quarta-feira, 29 de dezembro de 2010

Tales

The leopard and the antelope



“There was, buried deep inside the stories of old,
an old tale revisited that told
of the leopard and of the antelope.

The people of this place said dream was a ride
inside their journey they would gaze
eyes closed wide fluid liquid open blind
stare of the storm
so blue it would gobble you down whole,
in gesture
digest you in jest
bit by bit in bite.


In exchange of tickets and fates
allow you to ride
if you wished
and the time was ripe
yellow light spots of luna
prowl mounted
moonlit on the leopard
black night


That is how the tale of the leopard
and of the antelope goes.


And then of course
there is the rest
the pace of verse the impression
slight imprint spur of antelope like bird
on a prowl of her own
in a quest of flight in different nature
akin to air in travel bird
chameleon, dandelion, a fighter,


this creature leaps at chance
for invitation to the ride

landscapes in journey they traveled
galloped territories across rivers dirt roads
trans-versed named forests un-named brooks,
inside the clearances inside the woods.
Flooded roads surrounding ascending waters from the rains. Bare passages.
Bridges built across dams near overflowing - memories of other spaces, territories revisited from above. Red dirt and water.
Daylight filtered in a sparing moment or light not at all.
A moonlit space.

In spiral dance down swirls
escape and joy
they rode across the traveling fields
to dream like life.


They traveled,
this leopard and this antelope.


What the readers nor the riders know
was that a leopard of another spotted color would attack and jump.
An antelope of another feathered kind would leap in flight.
But so the story goes that this leopard and this antelope were old
made out of air and dirt and fire,
old stuff, old soul,
fused elemental tales of necessary childhoods in both,
fused tales of some future,
elemental synthesis.


Except in dream or for a fault of mine in fate or in time,
these two, these people said, will never meet,
this leopard and this antelope
except in dream, they said, where they love each other,
as fiercely as they can,
given their leopard and antelope within and without
their natural and not so natural skins.


Take a ticket to ride, a destination,
take a ticket, they said, these people
and just go,
just ride the dream.


better still know,
the dream is you,
you are the ride.”


August 4, 1999 – 2006 - 2010

segunda-feira, 13 de dezembro de 2010

Rituals

Rituals
“Fortified by its knowledge of the Book of the Dead, then, the Wake here answers the haunting eschatological question of how the decaying corpse, buried in loamy inertia and scattering throughout the material universe, initiates the process by which it resurrects itself bodily into life: it opens its mouth in the hour when the sun moves through the gates of dawn, and it lets language, consciousness, and sunlight flood back in to replace darkness.”
Quotes from “Joyce’s book of the dark: Finnegan’s wake”, by John Bishop
Forever do we try to gather then at dawn
force open the lid to the loamy inertia
so as to return to scattered play primordial dance
no mating in view, lusco fusco twilight chiaro scuro
sunlight so bright
the words of language curse our morning breath so foul


Unable to retreat the light a beacon we flock to Sunday Sermon
we build inside these walls we dress
we mate the tonic of our loss
we lose our visions we chat in language forget the magic
unable to sustain in holding hands we marry
the rituals of these words.


Bookkeeping

"Presuming to speak directly from the point of view of the corpse, the Book of the Dead may be one of the few books on earth ideally written for an audience consisting entirely of the dead.”
 
If you write of things from the night
of the dark perspectives,
yet continue to expect living creatures
to give you understanding…

Well then apply the great concept,
call yourself the reluctant writer from the depths,
start to keep two sets of books,
two sets of diaries, two sets of memories,
two sets of loves:
one for the accounting of the living
one for the accounting of the dead.


Erica Weick
At the turn of the millennium…


quinta-feira, 9 de dezembro de 2010

Inhabit the body


“In-habit the body”:


when I grow old
i will enter my body

crawl the corridors
inside my skin
frolic in vein

loom in textiles
review the prices, the fairness,
invest in coins

invent
the market place
in simmer the harvest

sample the meat
conquer the yeast
inhabit my indonesia

brocade, velvet burgundy
sacred cows
golden buffaloes

lantejouled Indian theatre
untamed tree of life
hometown of my dreams

in ferris wheel giggle
the pleasure of the ride.


