Lux Tenebris Ex

Today I had a horrible vivid nightmare,
And stood suddenly in time to pay attention…

I woke up scared by the falling starry night,
And start to sought through the darkness
Someone with your affection to protect me…

A glimpse of light made me remembered a time,
A time where the past brings me a memory…

A scene from the instant I was just a small child,
And fear, fear was a strong reason to cry…

Today I woke up embraced by fear,
But I did not cry or asked for shelter…

From the darkness I could see the infinite
No past, present or future could haunt me…

In that moment I felt a strong presence...
Fear could not trouble me anymore…

It was something yours that stuck with me,
And that something has no ending, no stopping…

Suddenly, suddenly we see that something is lost
Or that something is beginning to fade away…

A warm and innocent feeling gets in the way,
Illuminated by the beauty of everything that happened minutes ago…






“Una pasión… Un tipo puede cambiar de todo… De casa, de cara, de familia, de dios,
pero hay una cosa que no podemos cambiar… De pasión…” – Pablo Sandoval – El Secreto de tus ojos





Listening to Take Five – The David Brubeck Quartet

Mare liberum

"Necesito del mar porque me enseña:
no sé si aprendo música o conciencia:
no sé si es ola sola o ser profundo
o sólo ronca voz o deslumbrante
suposición de peces y navios.
El hecho es que hasta cuando estoy dormido
de algún modo magnético circulo
en la universidad del oleaje.
No son sólo las conchas trituradas
como si algún planeta tembloroso
participara paulatina muerte,
no, del fragmento reconstruyo el día,
de una racha de sal la estalactita
y de una cucharada el dios inmenso.

Lo que antes me enseñó lo guardo! Es aire,
incesante viento, agua y arena.

Parece poco para el hombre joven
que aquí llegó a vivir con sus incendios,
y sin embargo el pulso que subía
y bajaba a su abismo,
el frío del azul que crepitaba,
el desmoronamiento de la estrella,
el tierno desplegarse de la ola
despilfarrando nieve con la espuma,
el poder quieto, allí, determinado
como un trono de piedra en lo profundo,
substituyó el recinto en que crecían
tristeza terca, amontonando olvido,
y cambió bruscamente mi existencia:
di mi adhesión al puro movimiento."

Pablo Neruda - El Mar





"After your death you will be what you were before your birth." - Arthur Schopenhauer





Listening to L. Bacalov - "Il Postino" (Main Theme)

Amor ordinem nescit

Don't worry about things that you already know, or what you don't. Do not lose time thinking about the past or future, just let the divine hands write, every day, the surprise of the present...

And transform every fall into a dance step, fear into a ladder, dreams into bridges and the eternal search into a forever long meeting...





"Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." - William Shakespeare - Macbeth





Listening to Ennio Morricone - Cinema Paradiso

Caveat

What should be mankind greatest dream? What should have been the greatest human reverie?

It’s always a hard thing to think or talk about human dreams, and a herculean job to even dream about an answer to humanity biggest dreams. But one thing I can say, with certainty, about the dream world: we stop dreaming, and that was more than 20 years ago. Since when we got stuck in the speed of this new globalized world, where you can solve problems and communicate in fraction of seconds, we lose the pleasure of dreaming. We lost the pleasure of stopping. The world does not allow us to stop anymore. Much less in order to dream. We lost in the day-to-day confusion the sense of admiring, observing the little things in life, the world no longer presents that choice to its residents. We cannot stop, we were denied of that birthright. Velocity and readiness are the main qualities in these past years, the era of disposable, everything related to these two last decades was marked by giddy beginnings and disappearances equally fast.

