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Jessye Norman

It’s difficult to describe how profoundly moving it had always been to hear or see Jessye Norman as she graced the stage so wonderfully with her phenomenal talent.   A majestic and beautiful presence, that is difficult to word.

 

I’d borrow the phrase ”flights of angels take thee”.. , but, I usually viewed the owner of that voice as an angel walking among us, so, I’ll say :

– Go thee sweetly – returnéd thou art now to that beloved heavenly host –  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wonderful Jessye Norman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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…travelling through the Baroque in the night, beneath a waxing crescent moon, before sleep

 

 

 

 

 

 


Prelude & Basso Ostinato, Ballada, Prelude, Harlem Mist, and Angelico (- and – I suppose I may be tempted to leave a Haiku – but – only after listening to Angelico or the previous prelude. Hmmmm – perhaps a Sicilian Tercet…)

 

Ah, but, I must soon stop hovering and awaken.

(ok- it’s true I did see the sun rise – but – I’m still in that blue hour mode)

__________
Good morning.

 

 

(Prelude & Basso Ostinato

 

 

 

 

(Ballada)

 

 

 

 

(Prelude – from the ”Petite Suite”, performed by M. Henriques)

 

 

 

 

(Harlem Mist)

 

 

 

 

 

 

(”Angelico” – from Musica Callada  / Book 1 – 1)

 

 

 

(haiku)


Dripping rays of light
trickling through – key after key
as the gentlest rain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


(Sicilian tercet)

 

trickling, A sweet torrent mist in the night,
adrift mid-air then settling  in layers,
wraps yon blue hour as it comes to full height

 

from that moistened, warm heart that drifts and sails
aloft, mid-air then settling in prayers
as the blanket is woven –  for one’s trails

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_________–_______________

 

 

 

 

 

 






Ok – ok – I had seen the following video posted and had saved its LINK  to watch later when I’d come back .
(so I’ll leave it here as well, for when I come back). It was to have been posted yesterday, but I got sidetracked.

 

 


Wishing all a nice day –

close up photo of dog wearing sunglasses

Photo by Ilargian Faus on Pexels.com

 

 

 

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Túnel de vento (de Carlos Alberto Augusto) – mais logo, em Coimbra.

É

– um evento a não perder, uma obra com um historial absolutamente notável, num espaço único, que é, ele próprio, um elemento de força na obra composta.
Aos que tiverem hipótese em comparecer, não percam tal oportunidade (é o que tenho a dizer).

Lembro-me bem das palavras do autor da obra e o que lhe inspirou, e os registos de tal inspiração e, ___________- fiquei sem fôlego pela beleza da coisa.
Enquanto o ouvia, dei comigo de imediato a visualizar, quer com os olhos quer os ouvidos da mente, tudo – a história da fonte de inspiração (e os seus registos), e tanta coisa que a mente associa (que beleza, poética, .. tanta coisa) quer de literatura clássica, quer de outras fontes nas diversas Artes, e isto tudo arrepiava e de que maneira (no bom sentido, isto é)
Mas, sobretudo marcante, era a forma que sentia algo que é tão raro sentir no que respeita a um relato de nascer de obra que se iria criar especificamente para um momento e lugar  – e o sentia enquanto a mente se transportava ao local e fonte primária de inspiração para aquele que iria agora criar…
(uma que é tão simbólica quão forte  [- forte, que nem sei qualificar com adjectivos, daí entender tanta obra pintada, escrita, encenada, composta, e, edificada] — como uma fonte de inspiração, como o é poética num tão amplo sentido. E por isso mesmo – embora singela em termos culturais, na península ibérica, e uma que transpõe —
[mesmo que com nuances que possam divergir um pouco conforme o lugar em termos de algum de seu simbolismo, e da História nos países, ou até – na História da Humanidade]
fronteiras, quer as físicas e geográficas, quer as psíquicas, evocativas, emotivas, e de Tempo) …
Dizia, antes da poética das ideias e das memórias, me tomarem e me ter posto prestes a divagar.. 

  • que o mais marcante era sentir, enquanto a mente se transportava ao local e momentos relatados que digo, os outros sentidos ficarem de imediato colados aos da visão e audição (tão marcante).
    Sentia, enquanto identificava, e em certos momentos identificando-me — quer com observador, quer com o próprio objecto evocativo — na mente, tal fonte inspiradora inicial para a obra, o que a mente via e ouvia  pelo tacto e, estendendo-se o fenómeno até, através dos aromas diversos possíveis  (conforme o tempo / condição atmosférica, o Tempo, e o local do objecto que além do mais tinha o mar por perto (um que envolve os sentidos ainda mais, e História (aliás, histórias na História) conforme tudo que se pode imaginar como cenário que, naturalmente, tem a ver com o local e a dita fonte, inspiradora. Tal objecto, tão evocativo em tanto sentido, embora possa dizer muito a países diversos aqui deste continente (e diz), no seu elemento luso (o mar correndo nas veias (e velas) de tudo) é revelado um seu lado não apenas localizável e poético;  assim vemos penhasco e ventos e mar.   Vemos chuvas. Vemos ondulações.  Vemos escuta, vemos movimento, e vemos tudo num intenso bailado de tempo, e no Tempo).

 

EVENT – Fb LINK
https://www.facebook.com/events/2354511044655907/ 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sail (image: Guida Almeida)

Vela – (esta não é de moinho, mas deixo-a na mesma): G.A.

Il y a des moulins, de Lautrec (claro),
et des autres de van Gogh, e há (também) o moinho incontornável de Cervantes..
E há o mar, e o vento que bate nas velas e, há moinho que é embarcação..
(no nariz daquela jangada de pedra do saudoso escritor luso. E, há embarcação de vela e armação a mexer, também ondulante, que segue em mente e que é extensão, e é diversa, nos enquadramentos do tempo (e do Tempo).
Aquela de Géricault , neste caso, aqui não cabe (felizmente) no ideário que se me surge na mente, quando penso naquele relato do autor, e em velas e vento e terra e mar.

Votos de grande êxito a um querido amigo, pelo que criara através de tal ponto de partida, e aos que lhe interpretarão a obra criada, logo ao fim do dia.
Tenho a certeza que será tão notável o momento, como mais que merecidos os votos de êxito para todos, e onde um dos interpretes — é o próprio espaço.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



(Uma pequena anotação :
Ao olhar o calenário lembro-me agora que hoje é um dia significatívo na história de um dos países europeus – a França.
Quando escrevi e evoquei um autor de uma obra tão forte (uma, retratando uma jangada), não tinha em mente nada senão a imagém e o que ela representa – de um modo geral. Por isso, a intenção ao o evocar não tinha nenhum significado além desse.  À bela terra do Toulouse-Lautrec, e do Géricault, votos de um bom dia de feriado, e um que lhes espelhe um caminho que não seja um de correntes ou um de queda que, pelos vistos, parece que poderá dar jeito a sabe-se lá que lóbis – enquanto o belo povo e país tenta mostrar o seu mais que justo descontentamento com o  ”Micron”   (que em si já é de um lóbi nefastíssimo.
Ao belo povo da França – Vive Lá France!! ♥ )

raising the blue red and white flag

Photo by Nicolas Savignat on Pexels.com

 

 

 

 

 

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May 2019

Among other things, this is as we know – the month that marks 500 years of Leonardo’s  having departed..
(May 2nd, 1519 – Amboise, France)

 

 

 

 

 

 


Also, on the 7th (today) we come to the moment that that marks Tchaikovsky’s 179th date of birth .
It is just a simple, and humble reminder that I leave here – as I recall that it had been fortunate for us that both had walked the Earth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA

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Abril / April – 2019

I beg your indulgence as – some images, and videos, may take a moment to become fully visible.
Best Wishes, to whomsoever should come upon this post.

 

 

 

(Red Carnations – By Pomar, image via FB – courtesy of the Júlio Pomar Foundation)

 

 

 

(Psalm: John Coltrane – Fouth movement from ‘A Love Supreme’)

 

 

 

 

(Ella Fitzgerald, born April 25th – singing April in Paris, via Jazz Corner | FB page)

 

 

 


(article)

 

 

 

(article)
LINK – https://www.franceculture.fr/emissions/le-reveil-culturel/john-coltrane-jazz-mystique-et-revolutionnaire  

 

 

 

 

(article)
LINK – 25A40 – O som do cravo | Um concerto em três tempos.

 


 

 

 

(Bach – choral from – St Mathew Passion | BWV 244 , Harnoncourt – Arnold Schoenberg Chor, Concentus Musicus Wein, Wiener Sangerknaben)

 

 

(Bach – Final chorale – St John Passion ”Herr, unser herrscher” (chorus) | Gardener, Monteverdi Choir, The English Baroque Soloists)

 

 

(Megaloschemos II | Bulgarian Orthodox Hymn)

 

 


(article)
LINK – https://www.jornaltornado.pt/chico-buarque-revolucao-portuguesa/

 

 

 


(Os vampiros – Zeca Afonso)

(Cantigas do Maio – Zeca Afonso)

 

 

 

 

 

(Georges Moustaki – Ma Liberté)

(Zeca Afonso – Redondo Vocàbulo)

 

Poster - 25th April '74 | Cartaz : O menino do Cravo - fotografia de Sergio Guimarães

 

 

 

 

 


(and still, because it is April 25th, and Thursday)

 

(Tarkovsky Quartet – Nuit blanche)

 

 

(Harmónicos – Jorge Peixinho)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Abril


(Acordai – Lopes Graça | Lisboa Cantat)

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 


Video

A Beirach etude

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A moment (a fleeting moment, a poetic cadence, a moment)

 

 

 

There’s something rather poetic and difficult to describe when you chance upon opening an account you have on a social media network, and come across a piece you rarely hear performed (it’s a lovely piece, by composer: Francisco Lacerda).  It starts to play  and suddenly before your eyes appears something else.  As you look you inequivocally, and instantly feel yourself identify with the youngling, saying – ”Aw, the same as me with my dog”) – but, what you’re listening to takes you a such step beyond that,  it takes you a moment to fathom that chance poetic cadence, laced betwixt sight and sound, before you.
And thus you sit, enthralled, in a state of warm wonderment, beyond words and explanation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(the above ”clip” may take a moment to load and be visible)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Listening, on the riverbank.. (open form verse, quantitative meter: 9 – 9 – 5 / 11 / 1 – 5 – 2 )


 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes Coltrane,  sometimes Bach, sometimes
whence flow  profound seas of Tchaikovsky

– cometh melted snows.

