A challenge from Rio - how could I ever resist?...

I've been challenged to post about myself. Here it goes.

i) I believe in a spirit – a force, a god, a ruler, a kind of intelligent plasma – which no man has had, or has, or will ever have the faintest clue about. There simply is no revelation.

ii) I dreadfully fear the easiness how I deal with solitude.

iii) I'm afraid of depths, but not of heights: I couldn't ever cross an ocean on a ship, but I've done it quite calmly by airplane several times.

iv) I have a uniform fetish: any good-looking guy in a martial uniform sets off my wildest dreams…

v) I give no credit to fashion; I've never had.

vi) I'd be in heaven permanently if only I could use the languages I speak on a daily basis.

Here are the nominees to post about themselves (please, don't let me down!):
Gumby
Joël
Kapitano
Minge
Rian
Ricardo.
(Anyone joining in is welcome. By the way, just drop me a word…)


Desafiaram‑me a postar sobre mim próprio. Aqui vai.

i) Acredito num espírito – uma força, um deus, um líder, uma espécie de plasma inteligente – do qual homem nenhum nunca fez, não faz, nem jamais fará a menor ideia. Simplesmente, não há revelação.

ii) Receio profundamente a facilidade com que lido com a solidão.

iii) Tenho medo das profundidades, mas não das alturas: jamais atravessaria um oceano de navio, mas já o fiz várias vezes de avião.

iv) Tenho um fetiche por fardas: qualquer bem‑parecido numa farda marcial faz disparar os meus sonhos mais loucos…

v) Não dou importância nenhuma à moda; nunca dei.

vi) Estaria sempre no céu se ao menos pudesse utilizar diariamente todas as línguas que falo.

Eis os desafiados a postarem sobre si próprios (por favor, não me desiludam!):
Gumby
Joël
Kapitano
Minge
Rian
Ricardo.
(Quem quiser juntar-se é bem‑vindo! Já agora, diga‑me qualquer coisa…)

II. «Sunset Boulevard»

One of my few cult movies…
I remember I was still quite young when I watched it on TV for the first time. And I won't ever forget it was my mother who called my attention to it: «Watch this one tonight. I'm sure you'll enjoy it.» How did she just know?...

My heartfelt homage to the great Billy Wilder and the absolutely magnificent Gloria Swanson.

«Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close‑up…»

... Uma obra-prima da Sétima Arte lançada em 1950. Em Portugal, quem não viu - e não se apaixonou perdidamente por - «Crepúsculo dos Deuses»?...

I. «Fala do Homem Nascido»

(Chega à boca da cena e diz:)

Venho da terra assombrada,
do ventre da minha mãe;
não pretendo roubar nada
nem fazer mal a ninguém.
Só quero o que me é devido
por me trazerem aqui,
que eu nem sequer fui ouvido
no acto de que nasci.

Trago boca para comer
e olhos para desejar.
Com licença, quero passar,
tenho pressa de viver.
Com licença! Com licença!
Que a vida é água a correr.
Venho do fundo do tempo;
não tenho tempo a perder.

Minha barca aparelhada
solta o pano rumo ao norte;
meu desejo é passaporte
para a fronteira fechada.
Não há ventos que não prestem
nem marés que não convenham,
nem forças que me molestem,
correntes que me detenham.

Quero eu e a Natureza,
que a Natureza sou eu,
e as forças da Natureza
nunca ninguém as venceu.

Com licença! Com licença!
Que a barca se faz ao mar.
Não há poder que me vença.
Mesmo morto hei‑de passar.
Com licença! Com licença!
Com rumo à estrela polar.

António Gedeão

II. De noite, com Morfeu...

Há dias assim. Acordo cinzento para o mundo, faça sol ou chuva. Qualquer coisa terá corrido mal no misterioso mundo de Morfeu, do qual só de vez em quando trago algumas recordações ao regressar a este lado, terminada a viagem virtual.

Há sonhos de que me recordo na íntegra ou, pelo menos, penso que assim seja, por a história ser, conquanto pouco ou nada verosímil, minimamente coerente. Outros são recorrentes e chegam a preencher as minhas noites sucessivamente. Cedo me habituei a chamar a estes ciclos oníricos o meu «cinema interior». Como neste blog, nesses sonhos tudo pode tornar‑se assunto.

Na adolescência e no princípio da adultícia, o sexo foi rei e senhor. Acordava ora perturbado, estranho a mim próprio por tudo o que protagonizava em indizíveis andanças e cavalgadas, ora deliciado com as experiências apolíneas que no mundo real não passavam disso mesmo – sonhos.

Depois vieram anos conturbados. Mortes sucessivas, como que agendadas ao longo de quase uma década, alteraram por completo aquela programação nocturna. Muito raramente se tratava de pesadelos que me fizessem acordar em pânico, suado, aos gritos ou sentindo‑me absurdamente mais morto que vivo. Não, era sempre aquela importuna verosimilhança que parecia presidir com mão férrea à elaboração de guiões que tanto me levavam ao passado, para junto de quem já cá não está, para reviver momentos que afinal nunca existiram, como me faziam acordar na manhã seguinte com a ideia firme de que dentro de poucas horas estaríamos de novo juntos. Um átimo mais que fugaz de felicidade suprema. No instante em que esfregava os olhos, sentado à beira da cama, o sortilégio desfazia-se em fumo para dar lugar à impiedosa realidade real.

Hoje é tudo mais nebuloso. Ou nada recordo dos momentos passados com Morfeu – e a manhã seguinte liga‑se sem sobressaltos à noite anterior –, ou então lembro‑me de pedaços avulsos de encenações tragicómicas que, ao menos, gozam do sempre bem‑vindo efeito de distanciação. Passam‑me ao lado, como se mos tivessem oferecido sem que eu os tivesse alguma vez desejado. Ora me fazem esboçar um sorriso indulgente, ora me cavam mais uma ruga na testa.

O menos agradável, porém, é o eu acordar cinzento. Como hoje. Creio já ter aprendido a conviver com algum à‑vontade com a soturnidade destas manhãs. Nada posso fazer que mude o que já está feito. Durante a noite, uma semente negra germinou, cresceu e, de manhã, deu o seu fruto intragável. Daria tudo para descobrir a causa de tal desassossego, mas sei que é impossível. Resta-me atravessar o tempo até que a serenidade regresse. Mas de todo este ínvio processo há pelo menos um elemento que já consegui identificar: a omnipresente sombra da morte. Mera suspeita ou intuição, nunca o saberei.

Ontem, terei sabido da morte de alguém. Mas não sei. Ao certo, não sei.

I. The five elements

Earth (土)

China (中國)
Centre (中心) Centro
Digestive system (消化系統) Aparelho digestivo
Spleen/Stomach (脾臟/胃) Baço/Estômago
Balance (平衡) Equilíbrio
Foundations (基礎) Fundamentos
Reliable (可靠) Fiável
Worry (憂慮) Preocupação

Earth is the central balance of all elements and can lend qualities to all 12 animals.

In the Western Zodiac my element is earth; in the Chinese, earth as well.
I'm bound to earth, no doubt about it...

A Cats' Tale

Not all gorgeous cats are human... Some are true cats, right felids, quite feline...

Are you now?! Shame on you! Maybe he's thinking: «That's definitely a mouse in his hand!»

What about this tiny cutie, guys? How many hours old can such a jewel just be?

And here is a member of our community: let me present you Joël's latest love - Néa! Isn't she fabulously beautiful? Oh man, I feel like I'm melting already...

... And last but not least: to those who carelessly think Nature is there to be abused, I give them a very bad hour indeed. Voilà Knottyboy's Felix, the Avenger! He's totally merciless... Good for him!

Have a nice thought for Nature today! Or else one of these days...

The mixture which is me...

