A Missed Chance

Just because I promised to say something about yesterday's Poetry recital:

I did read a poem on the night's main topic, São Paulo (it was the city's 452th anniversary), which people liked, but isn't really nothing exceptional. The performance I was going to do with my group didn't happen, very unfortunately, as there was simply NO group--only me. It was heartbreaking, because that poem was so fucking brilliant, and we missed an incredible chance to perform it to 120 Poetry lovers.

Now I leave you with a portion of a poem the great William Wordsworth wrote about the poet's job:

How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold?
Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold;
And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree
Comes not by casting in a formal mould,
But from its own divine vitality.

Reading Report

I've just finished reading 'Brokeback Mountain', the story on which the film was based on. I read two-thirds last night and the heartbreaking final third on the train on the way to the office this morning. What can I say that hasn't yet been said? 'Brokeback Mountain is an astounding, breathtaking take on the hard choice between love and fear, passion and comfort. The choice was for the second, and the price the lovers paid was too high. Many experiences come back when one is exposed to such a powerful experience as reading that story. I can barely wait to watch Ang Lee's rendition of it, which I am sure is nothing short of impressive.

I have just seen the trailer on the Brazilian website of the film, and the only thing I resent is that the cowboys are just too cute to be real people, but anyway.

The beautiful story can be read here: http://thewholegang.com/bbframe.htm

Backgammon Initiation

This weekend I learnt to play Backgammon. It is not a lifetime achievement, and won't make me look cool, trendy, sassy and very interesting, but it's something I've been wanting to learn for about ten years. Not to mention that, being a Shapeshifting enthusiast, any new skill I learn makes me more powerful as a shapeshifter.

And I want to say that I won my very first Backgammon match. I played with the black checkers, running counter-clockwise.

This was horribly hot weekend in Sampa, after an even hotter week. But the air conditioner at the office where I vegetate from Moon's Day to Frigg's Day made it far more bearable. I hate the heat. I'm a snowbird.

Standing out with Poetry and Drama

I am taking poetry classes on Thursday evenings and Saturday afternoons. It's a very nice government Summer programme to encourage people to read and write more, so the two courses were almost free, very inexpensive, and they take place near my house, in what we call Expanded Downtown (because Sampa Downtown is really huge and overbrims the original borders of the city centre). The 'school' is a very very nice mansion built between 1928 and 1935 when Avenida Paulista was being born. It is one of the few original buildings that was not replace by those barren, corporate-owned, huge dark-mirrored-glass-and-white-marble blocks. It is maintained by the state government and is called 'Casa das Rosas' (House of the Roses) and is entirely dedicated to events and courses related to all forms of Literature. It's on the photo. It is one of the two places in Sampa that I spend most of my time in, when I'm not working or doing household chores, and I have made many good friends in there.

So, this course I am taking on Thursday evenings is about Poetry and Sound. It's very hands-on: we take a brief lecture on a specific property of Phonetics and general vocal sounds, and then read a couple of poems in Portuguese and sometimes in French too. Then, we arrange in groups of five to write a poem with the theme of that class. I like that. Crayon on paper. Accumulating pages, not judgements. Very Cameron-ish :)

But the point of this post is that last night I ended up with a group of five brilliant and daring creative people. Creativity mages. We were assigned two poems, one with day (clear) sounds and the other with night (dark) sounds, inspired in Mallarmé's verse, 'Poor French language in which the word jour is so nocturnal' (I'm translating here a version that was already translated into Portuguese, so it may be inaccurate). We as a group decided to write the two poems as two parts of the same piece, and we wrote a bit of a narrative, starting with the Day Sounds to describe a tense meeting and the Night Sounds for the bad consequences of the meeting. The final result was really brilliant, funny and unpredictable. I cannot post here because I have to check with the other four authors if it is okay to do so. When the lecturer invited us to read the poem (everybody was reading sittin in their desks) we stood up and stood out. We went to the front of the classroom and performed it in a very theatrical way, each one reading one part. Nobody expected anything so clever in that class, so we surprised everybody and the lecturer, who is also the director of Casa das Rosas, invited us to perform the poem in a recital that will happen next Woden's Day, 25th, Sampa's anniversary.

It was very, very cool. I'll check with the other guys if it is okay to post it here.

I just wanted to let everybody know. I am becoming really good in this.