Going one step back in time, in the 60s was when man conquered space, The Beatles appeared, the Pill, Martin Luther King, mini-skirts, pop-art, Che and apparently a prosperous and feasible socialism. In the Brazilian scene we had Chico, Caetano, Brazil two times world champion, Glauber Rocha, Bossa-Nova exporting the Brazilian way of life, we were, with all modesty, the future. The policy of 50 years in 5 predicted in the previous decade was still in place and those who were young back in those days come to believe that every year something amazing would emerge and change once and for all the previous world order. Then came the 70s: Military dictators, Vietnam War, Beatles setting apart, Transamazonica abandoned and definitely the world become less promising. In the following decade socialism fell and with it the last great dream. Not that I’m a Marxist, I just like to think, like most of the world’s inhabitants, that two poles were viable, two antagonistic currents of thought, ideologies and the most important thing that there was a different option. With the end of socialism we cannot even differ of political opinion. Unless you truly believe that China is a socialist country or that the Labor’s Party is a leftist government. And again the argument is not trying to prove that socialism is a better option, but just exacerbating that it is a different option. Our heroes, favorite bands, events, great inventions and ideologies were buried in the last two decades.

In a world that promises speed and greater interaction in order to take advantage of diversity and thus choosing a better option our options are becoming increasingly scarce. And our ability to dream more understated. The great plague of the 90s and 2000s is the lack of ideologies, the birth of a man who does not fight, does not have opinion, does not care, just live and let life passes by, and life mercilessly goes by without giving extra chances. And these ordinary people fruit of the last two decades are not worst human beings, but rather a consequence of a time without significant.

Will still be possible to dream? Would the lack of a moral compass with which we were accustomed to be guided for so long divert us so faraway from our path?

In sum of everything seems that all significant revolutions stopped in the XX: Its difficult to imagine that a new Picasso will emerge, or a new Beatles, theories, ideologies even in new ways-out of ordinary problems, everything appear to be entangled in these conciliatory neo-liberalism, in these great emptiness that the world has become. All that for a single reason: We stopped dreaming.





"Two roads diverged in a wood and I - I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference." Robert Frost





Listening to Thelonious Monk - "Pannonica"

Gnothe Seauton

Balada del Ausente

"Entonces no me des un motivo por favor
No le des conciencia a la nostalgia,
La desesperación y el juego.
Pensarte y no verte
Sufrir en ti y no alzar mi grito
Rumiar a solas, gracias a ti, por mi culpa,
En lo único que puede ser
Enteramente pensado
Llamar sin voz porque Dios dispuso
Que si Él tiene compromisos
Si Dios mismo le impide contestar
Con dos dedos el saludo
Cotidiano, nocturno, inevitable
Es necesario aceptar la soledad,
Confortarse hermanado
Con el olor a perro, en esos días húmedos del sur,
En cualquier regreso
En cualquier hora cambiable del crepúsculo
Tu silencio
Y el paso indiferente de Dios que no ve ni saluda
Que no responde al sombrero enlutado
Golpeando las rodillas
Que teme a Dios y se preocupa
Por lo que opine, condene, rezongue, imponga.
No me des conciencia, grito, necesidad ni orden.
Estoy desnudo y lejos, lo que me dejaron
Giro hacia el mundo y su secreto de musgo,
Hacia la claridad dolorosa del mundo,
Desnudo, sólo, desarmado
bamboleo mi cuerpo enmagrecido
Tropiezo y avanzo
Me acerco tal vez a una frontera
A un odio inútil, a su creciente miseria
Y tampoco es consuelo
Esa dulce ilusión de paz y de combate
Porque la lejanía
No es ya, se disuelve en la espera
Graciosa, incomprensible, de ayudarme
A vivir y esperar.
Ningún otro país y para siempre.
Mi pie izquierdo en la barra de bronce
Fundido con ella.
El mozo que comprende, ayuda a esperar, cree lo que ignora.
Se aceptan todas las apuestas:
Eternidad, infierno, aventura, estupidez
Pero soy mayor
Ya ni siquiera creo,
En romper espejos
En la noche
Y lamerme la sangre de los dedos
Como si la hubiera traído desde allí
Como si la salobre mentira se espesara
Como si la sangre, pequeño dolor filoso,
Me aproximara a lo que resta vivo, blando y ágil.
Muerto por la distancia y el tiempo
Y yo la, lo pierdo, doy mi vida,
A cambio de vejeces y ambiciones ajenas
Cada día más antiguas, suciamente deseosas y extrañas.
Volver y no lo haré, dejar y no puedo.
Apoyar el zapato en el barrote de bronce
Y esperar sin prisa su vejez, su ajenidad, su diminuto no ser.
La paz y después, dichosamente, en seguida, nada.
Ahí estaré. El tiempo no tocará mi pelo, no inventará arrugas, no me inflará las mejillas
Ahí estaré esperando una cita imposible, un encuentro que no se cumplirá."

