Matter of perspective

It is exactly how I would like to see it, how I would like the life to be. Actually I can see more the dark than the blue, more the set than the rise. As he says: `What did I do to be so black and blue?´. Who would ever think that behind my roughness that can actually be the reverse. It just depends how you view it. My personal and own way, my own desire, my face that I show to people. Is it hate? Is it love? Do I know what I am talking about…or i just say words that mean nothing for anyone of us. Look into my face and tell me what you see. Seeing me…or the opposite?! Strangely, but my dark side is actually my brightest. I hide behind the rocks, for I am nothing more than a mirrored piece of stone.

Circling

How am I going to start my purple notebook, when I am still circling around the beach…dipping my feet into the cold ocean, mixing my tears with the hot sand, looking at the people around me as if they were my shadows? Just walking around the shore. Refusing to retreat in my room and to start packing, to start ordering my life. Everything else it’s better than packing. Sitting on the sand, eating, cooking, computering, drinking, meeting, crying…everything! I am scared of the last sunset. I am scared that I might cry there in the middle of nowhere. I don’t show it. I never am..never will..never get used to showing any sign of weakness. I just stay in the darkness of my resting . Could it be strange that I have no power for the purple notebook. When am I actually going to start it, to write any unimportant deed, any scarce event, any other form of spoken phrases, written words. I might have lost the words and with them the sense of time, of a passing, of another sunset. My last sunset…

Circling…round and round without any particular point, without any hope of life or hope of dream. It turns round…the beach, the ocean, the sun….the entire world. I wish it was flat. A flat place with a beginning and an end, just to know where I am coming from and where I am heading to. Till then…I leave now steps on the sand. I am going to pack…the sun has just set!

Never knew

Never knew how hard would it be to leave my world and simply go on without any remorse, without any hard feelings…so calm and so excited in front of the new world. What new world?? Did I say a new world? I was wrong…It’s the same old rotten thing, the same perspective of a mud ball, the same strength of a tear that melts while I look back, behind everything I left or I will ever leave. This is how my journey is beginning: with me…my bag ans my purple notebook. The only three things very conscient of my presence. Maybe all of them…except me, the one that actually has to leave with it, the one through whose eyes the tears will fall on the notebook, on the messy clothes, on the paved road. Every day will be again a way to get scared with life, with myself, a mean through which I’ll get horrified one more time, each and every morning just looking in the mirror at a person that does not actually live. She only has a life in a purple world…in a world which takes over the reality, that blinds all the important view that can get anyone from a colourful world. A journey is a quest…a quest for what? For a colourless world, in which emotions do not matter, in which the sky is not blue and the sunset not red. The only colour is the light…the ligth of a quest.

É isso aí

É isso aí
Como a gente achou que ia ser
A vida tão simples é boa
Quase sempre
É isso aí
Os passos vão pelas ruas
Ninguém reparou na lua
A vida sempre continua

Eu não sei parar de te olhar
Eu não sei parar de te olhar
Não vou parar de te olhar
Eu não me canso de olhar
Não sei parar
De te olhar

É isso aí
Há quem acredite em milagres
Há quem cometa maldades
Há quem não saiba dizer a verdade

É isso aí
Um vendedor de flores
Ensinar seus filhos a escolher seus amores

Eu não sei parar de te olhar
Não sei parar de te olhar
Não vou parar de te olhar
Eu não me canso de olhar
Não vou parar de te olhar

It is here the perfect moment in time. The moment to leave..but not just a blank state of leaving, not forgetting, ignoring, foresaking what I leave behind, the people that have been there, the ones that have not, the way a place can change me. Looking behind, but not as a sign of weakness, but rather as a sign of victory, a sign that what I have fought for, is now finally accomplished. It is maybe time to move on, to find something better, to fight for something more. The hope that one day the same steps that brought me under the moon spell, that made me see the wonders of the gods, that spread through all my universe memories and faces of people that I’ve accidently met and I’ll accidently never meet again, will bring me back to a place I like to call…paradisio. Still looking back from the tall grass, in the middle of nowhere, going in a place that I don’t know anymore, but feeling welcomed where ever, for the universe is no longer out there, but in the grass blade that bends under my foot, in the tree that offers me shalter and a way to go up, above, in the skies. I’ve grown to be a little strong…but am I that strong to overcome the whole forest?!

Tears in a Pot

It just might seem sometime that even all the water in the world does actually make for a drop of salted tear, a drop of instance, a magic of a moment kept as holy or as heaten. It comes from nowhere, from a place where no one can actually enter to see what is underneath, to go beyond the face so calm, lightened, but still crying. It looks rather immortal, like it's place shouldn't be there, like a sign of beauty, of the impossibility to overcome live in a different instance than watery. It is like we are taking ourselves out, we are giving away our truely essence, the substances that keeps us alive, on the edge, breathing and feeling. We give it away with no thought about what it could mean to our universe. Or maybe the tear is something not needed anymore, a surplus of life that we banish from our body through the eyes. Exactly through the things that give us the light, the passion, that allow us to see our own tears. Even so…as we watch ourselves leaving our own existance we know that the fallen drops are the essence of life itself, essence that can bring new life, that can manifest itself in such a miraculous way. Cristal clear, what more diamonds will the humanity ask from the gods, than its own sorrow, its own sense of desintegration, its own feeling of self-distruction. Maybe just a pot to gather all the tears, a pot to express what we couldn't in a lifetime, for our tears are just few drops in an ocean of humanity.

