quinta-feira, 18 de novembro de 2010

*For Melanie, who could not find me

sexta-feira, 5 de novembro de 2010

This time he is close to her, he speaks to her. She welcomes him without surprise. They are without memories, without plans. Time builds itself painlessly around them. Their only landmarks are the flavour of the moment they are living and the markings on the walls.
La Jetée, Chris Marker

segunda-feira, 11 de outubro de 2010

O mortal and perishing love, born with this flesh and dying with this brain, your memory will haunt the earth forever.
And now the voyage out. Where?
Look Homeward, Angel, Thomas Wolfe

quinta-feira, 30 de setembro de 2010

15h da tarde / mergulhada no Outono

Cuidar de um jardim, ter terra à volta da sua casa, é um privilégio; é um trabalho em que todo o corpo, a pessoa inteira, se funde, se projecta no movimento. Vejo-me respirar, dar as minhas mãos e força às plantas e à terra, e, no fim, não me distingo do dia que passa.
Uma Data em Cada Mão. Livro de Horas I, Maria Gabriela Llansol

terça-feira, 28 de setembro de 2010

We are the Lambeth girls

Un été avec Monika

The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
Murphy, Samuel Beckett
Wherever his hand has lain there is a tiny purple blemish.

segunda-feira, 27 de setembro de 2010

Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions.
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Half-past one,
The street-lamp sputtered,
The street-lamp muttered,
The street-lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."

The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

Half-past two,
The street-lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of the child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.

Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smooths the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and eau de Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain."
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.

The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."

The last twist of the knife.
Rhapsody on a Windy Night, T. S. Eliot

domingo, 26 de setembro de 2010

This is lovely.

All your books and postcards and...

Paperbacks and postcards, Jenny.

It's all you need, isn't it?
An Education, Lone Scherfig

sexta-feira, 24 de setembro de 2010

quinta-feira, 23 de setembro de 2010

You are my little string

quarta-feira, 22 de setembro de 2010

She writes like a man

Margaret Atwood in Cambridge, 1963

The blue gulf of the sky was spread with light massy clouds: they cruised like swift galleons, tacking across the hills before the wind, and darkening the trees below with their floating shadows.
Look Homeward, Angel, Thomas Wolfe
A rich warm wind was blowing, turning all the leaves back the same way, and making mellow music through all the lute-strings of flower and grass and fruit.
Look Homeward, Angel, Thomas Wolfe
The day was like gold and sapphires: there was a swift flash and sparkle, intangible and multifarious, like sunlight on roughened water, all over the land.
Look Homeward, Angel, Thomas Wolfe

terça-feira, 21 de setembro de 2010

If I were tickled by the rub of love

segunda-feira, 20 de setembro de 2010

Pretty as can be

France Gall

domingo, 19 de setembro de 2010

A winter's sun laboured through the mist. Low on the meadows, and high on the hills, the sunlight lay on the earth like milk.
Look Homeward, Angel, Thomas Wolfe

sexta-feira, 17 de setembro de 2010

quinta-feira, 16 de setembro de 2010

Stills from Eadweard Muybridge's 1887 motion studies of a dancing lady
Time droned like a sleepy October fly.
Look Homeward, Angel, Thomas Wolfe

quarta-feira, 15 de setembro de 2010

Pretty as can be

Jean Seberg, 1963, Henri Dauman