For Jose

My European Charming Prince
I miss you so
Everynight
And every morning when I wake up

I was blessed for having met you
Fortunate night
Crazy night
And all the beautiful tender moments the followed

The mere memory of you fills me with Joy
But also with fear
Of devouring Time
And this vast Ocean between us make you give up on me

I am doing all my best to be with you just soon
Hold you and kiss you
Our nakedness
Multiply my Joy, devour Time itself and keep Ocean at bay!

(written last night in my bedroom)

Choose Which Water You Drink From

There is a reason I post here so many stuff by other writers and artists...

Fancy

Ever let the Fancy roam,

Pleasure never is at home:

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;

Then let winged Fancy wander

Through the thought still spread beyond her:

Open wide the mind's cage-door,

She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.

O sweet Fancy! let her loose;

Summer's joys are spoilt by use,

And the enjoying of the Spring

Fades as does its blossoming;

Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,

Blushing through the mist and dew,

Cloys with tasting: What do then?

Sit thee by the ingle, when

The sear faggot blazes bright,

Spirit of a winter's night;

When the soundless earth is muffled,

And the caked snow is shuffled

From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;

When the Night doth meet the Noon

In a dark conspiracy

To banish Even from her sky.

Sit thee there, and send abroad,

With a mind self-overaw'd,

Fancy, high-commission'd:--send her!

She has vassals to attend her:

She will bring, in spite of frost,

Beauties that the earth hath lost;

She will bring thee, all together,

All delights of summer weather;

All the buds and bells of May,

From dewy sward or thorny spray;

All the heaped Autumn's wealth,

With a still, mysterious stealth:

She will mix these pleasures up

Like three fit wines in a cup,

And thou shalt quaff it:--thou shalt hear

Distant harvest-carols clear;

Rustle of the reaped corn;

Sweet birds antheming the morn:

And, in the same moment, hark!

'Tis the early April lark,

Or the rooks, with busy caw,

Foraging for sticks and straw.

Thou shalt, at one glance, behold

The daisy and the marigold;

White-plum'd lillies, and the first

Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;

Shaded hyacinth, alway

Sapphire queen of the mid-May;

And every leaf, and every flower

Pearled with the self-same shower.

Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep

Meagre from its celled sleep;

And the snake all winter-thin

Cast on sunny bank its skin;

Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see

Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,

When the hen-bird's wing doth rest

Quiet on her mossy nest;

Then the hurry and alarm

When the bee-hive casts its swarm;

Acorns ripe down-pattering,

While the autumn breezes sing.

Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose;

Every thing is spoilt by use:

Where's the cheek that doth not fade,

Too much gaz'd at?

Where's the maid

Whose lip mature is ever new?

Where's the eye, however blue,

Doth not weary?

Where's the face

One would meet in every place?

Where's the voice, however soft,

One would hear so very oft?

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.

Let, then, winged Fancy find

Thee a mistress to thy mind:

Dulcet-ey'd as Ceres' daughter,

Ere the God of Torment taught her

How to frown and how to chide;

With a waist and with a side

White as Hebe's, when her zone

Slipt its golden clasp, and down

Fell her kirtle to her feet,

While she held the goblet sweet

And Jove grew languid.--Break the mesh

Of the Fancy's silken leash;

Quickly break her prison-string

And such joys as these she'll bring.--

Let the winged Fancy roam,

Pleasure never is at home.

John Keats

Wisdom from Ecuador

ES SOLO UNA CUESTION DE ACTITUD

¡Ignorantes! Más sabe el diablo por diablo que por viejo. La edad sólo teperfecciona en lo que ya eres: en tu estupidez, en tu bondad, en tupaciencia... Un estúpido, al envejecer, sólo se hace más perfectamenteestúpido. Aprendí que no se puede dar marcha atrás, que la esencia de lavida es ir hacia adelante. La vida, en realidad, es una calle de sentidoúnico.

---------------------------------------------

So sorry for posting in Spanish, but this was too good to let pass up, and translating it would do no justice to its wicked brilliance.
Photo credit: Auchwitz, by Jonathan Elsner ( http://www.trekearth.com/members/jonathane/ )

Happy

Nothing big. Just a short note to say I'm pretty happy and that yesterday I started taking lessons with the greatest vocal coach I've ever met, probably the best in São Paulo. She's been pretty expensive, but a lifetime dream surely deserves it all!

Bearcub Wisdom

Keep your crayon on the page. Nevermind the lines.

Annunciation

Muse. Inspirer. The Angel with Peacock Wings and Lilies announces the Birth of the Messiah. Me.
Ave Gabriel.

