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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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poem

 

 

Looking at the chair,
sun ablaze on whitened hair,
– a glistening memory.

 

Your voice, deep and low
in soft cascade whence it flows
past recollection.
I feel  your sweet gaze
pour gently upon my skin
and learn that God is

 

 

tender

and
careful with my heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


A 59 syllable poem.  I was going to call this poem ”575 575575 215”, but that made it look too much like a phone number

red telephone booth beside brown tree

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Haiku (a painter’s haiku)

bursting in blossoms

smiles yon almond tree, sweely

unto the heavens

 

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(Blossoming forth bursts yon almond tree.
Where are you little cricket?

”I dream at your feet” – it answers.)


G.A.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Mal vejo os dedos e no entanto vejo-o ali, esvoaçante, junto a um conto antigo que se desnuda conforme a noite avança na sua concava natureza, por esta esfera

***
Desvendado o firmamento, um risco lunar timidamente esboçado, cortante o seu fulgor enquanto rasga as frias trevas da noite, rapidamente se passou para além de meu horizonte.

( horizonte?  O horizonte é algo que nos transcende, como a pele de uma maçã ao se percorrer o seu perímetro ou profundidade e  se   torna
mutável ).  **
Olho para cima e ei-lo, o Pégaso esvoaçante, móvel porque me mexo, mesmo que aqui parada aparento estar.
Parada entre as sobras das sombras que se criam e se desfazem a cada instante enquanto tomam corpo noutros mapas celestes e que no entanto me enxergam aqui como se parada no tempo pelo tempo que duro, estou.
Serei um palmo de tempo num corpo que mexe,  ptolemaico,  redondo,  o seu som molhado e seu trajecto girante  junto à chama que lhe faz anil a meus olhos quando aqui não estão.   
Pelo horizonte me meço e por ele estremeço ante o astrolábio que me concedeu o Navegador-Mor. Por vezes anda mal tratado, caindo ao chão como um qualquer par de óculos que me esqueço de usar… Encontro-o quando o penso perdido,  no olhar do cão que encosta o seu nariz ao meu, numa voz vizinha que me chama e me pede um chocolate quente, noutra que se propõe a cortar-me os longos cabelos ou numa criança, rabina, que não entende a razão que o cavalinho que montara num supermercado e que muda de cores – parou. Ele tem uma capacidade em me surpreender, como quem diz – ”Estou aqui, sua tonta”.   Perdoa-me os meus defeitos, o nónio foi feito por uma matemática sem a mácula.

Mal vejo os dedos e no entanto vejo-o ali, esvoaçante, junto a um conto antigo que se desnuda conforme a noite avança na sua natureza concava desta esfera.  ***

 

 

Dal Segno (𝄋)  al Codetta (⊕)   & /   al Coda (⊗ ) 

|:


***(:| |:)

  𝄋 

 

(Mal vejo os dedos e no entanto
vejo-o ali, esvoaçante, junto a um
conto antigo que se desnuda
conforme a noite desta esfera
avança, na sua natureza,
concava.)


***  (:|  or    |: & :|)

***(alt. 1º⌋   &  ⌊2º ending  to repeat signs – or – straight 1x repetition  )
(alt. – Segno )

(𝄋)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


(© the above transcript was originally writen elsewhere – Decembre 23, 2017)

 

 

 

 

 

 

PianoCliffNo3_GuiAlmeida

piano cliff III – © G.A

 

 

 

   (Codetta  / Coda   & DcC-Fine ∑ ) :

Agora não liguem, o que se segue são aqueles meus exercícios em modo – ”Resnais”,  e também  próprios de quem lida (por exemplo) com contrapontos diversos que,  podem não alterar a Harmonia estructural (pelo menos de forma significativa), porém,  dizem de forma especifica quando isolados coisa diferente – na  mesma linha.
(-coisa de músicos, portanto, não liguem).

 

 

 

( ) 

 

***   ( |: & :|)

** ( horizonte?  O horizonte é algo que nos transcende, como a pele de uma maçã ao se percorrer o seu perímetro ou profundidade e  (que)  se   (con)torna  ( , )
mutável ) .

( o horizonte?  O horizonte é algo que nos transcende como a pele de uma maçã ao se  percorrer o seu perímetro ou profundidade e  se  contorna 
mutável ).