 

 

You feel the river bed move,
and there you sit,

warmed,

past Time and Season,

trickling.

 

 

 

 

(open form verse, quantitative meter)

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Haiku (night)

stars carried, slowly
the lone cricket dreams nested
next its almond tree

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Quote

@GTP_Updates Demonstrates Google’s European Influence Campaign — Music Technology Policy

@artistrights tweeted in reaction to the stalled Article 13 legislation in Europe “American multinational corporations impose their commercial imperialism over their vassal states. Not the Europe we love.” There probably has never been as revealing an insight into Google’s short, loathsome and treacherous lifespan as the Article 13 legislative process in the European Parliament. It […]

via @GTP_Updates Demonstrates Google’s European Influence Campaign — Music Technology Policy


The Cerulean Lining

Between Night and Day, when… – when
the balance between the ”subjective”
and the ”objective” in sight
is at that magical number, and evened;
when one can still feel the protection
of the blue overcoat, an overcoat that
is there
as a smile of a Cheshire cat that begins to reveal what’s inside and out, as the universe
begins to unravel before our eyes still shielded
from a lining
(a cerulean lining – a cloak of stars / a coated moving marble, the moon dancing in between).
It is such a special moment, in an apparent silence
where the spheres begin to hum to another key
(Another key?).

 

 

FinalTwilight_Lua_GuidaAlmeidaFoto

 


©Written and published elsewhere, by me – August 5, 2016  

 

 

 

Speaking of ”keys”, I’ll leave a Tony Williams gem..
I was searching youtube to just bring one of its tracks, but, it’s hard to choose one.
I don’t usually like to place a full recording, but, he’s no longer with us and it is hard to choose.

Wishing all a wonderful week.

 

 

 

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an old painting of a young pianist at his post, at intermission

guida_2oilpaintCarl_lostpaintings_photoManuelaSandeFreire

Man & his piano – GA  (a lost work, oil on hardboard –  © painting photographed by  M Sande Freire) 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Sharon

Oh, Darn…
I’m still getting over my Leonard (Oh Leonard, my Leonard (  !¡ )
and I don’t know when that will happen.

This image I found on the internet, through a ''google search'', nevertheless, I can't ascertain the original source or photographer. If anyone knows, please let me know.

This image I found on the internet, through a ”google search”, nevertheless, I can’t ascertain the original source or photographer. If anyone knows, please let me know.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And now….

 

We’ve now lost a warrior  of LOve and Beauty. Perhaps she’ll be singing some of his poems somewhere in the universe tonight, or her own work, I do not know.

And I shall use my best English,  for all I can say is:

 

Fucking disease, Fuck thyself..,

f**k thyself royally.


Dear Sharon..

(I’m at a loss for words, but, may you continue to shine through your music and stance)

Goodnight princess


(the ”featured image” (one of Sharon Jones) for this post comes from – HERE)

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Batatas, mas fritas.. (por construcções)

 

 

 

na busca de um qualquer paraíso, idílico  Estar, onde espírito, sentindo repouso porém sem adormecimento dos sentidos, desejos, e anseios por algo (que são coisas que nos acordam), e sem que se canse, aqui ou ali, pelas vicissitudes da vida, no se Ser e no Devir, de etapa em etapa, que se cruza / sobrepõe /  ou corre por intervalos ao longo do tempo *….

(Tempo, aquele espaço que tem um fluir, numa direcção aparente, mas que pelos filtros e limites de nosso entendimento, que por graça não é perfeito (que alivio, não o ser, não é?) – vai num ou noutro sentido, por vezes mais, por vezes como se numa geometria das esferas, em bola, ou coisa assim)

* …onde uma pessoa o idealiza, buscando-o, desejando-o, no local de origem, ou noutro,

é uma busca motora existencial, tanta vez, e para tantos, e natural, mas,
onde a vida (amor, lutas, et cetera) e seu palpável sentido, aquando / a quanto – busca, ela própria que mói, ou pode moer, é aqui que uma pessoa vê,
– o significado que pode ver (entre outras, mas sobretudo este) num maratonista.  (E não só isso, naturalmente. Nem no boneco (do maratonista), nem na busca).

 

 

 

 

 

________________________________________________________________

– que construcção mais estranha de frase a que acabo de ver, em mim, como producto que se dá ou recebe, por nós mesmos (logo à partida), mas da qual cada vez mais é difícil em lhe fugir, serão cascas de uma qualquer cebola, metafórica, do Ser / Estar / Devir ?
Não sei bem.
Mas, tanto faz (creio).

 

 

 

 

Vou fritar umas batatas. ”Ó mãe, o cão está a ladrar..”.
hmmmmm… Onde é que pus o telefone? , eu ouço-o mas não o vejo… ”Ó mãe…”
( bolas, acabei de pisar uma coisa que se colou aos pés..). Cão anda cá, não precisas ladrar assim, que coisa.. Onde está a bola?

Uf, guitar,cello study III

oil on paper © G.A


Por vezes vemo-nos de mão dada com uma banda sonora, e, caminha-se pelo corpo, e pelo dia, adentro (como se de mão dada, caminhando acompanados de uma ”voz-off”, que vai e que vem, como se em marés de consciência e de abstração mais, ou menos, aparente).

Não me sai a ‘Lacrimosa’ da cabeça, está como se num «loop» de comprimento largo, que retoma… parando de quando em quando, como que num soluçar, e retomando…
Enquanto o contraponto e linha sobe, em voz múltipla (múltipla crescente, que balouça, que embora não aumente por aparência, o faz, como que degraus, aumentando com cada balouçar como se em maré que se sucede de onda em onda, num fluir, um fluir que sobe, enquanto ondula em frente)
tangida e entoada, quase sorrateiramente (mas que não é),
ascendendo e tomando (quase delicadamente (mas que não é embora o seja) )
que sereno ou douce (num não agreste) – ou forte (que não o é embora o seja),
como quem sobe de degrau em degrau até um patamar fundo,
subindo,
com um corpo em descanso, que sobe degraus,
embora direito, cabeça para baixo embora para cima veja..
(Que dizer? como descrever?)
..como as folhas que caem (só que em contrário movimento),
que sobe,
por degraus,
de linha e contaponto que balouçam
de catarse em catarse por cada degrau

que sobe numa escadaria metafórica,
que numa obra nos leva e nos lava a alma
de toda a chuva do íntimo e interior,
que estanca e verte o sangue das emoções,
que já não se verbalizam
(para cicatrizar),
que soam no ouvido da mente e da alma
(da alma que assim sobe, através de uma banda sonora que o dia apresenta
ao abrir dos olhos antes, e depois, de tomar café)
porque a alma, ela sabe, mesmo que calendários não veja,
A alma sabe a banda sonora que escolhe no acordar de qualquer dia
– numa obra que..
num Mozart que
se veste
dentro da alma,
como um douce manto que protege,
como se um casaco (interior),
que antes de verbos tomarem a mente que acorda nesse dia, e a acompanhe,
pelo dia adentro…, como se em «loop»
de comprimento largo, que retoma…, parando de quando em quando, como que num soluçar, e retomando…

– (vou tomar o pequeno-almoço, com a banda sonora que me acompanha neste dia, de passo em passo)

______________________________________

Há dias em que
a banda sonora que se nos vem, nem é um Coltrane ou um Bach,
um Mahler, ou Hendrix, ou outro, …….
– É assim.

É um Mozart.

E,
e olhando de relance o calendário dos dias, percebe-se
percebe-se a alma que assim se decidiu vestir antes de verbos virem.
Pois, a alma sabe o que precisa vestir antes de tomar corpo no dia.
Por vezes acontece na penumbra entre o sonho e o acordar.. assim.
Ela saber como se vestir para se proteger no dia para enfrentar o frio
que pode vir,
que pode vir de qualquer dia,
que pode vir em qualquer dia.

  • Bom, o som já se está a desvanecer
    enquanto surgem os sons da rua, outras vozes que de bocas saem, de cão, de carro, de pássaro…
    Esvanece a cada passo que se dá até à maquina do café
    que está
    do outro lado da alma.

E vejo o que pousara agora na mesa, que truoxera ao descer das escadas (agora reparando que, no adormecer, na abstração do mundo, das coisas, de quaisquer calendários,
já de madrugada, já neste dia
– que adormecera,
– de caderno e caneta na mão, com um começo de um qualquer esboço de uma peça que surgira, no topor de uma mente que relaxava, de palpebras a fechar.
Parece que é um monólogo, aparente, mas que não, ..não o é.  Está-se à mesa. Há uma pessoa que fala com seis que não se vêem, porém, suas cadeiras vazias estarão ocupadas, e há mais……
Há alguns que entram e saiem. Estes são outros, outros que interagem de quando em quando mas também em ”espaço / corpo negativo”. Eles vêm e vão à mesa..

Hmmm…?
Onde está o café?
(já cá venho)

_________________________________
P.S.
(eu sei qual é a interpretação que está na banda sonora apresentada,
mas se não está anunciada, também não a farei.., e mesmo até porque, a que ouço, como digo, em forma de «loop», nem é esta, embora dela se aproxime)

– Era para publicar algo que há mais de uma semana andava a escrever, mas, como só está como que um apontamento inacabado, para eu não me esquecer o que me tem surgido ao longo da parte final do mês, sobre um assunto, não é hoje, em que acordei com a alma que se vestiu assim, que o farei..

Apenas deixo um texto que se me surge por esse apontamento.
É um poema.
É de um autor que não sou eu. No fim estará o seu nome, como autor, que ele usa para se vestir na personagem de autor.