JUAN CARLOS ONETTI





"All things truly wicked start from innocence." - Ernest Hemingway





Listening to Madeleine Peyroux - "Bare Bones"

Omnes una manet nox

As I followed the less traveled road I reached a great old mansion. I knocked at the gate of lost time, nobody answered. I knocked a second time and kept knocking again and again. No response. No sounds. The house of lost time has ivy covering half of it, and ashes of a vanished past laying over the rest. Is a house where no body lives, and I kept rattling and calling, calling just to feel the pain of not being heard. Simply a lonely beat. The echo returns my urges to half-open these ice palaces of mine own. And in the end, night and day are mingled and confused by my hope, hope of waiting for the knocking to produce an echo or a reply…

The lost time certainly does not exist. Is just an empty condemned house…





"Illusion is the first of all pleasures." - Oscar Wilde





Listening to "Skeletons" - Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Fabas indulcet fames

It started to thrill me every time I begun speaking about friends. Must be age, people say that as years pass by we get more sentimental, or a constant feeling of movement, as if life was in a eternal shape shifting mode for me. But the fact is: when I think about my personal achievements and valuable belongs, friends are on equal footing with my family. And when I hear people saying that friend, real friends, we have no more than two or three, I can proudly hit my chest and say that I have way more than two or three. They are a bunch. It is not my privilege, anyone could have as many friends, but who is willing to commit? Who is willing to be engaged? People often say that John Doe is my friend, or Marie is my friend. Lie. You know them. They are people that we greeted on the street, talked quickly at a party, and we may even hear something about them, but friends? Not even close. Some actually were, but not anymore due to lack of care from both parties. Friendship is way more than just mere empathy, is a constant harvest, dedication and an eternal process of commitment. It takes time and willingness. And its most important feature is that the love involve do not need, or should not need, any reason. People often talk or commingle in Birthdays, Christmas or to ask for favors. There are always hidden motives behind it. And is that exactly paradox that can show us the factual difference between a casual and a true friend, just take the reason of the scene. I don’t need a reason. Just to miss that particular person. And, by being together, fell treated well. Hard to exemplify that feeling of being treated well. If you are in the presence of true friendship you don’t even need to put anything into words, the companion and the walk, side by side, in silence are sufficient. No need to constant praise each other, you may even pick on the other from time to time, gently. Also no need for endless demonstration of affection, and harsh truths can be said, sometimes they are needed. But the bottom line is that there is something sublime in the air between two friends. Perhaps respect is the corner stone. Affection, indeed required. Complicity? No, something greater. Tuning? No, I think is love. Only by loving you will be able to trust another person with your own personal hell. And also not to envy the battles won by the other side. For love you can share, lend, commingle and enjoy your time, you are honest in your answers, take care not to offend, embrace causes that are not yours, go into adventures, divide experiences and accept some disappearances, but reach out when that disappearance is exaggerated. All of this is dealing with friendship. If a friend like this comes into your life, do not let him go away. However, generally, people do not just let it slip from their fingers, as they contribute so they can evaporate. They ignore the mechanisms of maintenance. People think that friendship is something done, that its nature is to be constant, and we do not have to give it a helping hand. That sentiment continues up until the day that they open their little hands and are not able to count even two friends. And they start arguing that loneliness is a symptom of the modern days, so full of emergency, so individualistic. No. Loneliness is just a symptom of our negligence.





