Ultimamente... ou paisagens do Porto Santo
30 junho, 2019
29 junho, 2019
Palavras lidas #419
On Joy and Sorrow
by Kahlil Gibran
Then a woman said, Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.
And he answered:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.
by Kahlil Gibran
Then a woman said, Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.
And he answered:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.
28 junho, 2019
27 junho, 2019
26 junho, 2019
Caprichos #550
Em Lisboa, explorando novos locais para pastel de nata...
brunch/almoço no delidelux junto ao rio
e um bubble tea com muuuuitas bolas de tapioca.
Mimada!
25 junho, 2019
24 junho, 2019
23 junho, 2019
Palavras lidas #418
From the Writer's Almanac (yes it's back!!), on Saint John's night:
Tonight is Midsummer Night’s Eve, also called St. John’s Eve. St. John is the patron saint of beekeepers. It’s a time when the hives are full of honey. The full moon that occurs this month was called the Mead Moon, because honey was fermented to make mead, and that’s where the word “honeymoon” comes from. It is a time for lovers. An old Swedish proverb says, “Midsummer Night is not long but it sets many cradles rocking.
Shakespeare set his play A Midsummer Night’s Dream on this night. It tells the story of two young couples who wander into a magical forest outside Athens. In the play, Shakespeare wrote, “The course of true love never did run smooth.”
22 junho, 2019
Caprichos #549
O melhor frango frito de Barcelona está no Rooq
o trabalho e a dedicação notam-se na comida deliciosa!
21 junho, 2019
20 junho, 2019
19 junho, 2019
18 junho, 2019
Numa sala perto de mim #407
Celle que vous croyez* (2019) is a movie centered around a woman who the audience only discovers little by little. The layers of one's personality are never simple and the barrier between normality and obsession is, at times, ever so thin. Quite a few unexpected twists.
_________
*You you think I am
17 junho, 2019
16 junho, 2019
Palavras lidas #417
Dear Nainai,
by Jennifer Tseng
Every day you sink into her
To make room for me.
When I die, I sink into you,
When Xing dies, she sinks
Into me, her child dies &
Sinks into Xing & the Earth,
Who is always ravenous,
Swallows us.
I don’t know where you’re buried.
I don’t know your sons’ names,
Only their numbers & fates:
#2 was murdered, #3 went to jail, #4 hung himself, #5, who did the
cooking & cleaning, is alive.
#1, my father, died of pancreatic cancer. Of bacon & lunch meat &
Napoleons.
Your husband died young, of Double Happiness, unfiltered.
You died of Time,
Of motherhood,
Of being the boss,
Of working in a sock factory,
Of an everyday ailment
For which there is no cure.
I am alone, like a number.
#1 writes me a letter:
My dearest Jenny,
Do you know Rigoberta Menchú, this name?
There were also silences about Chinese girls, Oriental women.
In field of literature, you must be strong enough to bear all these.
An ivory tower writer can never be successful.
You are almost living like a hermit.
Are you coming home soon?
He doesn’t mention you.
Perfect defect.
Hidden flaw in the cloth,
Yellow bead in the family regalia.
Bidden to be understory,
Silences, pored & poured over.
You are almost living.
You say hello to me quietly.
What is success? Meat? Pastries?
Cigarettes? The cessation of
Communion with self?
I want to be eaten
By an ivory tower,
Devoured by the power
Of my own solitude.
We’re alone together.
I read the letter every day before death.
Where are you buried, Nainai?
I’m coming home soon.
by Jennifer Tseng
Every day you sink into her
To make room for me.
When I die, I sink into you,
When Xing dies, she sinks
Into me, her child dies &
Sinks into Xing & the Earth,
Who is always ravenous,
Swallows us.
I don’t know where you’re buried.
I don’t know your sons’ names,
Only their numbers & fates:
#2 was murdered, #3 went to jail, #4 hung himself, #5, who did the
cooking & cleaning, is alive.
#1, my father, died of pancreatic cancer. Of bacon & lunch meat &
Napoleons.
Your husband died young, of Double Happiness, unfiltered.
You died of Time,
Of motherhood,
Of being the boss,
Of working in a sock factory,
Of an everyday ailment
For which there is no cure.
I am alone, like a number.
#1 writes me a letter:
My dearest Jenny,
Do you know Rigoberta Menchú, this name?
There were also silences about Chinese girls, Oriental women.
In field of literature, you must be strong enough to bear all these.
An ivory tower writer can never be successful.
You are almost living like a hermit.
Are you coming home soon?
He doesn’t mention you.
Perfect defect.
Hidden flaw in the cloth,
Yellow bead in the family regalia.
Bidden to be understory,
Silences, pored & poured over.
You are almost living.
You say hello to me quietly.
What is success? Meat? Pastries?
Cigarettes? The cessation of
Communion with self?
I want to be eaten
By an ivory tower,
Devoured by the power
Of my own solitude.
We’re alone together.
I read the letter every day before death.
Where are you buried, Nainai?
I’m coming home soon.
15 junho, 2019
Ditto #410
Progress is never permanent, will always be threatened, must be redoubled, restated and reimagined if it is to survive.
--Zadie Smith
14 junho, 2019
13 junho, 2019
Coisas que não mudam #501
Sem livro nem flor, só segurando a criança com as duas mãos
... em dia de Santo António!
12 junho, 2019
Coisas bonitas #23
Hoje no primeiro seminário do dia,
determinado slide tinha uma cara muito familiar
11 junho, 2019
Foi neste dia #330 (1557)
Há 462 anos morria no Palácio da Ribeira em Lisboa D. João III (filho de D. Manuel I) com 55 anos, deixando como herdeiro único o seu neto Sebastião com 3 anos.
O país ficava à espera que aquela criança sobrevivesse a infância, coisa que só dois dos nove filhos de João III conseguiram: a Princesa Maria Manuela, rainha consorte de Espanha, que morreu de parto aos 17 anos; e o Príncipe herdeiro João Manuel que morreu com 16 anos, 18 dias antes de ver nascer o seu filho Sebastião.
10 junho, 2019
Palavras lidas #416
Em dia de Portugal, uma visão de Fernando Pessoa:
"Nada há de menos latino que um português. Somos muito mais helénicos — capazes, como os Gregos, só de obter a proporção fora da lei, na liberdade, na ânsia, livres da pressão do Estado e da Sociedade. Não é uma blague geográfica o ficarem Lisboa e Atenas quase na mesma latitude."
s.d. in Sobre Portugal - Introdução ao Problema Nacional. Fernando Pessoa (Recolha de textos de Maria Isabel Rocheta e Maria Paula Morão. Introdução organizada por Joel Serrão.) Lisboa: Ática, 1979. - 4.
09 junho, 2019
08 junho, 2019
07 junho, 2019
Parece que estou a ouvir #292
We'll meet again*
by Vera Lynn, music & lyrics Ross Parker, Hughie Charles
We'll meet again,
by Vera Lynn, music & lyrics Ross Parker, Hughie Charles
We'll meet again,
don't know where,
don't know when
But I know we'll meet again some sunny day
But I know we'll meet again some sunny day
Keep smiling through,
just like you always do
Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away
Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away
So will you please say Hello,
to the folks that I know
Tell them I won't be long
They'll be happy to know,
Tell them I won't be long
They'll be happy to know,
that as you saw me go
I was singing this song
We'll meet again,
I was singing this song
We'll meet again,
don't know where,
don't know when
But I know we'll meet again some sunny day
But I know we'll meet again some sunny day
__________
*Released in Britain in 1939
*Released in Britain in 1939
06 junho, 2019
05 junho, 2019
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