Time for an upgrade! So I guess I'm going to offer you some eye‑candy… Yeah, yeah, it was a huge success last week, I still remember, but my concern is a mere linguistic one. (Some times I just adore lying…)

Classical Greek – Κάλοι άνθρωποι·
Danish – Vakkere menn!
Dutch – Mooie mannen!
English – Handsome men!
Esperanto – Belaj viroj!
Finnish – Kaunit miehet!
French – Beaux hommes!
German – Hübsche Männer!
Indonesian (Bahasa) – Lelaki terindah!
Italian – Uomini belli!
Latin – Viri pulchri!
Modern Greek – Óμορφα άτομα!
Polish – Piękne ludzie!
Portuguese – Homens belos!
Rumanian - Frumosii oameni!
Russian – Красивые мужчины!
Spanish – ¡Hombres hermosos!
Swedish – Vackra man!
Turkish – Guzel erkekler!

If you happen to detect any mistake, please feel free to correct it. I'd be most obliged. Or – even better! – you may just know how to say it in Albanian or Czech or Inuit…
(Once again, thank you very much, Rob!)

The Chinese Boar - My commented version...

Our dear blogger friend Minge, while recently travelling about in the Empire of the Rising Sun, asked us whether or not we knew anything about the Chinese Zodiac. Of course, right after that conversation across three continents, everyone went googling for their respective animals, depending on the birth year. Here is what I obtained, with my personal comments added. Enjoy!


Boars are self-reliant, very sociable, dependable, and extremely determined.

– Oh yeah, you bet! We're beautiful people indeed!

Boars are peace lovers and don't hold grudges. They hate arguments, tense situations, and try to bring both sides together.

– And then we just get caught in the middle… That's our pay…

In life Boars make deep and long-lasting friendships.

– That's really the best of it all!

Boars enjoy social gatherings of all kinds, and look for parties to attend.

– Stay at home washing dishes?! No way! Let's party right now!

Boars must watch themselves so that their incessant pursuit of pleasure doesn't interfere with other aspects of their lives.

– Well… Some times we exceed ourselves a little bit. We're so hedonistic.

Boars belong to clubs and make terrific fund raisers. They have a real gift for charity and social work.

– That's really nothing, please don't mention it…

Boars always listen to problems. They won't mind getting involved and try to help.

– So much so that we tend to forget ours own…

Boars have big hearts. They are too innocent and naïf, honest and trustworthy. They have a hard time understanding the motives of those with fewer scruples.

– Sometimes so much goodness turns easily into imbecility…

Boars do not dazzle or shimmer. They possess the old-fashioned chivalry that grows on you until you totally depend on it.

– Yeah, we enjoy a lot keeping a seductive low profile…

It is so easy to trust Boars. They have a calm expression and a sincere manner.

– That's just the way we are! No more, no less.

Boars are blessed with endurance and work steadily at tasks with great patience until completion.

– Okay, but we're often led by our huge stubbornness.

Once Boars arrive at a decision nothing stops them. Of course, before they reach that decision they weigh all the pros and cons. They definitely want to avoid complications. Sometimes they ponder so long they miss the opportunity altogether. But never mind, because they always believe in miracles, and miracles always happen to them.

– Once we say no, there's just no way back… If miracles do happen to us it's a whole different matter.

Fortune favours Boars. They always find someone to help them without having to beg.

– If we truly believed that, we'd be long extinct…

In romance, if not careful, Boars may be taken advantage of.

– There's always a s.o.b. or a mf. ready to con us…

Boars trust everyone and believe everything they hear.

– You see?! We're really quite stupid!

Boars are unselfish and enjoy helping their friends.

– What wouldn't we do for a beloved friend?

Although Boars are gullible, they are actually quite intelligent and know how to take care of their own.

– Well, we have to, don't we?

If you hurt their feelings, Boars often carry the pain for years.

– Please, don't ever test us on that; you'd be sorry forever!

Boars have a hard time saying no to those of concern. Often they wish they had said no.

– … But it's so hard… We just like them so much, you know…

Boars will always be looking for ways to work off all their extra energy.

– … Until exhaustion or madness…

Boars work and play hard; even if they lose everything, they manage to bounce back.

– Yeah, we're definitely a bit crazy, but we manage to keep our heads on…

Their life path supplies them with all they need.

– Wishful thinking? We tend to avoid it, but…

The Chinese believe Boars own the Horn of Plenty.

– We wish, oh yes, we do wish so much they were actually right…


… And you, dear blogger friends, do you have any idea about the animal corresponding to your birth year? Tell us all about it!
(Minge will be home from Japan today, I think…)

III. «Verklärter Herbst»

Gewaltig endet so das Jahr
Mit goldnem Wein und Frucht der Gärten.
Rund schweigen Wälder wunderbar
Und sind des Einsamen Gefährten.

Da sagt der Landmann: Es ist gut.
Ihr Abendglocken lang und leise
Gebt noch zum Ende frohen Mut.
Ein Vogelzug grüßt auf der Reise.

Es ist der Liebe milde Zeit.
Im Kahn den blauen Fluß hinunter
Wie schön sich Bild an Bildchen reiht –

Das geht in Ruh und Schweigen unter.

Illuminated Autumn

So grand arrives the season's end
With golden wine and garden fruit.
Around, the silent woods attend
To lonely wanderers' solitude.

Now says the farmer, "It was good."
Soft evening bells, how long you ring
To make my soul feel resolute.
A flock of birds greets on the wing.

This is the milder time of love.
From boats adrift on river's blue
Each image will the other shove –
Until in silence ends the queue.

Georg Trakl

Meinen lieben Freunden Hans und Rian gewidmet.

II. Mind your sense of humour...

It has been nine weeks since I became a blogger. At first I thought it wouldn't be so easy to get to know the persons whose blogs I had begun to visit. But then, as time went by, as in a real face‑to‑face acquaintance, idiosyncratic behaviour became apparent: on one side, those who rapidly became good friends with me; on the other, those who clearly kept their distances for some reason not always, almost never, quite clear. No news up till now.

At a given moment I decided to alleviate my favourites' list from some of those burdens. And so I did. Last week, however, one of those I had tried to make friends with came suddenly back to leave two comments here, and, by so doing, gave me the impression he might be now interested in getting in touch with me. So I went check out his blog in return.

When I looked at his blogroll I suddenly caught sight of my nickname. That's not me for sure, I said to myself. There must be lots of guys using such a common nickname. Then I clicked on it, and my blog came on display. I was surprised, even a little bit glad about that change of odds and also about the fact that he was enjoying visiting my blog. So I went back again to his blog. Pointing just by chance at my nickname, inside a tiny rectangular white tag that suddenly showed up I got to read the following:

«Smart, multilingual, caring. But still reads me.»

What on earth was that all about? How was I to react? First I was stunned, and then I felt somehow outraged. Is it anyone's right to make public his personal, subjective «evaluation» of another individual, especially in such a way that it easily turns into some kind of caricature? I've been a teacher myself for more than two decades – I guess I still am – but I just don't go around evaluating individuals publicly as if I were in the classroom the whole time. We all have impressions on others, but do we put them on public display for everyone else to read? I don't think so. That is just not right, not correct, not polite, and not respectful. And whenever it comes to desrespect, well… I just boil!

All I now wish for is that you please go and just leave me be. Misunderstanding your sense of humour may definitely be my own problem, but I simply don't want it to be one I shall have to deal with, that's all. Writing for the world to read, as far as I conceive it, implies a certain broadmindedness that aims to be inclusive, not exclusive. «I am myself plus my own circumstances», and this I cannot change at will.

I. Fúria mal contida...

A estúpida produção televisiva nacional – bacoca e maniqueísta – funciona por clichés saturados de imbecilidade:
- se é comédia, o homossexual é uma «bicha indecorosa», estulto e histriónico;
- se é drama, o homossexual é um ser compenetrado, vítima infeliz do seu mau fado.

