimlessly. The flickering light became brighter and the blows of the thunder were only just bearable. The littluns began to run about, screaming.
Jack leapt on to the sand.
'Do your dance! Come on! Dance!'
He ran stumbling through the thick sand to the open space of rock beyond the fire. Between the flashes of lightning the air was dark and terrible; and the boys followed him, clamorously. Roger became the pig, grunting and charging at Jack, who side-stepped. The hunters took their spears, the cooks took spits, and the rest clubs of fire-wood. While Roger mimed the terror of the pig, the littluns ran and jumped on the outside of the circle. Piggy and Ralph, under the threat of the sky, found themselves eager to take a place in this demented but partly secure society. They were glad to touch the brown backs of the fence that hemmed in terror and made it governable.

'Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!'

The movement became regular while the chant lost its first superficial excitement and began to beat like a steady pulse. Roger ceased to be a pig and became a hunter, so that the center of the ring yawned emptily. Some of the littluns started a ring on their own; and the complementary circles went round and round as though repetition would achieve safety of itself. There was the throb and stamp of a single organism.

The dark sky was shattered by a blue-white scar. An instant later the noise was on them like the blow of a gigantic whip. The chant rose a tone in agony.

'Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!'

Now out of the terror rose another desire, thick, urgent, blind.

'Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!'

Again the blue-white scar jagged above them and the sulphurous explosion beat down. The littluns screamed and blundered about, fleeing from the edge of the forest, and one of them broke the ring of biguns in his terror.

'Him! Him!'

The circle became a horseshoe. A thing was crawling out of the forest. It came darkly, uncertainly. The shrill screaming that rose before the beast was like a pain. The beast stumbled into the horseshoe.

'Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!'

The blue-white scar was constant, the noise unendurable. Simon was crying out something about a dead man on a hill.

'Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood! Do him in!'

The sticks fell and the mouth of the new circle crunched and screamed. The beast was on its knees in the centre, its arms folded over its face. It was crying out against the abominable noise something about a body on the hill. The beast struggled forward, broke the ring and fell over the steep edge of the rock to the sand by the water. At once the crowd surged after it, poured down the rock , leapt on to the beast, screamed, struck, bit, tore. There were no words, and no movements but the tearing of teeth and claws.

Then the clouds opened and let down the rain like a water-fall. The water bounded from the mountain-top, tore leaves and branches from the trees, poured like a cold shower over the struggling heap of the sand. Presently the heap broke up and figures staggered away. Only the beast lay still, a few yards from the sea. Even in the rain they could see how small a beast it was; and already its blood was staining the sand. "

William Golding, Lord of the Flies