_________________________

Of war and peace the truth just twists
Its curfew gull just glides
Upon four-legged forest clouds
The cowboy angel rides
With his candle lit into the sun
Though its glow is waxed in black
All except when ’neath the trees of Eden

The lamppost stands with folded arms
Its iron claws attached
To curbs ’neath holes where babies wail
Though it shadows metal badge
All and all can only fall
With a crashing but meaningless blow
No sound ever comes from the Gates of Eden

The savage soldier sticks his head in sand
And then complains
Unto the shoeless hunter who’s gone deaf
But still remains
Upon the beach where hound dogs bay
At ships with tattooed sails
Heading for the Gates of Eden

With a time-rusted compass blade
Aladdin and his lamp
Sits with Utopian hermit monks
Sidesaddle on the Golden Calf
And on their promises of paradise
You will not hear a laugh
All except inside the Gates of Eden

Relationships of ownership
They whisper in the wings
To those condemned to act accordingly
And wait for succeeding kings
And I try to harmonize with songs
The lonesome sparrow sings
There are no kings inside the Gates of Eden

The motorcycle black madonna
Two-wheeled gypsy queen
And her silver-studded phantom cause
The gray flannel dwarf to scream
As he weeps to wicked birds of prey
Who pick up on his bread crumb sins
And there are no sins inside the Gates of Eden

The kingdoms of Experience
In the precious wind they rot
While paupers change possessions
Each one wishing for what the other has got
And the princess and the prince
Discuss what’s real and what is not
It doesn’t matter inside the Gates of Eden

The foreign sun, it squints upon
A bed that is never mine
As friends and other strangers
From their fates try to resign
Leaving men wholly, totally free
To do anything they wish to do but die
And there are no trials inside the Gates of Eden

At dawn my lover comes to me
And tells me of her dreams
With no attempts to shovel the glimpse
Into the ditch of what each one means
At times I think there are no words
But these to tell what’s true
And there are no truths outside the Gates of Eden

(Poema ”Gates of Eden” de: Bob Dylan)

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Toots (I know he was only 94 years young, but still, it hurts the soul to see him go)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What an amazing, beautiful soul.. what an amazing beautiful soul

(blessed, and the beautiful gift he shared with us..)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bless you, Toots, forever

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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…..em tom de fuga

 

 

India_Ink_on_paper_GuidaAlmeida03_2016
Ink on paper, Guida Almeida – 03 / 2016

 

Vincent_van_Gogh_-_Sunflowers_(Metropolitan_Museum_of_Art)
 Two Sunflowers –  oil on canvas, Van Gogh 1887 

 

enamelRedAndIndiaInkOnPaper_GuidaAlmeida_03_2016
 mixed media on paper, 33,5cm x 42cm, G. Almeida, 03 / 2016

 

Vincent_van_Gogh_-_Bloeiende_pruimenboomgaard-_naar_Hiroshige_-_Google_Art_Project
 Bloeiende pruimenboomgaard  (naar Hiroshige) – oil on canvas, Van Gogh 1887

 

1890-Vincent-Van-Gogh-Amandier-en-fleurs-Huile-sur-Toile-73x92-cm-Amsterdam-Rijksmuseum-Vincent-Van-GoghAlmond Tree Blossoms – Vincent Van Gogh,  oil on canvas,1890

 

blossomsPhotoGuidaAlmeida
photo – G. Almeida
sans titre_parJeanPaulRiopelle1955

 

 (Ink & Watercolour on paper,
Jean Paul Riopelle 1955)

 

 

FuguedPoemGuidaAlmeida___March2016

 

Hapi’s sibling – iseetheriverbeforeme – Flowing in Prayer form : originally posted elsewhere April 2013, by G. Almeida ,
is a ”fugued ” poem  
 for better reading -please click on the image to zoom in

 

 photo___GuidaAlmeida
 photo – G.Almeida

 

 Peacocks_and_Peonies_I_and_II_(LaFarge)JPG
(detail of photo taken by James Steakley, of)  Peacocks and Peonies I and II  – stained glass, John LaFarge  1882

 

monet.wl-clouds
 Water Lilies – oil on canvas, Monet 1903

 

 1225px-Vincent_van_Gogh_-_Banks_of_the_Seine_with_the_Pont_de_Clichy_in_the_Spring_(1887)River Bank in Springtime / Banks of the Seine with the Pont de Clichy in the Spring –  oil on canvas, Van Gogh 1887 

 

Bach
Bach Bach
Bach Bach Bach Bach
Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach
Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach
Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach
Bach Bach Bach Bach
Bach Bach
Bach
ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ
ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ
ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ
ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ
ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ
ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ
ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ
ᙠɒɔʜ
ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ
ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ
ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ
ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ
ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ
ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ
ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ
ᗷɐⅽµ
ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ
ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ
ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ
ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ
ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ
ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ
ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ
ʜɔɒᙠ

Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach
Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach
Bach Bach Bach Bach
Bach Bach
Bach
Bach Bach
Bach Bach Bach Bach
Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach
Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach

 

 

IndiaInkOnPaper_GuidaAlmeida_03_2016
ink on paper, 42cm x 33,5cm, G.Almeida, 03 / 2016

 

 Vincent_van_Gogh_-_Sunflowers_(Metropolitan_Museum_of_Art)Two Cut Sunflowers – Van Gogh, oil on canvas, 1887

 

mixedMediaOnPaper_GuidaAlmeida_03_2016mixed media on paper, 33,5cm x 42cm, G. Almeida, 03 / 2016

 

   Bach is a four letter word, as is the word in Portuguese for fugue. As it happens, in Portuguese – fugue, has another meaning. It means ”a leak”, an escape”  or ”to run”, as well.
So, I’ll just leave this post here and make a «fuga», go ouside and smell some flowers while I can.
I hope you have a lovely Spring.

Naturally, the beginning of Spring not only makes one think of flowers (and a ”reawakening” of the planet (that in truth doesn’t sleep, though it may seem to…) as it enters the season), the equinox landing on what during Bach’s time was his birthday brings to mind a poem first written in the end of March of 2013 (I call it  a ”fugued poem” because it reads also from the bottom line up, through every other line, from the centre out, from ”out” to ”centre”, or exchanging the three groups of four lines between themselves).
The days at the end of the month bring to mind what we now call Bach’s birthday, and also other birthdays (one very dear to my heart, and also Van Vogh’s).

How could I make a Spring post and not place Bill Evan’s – ”You Must Believe in Spring”?

 

I can’t.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And as I think of the planet’s apparent  ”reawakening”, as I mention above, and the authors that come to mind (those in this post, and another, who would have also celebrated a birthday at the end of the month..) how could I not include a sample of a new recording called – Gaia ?

I can’t.

 

 

 

 

 

Wishing all a wonderful Spring
♥ Take care.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.


Paul Bley – and now Pierre Boulez..

I know they were not “young” (in physical terms) but..

(all I can say is *F___
– the year is already costing …
, or perhaps it’s but the burden of time, i know not..)

 

 

As I calmly realized the year (in what much of the planet, in it’s elliptic voyage around our star, consideres an end and a beginning)
changed its numeric name,
I came upon the news of one master of masters leaving this realm, and thought – no.

no, i shall not begin the year in my blog with an absence; and no,

i shall not be adding to the shower of posts regarding his leaving (which i obviously find just, natural, and “correct” (if you will) but always seem to, more often as time passes –

(“as time passes”, now there’s a concept that leaves me evermore bewildered..) leave me at want for more of it while they live (at least on my part)
– but such is a burden of one who forgets they are of skin and bone, and like us – mortal..
One leaves it for yet another rainy day because the sky is dark, the dog is barking, the dishes are piling, the belly is hurting, the baby is crying, the ice is melting..
( oh F___.).
(…).
.

 

Thoughts within thoughts, within thoughts, like a Russian matryoshka doll.. as one sets forth to write and not be able to turn time enough, just enough to say “hello – i’m here. i see you. you make me smile..”

 

 

 

  • and now………….. and now,

within a hiccup of time, Boulez……..
(oh F___.
F___.
F___.)

 

 

 

 

  • (write, you silly creature. – who me?
    – no, the Easter Bunny.
    – but what can I say now?
    – you waited, your problem. / get on with it.
    – but it’s the first thing i write – in the year
    – when one hopes for hope, and… (ok – i see it.., i think).
    – what do you mean first thing > in the year? ummmm, how many circles – one?                two? two and a half? three-quarters? (of who’s math?)
    – ok – stop being a wiseguy..
    – wiseguy? ..but i’m a girl
    – ugh, it’s a figure of speech, you ninny. one more wisecrack like that and i’ll put                 you into detention, nose to the wall, dunce-cap on..)

 

 

 

I’m so sorry, Paul, and Pierre, you deserve so much more..

from someone who has revelled in your work, and your work upon – and within – others i revel in and cherish so much (who, as you, also worked upon me)

What can I say, indeed?

My heart goes out to your (pertaining to the both of you)
loved ones, as it does to all of us whom you have touched..

  • (the first publication i saw regarding the sad news of P. Bley – Ottawa Citizen – site – article Jan. 5)
  • (regarding P. Boulez – i received by phone, today)

 


  • Please excuse me as I go somewhere (to a piece) that is neither of their’s but, nevertheless, takes me to both and to a part of me…

     

    (also – I haven’t forgotten that one of them performed in the unit’s first recording, prior to this)

    (on this day – I needed to hear this.. to re-hear it, I mean)

 

 

 


 

 

 

Yes, it would not seem right to not place a few things – out a large body of work by, or about, either.
(it’s always so very difficult to choose, when there is so much to choose from – and it saddens me to write this post about either)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

  • – and now I leave blessings, many blessings to whomsoever reads this, for the year that is new (and despite the heavy tone of this post).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.


Sunday, Easter Sunday To Be Specific (before the setting of the moon) / Domingo de Pascoa ao luar das suas (das Suas) primeiras horas

 

 

 

My hand whisking across the horizon

changing its colour

wet

with each breath I have ever taken

dripping unuttered words from every finger

each drop a soliloquy of untangled thoughts

hair in the wind

muttering silences as I stop

Who’s there?