E que tal se se fossem todos f… mais as mer… que têm dentro da cabeça?!
Disse.

«Violoncelo»

Chegado o Outono, são outras as tonalidades que nos vêm envolver, criando em nós estados de espírito que seriam banidos no Verão. É o efeito daquilo a que os franceses chamam «l'air du temps» (o tempo cronológico e, também, o sazonal).
A propósito, recomendo àqueles e àquelas que, pelo menos, lêem Francês (como a cultura linguística portuguesa se amesquinhou nestes últimos vinte anos…) a comparação com «Chanson d'automne» de Verlaine, que postei ontem; as surpresas não se farão esperar…

(A Carlos Amaro)

Chorai, arcadas
Do violoncelo,
Convulsionadas.
Pontes aladas
De pesadelo…

De que esvoaçam,
Brancos, os arcos.
Por baixo passam,
Se despedaçam,
No rio os barcos.

Fundas, soluçam
Caudais de choro.
Que ruínas, ouçam…
Se se debruçam,
Que sorvedouro!

Lívidos astros,
Soidões lacustres…
Lemes e mastros…
E os alabastros
Dos balaústres!

Urnas quebradas.
Blocos de gelo!
Chorai, arcadas
Do violoncelo,
Despedaçadas…

Camilo PESSANHA, Clepsidra

«Chanson d'automne»

Les sanglots longs

Des violons

De l'automne

Blessent mon coeur

D'une langueur

Monotone.

Tout suffocant

Et blême, quand

Sonne l'heure,

Je me souviens

Des jours anciens

Et je pleure,

Et je m'en vais

Au vent mauvais

Qui m'emporte

Deçà, delà

Pareil à la

Feuille morte.

Paul VERLAINE, Poèmes saturniens (1866)

Colours of Beauty

Here they are, once again, the magnificent, magic autumn colours…
Enjoy lavishly before winter starts visiting and finally setting in.

Aqui estão elas, mais uma vez, as magníficas cores mágicas do Outono…
Desfrutem soberbamente, antes que o Inverno comece a visitar‑nos e acabe por se instalar.

IV. «I Get a Kick Out of You»...

My story is much too sad to be told
But practically everything leaves me totally cold
The only exception I know is the case
When I'm out on a quiet spree
Fighting vainly the old ennui
And I suddenly turn and see
Your fabulous face…

I get no kick from champagne
Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all
So tell me why should it be true
That I get a kick out of you

Some get a kick from cocaine
I'm sure that if I took even one sniff
That would bore me terrifically too
But I get a kick out of you

I get a kick every time I see you
Standing there before me
I get a kick though it's clear to me
You obviously don't adore me

I get no kick in a plane
Flying too high with some guy in the sky
Is my idea of nothing to do
Yet I get a kick out of you

I get a kick every time I see you
Standing there before me
I get a kick though it's clear to me
You obviously don't adore me

I get no kick in a plane
Flying too high with some guy in the sky
Is my idea of nothing to do
Yet I get a kick out of you
I get a kick out of you.

As composed by the one and only Cole, and sung by the unforgettable Ella…
Montgomery Clift in Memoriam
(Thank you very much, Rob!)

III. Pulchrus Vir...

At least now and then I must be true to the name I've given to this blog and share with you a pure vision of exceptional beauty.
It was just impossible for me to resist this photo, and the more closely I watched each and every detail of it, the better I knew this is doubtlessly a view from a certain paradise, albeit right here on Earth.
Wouldn't you agree…?

(From «About Last Night»
Posted by jewlust on September 16.th, 2006)

II. When you come across «persons» you admire...

«The Book of Disquiet»
by Bernardo Soares
(Fernando Pessoa)
Translated by Richard Zenith*

«To write is to forget. Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life. Music soothes, the visual arts exhilarate, and the performing arts (such as acting and dance) entertain. Literature, however, retreats from life by turning it into a slumber. The other arts make no such retreat – some because they use visible and hence vital formulas, others because they live from human life itself.This isn't the case with literature. Literature simulates life. A novel is a story of what never was, and a play is a novel without narration. A poem is the expression of ideas or feelings in a language no one uses, because no one talks in verse.» p. 116

«I don't write in Portuguese. I write my own self.» p. 443

*Richard Zenith’s translations from the Portuguese include works by António Lobo Antunes and Fernando Pessoa. His «Fernando Pessoa & Co. – Selected Poems» won the 1999 PEN Award for Poetry in Translation, and his new version of Pessoa’s «The Book of Disquiet» was awarded the 2002 Calouste Gulbenkian Translation Prize. He is the author of «Terceiras Pessoas» (Third Persons) and has published his poetry in literary reviews. He lives in Lisbon.
(From «Archipelago books»)

I. «Dimas»

Centro Cultural de Belém / Viriato – Teatro Municipal

20, 21, 22, 23 de Setembro (às 21:00) e 24 de Setembro (às 17:00)

Pequeno Auditório

Duração: 90m

Texto e encenação: Graeme Pulleyn
Interpretação: Graeme Pulleyn, Susana Branco e Carlos Bica
Composição e direcção musical: Carlos Bica
Cenografia e figurinos: Helen Ainsworth

«Uma viagem pela mão de Dimas pelo labirinto do nascimento, do amor e da morte: as três pedras mestres das nossas vidas formam os alicerces de uma história que oscila entre a luz da esperança e a escuridão do desespero, entre a alegria da vida e a purificação da morte.
Dimas é a soma de vários encontros entre o teatro, a música e a dança, produto de um processo entre a escrita teatral e a improvisação musical, um espectáculo que envolve, que seduz, que comove o seu público, que o transporta para um outro mundo. Um mundo de emoções puras, de perigos e de prazeres, um mundo de extremos, suspenso entre o real e o fantástico.Três vidas, verdadeiras na sua origem, fictícias no seu desenvolvimento, são a inspiração para este espectáculo, em que Dimas nos guia pelo labirinto da sua mina até às entranhas da terra, onde nasce a fonte da felicidade e da dor. Sem ela não sentimos, sem sentir não existimos.»

[Programa]

Recomendo o espectáculo a quem o queira apreciar.
Eu vi‑o e gostei bastante. Uma prova de que o experimentalismo em teatro não é tudo.
Não tenho quaisquer pretensões a crítico, pelo que são as minhas apreciações que me guiam: uma bela nostalgia da ruralidade, do tempo dos campos, da vida nas aldeias, dos valores rústicos.
Um excelente trabalho.

A beleza desfeiteada

Acontece‑me cada vez com mais frequência.
Abro um jornal ou uma revista (conceituada) ou ligo o televisor para ver o noticiário, seja qual for o canal.
Ali, são os textos atamancados quer na forma quer no conteúdo a deixarem‑me nauseado; aqui, são aqueles execráveis rodapés, quantas vezes ilegíveis, quantas vezes, ao longo de um mesmo noticiário, cravejados de disparates, de absurdos, de erros reveladores de muita ignorância, enfim, só de umas quantas gralhas compreensíveis e aceitáveis…
Com todos os instrumentos de autocorrecção de que qualquer um que escreve pode hoje em dia dispor, pergunto‑me amiúde o que estará por trás de tanto desleixo e relaxo.

Um exemplo recente da imprensa escrita:
«A frieza é, para todos nós, o congelador do desespero. Evita a dor que sentimos nos faça desabar, como um castelo de cartas. Por outro lado, se o ódio é uma espécie de tira-nódoas do sofrimento, a frieza é a melhor defesa contra o risco do ódio surgir como um vulcão que nos engole.»

Releiamos as frases em itálico, agora em Português padrão:

«Impede que a dor que sentimos nos faça desabar como um castelo de cartas.»
«A frieza é a melhor defesa contra o (risco?) perigo de o ódio surgir como um vulcão que nos engula.»

