sábado, 17 de fevereiro de 2007

Continuo saturado disto tudo

Já passou um mês de blog, e contudo a “nova alma” ainda não surgiu. Talvez seja meu problema, por ter tanta pressa de a ver e contudo nada fazer para apressar a sua chegada. E contudo apenas faço o que me disseram que deveria fazer:
“Espera, que quando te aperceberes, já estás feliz e ao lado de quem te ame.”
Na altura suou fatela, e ainda agora me parece triste. Portanto devemos nós sentarmo-nos num banco de um jardim e esperar por alguma coisa? E o que fazemos enquanto esperamos? Lemos aí uns jornais diários e gratuitos? Chuchamos no dedo feitos palhaços solitários? Fiquei farto. Nem me fartei da ideia de esperar, mas dá ideia que algo que vai aparecer do nada pode, e irá, abalar o meu mundo. Não. Não me apetece esperar ou acreditar que a espera me irá recompensar. Portanto, sou todo ouvidos. O que me aconselham vocês aí em cima? Se calhar estou a perder o meu tempo com gente muda…
Serei eu um incompreendido? Não. Vá lá. Já chega desta treta. Não, não és um incompreendido, nem um tipo estranho. A tua vida está o que está, e a culpa é tua. Porra é só tua! Não culpes mais ninguém seu palhaço! Só fizeste porcaria. Se estás sozinho ou se a vida não te corre bem, então é porque mereces!
Agora que já esclarecemos estas premissas, segue-se a conclusão, Estás sozinho. E poderás deixar de estar, assim que quiseres. Basta-te abrires-te. Saberes falar. Esqueceres o teu orgulho de porcaria e começares a atinar com este mundo. É lixado, é mesmo. Mas a pergunta é, quem te disse que não era? Mexe-te daí idiota e vai dar uma volta. Sim porque tu estás parado sem fazer nada, chateado com a tua vida. Armado em coitado. Tens a mania que és inocente? Pobre coitado. Já te disse e repito, Faz-te a vida!
Continuas aí?

sexta-feira, 16 de fevereiro de 2007

Discurso memorável: Martin Luther King, Jr. - "I Have a Dream"

Delivered 28 August 1963, at the Lincoln Memorial, Washington D.C.
I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.
Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.
But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we've come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.
In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the "unalienable Rights" of "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds."
But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so, we've come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.
We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.
It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. And there will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.
But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.
The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.
We cannot walk alone.
And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.
We cannot turn back.
There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by a sign stating: "For Whites Only." We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until "justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream."
I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest -- quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.
Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.
And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.
I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."
I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.
I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.
I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
I have a dream today!
I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.
I have a dream today!
I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."
This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.
With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.
And this will be the day -- this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning:
My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride,
From every mountainside, let freedom ring!
And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.
And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.
Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.
Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of
Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.
Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.
But not only that:
Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.
Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.
Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.
From every mountainside, let freedom ring.
And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:
Free at last! Free at last!
Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!

(Nota pessoal: Martin Luther King morreu á 4 de abril de 1968, assasinado. Dá que pensar, será que mudou muito?)

quinta-feira, 15 de fevereiro de 2007

História por acabar: O Amnésico e a sua Consciência II

Onde raio estou? Espera, ainda não abri os olhos. Já esta. Que sitio é este? Parece um cubo… O que é um cubo?
È um sólido limitado por seis faces quadradas e iguais, meu caro.
Ah, certo. Caro? Que é isso? É quem sou?
Não, é uma expressão que adaptei agora mesmo para te poder chamar. Faço o pois não sei o teu nome. E antes que perguntes, nome é palavra que designa pessoa, coisa ou animal.
E qual delas sou eu?
Uma pessoa, se não me engano.
As consciências enganam-se? O que é uma consciência?
Eu sou a moral em ti. Eu distingo o bem do mal, o certo do errado.
Errado para quem?
Tudo o que digo serve para preservar a tua vida. Estou assim sempre certo.
Estou a ver...Vou me esforçar por abrir os olhos. Uma luz passa por mim. Demoro a abrir os olhos. Abri. Estou num cubo. Sinto algo que me faz doer o corpo. Será esta dor normal?
Não sinto a dor, eu simplesmente faço tudo para impedir que a tenhas. Mas esta dor não e normal. Caíste.
Como sabes?
Estas a sangrar. Caíste. Ou foste espancado.
Que interessa...Oiço vozes. Alguém vem ai.
Porque podes compreender quem és pela voz de outros.

quarta-feira, 14 de fevereiro de 2007

Dia dos encalhados

Realmente saturo do maior coração da Europa e do comercialismo em massa que a data obriga. Para mim que não tenciono comprar ou dedicar nada a ninguém, que devo fazer? Parar e ficar a olhar os outros? Duvido muito. Por cá fico com os meus hábitos e procuras de um nada. Até lá a quem me lê.

terça-feira, 13 de fevereiro de 2007

Poetry that does not rhyme: Dreaming around you

Got me trying to dance.
Got me trying to not care.
And truly I don’t know how you do it.
You make me forget everything and I just appreciate it.
At your side, I don’t miss the black clouds.
I just like to be and let go.
Because we just talk and smile.
You just give me hope to breath.
To smile.
To live.
Yet I don’t see you.
You’re just a thought, a dream, and a hope.
Because to tell you the truth, I’ve never seen you.
You’re the unknown.
You’re the music I hear.
You’re the pretty things in life.
Do you even exist?
Or are you nothing but a dream?
To all the lovers in the world, they all say you exist.
To all the broken-hearted in the world, they say they miss you.
To all the lonely people, they still believe in you.
Who am I, on this complicated mess?
No one, I guess.

segunda-feira, 12 de fevereiro de 2007

Diário de um Amnésico

Quem? Diário de quem?

domingo, 11 de fevereiro de 2007

Música para ouvir: Pearl Jam - Black

Hey... oooh...
Sheets of empty canvas, untouched sheets of clay
Were laid spread out before me as her body once did.
All five horizons revolved around her soul
As the earth to the sun
Now the air I tasted and breathed has taken a turn

Ooh, and all I taught her was everything
Ooh, I know she gave me all that she wore
And now my bitter hands chafe beneath the clouds
Of what was everything.
Oh, the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything...

I take a walk outside
I'm surrounded by some kids at play
I can feel their laughter, so why do I sear?
Oh, and twisted thoughts that spin round my head
I'm spinning, oh, I'm spinning
How quick the sun can drop away

And now my bitter hands cradle broken glass
Of what was everything?
All the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything...

All the love gone bad turned my world to black
Tattooed all I see, all that I am, all I'll be... yeah...
Uh huh... uh huh... ooh...

I know someday you'll have a beautiful life,
I know you'll be a sun in somebody else's sky, but why
Why, why can't it be, why can't it be mine

Aah... uuh..

Too doo doo too, too doo doo [many times until fade]

(Nota pessoal: "Conheci" os Pearl Jam, demasiado tarde. E mesmo agora não os conheço. Apenas uma música ou duas que não posso deixar de ouvir, e não passa disso. Deixo aqui o melhor exemplar dessa influência tardia.)