( o horizonte?  O horizonte é algo que nos transcende  como a pele de uma maçã ,   ao se percorrer o seu perímetro ou profundidade e (que) se contorna ,  
mutável ) .


( o horizonte?  O horizonte é algo que nos transcende, como a pele de uma maçã ao se percorrer o seu perímetro ou profundidade e que se  torna  
mutável ).

( o horizonte?  O horizonte é algo que nos transcende como a pele de uma maçã ao se  percorrer o seu perímetro ou profundidade que se  torna 
mutável ).

( o horizonte?  O horizonte é algo que nos transcende, como a pele de uma maçã ao se percorrer o seu perímetro ou profundidade e se contorna).

( o horizonte?  O horizonte é algo que nos transcende como a pele de uma maçã ao se percorrer o seu perímetro ou profundidade e  se  torna  
mutável ).

( horizonte?  O horizonte é algo que nos transcende,  como a pele de uma maçã ao se percorrer o seu perímetro ou profundidade torna-se 
mutável ).

 

( ) 

*  serei um palmo de tempo:
– ptolemaico
– ptolemaico, que mexe
– redondo
– que mexe, redondo
– girante
– que girante se mexe
– que ptolemaico e redondo e girante  se mexe
– molhado
– que redondo, ptolemaico, molhado e girante , se mexe.

(Um palmo de tempo e de som e trajecto que  molhado, ptolemaico, redondo e girante – se mexe. ) 

 

***   ( |: & :|)

 

 

   DcCF (the  ”da Capo – fine” of the Coda) :

( ∑ 

Mal vejo os dedos e no entanto vejo-o ali, esvoaçante, junto a um conto antigo que avança conforme a noite, (por esta esfera), se desnuda na sua concava natureza.

 

(Mal vejo os dedos e no entanto

vejo-o ali, esvoaçante, junto a um
conto antigo que se desnuda

 
conforme a noite desta esfera
avança,
na sua natureza,
concava.)


 

***   ( |: & :|)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_________________________________________________________________
(uma anotação, como lembrete para mim mesma)

-Ao contrário de uma partitura lida por um músico,
onde se seguiria pelas regras estabelecidas dessa arte,
os sinais que regê-la-ão em termos estructurais
(os da Repetição: ”, do Segno 𝄋 ”  , ou os  utilizados
para
Codetta ”  ”  e para Coda  ” ”   assim como aquele
que aqui emprego para designar
uma eventual componente final
de um Coda
” )  – servirão apenas como sugestão  para
uma de duas coisas, para que se siga com a disciplina
de um músico, ou, em vez disso, com uma liberdade
interpretativa de tais símbolos como se um não músico
as estivesse a ver ou num espirito semelhante ao do
Resnais.

 

Fim de texto, de quem afinal não passa de uma ”interprete” e que
olha, que – continua a olhar por exemplo, um G. Steiner, com desconfiança enquanto
levanta o nariz em protesto

(e que,
teve de se apaziguar com um amado trecho de Bach).

 

hmmmmmm… não sei se chega, creio que preciso de mais um trecho, pois acordei com mau feitio (e isto hoje está mau) –  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yMHMSnTQM54

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Somewhere – between Now and the Third Versicle


(Jimi singing Dylan’s – All Along The Watchtower – arrises in my mind’s ear, in a subtle crescendo as if it were the commencement of the dawning of the sun yet be it the night)

 

cropped-p21-04-12_17-011.jpg

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The night falls – its winds still elude unto visions of misconceived footmen lining each front, and yet  – the cricket sings.
As Babylon runs in its rivers, weeping wet, still can I not see – nor the olive groves of Galilee, nor the seas of all Being and enchantments.  These most assuredly lie somewhere between now and the third versicle of the Song of Songs.
The wind shall growl, the Watchman shall sit – until the cricket leaps a perfect fifth, perhaps a minor sixth
(to a comely bass).

 

 

cropped-img_1237.jpg

 

Somewhere Between Now And The Third Versicle

(© written elsewhere by me, Aug. 19, 2018)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


(N. i. s.)

moonlight on sea - G.A.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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.

 

 

 

.