Fica em suspenso, pelo menos, uma questão de natureza semântica, dando eu de barato pretensas liberdades poéticas: como pode um vulcão engolir‑nos? «Sub-qualquer coisa», ainda vá; agora engolir…

Sobre os mistérios sintáctico‑semânticos deixo aqui uma (já vetusta) citação de Noam Chomsky (Aspects of the Theory of Syntax):

«Colorless green ideas sleep furiously in my mind.»
«Ideias verdes incolores dormem furiosamente no meu espírito.»

Parece poético, não parece?
Pois parece, mas não é.
A Poesia não é só feita de absurdas violações semânticas.
Também as usa, mas não bastam para que haja Poesia…
Erro é erro.
Liberdade é liberdade.

Who am I? Someone asked.

Trying to live nowadays according to some kind of «philosophical agenda» is no easy task. It may even be an impossible one. Philosophical systems seem to be unavailable since a long time ago. And before we can embrace the possibility of adopting one and adapting it to our daily lives – as if it were as easy as said and done (not to mention the amount of work involved in turning systematic into «spontaneous» philosophy) – we just face the void. There is none.

Everything that happens around us, either closer or further away plays an important role on what we are continuously becoming. We never are; we're always becoming. Therefore, we won't ever be able of getting to know ourselves the way we wish we should. The constant changing, the dynamic process of being alive won't ever allow it.

We count time only because it's effective that way. But the future has just arrived this very minute and will keep on arriving until our very last instant in this life. The constant adaptation to whatever happens to us and around us is the only measure we have, albeit subjective, to evaluate how well we can cope with both our lives and ourselves. The better we adapt, the better we feel, which doesn't necessarily mean, nevertheless, we are better. Maybe we are only becoming better, that's all. So this also means this process goes on and on indefinitely.

A Spanish philosopher – José Ortega y Gasset – once answered the question about who I am by saying «Yo soy yo y mi circunstancia» (I am myself and my circumstance). Staying on the ground of spontaneous philosophy – where we all come to stand everyday, even if some of us are convinced philosophy is not for them at all or they're just not into it – knowing who we are depends on two gigantic never‑ending discoveries: of myself and of my circumstance. Once again, no easy tasks at all.

As for the past, we have that natural tendency of looking back in time only to find out we could have done so many more things in such a better way if only… This is quite human, and we have to learn how to deal with it. Facing the past like this will end up bringing it to the present in a way that will only haunt us, that won't ever allow us to learn from what we have really done, good and bad. And this is the only reason why we should keep a special link to the past: to learn from it, not to be haunted by it.

I myself have lost some years in my life. I just threw them into the dustbin by not living at all, by just going through the days, one after another, with no sense of time or events. But I do know that has been a special period in my life, a less good one no doubt. There's no use in recriminating myself for not having lived. I didn't live, maybe because it was meant for me to go through that void period in order to better appreciate what «carpe diem» truly means.

In spite of what many people say, I don't believe we can shape our destiny; we certainly can influence the course of some events by the options we take, by means of our free will if you want, but we never get to see the full, static picture that would allow us to make the choice we would think of as the right one at that given moment. At any other time, even if we were allowed to watch the full picture again, which by the way wouldn't be the previous one anymore, our options would be other.

Some questions we ask ourselves on a daily basis can really be a waste of time, just depending on the moment we ask them. As far as many of those questions that can really turn into dangerous traps are concerned, I always try to keep in mind a sentence from the «Tractatus Logico-philosophicus» by Ludwig Wittgenstein, wishing it helps me go through the days in a less anguished state of spirit:

«About what we cannot speak, we must consign to silence.»
(Original: «Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, darüber soll man schweigen.»)

RIC

À face da Terra

Somos muitíssimos.
Somos já demasiados.
Uma mobilização de milhões é já coisa pouca, a crer nos muitos mais milhões que se excluem, indiferentes às razões do homem e do mundo.

Uma vida bem‑sucedida funda‑se na material posse de bens, não na inefável espiritualidade de uma noite ao relento por amor a alguém que, por amor à humanidade, fez da sua vida o pulsar da própria Vida.

Há uma bondade inerente ao homem?
Se há, o que o afasta de ser o seu guardião?
Uma tentação que o arrasta inexoravelmente para o abismo?
Uma vontade corruptível indómita?
Um mal‑estar essencial à condição humana, que só poucos superam graças a um equilíbrio entre o aqui e o alhures?
Donde vem a maldade do homem?
O que permite que se deseje como um bem o mal que se faz aos outros, independentemente de qualquer proveito ou vantagem que com isso se obtenha?

Tantas perguntas, tão pouco tempo...

Frankness or... shamelessness?

Going through attitudes and feelings

«M. said «I love you, C.».
I told him «I love you too».
I do love him; he's adorable, what's there not to love?
I'm just not in love with him, that's all.
Maybe that's better, who knows? [RIC's comment: any bitch does!]
I don't ache to spend the rest of my life with him, just some time in the night.
C.»

Do these words strike you as sincere, direct or cynical?
I'd like very much to read your opinions!
As for mine, you'll have it as soon as you read «The Merry Fool»… (Just in case you haven't read it yet)

Pérolas negras...

Em muitos aspectos, continuamos a ser «mais papistas que o Papa». O Alemão é uma língua germânica, ao passo que o Português é um idioma românico ou novilatino, tal como o Francês. Até aqui, nada de novo. Constata‑se, porém, com não pouca estranheza, que dossier, em tempos um galicismo abominado pelos lusos puristas – propunham eles como substituto pasta ou arquivador –, permanece em Alemão com a mesmíssima roupagem gráfica, apesar da reforma recentemente aprovada e que tanta celeuma tem causado em terras trans‑renanas. Em Português, ao invés, embora bem mais próximo do Francês que o Alemão, os bem‑pensantes nacionais «acharam» tal grafia «opaca» demais e avançaram com o barbarismo ortográfico «dossiê», o qual, aliás, não é caso único nos «avanços» contra a herança cultural novilatina, vetusta de quase três mil anos.

Porquê o medo do verbo «declamar»?! A poesia não pode ser apenas dita. Ela deve ser declamada; tem de ser declamada. Doutro modo, não seria poesia, mas apenas prosa rimada. Todo o diseur – galicismo supérfluo – é um declamador, goste‑se da palavra ou não. (Mas depois temos o reverso da medalha: na telenovela mais inqualificável, actores e pseudo‑actores – julgando‑se quiçá no palco do D. Maria – declamam arrazoados de impossíveis diálogos como se de pérolas dramáticas se tratasse.)

São muito cultos, alguns jornalistas nossos! (Não é garantido que sejam de jure jornalistas, mas que de facto escrevem em jornais, escrevem.) E é com inegável mestria que dominam o Português: sabem que há snipers, mas parecem ignorar o que são franco‑atiradores; anunciam mudanças no west bank, sem que se chegue a saber se é à margem ocidental do Jordão que se referem.

O insucesso escolar é uma consequência directa da sociedade que temos vindo a construir – mal! – e que, em alguns aspectos, temos até vindo a destruir, por força de imitações descabeladas do que de pior nos chega um pouco de toda a banda. É o desnorte. As escolas pouco mais podem fazer que acompanhar os tempos e as tendências. Nunca foram revolucionárias, nem nunca o serão.

… Para encarar a semana bem de frente, olhos nos olhos, e reavivar o espírito crítico que um Verão bem vivido pode ter deixado meio letárgico…

Seductive details of Lisbon...

