Recordar, sempre

 abril 2016

" (...) e eu estava disposto a prometer abolir a memória nos próximos dez anos, mas a avó Katarina era contra o esquecimento. Para a avó, o passado é uma casa de campo com um jardim, no qual os melros chilreiam e as vizinhas chilreiam e se tira café de um poço, enquanto o avô Slavko e os seus amigos jogam às escondidas à volta dela. E o presente é uma estrada que leva para longe dessa casa de campo, que vibra debaixo das lagartas dos tanques, que cheira a fumo denso e executa cavalos. Há que recordar ambas as coisas, sussurrou-me a avó no banco de trás, o tempo em que tudo estava bem e o tempo em que nada está bem."

Sasa Stanisic in Como o Soldado Conserta o Gramofone



And the moon and the sun and the stars shine bright and high
And I can't help but wonder the way that the world goes by
I hope that they're real, and I hope they can hear me cry
I'm not sure if they're real, but I'll wait for them 'till I die

Angels - Adrianne Lenker and Buck Meek 


Paris, Texas

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Resultado de imagem para paris, texas

   "And for the first time, he wished he were far away. Lost in a deep, vast country where nobody knew him. Somewhere without language, or streets. He dreamed about this place without knowing its name. And when he woke up, he was on fire. There were blue flames burning the sheets of his bed. He ran through the flames toward the only two people he loved… but they were gone. His arms were burning, and he threw himself outside and rolled on the wet ground. Then he ran. He never looked back at the fire. He just ran. He ran until the sun came up and he couldn’t run any further. And when the sun went down, he ran again. For five days he ran like this until every sign of man had disappeared.”

Paris,Texas, Wim Wenders (1984)


Think of me as a train goes by

Cibele - Green Grass


   Enquanto esfregava uma panela e deitava contas aos dias que faltavam para a semana terminar, foi pensando que talvez o amor seja como uma viagem de comboio. Que não basta apanharmos o mesmo se não quisermos viajar na mesma carruagem. Que às vezes não apanhamos o mesmo comboio por pequenos desencontros e passamos a carregar o peso de futuros não vividos por omissão. Podemos ir lado a lado mas não partilhar o mesmo destino - fixando coisas diferentes na mesma paisagem enquanto esperamos calmamente que tudo se resolva antes de chegar o ponto onde, sabemos, dificilmente o comboio não vai descarrilar. Mas é que às vezes nada nos pode salvar de sermos mais um acidente à espera de acontecer. 



Michael Giacchino, Robert Lopez, Germaine Franco, Camilo Lara, Kristen Anderson-Lopez, and Adrian Molina at an event for Coco (2017)

Resultado de imagem para coco the movie frida

Resultado de imagem para coco the movie

"- Wait... what happened?
- He's been forgotten. When there's no one left in the living world who remembers you, you disappear from this world. We call it the Final Death.
- Where did he go?
- No one knows.
- But I've met him! I could remember him when I go back.
- No. It doesn't work like that, chamaco. Our memories, they have to be passed down by those who knew us in life - in the stories they tell about us. But there's no one left alive to pass down Cheech's stories.
- Hey, it happens to everyone eventually."

Coco, Lee Unkrich (2017)



abril 2018

"(...) It turned out three was just a number. It doesn't describe the pain any more than money describes the things it buys. Two thousand dollars for a port-wine stain removed. A kind of birthmark that seems messy and accidental, as if this red area covering one whole cheek were the careless result of too much fun. She spoke to her body like an animal at the vet, Shhh, it's okay, I'm sorry, I'm sorry we have to do this to you. This is not unnusual; most people feel that their bodies are innocent of their crimes, like animals or plants. Not that this was a crime. She had waited patiently from the time she was fourteen for aesthetic surgery to get cheap, like computers. Nineteen ninety-eight was the year lasers came to the people as good bread, eat and be full, be finally perfect. Oh yes, perfect. She didn't think she would have bothered if she hadn't been what people call "very beautiful except for". This is a special group of citizens living under special laws. Nobody knows what to do with them. We mostly want to stare at them like the optical illusion of a vase made out of the silhouette of two people kissing. Now it is a vase . . . now it could only be two people kissing . . . oh, but it was so completely a vase. It is both! Can the world sustain such a contradiction? And this was even better, because as the illusion of prettiness and horribleness flipped back and forth, we flipped with it. We were uglier than her, then suddently we were lucky not to be her, but then again, at this angle she was too lovely to bear. She was both, we were both, and the world continued to spin.

Now began the part of her life where she was just very beautiful, except for nothing. Only winners will know what this feels like. Have you ever wanted something very badly and then gotten it? Then you know that winning is many things, but it is never the thing you thought it would be. Poor people who win the lottery do not become rich people. They become poor people who won the lottery. She was a very beautiful person who was missing something very ugly. Her winnings were the absence of something, and this quality hung around her. There was so much potential in the imagined removal of the birthmark; any fool on the bus could play the game of guessing how perfect she would look without it. Now there was not this game to play, there was just a spent feeling. And she was no idiot, she could sense it. In the first few months after the surgery, she received many compliments, but they were always coupled with a kind of disorientation.
   Now you can wear your hair up and show off your face more.
   Yeah, I'm going to try it that way.
   Wait, say that again.
   "I'm going to try it that way." What?
   Your little accent is gone.
   What accent?
   You know, the little Norwegian thing.
   Isn't your mom Norwegian?
   She's from Denver.
   But you have that little bit of an accent, that little . . . way of saying things.
   I do?
   Well, not anymore, it's gone now.
   And she felt a real sense of loss. Even though she knew she had never had an accent. It was the birthmark, which in its density had lent color even to her voice. She didn't miss the birthmark, but she missed her Norwegian heritage, like learning of new relatives, only to discover they have just died.

All in all, though, this was minor, less disruptive than insomnia (but more severe than déjà vu). Over time she knew more and more people who had never seen her with the birthmark. These people didn't feel any haunting absence, why should they? Her husband was one of these people. You could tell by looking at him. Not that he wouldn't have married a woman with a port-wine stain. But he probably wouldn't have. Most people don't and are none the worse for it. Of course, sometimes it would happen that she would see a couple and one of them would have a port-wine stain and the other would clearly be in love with this stained person and she would hate her husband a little. And he could feel it.

It was a small thing, but it was a thing, and things have a way of either dying or growing, and it wasn't dying. Years went by. This thing grew, like a child, microscopically, every day. And since they were a team, and all teams want to win, they continuously adjusted their vision to keep its growth invisible. They wordlessly excused each other for not loving each other as much as they had planned to. There were empty rooms in the house where they had meant to put their love, and they worked together to fill these rooms with midcentury modern furniture. Herman Miller, George Nelson, Charles and Ray Eames. They were never alone; it became crowded. (...)"

Miranda July, 'Birthmark' in No One Belongs Here More Than You 


Nada em vão

Qual razão
É medir o imenso da sede
Se cede o senso
À sensação

Rodrigo Amarante - Nada em vão