Caprichos #462

Bolo Rei pequenino

Sem título #414

Make the best of it!

Caprichos #461

Cozido

e salame

Parece que estou a ouvir #485

Maria de Verdade

Marisa Monte

Pousa-se toda Maria
No varal das 22 fadas nuas lourinhas
Fostes besouro Maria
E a aba do Pierrot descosturou na bainha

Farinhar bem, derramar a canção
Revirar trens, louco mover paixão
Nas direções, programado e emoldurado
Esperarei romântico

Sou a pessoa Maria
Na água quente e boa gente tua Maria
Voa quem voa Maria
E a alma sempre boa sempre vou à Maria

Farinhar bem, derramar a canção
Revirar trens, louco mover paixão
Nas direções, programado e emoldurado
Esperarei romântico

'Tou vitimado no profundo poço
Na poça do mundo
Do céu amor vai chover
Tua pessoa Maria
Mesmo que doa Maria
Tua pessoa Maria
Mesmo que doa Maria

Farinhar bem, derramar a canção
Revirar trens, louco mover paixão
Nas direções, programado e emoldurado
Esperarei romântico

'Tou vitimado no profundo poço
Na poça do mundo
Do céu amor vai chover
Tua pessoa Maria
Mesmo que doa Maria
Tua pessoa Maria
Mesmo que doa Maria
Maria, Maria, Maria
Maria, Maria, Maria

Espantos #691

A arte do enxerto,

e os limoeiros que dão e continuam a dar

Caprichos #460

Sobremesas de Natal:

Fim do Mundo

Molotoff

Arroz Doce

Sem título #413

Undemanding

Espantos #690

The face of wonder: who said what, when and where?

A cara do espanto: quem disse o quê, quando e onde?

Coisas que não mudam #690

Fritos de Natal... por todo o lado!

Caprichos #459

Mini-Francesinha

e leite-creme

Palavras lidas #609

Anniversary
by Davi Walders

That you and I, I and you,
this twenty-fifth year after
you stamped your foot, shattered
the glass, and friends, so many dead
or forgotten, applauded in a ballroom
long abandoned, twenty-five years
of Monday good-byes, monthly wars
with stacks of bills, bags of garbage,
frozen gutters, nights filled
with pink medicines, fevered cheeks
on shoulders, the other hand reaching
for the pediatrician's call, termites
chewing, and hours waiting
for the door to open, holding
our own daughter's head vomiting
beer into our own leaking toilet,
that now, as mirrors mark the descent
of breasts, the tub catches silvered
pubic hair and our eyes wear pouches
and hoods, as though expecting rain,
that you and I could smell the salt
of each other, coming together after
long absence, silent, still, staring up
at the darkening ceiling, naked in a house
with empty, orderly bedrooms, the last
of dead roses and discarded boyfriends
tossed out, your hand touching mine,
our breathing slowing,
the wonder of it all.

Caprichos #458

O belo pastel de nata

Ditto #606

Being an old maid was a great deal like death by drowning — a really delightful sensation when you ceased struggling.

--Edna Ferber

Caprichos #457

Carapauzinhos fritos com arroz de grelos E feijão frade...

... à Tico Tico.

Sem título #412

Cat threat

Caprichos #456

Genesis, Lisboa; ao Campo Pequeno

Parece que estou a ouvir #484

Carol singing time

In the Bleak Midwinter

poem by Christina Rossetti

music by Gustav Holst

n the bleak mid-winter
  Frosty wind made moan
Earth stood hard as iron,
  Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
  Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
  Long ago.

Our God, heaven cannot hold Him
  Nor earth sustain,
Heaven and earth shall flee away
  When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
  A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty —
  Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, whom cherubim
  Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk
  And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom Angels
  Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
  Which adore.

Angels and Archangels
  May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
  Thronged the air;
But only His Mother
  In her maiden bliss
Worshipped the Beloved
  With a kiss.

What can I give Him,
  Poor as I am? —
If I were a Shepherd
  I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man
  I would do my part, —
Yet what I can I give Him, —
  Give my heart.