Like Rome, Lisbon rests upon seven hills. This one is where Saint George's Castle stands. On the slope you see one of the most typical, ancient boroughs of the city – the Castle Slope…
… And when the sun is setting you can enjoy this unique scenery…
As you can imagine travelling about in Lisbon is not so easy: up you go, and down you go, and up you go again… This is one of the lifts that make us feel much better whenever we have to face climbing and sliding around… (Aren't you tired already?)
Oh yes! Ever since the beginning of the 20.th century they hardly stop going everywhere in town, our little yellow ones. Depending on the country, names abound; we call them «electric cars» (obvious, huh?), and they've almost always been yellow – a Lisbon's trade mark.

… And now, what about a cool glass of water? Nice, huh? This is a detail of the aqueduct that brought water in reasonable quantity to the heart of Lisbon from the 18.th century onwards. Today it's a landmark, a very elegant monument.

Did you enjoy your virtual journey? I do hope so and wish you all the best for a real visit to Lisbon!

Um Pedido Amável...

A todos os meus caros amigos bloguistas portugueses e brasileiros falantes de Inglês.

Venho gentilmente pedir‑vos o favor de fazerem os vossos muito desejados comentários em Português, a nossa bem-querida língua, mesmo quando se tratar de posts em Inglês.

A todos, o meu muito obrigado e um grande abraço!

RIC

Friday, Bloody Friday...

My dear blogger friends!

First of all I ought to apologize to you all for the horrific scenery you've been forced to face when trying to access «Viris Pulchris et Aliis» in the past 30 hours.

The truth is I made it happen due to my curiosity, so many times the main reason of some problems I've encountered in my life. I know, «curiosity killed the cat», but some things I fear I'll never learn…

To celebrate two‑month blogging (every single day!) and one hundred posts I said to myself I could change the banner's font type to a more beautiful one which would have more to do with Latin… Yes, I hear you loud and clear: «You vain idiot! Don't you know you cannot mess with templates as you please?!» Oops… Now I know…

Two marvellous blogger friends deserve all my especial words today: Joël from «Would I !?» and Knottyboy from «I bet after sex he smokes a ham…» They took their time – and their knowledge – to help a guy who thinks he can change things as he pleases… I'm ashamed. Without you I'd still be stuck in feelings of guilt.

To you both, dear friends, my heartfelt gratitude! Today you were my guardian angels!

I do love you all!

RIC

Two months blogging = one hundred posts!

Am I not absolutely marvellous?! (lol)
Yes, you are now allowed to wish me many happy returns of the day! Go ahead! (lol)

To celebrate this occasion I've decided to offer you, dear blogger friends, a TOP 10! No more, no less: my best 10 posts of these two months. Okay, I concede, in my opinion. So what?…
I can only hope some of you will agree with my choice. If not, tomorrow's another day, and I intend to go on posting away: different subjects for different tastes, just as I like it myself.

… And the nominees are

7/20 – Three Men, Two Bottles of Wine, and a Photo
7/26 – Das sexualidades da espécie humana
7/27 – What I think you should know about me
8/7 – «Itsy Bitsy Spider»…
8/9-10 – Portuguese Culture in 100 Topics
8/13 – Frederico Lourenço – A New Day's Dawning
8/20 – Gore Vidal: the man, the writer, and the fighter
8/21 – «Do Poder e dos seus Sequazes»
8/28 – Sob o signo da esperteza saloia: outro fado?
9/5 – À Minha Mãe – In Memoriam

«Gay Men Rule» has a new Contributor

ABOUT THIS BLOG

A multi-authored blog ruled by gay men; with comments appreciated – regardless of gender, age, background, politics, ethnicity, spirituality, or orientation. (Some content suitable for adults, only).
Join This Blog!

Steve said...
«Hiya Ric,
My name is Steve – and you left a message; weeks ago about wanting to join «Gay Men Rule». We'd love to have you on board – but I can't find an email; so that I can send you and invite! Will you email me (if you are still interested); so we can get you on board?
Thanks»

Hello Steve!
Thank you very much for answering to my suggestion! I left that comment on that page before (!) reading more attentively the text mentioning the invitation…
As I think you know, Joel told me/us about Marc's health condition, and I could still read his last post. After his passing away, I posted about him, and that's when I came in touch with your blog. Yes, Steve, I'm definitely still interested, and would be honoured to become a member of the group. My written English is much better now, I presume, than it was just a few weeks ago, and this fact encourages me to go on.
Just tell me what I have to do, what is expected from me, and I'll get back to you with my answer.
Thank you very much!
Greetings from Lisbon!

Steve wrote:
Thanks for the email; we'd love to have you on board!
Steve
---------------------------------------
You have been invited by Steve to join a blog called «Gay Men Rule».
Blogger is a free service for easily communicating and sharing ideas on the web.

So today I became a new Contributor. I do feel quite honoured.

