segunda-feira, abril 28, 2014
domingo, janeiro 26, 2014
Conversas sérias
Na passada quarta-feira fui ver a peça "Conversas sérias" da Marta Gautier.
Conheço-a na altura em que escreveu o Desculpe lá Mãe em parceria com a mãe Rita Ferro que descobri também quando li Os filhos da mãe! Para além destes dois livros que gostei muito, recebi de presente o "Tanto que eu não te disse" apenas da Marta. Um livro mais profundo com algumas passagens mais dificeis de integrar mas ainda assim que gostei.
Ora essa altura foi em 2002-2003, ou seja, tinha eu 16-17 anos, uns dois anos antes de iniciar o blog mas já com algumas questões passíveis de serem escritas por aqui. Ouvia Mafalda Veiga dado a conhecer por um amigo também dessa altura e são essas memórias que voltaram na passada quarta-feira envoltas em questões de 2013 muito recentes.
A peça não é uma peça de teatro, é um momento que a psicóloga/escritora conta a quem a quis ouvir factos da sua vida que poderão ter ou não sentido para quem está ali sentado. Vão ser várias sessões, nenhuma igual (porque não é uma peça), em que a Marta irá falar de vários momentos que a marcaram. Algumas pessoas sairam a meio e não voltaram e de facto só faz sentido ficar se fizer sentido para nós aquilo que ela conta. Porque cada um tem as suas vivências e maneiras de ver o mundo e principalmente cada um tem as experiências que a vida lhe foi dando. E na quarta-feira pensei que aquela mulher que conheci em 2003 já me dizia tanto mas só agora em 2014 estava disponível para a ouvir com atenção. Durante a "peça" leu excertos dos livros, pôs a tocar Mafalda Veiga e terminou com o "Muda de Vida" dos Humanos que curiosamente já consta aqui do blog desde 2007. Concluindo, muitas coincidências felizes que me fizeram comprar bilhete para a próxima sessão dia 12 de Fevereiro. Se tiverem curiosidade apareçam por lá!
Eu entretanto vou comprar mais um livro dela "Gosto de ti assim" porque esta mulher sabe da vida mais do que a maioria das pessoas que já conheci ao longo da vida e parece-me que tenho a aprender algumas coisas com ela.
domingo, dezembro 15, 2013
“Love is the will to extend one's self for the purpose of nurturing one's own or another's spiritual growth... Love is as love does. Love is an act of will -- namely, both an intention and an action. Will also implies choice. We do not have to love. We choose to love.”
The Road Less Traveled - M. Scott Peck
The Road Less Traveled - M. Scott Peck
sábado, novembro 02, 2013
You should date an illiterate girl.
Date a girl who doesn't read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in a film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.
Let the anxious contract you've unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale or the evenings too long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn't fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.
Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn't, smile all the same.
Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn't read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.
Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent of a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, goddamnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.
Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.
Date a girl who doesn't read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.
Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so goddamned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life of which I spoke at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being told. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. Or, perhaps, stay and save my life.
Charles Warnke
Date a girl who doesn't read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in a film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.
Let the anxious contract you've unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale or the evenings too long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn't fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.
Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn't, smile all the same.
Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn't read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.
Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent of a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, goddamnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.
Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.
Date a girl who doesn't read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.
Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so goddamned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life of which I spoke at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being told. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. Or, perhaps, stay and save my life.
Charles Warnke
quarta-feira, agosto 22, 2012
segunda-feira, junho 04, 2012
segunda-feira, maio 07, 2012
Fernando Pessoa
Carminho "Talvez" (Alma)
Talvez digas um dia o que me queres,
Talvez não queiras afinal dizê-lo,
Talvez passes a mão no meu cabelo,
Talvez eu pense em ti talvez me esperes.
Talvez, sendo isto assim, fosse melhor
Falhar-se o nosso encontro por um triz
Talvez não me afagasses como eu quis,
Talvez não nos soubéssemos de cor.
Mas não sei bem, respostas não mas dês.
Vivo só de murmúrios repetidos,
De enganos de alma e fome dos sentidos,
Talvez seja cruel, talvez, talvez.
Se nada dás, porém, nada te dou
Neste vaivém que sempre nos sustenta,
E se a própria saudade nos inventa,
Não sei talvez quem és mas sei quem sou.
Talvez não queiras afinal dizê-lo,
Talvez passes a mão no meu cabelo,
Talvez eu pense em ti talvez me esperes.
Talvez, sendo isto assim, fosse melhor
Falhar-se o nosso encontro por um triz
Talvez não me afagasses como eu quis,
Talvez não nos soubéssemos de cor.
Mas não sei bem, respostas não mas dês.
Vivo só de murmúrios repetidos,
De enganos de alma e fome dos sentidos,
Talvez seja cruel, talvez, talvez.
Se nada dás, porém, nada te dou
Neste vaivém que sempre nos sustenta,
E se a própria saudade nos inventa,
Não sei talvez quem és mas sei quem sou.
terça-feira, maio 01, 2012
sábado, abril 14, 2012
Walter Benjamin - Airports and Broken hearts
O Walter é um português a viver em Londres que me apresentaram há uns tempos. Gosto das músicas e aqui fica a mais recente. Gosto especialmente deste título... Sempre associei momentos da minha vida menos bons, com maior pessimismo a mistura, com a vontade de apanhar um avião, sim, um qualquer, o que era importante era partir... Por outro lado, o partir também tem sempre uma virgula, uma pausa, um até breve, daí que associar airports and broken hearts me parece uma ideia simples e ao mesmo tempo tão verdadeira. Ele vem cá dia 21 de abril cantar para nós. Quem tiver curiosidade já sabe!
quarta-feira, fevereiro 15, 2012
sábado, janeiro 21, 2012
Taking baby steps...
The end of each journey sets the beginning of a new one.
http://inspirationisbliss.com
quarta-feira, janeiro 18, 2012
Florence + The Machine - Shake It Out
And it's hard to dance with a devil on your back
So shake him off, oh woah
segunda-feira, janeiro 16, 2012
domingo, janeiro 08, 2012
sábado, dezembro 31, 2011
2011--->2012!
Quando me despedi do Ano Comum disseram-me para continuar sempre todos os dias com um sorriso na cara..! Sei hoje que uma das minhas melhores qualidades que posso dar aos outros como pessoa e como médica é este sorriso, a minha calma e paciência..!
2011 foi aquilo que já previa um dos melhores anos de sempre, feito de pessoas, as novas e as de sempre, de encontros, de tempo partilhado, de histórias, de gargalhadas, de viagens, passeios, novidades e o coração sempre cheio, foi tempo de viver aquilo que 2010 não deixou e de mais ainda!
2012 vejo com o princípio, o começo de algo, os alicerces para os planos que carrego comigo..!
2012 espero-te como sempre com um sorriso na cara..!
domingo, dezembro 11, 2011
terça-feira, novembro 29, 2011
sexta-feira, novembro 11, 2011
Serendipity
Lembrar-me mais do que nunca que a minha Vida tem sido povoada de felizes acasos, mesmo aqueles que demorei mais tempo a perceber que o eram, que o que vier trará sempre algo de bom consigo..!
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