"Friendship is a single soul dwelling in two bodies." - Aristotle




Listening to Hoodoo Gurus - "Come Anytime"

Amat victoria curam

Maybe the world is not small after all, not even life is a consummated act. I want to invent my own kind of sin and end my good life with my particular medicine.

I need, once and for all, to loose your head. My mind needs to get rid of your senses.

Facing the every day, restructuring loose pieces, tying loose ends, that’s how we walk on, everything can be re-experienced, even death.

If I’d to believe in everything that I think of, I would be insane by now…





"A person needs a little madness, or else they never dare cut the rope and be free." - Nikos Kazantzakis





Listening to Porcupine Tree - "Collapse the Light into Earth"

Liberate te ex inferis

For those who lived a good and eternal love…
Two life’s that were instantly set apart,
By the awful misleads of the naïve heart,
Can never end the motion, like a deep light...
They are like little morning shinning stars,
Running through the infinity of the sky…
Now, in different but common directions,
Following their once routed path of happiness
But never losing each other eyes from sight…

It’s like keeping an inner secret from ourselves,
From a heart that just spread its wings and flew…
It is an old alive affection that was left in our veins,
From a heart that could not left its present owner…
It’s the constant certainty of an eternal presence…

From all life that was…
From all life that will…

It is longing for that good feeling,
Happy, Singing…





"A man's moral conscience is the curse he had to accept from the gods in order to gain from them the right to dream." - William Faulkner





Listening to Stan Getz - "When Your Lover Has Gone"

Mens agitat molem

Following one reverie that I always wonder about since my childhood, I came up with a quite interesting question on my demented mind: What if a person with “Capgras Delusion” entered an eternal house of mirrors? What would happen to that person’s sense of being? Would that person starts to ask himself about the veracity of himself? That question always hunted me… Like a demon in a world without candles…

“Capgras Delusion” is a rare mental illness, or disorder according to more political psychiatrists, in which the “haunted” one holds a deep belief that other people, or people that are around them are in a certain manner impostors, or more commonly have being replaced by an identical-looking impostors. In general cases, the syndrome is related to a paranoid nature where the delusional person truly believes in its dementia.

But returning to our main topic, image a poor haunted soul entering a place where even the best cognitive system would be putted at test. Someone that is doubtful of his closest friends is faced with its most inner self. As a grain of sand drops, the soul that once questioned the veracity of his own family now starts to look inside itself, and as Nietzsche would probably say: The abyss gazed back into him.

Suddenly all that was inside that needy soul gets released, like a inner Pandora box, all his villains, fears, sensations, emotions, memories, sins, knowledge and information converted into one and many person as his ego, id and superego were liberated to participate in his walk through the valley of mirrors. Now he is not alone anymore, there are several “me’s”, formed through the mix of his ego, id, superego in a never ending dance as they shape-shift from one reflection into the other as the haunted soul just stares through the looking glass trying to get familiar with all this “new” impostors that have being replaced, and now surrounds him.

As the person starts to walk deep inside the maze of mirrors delusion and beliefs regarding him are at clash. Every time he looks at a different mirror the reflection shows itself as a new “him”, or more properly said the reflection brings light into a new side of his personality that was up to now in a deep shadow. Every single stare at the mirrors is a window to his haunted soul, and so as the reflections are replaced by impostors, id, ego and superego take turns or commingle in a venture to expose its truly identity. As the journey continues, I can only imagine that questions regarding the “true me” start to pop into his head. As Id, ego and superego starts to make the mirrors become more and more alive and one starts to ask himself whether the reflection is the real self and the flesh and blood is an impostor. And in this exact moment is where the subject is faced with probably one of the most difficult choices during his walk into the self-awareness: “Who am I?”