Num intervalo de sobremesa

 

Estava aquele sorrir, enigmático e belo, a atiçar-me. O seu brilho encandeava o envoltório cerco da qual furava com inequívoco esplendor. Não há, não havia aljubeiro,  apenas  uma capa translucida entre esferas para que não se ofusque os sentidos. Seu brilho traçava uma belíssima elipse sobre algo que, mais do que aquilo que é, me trazia uma imagem Felliniana de si mesmo – vista por instantes num filme, e, tal como no filme, onde antes de julgamento – se navegava. Tinha decidido, por repentino cansaço se abater sobre o corpo, ir em busca de uma sopa de peixes, consoladora, na esperança de não haver argumento possível para que os que não se alimentam se alimentem. E ali fiquei, estampada naquele sorriso.

No intervalo de sobremesa, ao regressar, eis que o véu se dissipara e a dois dedos da linha do horizonte, de quem medisse, pairava já em tom cremoso, deslumbrante, e terno, tal como o caminho agora diáfono e delineado
(esse – cerca de um dedo de espessura, pela mesma medição, seguindo entre mim e o que se sente ser o infinito)
que se sabe terminar além do que é visível.
Pois é, a visão não tem curvas. Não as tem como terá a audição (por exemplo).
Ousando agora olhar para cima, o firmamento, pejado, amplamente se descortinara.
Sento-me.

Sinto a mão como se não fosse minha agarrar-me nos dedos de um pé (esquerdo, julgo que o esquerdo) que saía de baixo de uma perna não cruzada. Ouço o contraponto; ora em espelho ora em stretto, por vezes florido, tecido por ondas como se numa embarcação dentro do tal filme de que me recordara alguns instantes antes – o contraponto de quem está prestes a ocultar-me o sorrir celeste, como quem diz – ”Vai agora dormir. Vai.”
________________
(*suspiro* – no mais contrário possível ao magnânimo Pintor, que grande piroseira aconteceria se tentasse espelhar semelhante deslumbre.
Como…. ?
E porquê?
….Oh! Porquê.., pfffffffff, estou parva, mas é claro que assim é. Se assim não fosse, não teria graça alguma. É propositado)

 

DSC05639

 

cropped-13939566_10153937165037017_1827893818022345421_n


(© publicado originalmente 26 de Setembro, de 2017 noutro ”local”)

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Gallery

Sol_O (solo)

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ÀMarGAr

Sol_O
solo
sol-ow / yet sol-ight

*(sol_O, ..na Basilica da…)

Basilica da Estrela…

                                                Sometimes

                          one doesn’t need to think much to see the reason behind a name..

                       …i supose..

____________________________________________________________

note: sol = sun, in Portuguese
estrela = star

photographes: G. Almeida

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View original post


…..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
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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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.


Sebastião Salgado (a truly powerful message – w/ French, English subtitles)

 

(français)

(english)

 

(below is a LINK with this video available in 34 languages – open and choose your preference)

http://www.amara.org/en/videos/f1MY7ozU0lIQ/url/475363/

 

 

 

 

 

 

Praia de F___________III (2011 - G.Almeida)

Praias de F… NºIII
(2011 – G.Almeida)


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.

 


Miguel Portas – a heartfelt farewell

One of the extremely rare times I’ll ever shed a tear for the loss of someone in the world of politics.
I do it not solely on account of a sense of friendship or compassion,
but mostly for our having lost a man of his stature and moral character.
The world needs more like him.I truely grieve his passing and in his case it would have always been a premature departure.
To Miguel Portas –

Miguel

 

(video clips with English dubbing)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

videos (em Português)

 

 


– 14 de Janeiro, de 2011

 

– 11 de Maio, de 2011

 

 


– 10 de Fevereiro, de 2012

 

 

de 2008

 

 


– (a data de se ter carregado este video para a internet é de Fevereiro de 2010)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

( from last Wednesday’s post  in – GUIDA  FINE  ARTS – escito na Quarta-feira passada no blogue )

 

 

 

« Quarta-feira, 25 de Abril de 2012

April 25 (To the streets……….) & a very hard farwell

 

( 1 de Maio – 1958 /  24 de Abril )
Miguel

To the streets I take my unbelieving body
to the streets..
(This blogue shall temporarily cease – Thank you for reading – Take care) » 

.
.

( Miguel Portas – fotogtrafia de Dionisio Leitão)
para ver o original – http://farm1.static.flickr.com/151/356088093_a5f0bd936c_o.jpg

 

 

 

 

.