My heart is taken

Now I guess my life is closer to complete. I have a boyfriend. He is an ocean away, in Spain, but it doesn't really matter that much, because we talk over the Internet twice a week and are preparing to meet live twice a year. I'm feeling great now, and now I want to talk about him.
José is the cutest person I have ever met in my life. The word cute is not really accurate/enough to qualify him, as I can only think of a word in Portuguese for him ('fofo', which does not exist in Spanish either). I mean, he is always nice and says very beautiful and sincere things. Always has compliments and is never invasive. He is tender and cuddly, and his company makes me totally mellow. He likes World Music, like me, and has a special fondness of the music of my native country. He is a delicious shag, a fabulous talker-teacher-listener and really sensitive to the human being I am. I sure had many blessings last year, but probably the biggest of them all was meeting José live, when he came to São Paulo for holidays.
I am happy and I want everybody to know it.

A quote

'From Joy we came; for Joy we live; and in the sacred divine joy we will one day melt again'. (Paramhansa Yogananda)
(Okay, two posts in a row not written by me, but what the hell. They inspire me and I want them to inpire you.)

A Sufi poem

If you go to the garden of the Heart,

You'll have beautiful perfume like a rose.

If you fly to the sky,

Your face will turn into a moon like the angels.



You'll turn into light

Even if He burns you like oil.

You'll become like hair because of grief,

But they'll put you at the head of the table.

Like a candle, you'll illuminate the assemblies.



You'll become a Sultan.

You'll become a supreme sovereignty,

Heaven, and an angel at the door of heaven.

You'll become sky and faith.

You'll turn into a lion

And, at the same time, a gazelle.



You'll leave place.

You'll go to the land of Absence.

You'll separate from yourself.

You'll go alone, walking without riding,

Without feet, like water in the river.



You'll become One like Heart and Soul,

You'll keep appearing even if you are invisible.

You'll become bitter-sweet, like wine.



You'll be free from the qualities

Of wetness and dryness, like Jesus.

You'll pierce the turbulence

And make a road of it.

You'll be free of dimensions;

Every side will become one for you.



You'll be free from desires

And the fancy of your insides.

You'll become empty.

You'll stay alive without breath.

You'll be plunged into the sea of Ya Hu,

And then you'll quit saying, "Ya Hu."



You'll turn sweet into bitter

And hear all, from a distance.

When you reach the ninth level of the sky,

You won't be a curtain to the light.



Be a Sultan with a kingdom.

Reach the height. Become a moon.

How long will you keep searching

By saying, "Coo-coo," like the dove?



You'll become a window for every house.

You'll be a rose garden in every field.

If you leave your self, drop your existence,

You'll become Me without me.



Don't take the lead. Don't brag.

Be joyful, bend your head,

Like a branch of the peach tree.

Smile. Be beautiful.



You won't ask for light.

You won't need your self.

You'll look after

The feeding and care of the poor,

Like the Sultan.

You'll look for darkness, like the moon.



You won't look for Soul;

You'll give Soul.

You'll find a remedy for every ill.

Don't look for salve for your wounds.

You'll be slave for all wounds.



Divan-i Kebir Poem 147 (verse 1938)



[Divan-i Kebir Meter 1

by Nevit O. Ergin]

Time

I work in an office nine hours a day, Moon's day to Frigg's day. It's cool because I make very nice, stable money (a precious priviledge in Brazil these days) and I can use Internet and Ear Training softwares every weekday, but problem is that I am not finding any time for my Art out of the office. I arrive home almost at eight o'clock in the evening (when I don't have to go to the supermarket or something), and have to do laundry, wash dishes from the previous day, take the trash out, and cook the dinner and the lunch for the following day (I have to bring food to work from my house). Then, and only then I can do my solfege, read some stories to increase my storytelling repertoire, practice my scales on the piano.
I'm on Media Deprivation for almost two years now, and I usually don't go out for clubs or bars, so I don't know what else I can delete from my schedule to save some time.
Time is a big block to me.
Those of you, artists out there, how do you find time??

On time: Nightnoise's song 'Shadow of Time', written by the great Tríona Ní Domhnaill.

I see a strange man

Running silently

He never looks behind him

He has no time to see

He makes no sound, he has no voice

The ground he doesn't feel

But he's always on the run

And I wonder if he's real

Chorus:

Run on, run on, shadow of time

Run on, run on, shadow of time

His first name is today

His last name is tomorrow

He knows no pain, he knows no joy

He doesn't think of sorrow

Fast and small, he's slow and tall

He never stops to rest

But I know where he's goin'

'Cause I know him the best

(Chorus twice)

Photo: Chronos the Time