Sartre would probably argue that deep down this appeal to a transcendental ego, or a true me, conceals a conscious flight from freedom. Our pour soul quest into knowing the veracity regarding himself is truly a search for authenticity, as it is the true virtue, in a society marked or defined by oppression and exploitation. The foundation remarking our subject quest, again, is the basic ambiguity of human reality that in the darkest hours “is what it is not” and “is not what it is”, an eternal motor of internal negation. Sartre would say that authenticity, or in our case the search for it, is fundamentally a condition where the human kind remains in a deep sleep state dreaming about the basic ambiguity that states that one is never identical with one’s current state but remains responsible for sustaining it. And in that way, the claim “who I am” would be tantamount to a manner of self-deception or bad faith as would all forms of determinism, since both instances involve lying to oneself regarding the fact that one’s nonself-coincidence and the concomitant responsibility for “choosing” to remain as one self.

Given the essential division of the human condition into factice and transcendence, bad faith or in-authenticity can assume two principal forms: one that denies the freedom or transcendence component and the other that ignores the fatidic dimension of every situation. Sartre talks as if any choice could be authentic so long as it is lived with a clear awareness of its contingency and responsibility. But his considered opinion excludes choices that oppress or consciously exploit others. In other words, authenticity is not entirely style; there is a general content and that content is freedom.

So as the “Capgras Holder” ventures into the jungle of self’s, realities, choices and thoughts translate as impostors reflected in every single mirror, deep down his journey into reveling its truly form turns into a quest for freedom. A quest for learning how to live with his choices. As certain as he is about a particular decision he becomes aware that no other alternative is possible, when a particular decision is made a new path is set. And since each path is full of possibilities, it seems that he cannot accept the responsibility for his choices, the responsibility of letting others paths go, or more likely of not exploring every single path possible.

And as a Salomonical curse, the feeling and memories of missed paths and opportunities will eternally hunt the “Capgras Holder” and all his inner self-reflections seen as impostors, but truly representing all dreams, emotions and sensations stored deep down at the holders id, ego and superego that were not properly followed…




"In all intellectual debates, both sides tend to be correct in what they affirm, and wrong in what they deny." - John Stuart Mill




Listening to "Dr Jackle" - Miles Davis feat. Milt Jackson Quintet

Saepe creat molles aspera spina rosas

There must be a place, space or time
Working like a kind of special bazaar
Where all our lost and broken dreams
Go to rest in a never-ending symphony…

Made of absences, draining out of excess
The dreams and fantasies are not straight.
Not fitting in straight lines or concepts
They are made and live in the extremes…

Opening each single bottle, yes, do it,
Let all that inner geniuses leave, free…
Courage must be wear all the times,
To tear, cut, burn, so we can start over…

I never wished or wanted to be always right
I sincerely prefer to be right and wrong
It’s always better to be complete, dual
And the first step is wanting to…