(e de –  José Manuel Pureza )

« Aprendi do Miguel, talvez como de ninguém mais, o significado de “vida em abundância”. Foi sempre por essa vida para todos que ele lutou. E foi essa vida que ele viveu. O Miguel sabia que a diversidade do mundo era o melhor dos antídotos contra as vidinhas mesquinhas e fechadas. Partiu hoje para uma viagem sem destino. Deixou-nos um sorriso e muitos desafios. Um abração, pá! »

(De seguida – informação sobre o velório, e missa, citando directamente Catarina Portas)

 

« A todos os que se quiserem despedir e lembrar o Miguel Portas:

O velório decorrerá amanhã, sábado, entre as 15h00 e as 19h00, no Palácio Galveias, Campo Pequeno.

Uma sessão evocativa acontecerá no Jardim de Inverno do São Luis, no domingo, entre as 14h30 e as 17h00.

Uma missa será rezada pelo Padre Peter Stillwell, a pedido da sua mãe, no domingo às 17h30, na Igreja do Sagrado Coração de Jesus que o nosso pai desenhou, na Rua Camilo Castelo Branco, ao Marquês de Pombal, Lisboa. »

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(deixo aqui um abraço solidário aos pais, filhos e irmãos)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.


A tired hand

Por vezes bate a saudade,

nem sei bem de quem nem de quê, mas aparece e agarra-se aos ossos..

In the winter of our solitude comes Night.

It seems to bear a resemblance to lost and estranged children.

You want to embrace them but can not,
they are reflections
of your murdered selves.

They know you not,
they’re not even afraid of the non-returning dawn.

They’re misbehaved and unkept.

 

To hold the hand of cinicism.

– a tired hand,
full of lines and shapes.

Ah, how all thought, deed and past
now seem ridiculous to my eyes.

Yes, the world twirls on..

and somewhere whithin my body lies a memory
of something  (I am) no longer

– to such an extent that it
( I )
never was, had been or wiil be.

Perhaps I had always been another.

Perhaps –
I’m just sleepy………

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A Tree

 

 

 

With and Without The Brackets of Consciousness

 

Each fallen leaf a memory
a past that has been drowned
(a piece of an allegoric pie, a piece of……….)
sanity regained, (re) lost, revived

(who knows?)

swimming   in   rekindled   inexistance,    f r e e

 

 

One is always alone at crucial moments

in an utter state of ‘nothing’

 

 

 

………………………… incapable of taking oneself seriously (Thank God)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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

.


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”


Jack Layton (1950 – 2011 )

The Pool (G. Almeida)

Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night, sweet prince;
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

(William Shakespeare – Hamlet – Horatio, in Act 5, Scene 2 )

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________________
A State funeral shall be held tomorrow, Saturday – August 27th.

(The following that lies here below in this post on Jack Layton is taken from CBC News)

Jack Layton remembered as ‘courageous’

CBC News

(Image just below is a short video clip from CBC ca, watch  it by clicking on it with your mouse)

From his first election as a city councillor to his place in history as the first NDP Opposition Leader, a tribute to Jack Layton's colourful political career.Jack Layton: 1950-20115:03

Beginning of Story Content

Family, friends and colleagues are remembering NDP Leader Jack Layton as news starts to sink in that the politician known for his warmth and personality has died.

Friends and political foes alike praised Layton on Monday for his warmth, optimism and respect for opponents.

People who squared off politically against Layton, including former prime ministers Jean Chrétien and Paul Martin, as well as Prime Minister Stephen Harper and interim Liberal Leader Bob Rae, all spoke warmly about the NDP leader’s commitment to Canadians.

Layton, who led Canada’s Official Opposition, died early Monday morning at his Toronto home after a battle with cancer. He was 61.

Layton’s wife, Olivia Chow, and his children, Sarah and Michael Layton, issued a statement announcing his death.

“We deeply regret to inform you that the Honourable Jack Layton, leader of the New Democratic Party of Canada, passed away at 4:45 am today, Monday August 22. He passed away peacefully at his home surrounded by family and loved ones,” the statement read.

State funeral Saturday

Layton will be honoured with a state funeral Saturday in Toronto, senior NDP officials have told CBC News.

The government protocol office is working with the NDP and family of the NDP leader on exactly what the funeral will be.