Your tomorrows

All my tomorrows?

Yes.

Those that live in each step

as you run in and out of each moment’s past.

And the present?

It is a moment that is not surrendered.

(yet)

Why?

Because it is unfathomable.

You can think of the past and the future

but not the present. It is unfathomable.

Within it lie all pasts and possible futures,

and all your living selves that are not always familiar with each other.

You feel you know you exist when each present moment is here, not “there”

and though you feel answers may lie “there” it is here you answer, not there

– and since you know not not ALL the THEREs

you feel the predicament of the present,

each fathomless,

present

instant.

It is the only moment you actually feel when you pinch yourself,

no other,

and you can not bargain what through the grace of existence you do not know.

But that doesn’t mean the present isn’t Whole, it is, Your’s (and Mine) is a fractal of present existance, thus ‘unbargainable’, and That

is the beauty of each fraction of existence, of each present.

It is the present of the Present, and the burden which is also

a present.

 

It presents itself

 

 

Unfathomable.

(and the more you fathom

the more you know you don’t,

and the more you know you don’t,

the greater the – Present (present) (presence) (presents) …….)

 

© Guida Almeida

técnica mista s/tela ©

 

 

 

Wishing everyone the best of Holidays – Happy Easter

G.

.


New Years – and new requests (um novo ano e um pedido novo)

Something about promoting airline tickets and respective companies with a picture of a plane taking a nose dive leaves me uneasy.

 

– makes one wonder if the company was bought by..
– or wonder if these people are helped out by that cute little mob that sells their crude oil at “peanuts” per barrel.
If so, if such is the case, the image makes sense I guess (who knows where publicists get their ideas from nowadays).

 

 

picture by Nelson Garrido used in - "Publico" newspaper article

 

 

 

Well I guess you may like to peak at this link that contains the advertisement I’m referring to.
Link – News article (in Portuguese)

 

I suppose it may be of use to look at the News article regarding that cute little mob of angry munchkins that sell their crude as mentioned above (and have done so for quite some time now it appears)  You know, they are that cute little band that oficially no one likes but have no problem selling their produce it seems.
Link – News Article (in English)

 

Well, at least in my case it sure would be comforting to know from whom airline companies (along with other entities and industries – be they public or in the private sector) get their petrol. In the case of airline services I do not suspect low-cost companies more than others that charge more to fly us around. I actually suspect them equally. Yes, such things would be comforting to know.
– Don’t feel like taking any rides till then..

I suppose this is my New Request for the New Year.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo credits for the image above: Nelson Garrido
– used in the “Público” news article:
►http://fugas.publico.pt/Viagens/343234_saldos-de-ano-novo-na-ryanair-com-voos-desde-9-99-euros

 

Happy New Year.

 

 

 

_________________________

 

 

Uma imagem que tem um avião com o nariz para baixo.. e a pique..
Bolas.
(medoooooo)

 

Não sei onde as brilhantes cabeças do “marquetingue”-ing vão buscar suas ideias luminosas mas creio que andam a fumar coisas estranhas.. Talvez tenha sido devido a excessos da noite do ano novo (quiçá). Quem sou eu para criticar?

(imagem encontrada no artigo do jornal Público – LIGAÇÂO)

 

 

Querem ver que esta companhia foi comprada pelos ‘bobís’ que vendem o petrol. a ‘peanuts’, lá naqueles lados complicados, que oficialmente ninguém gosta mas, onde o vão comprar.. Se foi entendo a imagem, claro, nada de publicidade enganosa.., orapoisclaro (para não embirrarem comigo, deixo a ligação para se saber de quais ‘bobís’ falo.. que bobís há muitos, bem sei..

LIGAÇÃO – notícia em inglês

 

Assim sendo já tenho um ‘pedido novo’ para o ‘novo ano’.
Gostaria de saber a proveniência dos produtos petrolíferos comprados e empregues nas companhias aéreas, assim como em outras de outra natureza, quer sejam elas públicas ou privadas.

Isto não quer dizer que o ter baixo preço seja uma manipulação ou jogo sujo, para obter lucros, pois no caso de bilhetes mais caros (e neste caso das companhias aéreas) nada me garante que não façam o mesmo.  Desde que há vários meses tomei conhecimento destes saldos no mercado petrolífero que desconfio de todos, os que vendem mais caro assim como os que vendem mais barato os seus bilhetes.  E não, não desconfio (infelizmente) apenas das companhias aéreas.
Já nada sei.
Apenas sei que tais notícias é mais que suficiente para não pôr os pézinhos numa aeronave, por exemplo, sem tal saber.. enfim.

 

Bom ano novo, a todos.
Espero que este ano nos traga menos insanidade ao mundo e vos encontre de saúde.

Bem hajam.

 

 

 

“Amelia – it was just a false alarm.. ” (how I hope it is, indeed)
Love this – I’ll leave it here. It’s always relieving to listen, touch, see or smell beautiful things be they the air, harmonies, melodies, birds in the meadow, fresh snow, the ground after it rains, the warm breath or voice of those we love, the movement of the hand (that hand) that touches your knee, the sun upon your face.. the giggling of children

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.


For Christmas (Que o Natal, e todos os outros dias, vos sorri, vos abrace com força e ternura, que vos traga alegrias)

One should share that which is most precious to them so I shall leave you with… with this
Hoping the holidays and all the other days bring you joy, and that the year to come bring much needed medicines to help heal the insanities in the world.
(Blessings)

O que é precioso deve-se partilhar, por isso.. deixo algo do mais valioso que tenho hipótese de deixar.. ♥

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.


Joe Cocker – eternally grateful for your having shared with us your gifts

 

so hard to choose from your repertoir, dear Joe

 

 

 

 

 

(and one of my favourites among so many, next)

 

 

 

(this of course)

 

(i still remember him this time with this same song with Ray Charles ♥)

 

(and with Patti Labele and Billy Preston, wow..)

 

(this rendition is so special)

 

 

 

(this Lovin’ Spoonful tune, love it)

 

 

 

 

(love this)

 

 

 

 

 

(this also..)

 

 

 

 

 

(I could never leave this out.. never)

 

(and last year.., I have no idea how  you were able to give us this, with your lungs the way they were ♥ …….speachless)

 

 

 

 

and …

 

 

 

 

Oh Joe.. ♥

 

 

Joe Cocker

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

 


Please, please, please read and sign / Por favor leiam e assinem..

Por favor leiam e, assinem ♥

 

The following was copied and pasted directly from – HERE
I thank you in advance for reading, and in case you should sign (and I truly hope you do)

 

 

Oil exploration threatens narwhals and an entire way of life.

A tiny community is fighting Big Oil, and they need our help.

Off the coast of Clyde River, Nunavut, unspoiled Arctic waters are home to 90% of the world’s narwhals. These whales, with their unique tusks that look like a unicorn’s horn, take up a important role in the aquatic ecosystem. They are also an important food source for the native Inuit people, many of whom must rely on subsistence hunting to survive. But Clyde River, the narwhals, and everyone whose way of life depends on the ocean are in danger.

The Canadian government just granted oil corporations the right to search for drilling sites in the ocean near Clyde River. The environnmental devastation that comes with offshore drilling is bad enough, but the search is worse – these oil companies will use “seismic testing,” setting off huge explosions underwater. Like all whales, narwhals use their hearing to communicate and to find their way safely beneath the Arctic ice. The search for oil will deafen, disorient, and kill any narwhals caught in its path.

Save the narwhals! Sign the petition to stop Big Oil from destroying Arctic habitats.

For generations, big corporations have stripped northern Canada of its natural resources, trampling the rights of native peoples and destroying entire ecosystems for profit. The government has been complicit in this, auctioning off oil and mineral rights to the highest bidder and ignoring the consequences.

The people of Clyde River have had enough. They are standing up to the government and to Big Oil and fighting to protect their home. But there are only 900 people in Clyde River. They need us to stand with them. If we act now, we can stop the oil companies in their tracks before the damage is done.

Sign the petition to the government of Canada, saying NO to Big Oil wrecking the Arctic Ocean. 

**********
More information:

Help Protect Canada’s Arctic from Oil Spills Save the Arctic

 

 

 

(below once again the link to this specific petition below)

Sign the petition to the Canadian government.

Petition Text:

 

 

 

_____________________________________________.

 

This time I leave a drawing I love made by a grande-niece
(oh how I wish she and other children like her could grow up in a saner world ♥)

"A União Humanitária dos Doentes com Cancro presta consultas de clínica geral gratuitas e abertas a toda a população, todas as quartas-feiras." (from - GUIDA FINE ARTS) - regarding the free medical appointments for treating/discovering Cancer

 

 

 

 

 

(♥ for Jonh..)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

.


Duetos da Sé (Concerto/Concert) – a Duo

amargar_PorAliceValenteAlves

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DinisPorJoaoGodinho

 

 

 

 

DinisCosta_porMayana

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

542146_122178037913520_1795971846_n

Duetos da Sé Travessa do Almargem 1 B 1100-019 Lisboa Tel. (351) 21 885 0041 E-mail: geral@duetosdase.com Site: http://www.duetosdase.com

Concerto: Dinis Costa – piano, e Guida Costa (Margarida) – voz / trombone de varas, nos Duetos da Sé, Sábado dia 15 de Novembro, às 22h

I am pleased to announce a concert this Saturday night (10pm) in Lisbon
at – Duetos da Sé – in Lisbon.

Facebook links:
–                                 Dinis Costa
                                  Margarida Costa (Guida)

–                                 Duetos da Sé

 

 

other (outros) links:

Duetos da Sé

 

 

 

(após o concerto haverá mais a dizer.. aqui) after the concert something will most likely be posted here ► Guida Fine Arts

 

 

Photographs:
G. Costa – Alice Valente Alves,
D. Costa – João Godinho / M. Modesto

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.