“In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy.” William Blake





Listening to "The River" - Bruce Springsteen

Fiat Lux

There is a certain art in drawing with light, of searching for the perfect balance between light and shadow, brightness and darkness, a balance that just that exact second will reveal. This certain art presents a unique opportunity to play with the shape of objects, with the colors presented and reflected; and as said a unique opportunity to commingle with life, being able to shape shift these social construction call world memory. And this journey through the realm of light and shadow end up being a eternal quest for one’s soul, just as one starts to dig into their conscience, going into places where he do not know that were there, experiencing with unfamiliar events, facts, dreams, memories and feelings, one discover itself trapped in a realm where light and shadow are one, where much light represents a greater darkness to be discovered. While looking through that magic rectangle where the sensitive soul frames the beauty of the simplest day-to-day activity an entanglement of emotions and sensations take apart in that process. In that exact moment beauty is not just at the eyes of the beholder. Beauty now is part of a different spectrum of realities; beauty is now an amalgam between the figurative representations in the subconscious of the artist and the viewer. A construction forged inside two separated bodies, set apart by singular convictions, realities, knowledge, beliefs and experiences. A composition, so ephemeral, delicate and special, that only exists at the exact moment of the first gaze, vanishing like a mist in the hot morning as the viewer walks way from that particular angle, time and set of thoughts that were present in that exact second of the first gaze. Being able to imagine and experiment, only for a second, this sensation of being part of a production alien to my body and mind, that can only exist at the wiliness of two complete distinct set of minds and bodies, and so momentary that only the true look can captivate it is what delights me in the pursue of the perfect light-shadow combination. Or going further into this dream, being able to construct a so everlasting creation that the first gaze will be just the propelling vehicle where this two bodies will further develop a unique set of fantasies, dreams, emotions where that first gaze will forever renovate itself into a cycle of same gazes being seen by different angles, time, emotions and viewers that end up at that unique first gaze by this two special actors.





"Hay que ser realistas ...soñemos lo imposible." - Ernesto Guevara de la Serna






Listening to "Anos Dourados" - Chico Buarque & Tom Jobim

Memoria in aeterna

Is the price of living a dream greater than the price of living without venturing to dream?

The dreams have always been part of people's lives, from ancient Greece, where Pythias interpreted them, to the more recent theories that express the neurological phenomena. Also we can find innumerous definitions to the word DREAM. Ranging from the merely scientific angle where it is seen as a series of psychic phenomena that occur involuntarily during our sleep to more religious ones that includes the sincerely manner of which God could communicate to the prophets, state of partial emancipation of the soul, occasion where our perceptions would be sharpened, and several others.

But one thing is universally known about dreams: the fiction, or that other reality if you prefer invented by us, humans, using our lived experiences mingled with the leaven of our unfulfilled desires and imagination, has joined us as our guardian angels since the depths of prehistory, what began as a winding road, after millennia, would take us to the stars, to dominate the atoms and other several prodigious achievements in the domain of knowledge, lead us to discovery of human rights, freedom, but also the destructive brutality, shown the way to better understand the same desires and sentiments that help create it, it created the SOVEREIGN INDIVIDUAL. Dreams were the corner stone of our civilization.

Dreams were the fundamental paradigm revolutionized in idea of the civilization’s birth, or dawn of the civilization, and are deeply identified with a common ceremony that took place in a deep cave or in the clearing of a forest where we see humans, squatting or sitting, around a campfire which helps them repel insects and so called evil spirits, men and women of the tribe, attentive, absorbed, suspended to a state that would not be a exaggeration to call religious trance, kind of a daydream, of the words they hear coming from the mouth of a man or woman who would be fair, though nor sufficient, to call it witch, shaman, healer, because although it would be considered to be one, he is someone that also DREAMS and communicates their DREAMS to others, making the entire tribe to DREAM in a unison with him, after all he is a storyteller.

And the man and woman who are there, while, witched by what they hear, let their imaginations run wild, flying out of their precarious and simple existences into another life – a life of lies, not common or ordinary lies, but truly lies, which they build in a silent complicity with the man or woman who, at the center of the scenario, tells fables out loud – performing, without warns, the more exclusively human endeavor, the one which more genuinely and exclusively defines the human nature, that it is yet in formation: The possibility of living their common place lives to live for a couple of minutes or hours a substitute for the “real” reality, that they do not choose, the one that is fatally imposed by any given reason at birth and random circumstances of the so called life, a life that sooner or later feels like an easement or a prison from which we wish to escape. Those who are there, listening to the storyteller, lulled by new images that his words poured over them, as before, in solitude or privacy, were perpetrated, by minutes or burst, this live exorcism and abjurations of the real life, by fantasizing and DREAMing.