Condolence books will be set up in Ottawa on Parliament Hill and in Toronto at city hall. Others will be located in NDP constituency offices across the country.

On Monday, mourners, many bearing flowers and other tributes, arrived at Layton’s Toronto constituency office. Friends and areas residents also arrived at his home on the quiet side street where he lived with Chow.

Social media was used to quickly organize public tributes, including gatherings on Parliament Hill, and a rally in Toronto. Later Monday evening, several hundred people came together for a vigil outside the Vancouver Art Gallery.

On Monday evening, hundreds of people were near the Centennial Flame at Parliament Hill, many leaving flowers, cans of Orange Crush that symbolize the NDP’s official colour, and notes. The crowd, many bearing candles, sang O Canada as the sun set.

The family released a letter from Layton to Canadians just after noon.

Layton had been battling new cancer

Layton’s death comes less than a month after he announced to the country that he was fighting a new form of cancer and was taking time off for treatment. Layton had been diagnosed with prostate cancer in late 2009 and underwent treatment for it. He continued working throughout that time and also battled a broken hip earlier this year. Layton used a cane for much of his time on the campaign trail this spring as he led the NDP to a historic victory on May 2.

His party claimed 103 seats, and was propelled to official Opposition status. Layton and his party were getting used to their new roles in Parliament but he did not appear to be in good health near the end of June. He said he felt pain and stiffness, he underwent tests and they confirmed he had a new form of cancer. He did not disclose what kind of cancer.

Layton’s chief of staff, Anne McGrath, said Monday that Layton’s condition took a quick turn for the worse Sunday night.

She spent a few hours with him Saturday and had a sense that he was losing a battle, but says his campaign slogan – don’t let them tell you it can’t be done – was also a personal slogan.

“It is a huge loss. It is a huge loss for me personally, but it’s a huge loss also for our party and our country,” she said.

McGrath worked with Layton for nearly a decade.

“There’s no question that my heart is broken,” she said.

McGrath said Layton was thinking about what it would mean for the party if he died. When they spoke on Saturday, they talked about upcoming events like the party’s annual caucus retreat in September and what Parliament would be like if he weren’t there.

Layton always liked to be presented with options, McGrath told Evan Solomon on CBC’s Power & Politics, including a plan for what would happen if he died.

“He was very, very practical and he was very much wanting to know that we were going to be able to continue and we were going to be strong,” she said.

After the news of Layton’s death emerged shortly after 8 a.m. ET, friends, colleagues and Canadians reacted quickly and with shock, sadness and tears. The flag on the Peace Tower was lowered to half-mast.

(…)


A Bilingual Exercise

 

 

  • Visual / Verbal: bilingual interpretation of a dual conversation

 

  • uoıʇɐsɹǝʌuoɔ ןɐnp ɐ ɟo uoıʇɐʇǝɹdɹǝʇuı ןɐnbuıןıq :ןɐqɹǝʌ / ןɐnsıʌ

 

 

inominável

 

Lettre à un inconnu amour:

si tu es avec moi
j’irai avec joie,
ne craindrait rien, seulement
j’entendrai ta jolie voix,
et tes douces mains fermeront mes yeux.


Je pense que cela avait été une lettre de Bach à une de ses épouses,
mais je ne sais pas suffisamment l’allemand pour être sûr.

  • ˙ɹûs ǝɹʇê ɹnod puɐɯǝןןɐ’ן ʇuǝɯɯɐsıɟɟns sɐd sıɐs ǝu ǝظ sıɐɯ
    ‘sǝsnodé sǝs ǝp ǝun à ɥɔɐq ǝp ǝɹʇʇǝן ǝun éʇé ʇıɐʌɐ ɐןǝɔ ǝnb ǝsuǝd ǝظ

 

 

 


  • From one one form to another…

    ˙˙˙ɹǝɥʇouɐ oʇ ɯɹoɟ  ǝuo ɯoɹɟ

 

Reverie

 

 

Reverie – Within a state of contemplative absorption

I dreamt of you one night,
an evaporating face distant yet near.
I think I could even feel warm moist breath upon my neck;
within its cadence a “Come hither”

and away.. I was gone.

I know not your name but I feel the blood pulsing though your veins.
Enraptured, fixated by intense light ..
ah, “E pur si muove” you’ve turned your gaze.

Where am I?
When?

 


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


Sunday.. as good as any a time to start.