CA – um conto sonoro para o inverno dos tempos (a soundscape that is Lunar and otherwise)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gemeos

 

Estarei ainda muito perto da luz?
Poderei esquecer
estes rostos,estas vozes,
e ficar diante do meu rosto?
Às vezes,como num sonho,
vejo formas como um rosto
e pergunto:”De quem é este rosto?”
E ainda:”Quem pergunta isto?”
E:”E com quem fala?”
Estarei ainda longe de Ti,
quem quer que sejas ou eu seja?
Cresce a noite à minha volta,
terei palavras para falar-Te?
E compreenderás Tu este,
não sei qual de nós,que procura
a Tua face entre as sombras?
Quando eu me calar
sabei que estarei diante de uma coisa imensa.
E que esta é a minha voz,
o que no fundo de isto se escuta.

de Nenhum Sítio(1984)
– de Manuel António Pina

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Music by G. Costa | Artwork by G. Almeida | poem by Manuel Antonio Pina

 

 

 

 

.


Gabriel José García Márquez

© Guida Almeida

 

 

© Guida Almeida

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

Español:

(…)En aquél Macondo olvidado hasta por los pájaros, dónde el polvo y el calor se habían hecho tan tenaces que costaba trabajo respirar, recluidos por la soledad y el amor y por la soledad del amor en una casa dónde era casi imposible dormir por el estruendo de las hormigas coloradas, Aureliano y Amaranta Ursula eran los únicos seres felices, y los más felices sobre la tierra. ”

 

 

English:

(…) In that Macondo forgotten even by the birds, where the dust and the heat had become so strong that it was difficult to breathe, secluded by solitude and love and by the solitude of love in a house where it was almost impossible to sleep because of the noise of the red ants, Aureliano, and Amaranta Úrsula were the only happy beings, and the most happy of beings on the face of the earth.

 

 

Português:

(…)Naquele Macondo esquecido até pelos pássaros, onde o pó e o calor tinham sido tão tenazes que era trabalho difícil respirar, enclausurados pela solidão e pelo amor e pela solidão do amor numa casa onde era quase impossível dormir com o barulho das formigas ruivas, Aureliano e Amaranta Úrsula eram os únicos seres felizes, e mais os mais felizes sobre a terra.

 

 

 

(des)Larguem-me!

 

 

 

Goodnight sweet angel

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


September 23 * 23 de Setembro

I can’t decide between greats such as John Coltrane or Ray Charles, both born this day, a day I’m very fond of.
So to celebrate the day my father was born I’ll take another path and leave the concert I had just finished listening to, a pair of drawings made by my grandfather many years ago plus a poem written in Portuguese.

(Hope all have a wonderful day – Blessings)

 

 

sem nome - de José Maria Soares Ribeiro da Costa

 

 

 

 

 

Galinhola - de José Maria Soares Ribeiro da Costa

 

 

 

 

 

Vive-se Quando se Vive a Substância Intacta

 

 

 
Vive-se quando se vive a substância intacta
em estar a ser sua ardente harmonia
que se expande em clara atmosfera
leve e sem delírio ou talvez delirando
no vértice da frescura onde a imagem treme
um pouco na visão intensa e fluida
E tudo o que se vê é a ondeação
da transparência até aos confins do planeta
E há um momento em que o pensamento repousa
numa sílaba de ouro É a hora leve
do verão a sua correnteza
azul Há um paladar nas veias
e uma lisura de estar nas espáduas do dia
Que respiração tão alta da brisa fluvial!
Afluem energias de uma violência suave
Minúcias musicais sobre um fundo de brancura
A certeza de estar na fluidez animal

António Ramos Rosa, in “Poemas Inéditos”


Playing For Change Day – Cascais (Portugal) 21 de Setembro / September 21st

This post is in English (En) and Portuguese (PT)

 

 

 

ThePianoCliffNo2_GuiAlmeida

 

É com muito prazer e orgulho que anuncio um evento, cuja organização e coordenação em Portugal é feito por Bernardo Freire da Cruz , hoje, Sábado dia 21 de Setembro (2013), em Cascais, entre as 16h e 23h.
Ao todo neste dia irão ocorrer pelo mundo fora 288 eventos nos 54 países envolvidos.

Citarei o que está no evento que foi colocado na rede social FB, aqui, logo a seguir à imagem e texto em inglês que se seguem.

 

***

 

It is my extreme pleasure to announce a dear friend and colleague’s organizing of (and performing as well in) “Playing for Change”

in Portugal.

I have been informed by  Bernardo Freire da Cruz that it shall be held in Cascais today – Saturday 21st of September, 2013 between 4pm and 11pm.

I leave you the information gathered from the FB “event” beneath the image belown
(it is also in both tongues)

Admission to the event is free, to those who can make it out to Cascais, I truly hope you have a great time.

 

1044513_10151538975687017_355639803_n

(Event / Evento)
Hoje

16:00 até 23:00

(tempo – Limpo 25°C)
Concertos de Angariação pela Educação Musical – ENTRADA LIVRE
Reunimos um grupo com vontade de fazer a diferença e participar no 1LOVE Playing for Change Day.
Entre concertos de variados estilos que se vão prolongar pela tarde fora e o ambiente chill out que o próprio jardim proporciona, contamos com a tua presença para tornar este dia memorável.
Estaremos no Parque Palmela, em Cascais, a partir das 16h00 até às 23h30 do dia 21 de Setembro (Dia Internacional da Paz).

A todos os amantes de música,
Até Já!

We gathered a group hoping to make a difference and take part in 1LOVE Playing for Change Day.
Between concerts of various styles that will last through the afternoon and a chill out atmosphere that the garden provides, we count on your presence to make this day memorable.
We will be in Parque Palmela, Cascais, from 04:00pm until 11h30pm on 21 September (International Day of Peace).

To all music lovers
See you there!

Os Nossos Músicos:

Ruca Fernandes(fado/jazz)
Acompanhado ao piano por Bernardo Cruz
SweetArt(mellow jazz)
LS ( Vice-Campeoão Nacional de beatbox 2012)
Zé Cruz (ethnic)
Mariachi & Rouxinol (flamenco)
Fabrik of Luv (hip-hop/funk/soul)
Imajinn Gugolplex (metal progressivo instrumental)
Standback (Rock’n’roll)
Cat Green & the Strange Fellas (Funk)

Eles vão ajudar, e tu?

Com o Apoio de:
Rota Jovem
Pedaços de Aventura

As doações podem ser efectuadas no local ou directamente neste site:
http://playingforchangeday.org/show/playing-for-change-day–cascais

As causas para onde o dinheiro irá reverter podem ser encontradas aqui:
http://playingforchange.org/


Pianist(a) – my own personal Mozart

I wish to start this year with a “piano post” so I bring Mozart, some words and an illustration:

no intervalo de cada tecla

sobra uma sombra

um silêncio

É aí que resido

onde..
.. ouço mil risos de criança

onde os silêncios de todos os mundos

que habitam nos intervalos das sombras

 me sussurram o teu nome

onde todo o ruido tem a inocência das gotas de água

(Maria MFA Costa)

 

 

PIANO
By D.H. Lawrence
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

1918

GA_carlos


The Moon with its Blues

ao amor que arde vivo dentro de nós pelos que foram,

assim como por quem nos rege o presente
– não há rédea mais segura e apertada que aquela que nos impomos a nós próprios pela força desse sentimento, e não há vida para além do mesmo.

 


John Cage

 

 

(September/Setembro 5, 1912 – August/Agosto 12, 1992)

 

 

 

in aller freundschaft (there is a key)

 

 

 

 

 

 

[

]In A Landscape (1948)

 

 

 

 

 

 

variations 5 (1965) – Link with full feaTure film of the entire performance from a 1966 German broadcast.

The actual músic/coreography begins after 5 minutes of the 49:25 minute video contained therein.

Esta ligação, para a obra “Variações V”, de 1965 , contém a actuação completa que se pode começar a visionar após cerca de 5 minutos do começo do vídeo, de 49 minutos: é uma actuação que terá sido transmitida na televisão Alemã em 1966.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Songbooks (John Cage: music & E.E. Cummings: lyrics, 1970)
w/ Cathy Berberian on vocals.

 

 

 

 

 

 

..pelos 100 anos  de John Cage.

_


Paths

    

(The Winding Way)

part one of two

part two of two

Kafka    (2005  tintas acrílicas s/tela )

 

 

 

 

 

some paths are embued in the sweet fragance of Life’s vigour

others seem to be misconstructions

from the kidnapped souls of bartered inexistence

(where)  

measured resilience

(is an involuntary witness)

– as one stretches beyond elastic limits                                                                   (. )

( , )
(and)

–  life, lost over anguish, hunger, dillusion                                                               (as)

(and)

– time                                                                                                                      (, )
traveled by an electric array of fractal movement through space                           (, )
helplessly implodes into reality.

What of it?

 To lose so much pain on the misery of others

to live
soggily

to barely breathe
through Futility’s nostrils
in tiny fotons of gasps
quantumly taken
from the alleged angel of light

how sad

       how truly
and utterly
vacant  

 

 

Why doesn’t the certainty of an ardently awaiting crowd of maggots

in that proverbial hole in the ground bring forth a will:

– for perception?

– to fathom?

– to be?

– ?

How many faraos?

How many?

How many does it take to see:

– a box full of void?

– death
or its decoy?

Under what firmament will – 
How long before – 

the lifeless celuloide of a thousand broken dreams
of others
for the gain of a mindless mimick of Man

mirror(s) the decay?

What profit is there                                                                                                                        (?)
– to happily wallow in  the shame of an inane existance                                                  (?)
tightly wound,  speeding swiftly and directly into a luke cold state of nothing    (?)

(to be dust under the feet of strangers… )

                                                                                               ?

******************************************************

I may be gone for a while thus I wish to leave something that always puts smiles all over my insides.

Wishing all a happy remainder of summer.

(take care)

 PART ONE of four

PART TWO of four

PART THREE of four

PART FOUR of four

.


