Caprichos #483

Três foi a conta que Deus fez

Sem título #358

Inference based on observables

Coisas bonitas #203

Lisboa à noite...

boémia, estouvanada mas bairrista :-)

Caprichos #482

Sintra

Parece que estou a ouvir #503

Weigenlied
Brahms, 1868

Guten Abend, gut' Nacht,
mit Rosen bedacht,
mit Näglein besteckt,
schlupf' unter die Deck':
Morgen früh, wenn Gott will,
wirst du wieder geweckt.

Guten Abend, gut' Nacht,
von Englein bewacht,
die zeigen im Traum
dir Christkindleins Baum:
schlaf nun selig und süß,
schau im Traum's Paradies.
___________

Good evening, good night,
With roses covered,
With cloves adorned,
Slip under the covers.
Tomorrow morning, if God wills,
you will wake once again.

Good evening, good night.
By angels watched,
Who show you in your dream
the Christ-child's tree.
Sleep now blissfully and sweetly,
see paradise in your dreams.

Retirado do contexto #439

Roca mas não de velha

Coisas bonitas #202

Ambience

Sem título #357

Yaaaaay!!

Espantos #698

Voltas e mais voltas, borregagem e finalmente Lisboa

Conselhos úteis #23

Morning exercises

Caprichos #481

Sparkly shoes

Palavras lidas #631

This is my letter to the World...
by Emily Dickinson

This is my letter to the World
That never wrote to Me—
The simple News that Nature told—
With tender Majesty

Her Message is committed
To Hands I cannot see—
For love of Her—Sweet—countrymen—
Judge tenderly—of Me

Ditto #626

To restore the human subject at the center, we must deepen a case history to a narrative or tale; only then do we have a ‘who’ as well as a ‘what,’ a real person, a patient, in relation to disease.

--Oliver Sacks

Retirado do contexto #438

Jorge goes 60

Conselhos úteis #22

Portas podem ser mesas

Sem título #356

The magnitude of stupidity

Parece que estou a ouvir #502

La Folie
The Stranglers

Bonsoir

Ton véhicule n'a pas l'air d'avoir de passager
Peux-tu, veux-tu me recevoir
Sans trop te déranger
Mes bottes ne feront pas trop d'échos dans ton couloir
Pas de bruit avec mes adieux
Pas pour nous les moments perdus
En attendant un incertain au revoir

Parce que j'ai la folie
Oui j'ai la folie
Oui c'est la folie
Oui c'est la folie
Oui c'est la folie
Oui c'est la folie

Il était une fois un étudiant
Qui voulait fort, comme en littérature
Sa copine, elle était si douce
Qu'il pouvait presque, en la mangeant
Rejeter tous les vices
Repousser tous les mals
Détruire toutes beautés
Qui par ailleurs, n'avait jamais été ses complices

Parce qu'il avait la folie
Il avait la folie
Oui c'est la folie
Oui c'est la folie
Oui c'est la folie
Oui c'est la folie

Et si parfois l'on fait des confessions
À qui les raconter
Même le bon Dieu nous a laisse tomber
Un autre endroit, une autre vie
Eh oui, c'est une autre histoire
Mais à qui tout raconter
Chez les ombres de la nuit
Au petit matin, au petit gris
Combien de crimes ont été commis
Contre les mensonges et soi disant les lois du cœur
Combien sont là à cause de la folie

Parce qu'ils ont la folie
Ils ont la folie
Oui c'est la folie
Oui c'est la folie
Oui c'est la folie
Oui c'est la folie

La folie
La folie
La folie
La folie
La folie

Coisas bonitas #201

Lisbon with pink skies after sunset

Caprichos #480

Humongous pizza

Caprichos #479

Um queimadinho para mim por favor

Coisas bonitas #200

Beautiful calico kitten Gigi

Sem título #355

Moon advice

Palavras lidas #630

Carrying Water to the Field
by Joyce Sutphen

And on those hot afternoons in July,
when my father was out on the tractor
cultivating rows of corn, my mother
would send us out with a Mason jar
filled with ice and water, a dish towel
wrapped around it for insulation.

Like a rocket launched to an orbiting
planet, we would cut across the fields
in a trajectory calculated to intercept—
or, perhaps, even—surprise him
in his absorption with the row and the
turning always over earth beneath the blade.

He would look up and see us, throttle
down, stop, and step from the tractor
with the grace of a cowboy dismounting
his horse, and receive gratefully the jar
of water, ice cubes now melted into tiny
shards, drinking it down in a single gulp,
while we watched, mission accomplished.

Ditto #625

All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are.

--Pablo Neruda

Coisas que não mudam #710

Familia de 7 em fila para o splash

Parece que estou a ouvir #501

Beautiful James
Placebo

Bring me back to life
Never let me go
Your troubles and your heart strife
I saw them

Take me by the hand
As we cross through battlefields
Nobody understands
'Cause there's nobody at the wheel

Beautiful James
I don't wanna wake you
Beautiful James
I don't wanna wake you

Everybody lies
One-hundred times a day
The silence in your hard eyes
Is far too rare to give away
And it's exactly why I stay

Beautiful James
I don't wanna wake you
Beautiful James
I don't wanna wake you (don't wanna wake you)

Beautiful James (don't wanna wake you)
I don't wanna wake you (don't wanna wake you)
Beautiful James (don't wanna wake you)
I don't wanna wake you
Though I may have to
I may have to
I may have to

Beautiful James
I don't wanna wake you (don't wanna wake you)
Beautiful James (don't wanna wake you)
I don't wanna wake you (don't wanna wake you)
Beautiful James (don't wanna wake you)
I don't wanna wake you

Sem título #354

Bumble-squirrell... why not?!

Coisas bonitas #199

Flores de muitas cores

Espantos #697

Milo likes to join on scrabble night

Palavras lidas #629

The Months
by Linda Pastan

March
When the Earl King came
to steal away the child
in Goethe's poem, the father said
don't be afraid,
it's just the wind...
As if it weren't the wind
that blows away the tender
fragments of this world—
leftover leaves in the corners
of the garden, a Lenten Rose
that thought it safe
to bloom so early.

April
In the pastel blur
of the garden,
the cherry
and redbud
shake rain
from their delicate
shoulders, as petals
of pink
dogwood
wash down the ditches
in dreamlike
rivers of color.

May
Mayapple, daffodil,
hyacinth, lily,
and by the front
porch steps
every billowing
shade of purple
and lavender lilac,
my mother's favorite flower,
sweet breath drifting through
the open windows:
perfume of memory-conduit
of spring.

Ditto #624

Each culture has its own new possibilities of self-expression which arise, ripen, decay and never return.

--Oswald Spengler