Quotidianos

Chega todos os dias por volta das sete. Seja Verão, seja Inverno. Chova torrencialmente ou sue‑se copiosamente sob a canícula inclemente. Alguém, que também ali vem com alguma regularidade, diz para um empregado que não está lá muito atento:
– Aposto que se pode acertar o relógio pela chegada daquele!
– Como?
– A… Nada, nada. Estava só a pensar em voz alta…
– Ah…
Atravessa o espaço amplo nem depressa nem devagar, num passo regular e determinado. Dirige‑se invariavelmente à caixa para o pré‑pagamento, e seja qual for o empregado ou a empregada de serviço já sabe o que vai ser: uma bica dupla e uma água com gás. Depois, ao balcão, enquanto é servido, pede sempre que lhe encham a chávena. Gosta de beber café em quantidade apreciável. Nunca ninguém o ouviu pedir uma italiana curta ou beber por uma chaveninha.
Pega no tabuleiro, ao qual acrescenta invariavelmente um cinzeiro descartável em folha de alumínio, e senta‑se a uma mesa. Há sempre uma mesa livre, e parece não lhe fazer diferença se a mesa fica mais à esquerda ou mais à direita da sala, mais à frente ou mais atrás. Só em dias especiais em que haja concertos àquela hora – e são cada vez menos – é que às vezes se vê obrigado a procurar mesa na outra sala, mais ampla e com um maior número de mesas.
Uma vez sentado, adoça o café e despeja a água no copo até à última gota. Tira do bolso o maço de cigarros e o isqueiro e põe‑nos sobre o tabuleiro. Nunca sobre a mesa. Sempre sobre o tabuleiro. Parece mesmo que o copo fica sempre à esquerda, a chávena ao centro e o cinzeiro à direita. Porém, embora por várias vezes tenha verificado esta mesma arrumação, não é ponto assente que ela seja sistemática. Poderá não ser uma mania, mas apenas a forma mais conveniente e a mais prática de dispor aqueles três itens.
Invariavelmente também, traz sempre consigo algum material de leitura, uma revista ou, de vez em quando, um livro. No instante em que começa a ler acende um cigarro. Interrompe várias vezes a leitura para beber um gole de água ou levar a chávena aos lábios. Desvia os olhos do papel para depositar a cinza no cinzeiro. E durante o tempo que ali permanece parece embrenhado na leitura, tão embrenhado que não se dará conta de quem entra ou sai, de quem se levanta ou se senta, de quem entra sozinho ou acompanhado, da fila que por vezes se forma junto à caixa do pré‑pagamento, dos que se encostam ao balcão até serem servidos, dos que pedem para ser atendidos no balcão dos gelados. Parece que a leitura o faz abstrair-se de tudo o que se passa ali à sua volta.
Nada, porém, menos certo.
A sua vinda ali decorre precisamente de uma necessidade arraigada de ver gente. Se for directamente para casa, perde a única oportunidade diária de ver gente viva que desconhece, que poderia conhecer, se… Mas não é capaz. Nunca foi. A leitura começa assim por ser uma estratégia para não ficar ali sentado a ver quem entra e quem sai, apenas a olhar; é por isso uma protecção, para logo se transformar num objectivo em si, absorvente, que na maior parte das vezes acaba por desviá-lo por completo do que inicialmente o traz ali. Terminada a leitura do artigo da revista ou do capítulo do livro, quase sempre é forçado a constatar que já são horas de seguir para casa e que acabou por não ver praticamente ninguém. Apenas um ou outro, no instante em que levantou os olhos para beber água ou café ou para apagar o cigarro no cinzeiro.
Mas isto também não acontece exactamente assim. Pelo menos, não em tempos mais recentes, desde que começou a tentar controlar a deriva provocada pela leitura quase hipnótica, invariavelmente conducente àquele ficar absorto a tudo o que o rodeia.
Enquanto os olhos parecem ir percorrendo as muitas linhas a ler, a sua atenção divide-se entre o seguir o fio da leitura, para que não tenha de voltar atrás ou mesmo de reler todo o artigo ou todo o capítulo na imperturbável quietude da solidão doméstica, e o saltitar de vez em quando entre aqueles que dão vida àquele espaço. Uns são mais jovens, outros menos; uns são mais belos, outros menos; uns suscitam devaneios, outros deixam‑no indiferente; com uns gostaria de meter conversa, de os conhecer melhor, demoradamente; com outros sabe que qualquer conversa não levaria a nada, nem mesmo à mais anódina aproximação entre dois seres humanos, para não falar de quaisquer outras intenções que surgissem espontâneas na sua mente.
Somos assim nós, humanos. Estamos sempre a olhar‑nos de viés, de soslaio, como quem «não quer a coisa» – não é assim que se diz? – Fingimos com a aparente inocência de que não estamos a ver nada, mas olhamos. Estamos sempre a olhar. E estamos a ver. Nada parece escapar‑nos. Nos nossos cérebros circulam milhões de milhões de impulsos que nos levam, por vezes, a pousar o olhar mais demoradamente sobre um que, por via dos olhos, entrou na nossa mente como um raio de luz e causou uma carga de impulsos tal que não somos já capazes de continuar a fingir. Dá‑se um curto‑circuito. Cruzam‑se então os olhares. Momento crucial, perturbador, de desafio extremo. Como aguentar toda aquela tensão naqueles milionésimos de segundo em que decorre o avaliar do outro, se a reacção parecer de súbito bem encaminhada, ou o medir do outro, se a reacção se parecer mais com um confronto a distância, um combate infinitesimal mas decisivo, aberto quase sempre por um esgar de desprezo que deixa tudo dito. Qualquer insistência redundaria em guerra aberta. Mais ninguém se aperceberia dela, naturalmente. Mas seria uma batalha sem quartel. Os olhares descruzam‑se então e regressa‑se placidamente ao fingimento. Desvanece‑se a tensão. Está ultrapassada a crise.
O avaliar do outro segue outras regras bem diferentes. Transforma‑se de súbito numa intermitência de luz em crescendo. Cruzam-se sucessivos olhares pontuais ainda ao abrigo de um fingimento já atenuado. Toda a expressão facial é então mobilizada, e as comissuras dos lábios passam a protagonistas. Basta um ligeiro jeito ou trejeito dos lábios para que tudo se encaminhe. E os olhos sempre em movimento, agora já com alguma certeza de que poderão pousar sobre os outros sem o perigo de verem a sombra escarninha do desprezo.
Num instante imprevisível e incontrolável, as comissuras contraem‑se, e os lábios esboçam um sorriso quase involuntário. A luz do olhar alastra a todo o rosto. O olhar cai sobressaltado, mas não por muito. Sente‑se traído por tamanha ousadia, mas já é tarde para se recusar a continuar o que começou. De súbito, são dois os sorrisos que se correspondem, que se desafiam. Uma alegria juvenil extravasa dos olhos, das bocas, das faces, dos corpos que já não estão bem onde estão. Há que tentar a aproximação física sem ser demasiado ostensivo.
– Desculpe, mas não pude deixar de reparar na revista que estava a folhear. É o número mais recente, não é?
– É, sim… Acabei de comprá‑la.
– Ali em frente?
– Sim, é onde a compro todos os meses.
– Ah, vou passar por lá. Depois…
– Pode dar uma vista de olhos, se quiser. Esteja à vontade. Sente-se, já agora. O meu nome é…
O vento muda entretanto de quadrante. Hoje ele irá para casa mais tarde que o habitual. A seu lado caminhará outro ser, outro corpo, que ele irá conhecer ao longo desta noite, ao jantar, na conversa que se seguir, e que ocupará um lugar há muito vago na sua cama. Quem sabe, se o ocupará também na sua vida.

RIC

A poem which is worth a thousand pictures

I don't care much for ephemeredes.
I'd rather care for memories and feelings, not for events.
Nourishing and cherishing them whenever my mind and heart say so is my way of paying homage and tribute to all those thousands and thousands of anonymous people who leave this world in the most absurd way.
Five years ago, on that day, I had gone home for lunch.
A meeting had ended sooner than I thought it would.
I took the tray to the living‑room to watch the news.
The first aircraft crashed into one of the towers.
In shock, only a few minutes later, I was bound to witness the second crash live.
And then the symbol of the whole tragedy yet to unfold became carved in my mind forever, as that man grotesquely fell down from the sky over Manhattan.
This is what absurd death always looks like.
Grotesque.
Anywhere.

For the Falling Man

by Annie Farnsworth

I see you again and again
tumbling out of the sky,
in your slate-grey suit and pressed white shirt.
At first I thought you were debris
from the explosion, maybe gray plaster wall
or fuselage but then I realized
that people were leaping.
I know who you are,
I know there's more to you than just this image
on the news, this rag doll plummeting –
I know you were someone's lover, husband,
daddy. Last night you read stories
to your children, tucked them in, then curled into sleep
next to your wife. Perhaps there was small
sleepy talk of the future. Then, before your morning coffee had cooled
you'd come to this; a choice between fire
or falling.
How feeble these words, billowing
in this aftermath, how ineffectual
this utterance of sorrow. We can see plainly
it's hopeless, even as the words trail from our mouths –
but we can't help ourselves – how I wish
we could trade them for something
that could really have caught you.

R.I.P.