Olha para mim e me ama. Não: tu olhas para ti e te amas. É o que está certo. (Clarice Lispector)

© Guida Almeida

E depois saberei como pintar e escrever, depois da estranha mas íntima resposta. Ouve-me, ouve o silêncio. O que te falo nunca é o que eu te falo e sim outra coisa. Capta essa coisa que me escapa e no entanto vivo dela e estou à tona de brilhante escuridão. (…)
Entro lentamente em dádiva a mim mesma, esplendor dilacerado pelo cantar último que parece ser o primeiro.
(… ..)
Nova era, esta minha, e ela me anuncia para já. Tenho coragem? Por enquanto estou tendo:porque venho do sofrido longe, venho do inferno do amor mas agora estou livre de ti. Venho do longe – de uma pesada ancestralidade. Eu que venho da dor de viver.  E não a quero mais.  Quero a vibração do alegre
(… ..)
Será que passei sem sentir para o outro lado? O outro lado é uma vida lantejantemente infernal.  Mas há transfiguração do meu terror: então entrego-me a uma pesada vida toda em símbolos pesados como frutas maduras. (…) Uma parte mínima de lembrança de bom senso de meu passado me mantém roçando ainda o lado de cá.  Ajude-me porque alguma coisa se aproxima e ri de mim. Depressa, salva-me.
Mas… (…)
Mas o quê? a resposta é apenas: sou o quê.  Embora às vezes grite: não quero mais ser eu!!  mas eu me grudo a mim e inextrincavelmente forma-se uma tessitura de vida.

Quem me acompanha que me acompanhe: a caminhada é longa, é sofrida mas é vivida.

(… ..)

O que te escrevo continua e estou enfeitiçada.

Clarice Lispector  –  texto retirado do livro : «Água Viva» 

© Guida Almeida

Gaia   – um trabalho também conhecido através dos nomes
“Gê” ou “Banhista”
110cm x 83cm, tintas acrílicas s/tela, 
© Guida Almeida 2005,
fotografia de Sandra Ramos,
propriedade da Câmara Municipal de Lisboa


__

 

 

 

 

 

 

George Mraz: bass / Steve Kuhn: piano / Billy Drummond: drums

 

 

 

 

 

Richie Beirach: piano / Frank Tusa: bass / Jeff Williams: drums

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.


An ode to the Summer

“you know … it’s Jazz, it’s freedom…”

 

(Branford Marsalis)

 

 

 

 

 

I feel a need for the summer growing within me..

 

 

 

 


Study II - oils on paper
by Guida Almeida

I’ll leave the words and images from a post I wrote elsewhere last week.

(Have a nice week)

 

 

 

 

 

Segunda-feira, 23 de Abril de 2012

Notes trickling from a tenor saxophone, drop by dropI hardly breath

The keys of the piano tingle
as they run down my spine
What, where, when…….. why?

Oh, the globe… that globalistic, spherable, round blue spot..
Nah,
I think I missed it
– perhaps I’ll catch the next ride but for now
I’ll just wait.

Here in a side-room next to the universe
where time stands still, Time after Time after Time after Time
and after

(words written to a Ben Webster recording accompanied by many silences.. sweet and otherwize )

Publicada por Margaridaem 19:39

Domingo, 22 de Abril de 2012

Silence

 

 

 

 

to be mentally silent..
– driving out pollution that encumbers all thought and recollection

can at times be more strenuous than climbing the highest pole with lubricated hands,

but when it finally comes (even for a fleeting moment..) I am almost returnéd.

Perhaps someday I’ll know the soothing comfort of watching the sun set next to a loved one in utter silence..

perhaps (even though I no longer believe in “silence” – but perhaps)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


He
(or she)
who knows the future knows nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.


The Last Waltz (Levon Helm : May 26, 1940 – April 19, 2012)

I always had (still have) a soft spot for The Band and The Last Waltz

There are pieces of music that will always be a part of my “inner repertoire”, and even if they are considered “pop” or whatever one wishes to call them, they seem to resonate within..

 

 

Thank you Levon Helm for giving me  –

“The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Ironically I’ve been listening to this music plus other pieces included in The Last Waltz frequently in the recent past and today in particular this piece has been very present. I had no idea that I’d be saying goodbye to this voice…  no idea)

Goodnight.


Das ist freundschaft? ………. Lord, how could I forget that which has ailed me for the past week..

One can never be prepared to say goodbye to those whom we hold dear..
It is such a difficult a thing to fathom that it tends to escape all cognisance.

Even a head-on collision can seem to bring a soothing escape from such a matter.

No matter how one tries to turn one’s heart into a cork so as to be capable of floating

above every little thing..

it still sinks..

– it sinks to a bottomless abyss
– to that chasm full of tears and sorrow.

No I shall not say my goodbyes untill the last breath, be it mine, your’s or anyone else’s.

I’ll simply say goodnight and kiss your forehead
(I can handle nothing more, see nothing less, and I refuse to change my nature)

(des)Largem-me!! © Guida Almeida

 

 

Há quem nunca sai do coração..
– quem sempre nos aquece a alma só de pensar nele/nela
Tal como há quem passe por nós sem deixar marca, quem não nos dê respostas e/ou perguntas, quem nada ou pouco nos diz.., há também o oposto disso. Há quem tenha a face, os gestos, as palavras e os silêncios imprimidos para todo o sempre no nosso Ser. ..
.. (tal como todos sabemos) Os nossos amigos são uma família escolhida, assim como alguns familiares “de sangue” também são.. Fazem do nosso “coração”, mesmo que fraquinho seja, uma habitação.. uma casa repleta de “vida”..

 

E tu.., tu que por exemplo assististe ao meu desespero ao ter descoberto que ia tocar isto

perante o seu autor, numa sala ‘semi-ensolarada’ qualquer de ensaios…, que conviveste com tantas lágrimas.., tantos sonhos, risos.. Tu que me conheces tão bem, que com amizade pura és capaz de gozar com todos os meus podres e transformá-los em coisas minúsculas..,

 

fazes-me falta desde antes de nascer.

 

 
– e ainda tenho um presente do meu pai para te entregar, bolas..

Até já..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.


March Moon (Sap Moon)

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.. and the moon leaped out of the grass to cast its shadow.
(bleeding it all over the place)

 

 

 

 

 

It has come to my attention, just after listening to the above video and futher indulging in an ald favourite of mine (Mr. Yusuf  “Cat” Stevens).. the next video has one of the pieces that I most enjoy by the man. It appears to have become  to some a place to comment a valid point as Humanity searches for Joseph Kony whom has eluded justice since his  being indicted in 2005 for war crimes against Man..
– a horrid creature and leader of the LRA (Lord’s Resistance Army)  that has abducted near 100000 children to fight.. that has tortured and mutilated countless.. I say no more.

 

 

 

– and next.. I’ll just leave the music by one whom is on the opposite side of Humanity to Kony,
(he’s still one of my all time favourites – Yusuf – aka Cat Stevens)
and that as I mentioned, triggered my recollection of the subject-matter that is now apparently (and thankfully) returned to the “limelight” of world attention..

 

or for those who prefer one of the older versions from the 1970s

 

 

 

Sap Moon is what usually comes to mind as a name, as it makes me recall (from childhood memories)
seeing Sugar Maple trees being sapped around this time of year..

 

Also called (among other names)  Crust Moon, this moon is the last of  the Winter’s full moons and marks the turning point, or rather it foreshadows the arrival of a new season. Here’s to hoping this coincidence between the occurrence of this particular full moon and bringing to the Public Eye of this horrific fiend marks the beginning of a new era of solidarity, resolve, resourcefulness and Human Kindness..

 

(this post began as a simple exercise, trying to make visible the linking from one idea/memory/thought to another.. In this case the Moon – a song – another song – that led to Children – Justice – Humanity)

 

 

I refuse to mix in the “tags” of this post the names of both men, for Cat (Yusuf) Stevens
is a great humanitarian “unmixable” with the name of the other.. Thus for the purpose of spreading the Kony 2012 video I’ll only ‘tag’ the name of the man we all want to bring to justice.
Thank you for reading.
Have a wholesome Sunday.

 

 

 

(Sap Moon aka: Crust Moon, Worm Moon, Crow Moon)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.


Solo

.. Sol o

 

 

 

 

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(I shall now leave some superfluous accompaniment.. I say this even though I love the musical portion  belowShakti dearly)

 

 

 

 

Solo

 

 

a solo
is what it is
does what it does
is a multiple of one
is multiple or one
it’s multinudenous
alone
it is none (of the above)

 

 

 

 

( the mouth of a river, a star, an East/West fusion..  an “ancient child’s” solo – I leave you with the sound of Shakti to accompany its warm innocence)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.. Sol o

 

 

Pendular space
recycled cycles of time that bends
as we circle (our) emotive states of concentric consciousness (consciousnesses)
is ever moving.
East becomes West, West becomes East, but what of it?

That revolving yet ever changing river that is our existence
(that is our existance?) seems to pay little attention to detail.

 

 

 

 

(author’s note: the “solo” originally was only meant to be the photographic slideshow above,
but as always I’m easily sidetracked – thank you for your indulgence)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.


Etta

photo by John K. Addis

…… because somethings are eternal.

Dear Etta:
– your sweet voice is proof.

.
.
.
(bye baby)
January 25, 1938 – January 20, 2012

.


Palavras antigas e outras………. “Mensagem de ano novo” / New Year’s Message (in Portuguese & English)

« mata-se por fio de vaidade e outro de finíssima e subtil crueza. mais do que incompreender o homem ausenta-se da sua própria realidade incompreendendo o deslumbrante que é sorrir generosamente das vitórias do outro. o mistério é uma coisa terrível que a linguagem acende e unidos e dispersos somos fendas irrisórias. mediadoras porém do impávido racionalismo que nos afasta e aproxima reduz esmaga e recria. como numa ode de Keats onde o sentido gemelar é destruidor e fulgurante. mata-se por um fio de vigilante raiva. sobrevive-se como cavaleiros andantes sobre um chão de espigas e de cardos. simbióticos. original nostalgia de ainda suspender o mal.

bom dia mundo. que somos reis nus. de pés feridos. de alma de árvore.»

de Isabel Mendes Ferreira

 

O que dizer, ou acrescentar, ao que aqui acima está escrito??