And this complex procedure of turning that into a collective activity, a social event, institutionalized into the tribe life, is a momentous step in the process of humanization of the primitive, is the start of their spiritual life, the birth of culture, of the long road into civilization, and the most important feature that has its ignition in this moment is our: MEMORY. A common memory to our whole kind, a collective DREAM that we can share, use, add and modify in a single movement where every aspect of the civilization is changed by the slightest modification in our perception of life.

DREAMS while helping us to face our fears and desires, made us more resilient and ambitious, also gave a transcendent meaning to our freedom by giving birth to a wish to live differently from what common day circumstances forced us. Therefore, although the millennial passage of human events have obliged us to strip of many things – prejudices, taboos, fears, habits, beliefs, Gods and demons – which were important obstacles in order to reach new heights of progress and civilization, we remained faithful to this particular ancient rite.

It was, and is, the most powerful tool that allows us to escape our fears and frustrations, helps fulfill our desires, outwit old age and overcome death, live the love that was over, and the mercy of our enemies and lost friends; it was, and it always will be the cruelty and excesses that we call angels and demons that live within our cores, and thus multiplying the possibilities of our lives in the crackling heat of the fire of that other life, impalpable, witched and essential that we call DREAMS.

Living the DREAM or abandoning it probably costs the same, usually a very expensive price. But the first act leads us to commune with the miracle of life, and the second is not useful for anything.

But no matter what you choose, be sure to enjoy every single second of it… After all DREAMS are, by definition, cursed with a short life…




"Dreams are the touchstones of our character." - Henry David Thoreau & "All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible." - T. E. Lawrence




Listening to "Brothers in Arms" - Dire Straits

Ad Libitur

Deep down in the cold abyss of your gaze
Lie thousands of silly silent temptations
Amazing how some girls are so women…

With mad and wild tricks of mere confusion
Spreading through her hair, mouth, skin
Destroying my complete body and mind…

Some women, ephemerons like you are
Just can take me wherever they want to
As boys just cannot resist your mysteries…

Such an entanglement confusion of smiles
And eyes capable of devouring all my senses
That I just don’t care about myself anymore…

After all, boys just cannot ever say no…

Some naïve pretentious boys just like me
So used of being always right
Near a real women like you
Are just young kids…




“The soul that sees beauty may sometimes walk alone.” - Johann von Goethe




Listening to Soulive – “PJ’s”

Pacta sunt servanda

After being circulating around for a few years
Lonely in the less traveled road up ahead
One’s magical soul end up discovering
That he should have loved even more…

Wishing to see that especial sunrise often
Taking more riskier and wilder decisions
Like accepting people as they are and will be
Even if you end up crying your eyes out…

Everyone is responsible for every single joy
As well as pains that they have in the heart
Consider caring less to day-to-day problems
And dying more of love as it were all over…

Randomness will always protect myself
Even in my wicked and sweet decision
Even when I walk totally distracted by your smile…





A minha realidade interior vive abaixo no nível da realidade que me cerca. Para restabelecer o equilíbrio, num contato normal com os demais seres humanos, tenho que escrever, porque a recriação da realidade pela imaginação, através da linguagem escrita, é a maneira que tenho de me comunicar.¨ - Fernando Sabino.





Listening to ¨Carnavalia¨- Tribalistas

Nihil est ab omni parte beatum

Awake, arise, and evolve
There's a war coming our way…
At the edge of infinity,
In the narrow paths of the universe,
I see the ashes of time…
Renaissance through fire dances
Leading to Purification…
In the vastness of your eyes,
Transportation to the closeness…
Listen, see and escape
Like a thunder that got away…
When darkest night falls
The gap between the Worlds opens
And loneliness absorbs ones soul...
The night is long, sometimes cosmic
But there will always be a dawn…
And just when sunlight resurfaces
Ones gypsy soul awakes refreshed…






“Há certo gosto em pensar sozinho. É ato individual, como nascer e morrer.” -
Carlos Drummond de Andrade