The Merry Fool. A short story

My most beloved month of May was coming to its end.
I needed some change in my life soon. I felt then as if I were starting to suffocate. My strength to face daily routines was fading away. I arrived at the bloggosphere as a traveller‑through, and I hadn't yet any intention whatsoever of becoming a blogger myself. What for? I didn't even know whether or not I wanted to. It all seemed so confusing to me. Ignorance always plays its tricks.
For a while I jumped from «next blog» to «next blog», hoping to come across one I would really like; something that might catch my attention, doubtlessly interesting. That wasn't likely to happen though, and I was bored to death most of the time.
Meanwhile Football World Championship 2006 had started. I was still adrift. Between matches I would take a look, nothing much, thinking how all that was really weird and useless. So many blogs, so little interest. Yeah, yeah! Till mid June, when I finally came across a gay blog, just by chance. Not one of those you immediately identify as gay, for the very first thing you see, even before you get to read the title, is men having sex. I have absolutely nothing against photo or video blogs, that's for sure, much on the contrary. It just isn't my cup of tea. I'm an eroticist, not a porno seeker. At least, I like to think so.
There were many texts of all kinds: long texts, short poems, fiction stories, daily life stories and notes, other pieces betraying the marriage of genres, a few anodyne pictures, and no blogroll. Lord, what on earth was that all about?
I decided to add that blog to my favourites after reading a few posts. Some were really acid, venomous, merciless, depicting reality through the sharp eye and the sardonic mouth of a guy who struck me first as someone who sought distance from the world. All he seemed to care about was watching it from afar, observing it under his scornful mind's microscope. I do mean this object, for the world seemed to be a tiny, insignificant thing to him. A few anecdotes about his work, some smaller devastating texts on religion and politics, a few comments on sex encounters, and almost no comments on his posts.
Some of them deserved a few words, I thought. It was unfair, as if I had to be charitable in any way I could. He must feel sad, I kept on thinking. He posts practically everyday, and no one cares. And I was feeling sorry for him. Some stories were rather amusing, dynamic, and vivid, with a strong evocative power and a developed sense of the picturesque. A few were doubtlessly pieces of literary artistry. He is talented indeed. An intelligent man, no doubt.
His blog settings, however, wouldn't allow any comments unless you were a blogger yourself. Did I slightly suspect that might be a way to block off the world? No. July's first fortnight was almost over. The call for getting in touch with him was much stronger than all the possible doubts I still had about creating a blog. That appeal had grown and grown. So be it, I said to myself. On July 14.th I finally created my blog, and I remember feeling as happy as a child when I went over to his, as if I had embarked some kind of journey across the world, and found out I could easily comment on his posts from that instant on.
That universe of his soon began to weave a web around me. As days went by I was feeling more and more attracted to it. Although I suspected that path was not at all the best one for me to follow, that mysterious personality – quite silent, reserved; keeping to himself everything he wouldn't be willing to show through his writing – soon became the abyss's edge where I would gladly and carelessly go for a walk. Some times you don't even recognize your own death wishes. Or, less dramatically, you just enjoy taking whatever risks you can. It's the appeal of the adventure, I think.
A never‑ending ping‑pong leading nowhere had started. My comments were usually long. He would drop a word. I sincerely believe now I was no doubt being rude. Could I ever guess it? Maybe I could. I wondered though what the use was of having a blog, posting daily, and wishing no comments.
Last step towards coming closer to him: email. The fool finally played his part with perfection, and soon was as merry as could be. Little did he know, the perfect, merry fool… Politeness is not always politeness; it's an evasive, elaborate way not to say no. Or else it's a way of having you around but not too close. Giving with one hand and then taking with the other. Assuming however a yes is a yes, I was only falling into the trap I had set myself, nobody else had. Maybe I got to sense for a short while that yes was not so convincing after all, but then again I just couldn't turn my back on my own wishes like that. So I moved on.
I sent the first email, and the second, and the third, never to receive a single answer, ever. There it was, quite clear for me to understand the message, if I ever stopped, even if only for the shortest instant ever, from acting as an imbecile and really started to put my brain to work. How could I be so mesmerized by such a deep emptiness? What did I really know about that guy after all? Was he even trustworthy? Whenever he spoke about himself, as seldom as could be, was he being honest? Could he be just another scoundrel after all? Why wasn't I thinking as I usually do? Being the rationalist I know I am, all these questions were all the more humiliating.
Though it might hurt – I just knew it would – I decided to put an end to so much nonsense, to such an absurdity. Whenever I got connected to the net, I'd immediately go check his blog first, hoping in vain something might have changed in that desolate scenery. What was I aiming at after all? What was I thinking?
Whether I was falling for him, I've been asking myself that question. I don't think so, no, but I know I was about to. Quite close. Just a step away. Falling in love is in fact so easy. Love is definitely a mental «thing» and, for some people like me, words can easily replace the looks that play a major part in a face‑to‑face encounter, which is not to be confused with love at first sight; the first is chemical, the latter meta‑chemical, or maybe alchemical.
What if he came by now and was reading this story? Oh Lord, that would be the day, I'm sure! He would read it, recognize both himself and his blog, definitely, and wouldn't comment on it. Not a single word. Well, after reading this, maybe he would. Contradicting spirits are not so unpredictable after all; they just act to contradict, that's all.
Some people are just like that: they don't care much about anything but their journey's cruising speed through life. Anything that either comes across them or they come across themselves will always be a hindrance on their way, nothing else. «L'enfer, ce sont les autres», Jean‑Paul Sartre wrote. Yes, hell is definitely the others. Especially if you need them, but you don't want them. «I'll always love him in my bed, I know I will», he wrote, «but never in my life. So I have to keep him busy with me. Physically.»
So let's just let them all fly away, as far away as possible. They're so much happier like that. And without us.
I believe I don't mind either. Not anymore, I think. So what, even if I did.

RIC

(Any resemblance between real life characters and those featuring this story is mere and pure coincidence.)

Feel free to comment, okay? After all, this is only a story… (Would you show me all my serious faults and mistakes?... Would you be that kind?...)

Pedro Almodóvar's 25-year film list

- Volver (2006) / Return (USA: literal English title)

- La Mala educación (2004) / Bad Education (International: English title)

- Hable con ella (2002) / Talk to Her (International: English title)

- Todo sobre mi madre (1999) / All About My Mother (Europe: English title) (USA) / Tout sur ma mère (France)

- Carne trémula (1997) / En chair et en os (France) / Live Flesh (USA)

- La Flor de mi secreto (1995) / La Fleur de mon secret (France) / The Flower of My Secret

- Kika (1993)

- Tacones lejanos (1991) / High Heels / Talons aiguilles (France)

- ¡Átame! (1990) / Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! (USA)

- Mujeres al borde de un ataque de nervios (1988) / Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (USA)

- La Ley del deseo (1987) / Law of Desire (USA)

- Matador (1986) / Matador (USA) / The Bullfighter (literal English title)

- ¿Qué he hecho yo para merecer esto!! (1984) / What Have I Done to Deserve This? (USA)

- Entre tinieblas (1983) / Dark Habits / Dark Hideout

- Laberinto de pasiones (1982) / Labyrinth of Passion (USA)

- Pepi, Luci, Bom y otras chicas del montón (1980) / Pepi, Luci, Bom and Other Girls Like Mom (International: English title)

Just a small treat for you, blogger friends, who have watched a few / some / many / all / of these extraordinary movies…
It would be nice to have some comments on the films you've watched yourselves, wouldn't it? I'd like that very much! Thank you!

Excelente tarde!... / Excellent afternoon!...

Não é novidade para ninguém; se for, é grave!
Estreou em Portugal, na passada Quinta‑feira, o mais recente filme do espantoso realizador castelhano Pedro Almodóvar – «Volver».

Tenho sido um apaixonado pelo cinema deste ser humano maravilhoso desde a tarde em que o conheci, há já uns muito bons anos, e quase rebentei a rir (para escândalo de alguns académicos colegas meus de então) na, à época, ainda mais ou menos selecta sala do «Londres». As razões eram mais que muitas para gargalhar à farta, eu ri a bom rir e, quando o filme acabou, estava mais rouco que afónico.

Ah sim, o filme… «Mujeres al borde de un ataque de nervios». Fabuloso!

Muitos outros títulos se lhe foram sucedendo, cada um com o seu universo próprio sempre de uma estonteante verosimilhança que nunca obsta àquela sensata loucura do quotidiano a que Almodóvar desde cedo nos habituou. É em dosear na perfeição esta mistura que ele é genial.

Desta vez, regressou à sua província natal de Castilla - La Mancha para nos oferecer uma suculenta e deliciosa tranche de vie, através de desempenhos muito bem conseguidos por parte de duas mulheres com M maiúsculo – Penélope Cruz e Carmen Maura.

– Ah mulheres dum caraças!!! Vocês têm o cinema no corpo… pelo menos!

A história, os diálogos, a acção, as reviravoltas da trama, todas as personagens, todas as críticas directas e indirectas, alguma saborosíssima maledicência, a banda sonora, tudo contribui no peso e na medida certos para a existência de mais um sucesso na filmografia almodovariana. Este adjectivo impõe‑se por si. E, quanto ao filme, nada mais revelo…

Meus caros amigos bloguistas de fala portuguesa / de habla castellana! Nada de deixar para amanhã o que devem fazer hoje: para as salas de cinema, e já!