Trouxe estas palavras para aqui para inaugurar o dia, o ano,
assim como o Espaço……

Aquele espaço……..,

– o do Homem que teima em (in)existir numa realidade paralela à sua “condição”.

O Espaço, pois……………..

– dentro e fora da dimensão que nos reduz praticamente ao “infinito”, e/ou ao “zero”, conforme o ponto cartesiano ocupado no universo que se desloca num constante “respirar” fora de todas as portas das dimensões, percepitiveis, ou não.

E retomando o que vejo:
um  «espaço,  o do Homem que teima em (in)existir numa realidade paralela à sua “condição”. »

Não, não quero ser injusta.
Sei que não serão, ou não somos todos assim.
E que num ou noutro há ou haverá “mutação(ões)” e/ou migração(ões) entre o que “É” e o que “Não É”.

Mas vejamos……………………,
ou melhor, olhemo-nos bem
– de “dentro” para “fora”,
de fora para dentro, e perguntemo-nos a nós próprios o seguinte (por exemplo):

Com estas duas “realidades” onde está a “Forma” do que “real” é?

Eu às vezes sei, mas felizmente esqueço-me.
Assim na maior parte da minha ocupação no Espaço e no Tempo disto a que por habito chamamos “Universo”
posso dedicar-me ao que considero ser a manifestação do Divino:
O descobrir (redescobrir), encontrar (reencontrar), e sentir o Outro
(dentro e fora das suas e/ou minhas dimensões, conforme o possível, ou o que me é possivel )
– [ ou me é dado [?] a ser possivel ]

Bom, agora deixo o que escrevi na altura em que li as palavras da autora cujo texto cito no início desta publicação.

Ela, assim como outros, afectam-me (felizmente), e muitas das vezes de uma forma que me leva a escrever para me exprimir  (coisa bastante difícil para mim, garanto-vos)

Assim sendo deixo a minha “Mensagem de ano novo”, assim como o desejo de vos ver (a todos) com um ano repleto de ternura, amor do(s) e pelo(s) Outro(s), compaixão e iluminação.

Desejo-vos (alías – “nos”) um mundo melhor, e equipado da solidareidade necessária para sarar o mundo.
Bem hajam.

* Podem até nos estancar o sangue, mas cegar-nos à beleza do outro, isso nunca… ai não.
E pergunto-me, para quê viver sem nos alimentarmos do Outro?
Sabemos que porventura há quem tenha a deficiência da ausência de boca para alimentar a alma, e que assim vegete..

e morre-se..

É uma crueldade tripla esta indignidade, uma inexistência desalmada, (des)almada.

(In)existir ao ter assim a primeira parte do aparelho digestivo tapado por sabe-se lá que mordaças e/ou açaimes, uma que será possivelmente a avareza de espirito, outro, o do desgosto pelo bem alheio será por.. ai!
Eu sei lá?
.. que motivo real poderá haver em tamanha estupidez?
É uma grande chaga cega na existência do Homem.

© Guida Almeida

técnica mista s/tela

____________________________________________________________________________

Bom 2012.

Guida

.


Sam…

Há sempre quem de forma notável e especial nos toca, faz vibrar a alma..
afinidades que ultrapassam aquilo que é o explicável ou o tangível .
Sempre foi o que senti em relação a Sam Rivers.

 

Não, não é devido ao seu enorme talento musical ou o timbre que sempre me deliciou,
nem das vezes que ouvi o som da pueza sábia das crianças e respectiva alegria na sua voz.
É mais profundo que isso.

 

Custa mas o que me resta dizer é que agradeço……………………
Agradeço o que nos deu e …………………….

Agradeço_______________.

 

 

There are artists that touch us in such a  profound manner.
This has always been the case with me since first I first heard his “recorded” musical presence in the mythical recording “Conference of the Birds” ages ago.
The times I was fortunate enough to bear witness to his poetic sound “LIVE” and to be in his presence are engraved in my mind.
Moments that nothing nor no man can take from me..

 

Thank you lord for Sam Rivers.

 

 

 

(September 25, 1923 – December 26, 2011)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Merry Christmas message – Desejo um natal feliz a todos!

Deixo-vos o seguinte e os votos de um santo natal, pois ao contrário dos nossos governantes não direi «o melhor dos possíveis..» Desejo-vos um repleto de calor humano, amor, saúde e carinho.. no mínimo isto! 
– É com um espirito natalício que vos deixo o seguinte……………………………………………………

…… in my best Christmas spirit I leave you the following video clip.

“Santa Claus is coming to Town” – Joseph Spence

 

 

 

 Almost a Poem

 

As the night closes upon weary eyes I still envision

in a half fogged mist

 a passing remnant of something

If only I could see clearly..

  The person changes as must be,
for thus is the way of Things
the way of the World
in an ever running river
molding its earthly banks
never waiting nor stopping,
an ever changing spirit
– a spirit of the “Whole”.

Keep safe dear one
surrender no sleep nor justice.
Your wrinkle torn flesh is lined
with the burden of Love
and such
is the way of the World.

 

 

(have a safe and caring holiday)

© Guida Almeida

 


Celebration of one of XX Century Music’s great treasures – Olivier Messiaen (born today – December 10, 1908)

Born today, Olivier Messiaen (1908-1992) was not only a major composer of the last century but profoundly influencial. From his teaching came a long list of remarkable composers all amazingly different from one another, to name but three: Pierre Boulez, Karlheinz Stockhausen and Iannis Xenakis.

I leave you with my Playlist with a full recording of Messiaen’s

–  Quartet for the End of Time 

It is aPlaylist with all 8 movements of Messiaen’s piece “Quatour pour la fins du temps”

I love the man’s work and for me, if I had to choose among his masterpieces, this would most likely be the candidate.

I also leave the link to another fine recording of that which I plan to put in this year’s Christmas stocking, with:

Maryvonne Le Dizes (violin), Alain Damiens , Pierre Strauch (cello),  Pierre-Laurent Aimard (piano) – under the musical direction of Dina Resende
 Messiaen *** Quatuor pour la fin du Temps –  
“Quartet for the End of Time” 

 

 

Notice the relation between 5th movement of the piece
(superbly performed in the 8 movements of both LINKs here present in this Post, just above)
and that which I leave in a touching rendition here by the Ensemble D’Ondes De Montréal.


(Ensemble D’Ondes De Montréal)

Olivier Messiaen (1908-1992)

Oraison   (1937)  – written for the Ondes Martenot, an early electronic instrument.

 
I wish all a very warm and tender week.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Danaides, Pelasgus and the Furies – Walking with the “Lone Arranger”

Laying beneath the earth in wait of ships returnéd  brimming in false promise, they ask after Pelagarus and the maids.  Informed that they’ve apparently gone for a  needed rest an odd semblance of hollow void comes over the expression of memories.. (but)
the Erinyes are known for their persistance and Time is no friend to Injustice.

 

 

 

 

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Fine.

Straight away, go right ahead,
– feel free..
(..free?)

Who needs these?
If  I’m not using them why not hang them up and let them dry?
(Cry? …? )

Help yourself
by all means!

Impale.., stake everything,
anything that moves..

There’s an Aquilles of various sorts in everyone.

Who needs ankles?

Paris is mine regardless
(..regained?)

The only reason “Any” can be envisaged is so “All” can be nailed.
(They’re almost twins. One must always be attentive..)

Walls and walls and walls and walls,
Walls of tantalizing feet
dangling
Oh! You weren’t talking to me..

I’m just pacing my surrender
at the feet of “No Mercy
(the sacred cow now all seem to eat)

The solitude of such a deed is a three way street trodden by Million.
An almost sacred trinity within the triplex of a Dantean cycle.

I’ll go fetch my sneakers..

Kafka – acrílicos s/tela (2005)

Summer – 2011, Lisbon. by G. Almeida

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Below: feet detail taken from a work by Andrea Mantegna, b. circa 1431 – September 13, 1506 ** “The Lamentation ..” painted c. 1480, Tempera on canvas, 68 cm x 81 cm)


Thanks…

(For  the 24th)

 

 
© Guida AlmeidaThanks

Thanks for giving /
Forgiving /
and for giving
(forgiving)
Thanks

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Next:
for the 25th
(Portuguese Polyphony)

 

 

 
Next:
for Saturday & Sunday
from me to you (music & artwork).

 

Have a blessed weekend.

 

 

Thanksgiving having already been on the second Monday of October in Canada, and now upon having past the fourth Thursday of this month (the US date),  I leave all with my sincere wishes for a happy and safe weekend
(holiday for those celebrating)

 

I bring to this “table” two things, one is mine and the other.. well…….
I guess the other is too in two aspects. I’ll give my reasons.

1. the arts become a part any man’s existance and expression of “Being” whether it be through music, literature, sculpture, dance, painting…
regardless of their geographic and historic origin as long as he/she whom recieves it identifies him or herself with it;
or if you will, as long as it “touches one’s inner being” making it thenceforth vibrate, rich and fecund with “life”
It then become’s a part of any man’s or woman’s “footprint” upon this earth.

2.  Also, being a Portuguese citizen I have inherited “ART” from this nation, as I have from Canada.
It belongs to, and defines somewhat, my cultural background.

 

 

Therefore I leave you with two video clips of mine.
One with work created/performed/painted/drawn by me,
the other by Duarte Lobo – 1565 – 1646
(beautifully performed I must add)
and thus inherited by me.

 

 

 

Please have a lovely weekend, full of tenderness and grace.

 

 

Love M.

(Guida)

 

 

 

 

 

 


Caged – in a moment of Silence

   

“Praias de Fu…..a  IV” (painting)  –  From the Beaches of Absolution (text)

 

 

From beaches of absolution
a horrid stench..
an odour
a protrusive bulge of havoc,
death and misguided Humanity
poisons the air in a thicket-like array of fumes
more and more impenetrable
by each sorrowful step inconspicuously taken.