Listening to “Tempestade” – Cordel do Fogo Encantado

Unitas mirabile vinculum

Life and death, joy and disappointed, emotion and howl are always allying themselves inside ourselves, not to recreate or recognize, but to raven us from the inside. And all this motley of confusions, acts, omissions, regrets and attempts that we can call each life in death finds, no meaning or explanation, but purpose. And as we walk through this experience, called existence, we end up realizing that to refute death in the end is to deny life. Is only death that defines ourselves as human beings, is just the certainty of life’s perishability, that every grain of sand that drops from that inner self hourglass take us closer to finally delineate our reality allows ourselves to have a life. In an World where opposites are always reconciled through synchronicity and light and shadow merge in every single dawn, to die properly is the only way of knowing that you lived your real life, that you were able to commingle with the world’s soul as you sailed through your personal quest.





"The one that remains within itself will never love someone." - Vinicius de Morais




Listening to Wave - Tom Jobim & Stan Getz

Bellum omium contra omnes

News will eternally lose all control of facts,
Fake celebrities will fall into anonymity,
Blur pictures will cross my ocean of sorrows,
All Journals will be printed in blank,
Paintings will be dissolved into one single bucket,
As the argument is deprived of its essence…

The dawn will be bring no new voices into light,
Billboards will be placed with the letters exchanged,
Nobody will recall how to sign its signature,
Taxi drivers no longer will know which road to take,
Words of my dictionary will be deformed,
As this becomes a strange day to feel happiness…

And all that is necessary so we can be together…

It’s just a time for us to go crazy forever…




“Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.“ - Walt Whitman




Listening to “Epistrophy” – Thelonious Monk

In posterum

I've always wanted to talk about one thing,
Guess where it invariably goes to?
It can be inside the darkness of my chest
Or walk freely trough the air, shapeless...
It maybe be laying right next to you
Much closer than we think or suppose...
The sweet sheet of youth,
That should be the right name of Love...

It, at least once in your lifetime
Pruned its moments,
Deviating you from your final destination...

With its young child's smile
Often hides in the daily clouds of routine...
Being renovated in the new dawn of each day...

And if properly cultivated,
It will give us life,
Flower and Fruit...






"En todos los tiempos y en todos los climas, las relaciones humanas — y especialmente las amorosas— corren el riesgo de volverse equívocas. (...) . Pero es notable la frecuencia con que canciones populares, refranes y conductas cotidianas aluden al amor como falsedad y mentira. Casi siempre eludimos los riesgos de una relación desnuda a través de una exageración, en su origen sincera, de nuestros sentimientos. Asimismo, es revelador cómo el carácter combativo del erotismo se acentúa entre nosotros y se encona. El amor es una tentativa de penetrar en otro ser, pero sólo puede realizarse a condición de que la entrega sea mutua. En todas partes es difícil este abandono de sí mismo; pocos coinciden en la entrega y más pocos aún logran trascender esa etapa posesiva y gozar del amor como lo que realmente es: un perpetuo descubrimiento, una inmersión en las aguas de la realidad y una recreación constante. Nosotros concebimos el amor como conquista y como lucha. No se trata tanto de penetrar la realidad, a través de un cuerpo, como de violarla. De ahí que la imagen del amante afortunado —herencia, acaso, del Don Juan español— se confunda con la del hombre que se vale de sus sentimientos —reales o inventados— para obtener a la mujer." Mascaras Mexicanas - Octavio Paz






Listening to "Samba da Benção" - Bebel Gilberto

Emitte lucem et veritatem

Heavenly Lord of all mornings
Bring a star, goddess, moon or a new
To this old heart of sterling silver…

In my hand a bright flower
Steady, clear, white, charming…
In my thoughts only one question:

Will we see each other before the first evening star?

Certainty only one…
Life will not cease…





“And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.” - Kahlil Gibran





Listening to Cream – “White room”