Coisas bonitas #181

Another orange-pink sunset

Coisas bonitas #180

Beautiful Milo... not so obviously kitten anymore, but still!

Sem título #401

Hercules...

Espantos #689

Delicious cheese night at The Old Windmill on Spon Street in Coventry

Palavras lidas #608

Flying
by Richard Wilbur

Treetops are not so high
Nor I so low
That I don't instinctively know
How it would be to fly

Through gaps that the wind makes, when
The leaves arouse
And there is a lifting of boughs
That settle and lift again.

Whatever my kind may be,
It is not absurd
To confuse myself with a bird
For the space of a reverie:

My species never flew,
But I somehow know
It is something that long ago
I almost adapted to.

Ditto #605

A dame that knows the ropes isn't likely to get tied up.

--Mae West

Numa sala perto de mim #455

Conclave (2024) is exactly what it says it is: the story of the choice of the new head of the church, in a scenario where modesty, pride, ambition, control, power, and influence do not take the back seat. Though the premise is appealing and the movie well acted and quite gripping of attention, there are too many story lines too fantastic to be believed an unknown cardinal joining the conclave, a terrorist attack, an outside world that is closed to all but not really. Still, very entertaining.

Espantos #688

Remnants of Darragh

Parece que estou a ouvir #483

Vilarejo

Marisa Monte

Há um vilarejo ali
Onde areja um vento bom
Na varanda, quem descansa
Vê o horizonte deitar no chão

P'ra acalmar o coração
Lá o mundo tem razão
Terra de heróis, lares de mãe
Paraíso se mudou para lá

Por cima das casas, cal
Frutos em qualquer quintal
Peitos fartos, filhos fortes
Sonho semeando o mundo real

Toda gente cabe lá
Palestina, Shangri-lá

Vem andar e voa
Vem andar e voa
Vem andar e voa

Lá o tempo espera
Lá é primavera
Portas e janelas ficam sempre abertas
P'ra sorte entrar
Em todas as mesas, pão
Flores enfeitando
Os caminhos, os vestidos, os destinos
E essa canção

Tem um verdadeiro amor
Para quando você for

Há um vilarejo ali
Onde areja um vento bom
Na varanda, quem descansa
Vê o horizonte deitar no chão

P'ra acalmar o coração
Lá o mundo tem razão
Terra de heróis, lares de mãe
Paraiso se mudou para lá

Por cima das casas, cal
Frutos em qualquer quintal
Peitos fartos, filhos fortes
Sonho semeando o mundo real

Toda gente cabe lá
Palestina, Shangri-lá

Vem andar e voa
Vem andar e voa
Vem andar e voa

Lá o tempo espera
Lá é primavera
Portas e janelas ficam sempre abertas
P'ra sorte entrar
Em todas as mesas, pão
Flores enfeitando
Os caminhos, os vestidos, os destinos
E essa canção
Tem um verdadeiro amor
Para quando você for

Vem andar e voa
Vem andar e voa
Vem andar e voa
Vem andar e voa

Vem andar e voa
Vem andar e voa
Vem andar e voa
Vem andar e voa

Sem título #400

Not that smart...

Espantos #687

Com uma pequena beterraba a sopa de couve flor fica laranja

com 4 pequenas beterrabas fica mesmo vermelha!

Coisas que não mudam #689

Talkative Rolf!

Palavras lidas #607

It was a quiet way
by Emily Dickinson

It was a quiet way—
He asked if I was his—
1 made no answer of the Tongue
But answer of the Eyes—
And then He bore me on
Before this mortal noise
With swiftness, as of Chariots
And distance, as of Wheels.
This World did drop away
As Acres from the feet
Of one that leaneth from Balloon
Upon an Ether street.
The Gulf behind was not,
The Continents were new—
Eternity it was before
Eternity was due.
No Seasons were to us—
It was not Night nor Morn—
But Sunrise stopped upon the place
And fastened it in Dawn.

Ditto #604

Only amateurs say that they write for their own amusement. Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth. Writing may be interesting, absorbing, exhilarating, racking, relieving. But amusing? Never!

--Edna Ferber