– ancient sands that care not
nor notice Man’s misgivings.

Bleached, broiled and barren in a
lachrymose desolation
they sickley stare back at the face of their maker in innocence.

(In innocence?)

They sit there upon a living bed
dead to one’s lamentations
simply caressing our soles (souls)
step by step.
– and all the while Petty Theft and Larsony of the heftiest degree
dance upon our graves..

heavily.

 

written by me (G. Almeida)
The image is of a painting  : “Praias de Fukush… IV “, September 26th – 2011    

 

 


( more than a month from the above, and a day past Rememberance..)  

 

.. a flittering
fleeting
forshadowed
– moment of Silence.

 

 

 

   

ENRAPTURED

 Steadfast in inaudible prayers

whispering nothing
Caged within my own transfixed Silence
Judgement and soft truce impaled
I return and do not weep –
( Again? Still? No.
I see them.
They shine

there

beyond Merriment and Bitter Dismay
in a parallel existance
within Time’s brittle house
but it’s hard to tell who’s at the door..  )
– once more water becomes treason
blood is no longer thicker..
My home mortified
 plundered
Like all gods
I judge and am judged
The one who mends all wounds is gift wrapped
The child I call Home and is all children
crucified to an empty dream called Progress
creatures enraptured
(from/with/upon/within)
unholy waters
an endless spiral of eternal communion with Number
I drift asunder
 bow misguided,
hull rotting,
sailing into a screaming state of Nothingness..
I am a ship,

my name is Man.

 

.


.


(on a far lighter and fairer tone.. a Silence)

Behold the power and expression of  together uttering “No-Sound”.

 

***** A brief note regarding Cage’s 4′ 33”
– Composed in 1952, this piece is most likely the most notorious and controversial within a long, diversified line of compositions by the author.
No matter what one thinks and feels regarding said piece: love, amusement, scorn, bewilderment, or awe it is impossible to be indifferent or remain the same after after having been in attendance of a performance, after “hearing” it.

Originally scored in three movements for any given instrument or group of instruments, the tension created while performing and/or perceiving the work is absolutely incredible.
[ form : 1st Movement – 30” ,  2nd Movement – 2′ 23”, and the 3rd Movement – 1´40” ]

Here Cage truly acheives his desire to create a work in which both fases necessary an fundamental for an audience to perceive (and receive / experience) a work of musical art is completely irrelevant and removed from having any influence whatsoever upon each and every performance of said piece.  The work is “rid of” and completely free of composer/performer(s), so to speak.


Now is the time of Winter’s memory as it has always been and forever shall be.. (Brace thyself)

“Almost Touching”

a constant witness
to misconceived footmen,
galloping shadows within the eyes of Man,
and my murdered body as it leaks upon the sand
sinking.

My quavering voice
lingering through drifts
multitudinous, rampant,
skin tightening with each slowing step
bitten by an ice cold breath.
Aching, parched, and throbbing
I begin to cease.

The cold water upon my hand burns..

I stop.
Immovable.
Impervious to light,
to heat.
A numbness wrapped
in an unyielding frost riddled veil.

Paralysed not by Fear, Hunger, nor Misconception
Nature has no misgiving,
only frailty.

Feeling “all” within pendular actions of
entities mistaken and misconstrued.
“All” is now that fake stillness caressed by Oblivion’s kindness.
The winds eating away, corroding my arteries,
Fading.
A distance, an arm’s length of time, I freeze at the doorstep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.


Steve Swallow

Today among other things today is a  Steve Swallow and nephew kind of day.
(Now for a bit of trivia) It so happens that it is also World Animal Day.

So here’s to Steve Swallow,  his stings (71 today – and a wonderful musician), nephews,
and all animals (me included)!!

Nothing is more powerful than to hold a dear treasure in your arms and.. as you kiss their tiny forehead knowing full well that as your breath still linguers warm upon this earth, no harm shall ever fall upon them.

To Matt with Love (aunt Gui)


Equinócio de Outono / Autumn Equinox

Começo a Conhecer-me. Não Existo

Começo a conhecer-me. Não existo.
Sou o intervalo entre o que desejo ser e os outros me fizeram,
ou metade desse intervalo, porque também há vida …
Sou isso, enfim …
Apague a luz, feche a porta e deixe de ter barulhos de chinelos no corredor.
Fique eu no quarto só com o grande sossego de mim mesmo.
É um universo barato.


( Álvaro de Campos,  “Poemas”)

Magnificat

Quando é que passará esta noite interna, o universo,
E eu, a minha alma, terei o meu dia?
Quando é que despertarei de estar acordado?
Não sei. O sol brilha alto,
Impossível de fitar.
As estrelas pestanejam frio,
Impossíveis de contar.
O coração pulsa alheio,
Impossível de escutar.
Quando é que passará este drama sem teatro,
Ou este teatro sem drama,
E recolherei a casa?
Onde? Como? Quando?
Gato que me fitas com olhos de vida, que tens lá no fundo?
É esse! É esse!
Esse mandará como Josué parar o sol e eu acordarei;
E então será dia.
Sorri, dormindo, minha alma!
Sorri, minha alma, será dia !


( Álvaro de Campos,  “Poemas”)


September 11

Fotografia de Alice Valente Alves – photographer
Fotografia de ALICE VALENTE ALVES – photographer

This stunning image above is a full colour fotograph taken by Alice Valente Alves of a misty grey NYC dawn. ___________________________________________
In an age of intolerance and rampant police state tactics across the globe…
A decade ago from this day we have lived in such an age, or at least such is and has been manifest thenceforth to a far higher degree than ever before.
This was a day for change on a global level in many aspects and one could instantly feel it as the day’s events unfolded.. as one watched in a stupified, alarmed daze helplessly witnessing horror – perpetrated by mindless predjudice that walks about hand in hand with intolerance.

Reminded by a friend moments ago, an equally horrid day was this precise day – September 11, in 1973
with the assassination of Salvador Allende and the horridic reign of treachery that ensued.
Truly a day of intolerance.. whereupon a fraction of Mankind rears it’s ugly head and wreaks terror upon all others.

Any mind that is blinded by greed, hatred or predjudice withers and dies.
It becomes a feable shell full of worthless quotation and campaign, incapable of sustaining a thought of its own – a helpless cripple that succumbs to the poisons of Man and the false notion of superiority.

There is no honour in terror. In terror there is only terror – and emptiness.

I leave below a painting created almost a year after these deadly and cruel occurrances 10 years ago and videos of two pieces by Charlie Haden as a token of just homage not only to the victims of terror of this day, but victims everywhere that succumb to intolerance, greed and blood thirsty scavengers. The image (the painting here at the bottom) is also a protest to how this world has become dystopic, and how lust for power and greed keep murdering people through: hunger, physical torture/strife, racial/religeous saction of all kinds, blind fanaticism, neo-liberal slaveries and the ill use of “slogan” in order to perpetuate intolerable manipulation (to confuse and confound all around). This post is in memory to the victims of the day, and to Man’s struggle to keep a sound soul.. in an age of cold “fake” cash.

I also leave videos of the man

and

plus a piece by Charlie Haden performed by his Liberation Music Orchestra on David Sanborn’s Nightmusic

and his “Silence”

I further leave a link with a tribute to the Hudson River School of painters GUIDA FINE ARTS

– and below this
– my “Ab ovo: IV”


Sonny

 Mr. Rollins

 

To my small Hearth His fire came

(by Emily Dickinson)

To my small Hearth His fire came—
And all my House aglow
Did fan and rock, with sudden light—
‘Twas Sunrise—’twas the Sky—

Impanelled from no Summer brief—
With limit of Decay—
‘Twas Noon—without the News of Night—
Nay, Nature, it was Day—

The mighy Sonny Rollins turns 81 today: Happy Birthday Mr. Rollins

(Hoje faz 81 anos Sonny Rollins)


Concerto Sábado, 27 de Agosto

 

/ Hora
Tomorrow at 10pm / Amanhã às 22h
Location / Morada
Merceraria Elite (São Pedro do Estoril) – http://www.facebook.com/mercearia.elite

* Rua Afonso de Albuquerque, 255, 2765-515 São Pedro do Estoril, Portugal
Phone (Portugal * 351)
218 267 748 / 917 647 300
Website
http://www.merceariaelite.com

Jazz / Blues

Guida Costa (Margarida) – voz & trombone de varas
Rodrigo Santoanastácio – guitarra
Zeca Neves – baixo/contrabaixo

imagens do trio

 

Para melhor conhecer o local deixo, para já, o LINK FB da Mercearia Elite
http://www.facebook.com/mercearia.elite

OU –  aqui no ‘mapa’ .

MAPA (map)


Zeca Afonso – a voice from the past that speaks to the future

.. e acabo de me lembrar que há 24 anos desapareceu-nos, deixou-nos fisicamente..




Zeca Afonso..

– uma pureza (de)em espirito, (de)em pessoa.




























“The Sands of Time” ( fotografia, G. Almeida)

http://www.rtp.pt/noticias/player.swf

_______________________________________

(En)

Zeca Afonso (2 August 1929 – 23 February 1987)






The Crowd

Time’s sands erode the outer casing
A constant change in aerodynamic stucture as one desintegrates
(and reintegrates)
swimming to the shore of Memory.

There I find:

grooves,
recollective lines of oblivion that sweep some of the grains
belonging to Mnemosyne.
Each an image, a shade, a fragrance.. a hussssssssssh..

After each wave wipes away the markings of Time only those deepest remain.
The essence of Being that shall always “Be”
as I carry each remnant grain in my very small
and utterly deep pocket.

An inner landscape that bears only some faces.
Shocked by the absence of some, unaware of the presence of others.
I hadn’t even realized you’d left,

A crowd,
a compost of Thought, Ouvre and Time.
A multiple,
a multitude of different “Yous”

I could be a different you for you are no longer.
but in truth –
I am another.

I am that which has always been, that which is
– and forever shall be..
all others.

Maria MFA Costa