I can't cry anymore. Then just take some drops from the pot. Put them on your face and watch the miracle of water lingering down your face, covering your eyes with a mist that can not see the world in the proper way, wetting your cheeks with the scents of your own self, touching your lips more voluptous than a kiss. Gather them one by one in your hands. Don't squash them.Simply put it all in the pot. Someone else might need them later… 

The Drop of Eternity

Shuffling through books and through lists of valuable books, I have found this list published by The Observer, of  the 100 greatest novels of all times. The list of course can be polished and titles can be added to it easily. The letter effects below are my own representation of the books. Bold and underlined means that I have read the books. Italics that I have started to read them but from various reasons have given up. The rest is a wish list for me to make the list all red.  

 1. Don Quixote, Miguel De Cervantes
 2. Pilgrim's Progress, John Bunyan
 3. Robinson Crusoe, Daniel Defoe
 4. Gulliver's Travels, Jonathan Swift
 5. Tom Jones, Henry Fielding
 6. Clarissa, Samuel Richardson
 7. Tristram Shandy, Laurence Sterne
 8. Dangerous Liaisons, Pierre Choderlos De Laclos
 9. Emma, Jane Austen
 10. Frankenstein Mary Shelley  11. Nightmare Abbey, Thomas Love Peacock
 12. The Black Sheep, Honore De Balzac
 13. The Charterhouse of Parma, Stendhal
 14. The Count of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas
 15. Sybil, Benjamin Disraeli
 16. David Copperfield, Charles Dickens
 17. Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte
 18. Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte
 19. Vanity Fair, William Makepeace Thackeray
 20. The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne
 21. Moby-Dick, Herman Melville
 22. Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert
 23. The Woman in White, Wilkie Collins
 24.Alice's Adventures In Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
 25. Little Women, Louisa M. Alcott
 26. The Way We Live Now, Anthony Trollope
 27. Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy
 28. Daniel Deronda, George Eliot
 29. The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoevsky
 30. The Portrait of a Lady, Henry James
 31. Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain
 32. Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, Robert Louis Stevenson
 33. Three Men in a Boat, Jerome K. Jerome
 34. The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde
 35. The Diary of a Nobody, George Grossmith
 36. Jude the Obscure, Thomas Hardy
 37. The Riddle of the Sands, Erskine Childers
 38. The Call of the Wild, Jack London
 39. Nostromo, Joseph Conrad
 40. The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame
 41. In Search of Lost Time, Marcel Proust
 42. The Rainbow, D. H. Lawrence
 43. The Good Soldier, Ford Madox Ford
 44. The Thirty-Nine Steps, John Buchan
 45. Ulysses, James Joyce
 46. Mrs Dalloway, Virginia Woolf
 47. A Passage to India, E. M. Forster
 48. The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
 49. The Trial, Franz Kafka
 50. Men Without Women, Ernest Hemingway
 51. Journey to the End of the Night, Louis-Ferdinand Celine
 52. As I Lay Dying, William Faulkner
 53. Brave New World, Aldous Huxley
 54. Scoop, Evelyn Waugh
 55. USA, John Dos Passos
 56. The Big Sleep, Raymond Chandler
 57. The Pursuit Of Love, Nancy Mitford
 58. The Plague, Albert Camus
 59. Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell
 60. Malone Dies, Samuel Beckett
 61. Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger
 62. Wise Blood, Flannery O'Connor
 63.Charlotte's Web, E. B. White
 64. The Lord Of The Rings, J. R. R. Tolkien
 65. Lucky Jim, Kingsley Amis
 66. Lord of the Flies, William Golding
 67. The Quiet American, Graham Greene
 68 On the Road, Jack Kerouac
 69. Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov
 70. The Tin Drum, Gunter Grass
 71. Things Fall Apart, Chinua Achebe
 72. The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, Muriel Spark
 73. To Kill A Mockingbird, Harper Lee
 74. Catch-22, Joseph Heller
 75. Herzog, Saul Bellow
 76. One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez
 77. Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont, Elizabeth Taylor
 78. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, John Le Carre
 79. Song of Solomon, Toni Morrison
 80. The Bottle Factory Outing, Beryl Bainbridge
 81. The Executioner's Song, Norman Mailer
 82. If on a Winter's Night a Traveller, Italo Calvino
 83. A Bend in the River, V. S. Naipaul
 84. Waiting for the Barbarians, J.M. Coetzee
 85. Housekeeping, Marilynne Robinson
 86. Lanark, Alasdair Gray
 87. The New York Trilogy, Paul Auster
 88. The BFG, Roald Dahl
 89. The Periodic Table, Primo Levi
 90. Money, Martin Amis
 91. An Artist of the Floating World, Kazuo Ishiguro
 92. Oscar And Lucinda, Peter Carey
 93. The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, Milan Kundera
 94. Haroun and the Sea af Stories, Salman Rushdie
 95. La Confidential, James Ellroy
 96. Wise Children, Angela Carter
 97. Atonement, Ian McEwan
 98. Northern Lights, Philip Pullman
 99. American Pastoral, Philip Roth
100.Austerlitz, W. G. Sebald
 

The Purple Notebook

Daily, weekly, monthly states of a purple figure. It's not me. It's someone I hardly know. I have heard the story long long time ago, so long I can't even remember it well. However it goes on and on and on…till. Can't tell till when. Maybe till there are no more pages, no more sentences, no more letters to be written in the purple notebook. And so it ends…and so it begins. The glimpse of glory…

The Scapes of a Life

Things that for many represent only a scarce imitation of something that is was, for others represent the essence of a life of a human…of a living been on a planet that is not his, nor will ever be. As every moment, every day brings instances of life and passion, so will these shots bring as often as possible a paradise of humanity.