Dear blogger friends!

This post presents my short and humble review of Pedro Almodóvar's latest film «Volver» (Coming Back) – check its beautiful site – and the marvellous performances of two great actresses: Penélope Cruz and Carmen Maura. They're both absolutely fabulous! I've just watched it this Saturday afternoon.

According to «Queer Beacon» (Aug 11, 2006) – get there through my dear friend Augusto (blogroll) – «limited engagement in the USA starts on November 3, 2006.» Don't miss it for anything in the world! You know he has directed some masterpieces we all cherish very much.

Well, as you see, I'm a 200% admirer of his for many years now. Almodóvar is superb!

Grateful to «Bent» for being attentive

It's neither «Scientific American» nor «Nature» online, but I feel deeply flattered and honoured the very same way as if it were. No more, no less.

A while ago I went over to «Bent» (www.bentblog.com) – you all know it quite well, don't you, dear blogger friends? – and just couldn't help feeling as happy as can be when I happened to look at the quotations right yellow column and read this:

"You'll get whatever marvellous there is in a world to come just by offering us these paradise visions..." – RIC

The first words sounded familiar, but… Then I finished reading the sentence and the nickname. What the hell… And I realised I had written that myself, someone had noticed it and put it on that list. Wow!

It's that gesture indeed I am thankful for. It means attention and kindness.
All the way across the wide Northern Atlantic Ocean…

UPDATE (21:00)

In spite of all dismays, an inner voice keeps telling me all the time politeness does pay! At least for some of us who feel gratification, as I just did.
Before posting this morning, I sent «Bent» an email thanking for being attentive and kind.
Surprises went on crossing the Atlantic: I opened my mailbox and found this message:

«I just loved what you said - it was so great! :) I'm only sorry I forgot to put a link to your site in there when I originally put it up...Take care...»

Thank you very much!
RIC

Lisbon jewels (for your eyes only...)

Rossio Square and Queen Mary II National Theatre
Saint Justa Lift (19.th century): from downtown to uptown...
Chiado Square (my favourite part of Lisbon centre...)
Brazilian Café... A masterpiece in the shape of a coffee house...
... And all the memories I cherish from past evenings sitting at those tables and talking our heads off before entering the night life...
... In the «Bairro Alto» (literally: high burrough): restaurants, bars, nightclubs, fado houses, discos, gay scene, you name it... So many nights, so many m...
After such a long stroll - going up and down Lisbon hills - we deserve the best treat in town: a flavourish cup of coffee and one or two «Pastéis de Belém», baked according to a secret recipe from the 18.th century... Two wouldn't ever be enough. Believe me, I know...

Enjoy your weekend! Oh by the way, you still have time to come over and to travel about in Lisbon... You are now full documented, aren't you? What are you waiting for then?...

Palaeontologists of the world, unite!

Can you imagine, dear blogger friends, a «homo sapiens» child's reaction to a «pithecanthropus»?!

No? Neither could I nor any scientist, I'm sure, until this chance presented itself…

The living proof is right in front of your eyes.

This is the once‑in‑a‑lifetime opportunity for each and every palaeontologist. They must get together for a thorough results evaluation after going through research data...

What will the future of that child be like?
How much trauma has that child been exposed to?
Is there any therapy that may help that poor child recover from such a close encounter? (Reparative what?… Sorry, I can't hear you…)

This is my reaction to the news in The New York Times (yesterday) about unspeakable plans to start World War III…
I can deal with this only in one of two ways: either I believe the journalist or I don't. History has proven «beyond the reasonable doubt» I should analyse carefully the first hypothesis. That's why I'm so angry.

Comentando esta preciosidade fotográfica há algumas semanas, eis o que me saiu: «Olha só, uma foto que faria feliz qualquer paleontólogo: um pitecantropo com uma cria de «homo sapiens» nas mãos!»

Does this make any sense? Not to me, it doesn't...

I remember quite well buying a beautiful black T‑shirt at a gay shop – breaking news to me then – at Greenwich Village, when I've been to New York City a few years ago. In front, in an eye‑catching white lettering, you could read:

HATE is not a family value!

I believe you must have seen that same collection and even may have bought some of those incredible pieces of irony as:

I can't even think straight…

What glorious laughs I had then… Bill Clinton was President, and everything seemed to be going the right direction.

Now you can have «reparative therapy» at your service if you ever intend to become an «ex‑gay»… I ask once again: Is everyone gone totally insane, crazy, barking mad, whatever?!

Lisbon guests' «entrance hall»

Memories of past glories still alive on many tile panels as this one.

(The very first panels go as far back as the 17.th century)

Augusta Street Arch (detail). This street leads to the very heart of Lisbon's «Baixa» (downtown): the Rossio Square

Lisbon guests' «entrance hall»: Praça do Comércio (Commerce Square), also known as Terreiro do Paço (Palace Ground, its name before the 1755 earthquake)

A night view of the Arch

As our journey progresses we're getting nearer to the very heart of Lisbon, the medieval core of the city that couldn't resist the devastating earthquake that shook Lisbon in the morning of November 1.st 1755. A huge fire right after the tremendous event consumed everything that might still be saved... The whole centre of Lisbon had to be rebuilt during the second half of the 18.th century.

O prazer da melancolia ao piano...

СЕРГЕЙ РАХМАНИНОВ -
- SÉRGUEI RACHMÁNINOV

(1873, Oneg, Rússia - 1943, Beverly Hills, Califórnia, EUA)

«He was a man of many talents.
One of the greatest pianists the 20.th century had the privilege to listen to, both live and on records; he was also a superb emotionalist composer and a great orchestral conductor.

Born into an aristocratic family in Tsarist Russia, he studied at the Moscow Conservatoire, where he met and idolised Tchaikovsky, which would play a decisive role in his composition.

Not all his early works were immediately successful, his first symphony in particular, and this led to a period of depression, cured only by hypnosis. So grateful was Rachmaninov for this that he dedicated his «Second Piano Concerto», a masterpiece, to the doctor responsible.

Just prior to the 1917 October Revolution, Rachmaninov left Russia for America, never to return. There he devoted much of his time to his career as a pianist at the expense of his music writing, which he much regretted. In the last decade of his life, however, he managed to devote more time to composition, producing some of his finest works.

Much of his music has an inner vitality that brings out an immediate positive response in the listener.»

© The Cadenza Collection, London, UK

«Um sentimentalão do piano, completamente perdido num tempo que já não era o seu, refém de uma escola musical que nunca deveria ter sido a sua. Uma obra anacrónica, plangente, sobretudo apreciada pelos que têm a lágrima fácil… Ou o ouvido pouco treinado…»

… E foram sendo repetidas observações semelhantes ao longo de anos e anos. Felizmente é sabido que a contínua mudança do gosto com o tempo que passa acaba por fazer justiça a quem a merece.

Não creio haver outra arte onde este fenómeno seja mais visível. O melhor exemplo, e o mais recente também, é o da música barroca, quase completamente ignorada ou mesmo mal tratada até que, de repente, foi «descoberta». E sobre ela fez‑se luz. De então para cá, compositores e escolas têm sido divulgados como nunca o haviam sido do século XVII aos nossos dias. Hoje, muito simplesmente, não se passa sem música barroca.

Estou em crer que Rachmáninov terá finalmente o seu lugar de direito entre os muitos compositores que marcaram a História da Música do século XX e nela têm já o seu lugar. Plangente, melancólica, nostálgica, fruto da dificilmente perscrutável «alma russa», a sua música para piano, em particular, contém sublimes momentos de verdadeiro êxtase, de rendição total e absoluta aos mistérios insondáveis do Homem que só a inefável arte do som consegue captar e devolver na medida exacta.

Try and listen to some of his piano pieces. I'm sure you'll enjoy them very, very much!...