September 30, 2010
Erica Weick in a dream

quarta-feira, 8 de dezembro de 2010

Transformations

Transmogrifada


Se eu fosse um gato
ia lamber
sua orelha do escutar
a bôca do seu falar
mão do acolher seu coraçao do caçar

no pé da gôta do envelhecer
em cima da sua pena
eu ia dormir
cada dia de noite
cansada

E no acordar
se eu fosse um gato
eu caçaria seus ratos







Alfonsina y el mar (subtitled)

segunda-feira, 25 de outubro de 2010

Hide and seek

or(The painted stick on Thanksgiving)

Abandoned to this territorial beige,
in the geographies of my phases:

Indian Ocean treasures, Meaipe mica and the Chesapeake
Bay of Israel, pebbles of Saint Lucia and sand.
Thyme and maritime roses, lambs of diamonds,
little tiny seeds,
those of pine for us, those for the prairies
those late in season for the birds.


Great hide and seek positionings
green buffer zones inside my heart.

Constant search for mythological blues, ephemeral ponds
where the bull frog does not chant,
where the salamander is savvy.


The painted stick and I shiver and shake,
awake like dogs in the trail under the willow oak;
Chameleons in gold, silver bronze of fancy dress
of change and of chance,
(Glitter and gliss of family dinner thanksgiving forgotten)


We remain,
and we travel first class
and a capella.








sábado, 9 de outubro de 2010

Captions to Cartoon



or
The Story of the Arrogant Sensual Poet and the Shy Romantic
Cartesian Woman
or
Triangles, Quadrangles, Kaleidoscopes and Cornucopias

(excerpted from the Book of Revelations)


He leaned forward, and in a fluid motion slipped on his reading glasses, slid his hand slowly across the cold marble table, middle finger touch in the center of her open palm, lightly.

"Your relationship to me is not part of a triangular construct, not at all. Imagine it instead as motion. You see, I have given this subject some serious thought."

He tossed his head back, light catching gray trapped between dark brown.

Not daring to move, she opened her eyes wide and listened. Heat cold tingle, the perfect shiver spread upwards from palm, the point of touch to heart. Like a bivalve organism, she breathed in tandem hope for quietly in and out. A slow down a wish, a certainty she would bring him to tell her something of significance - he would tell her he was in love with her - nothing else mattered - he would write a poem for her, right there and then. He would touch her once more.

He continued on about lines and triangles, connotations and words - she almost understood exactly what he was saying - not quite, though, not yet. If only she could try harder - finish reading the poems he gave her.

His well-modulated voice lullabied her. Some said hoarse from too much smoking and drinking - she preferred to think deep voice from his training in theatre.

"The linear views place you on the outside. Linearity is a simple phenomenon. It sees only itself, its own progression and evolution. A line connected to another line to another line. You add the three lines and zoom into the flat triangle viewed from above. It is like a child's drawing on a white piece of paper, no perspective at all, except for your zooming view!"

He explained his vision with fervor, gray blue eyes focused on a spot slightly to the right of her left ear, she was not quite sure. Maybe he was looking at her. Four months of dating, it seemed to her he might be myopic. At least he may have some problems with his vision. Timid, she tried to interrupt, but he kept on talking.

"The view from the inside, or if you wish to call this, the non-linear view - think about this! This view brings you to shapes that have borders, roughly circumscribed by these imaginary lines. Not bound by the lines, they are only circumscribed. You have added precious additional dimensions to your perception. Do you know what I mean?"

Not waiting for an answer, he gestured, widely encompassing the whole room.

"It might be easier if you think of cells dividing - or even before the division of cells - as Liz suggests, consciousness comes from that first single burst of cell division."

She looked across the room. Naked cells were dividing right before her eyes. Relentless, his lovely voice brought her back to the hot simplicity, but he went on.

"Then, there is of course another view, and that is the feel of cornucopia and kaleidoscopes. The lines dissolve entirely and all shapes change. Harvest in triangles, quadrangles move in space, these deep liquid forms acquire meaning. Not just random meanings, rotating in a badly educated child's view of computer geometry. No, depth of connotations, random depth of perception! This is serious. You see, there is a definite flaw in your view of triangles."

He stopped, blue gaze unfocused –

"I'm thirsty; these people here seem so inadequate! Can we go somewhere else, and get something to drink?"


Erica Weick,
revisited in 2013

quarta-feira, 6 de outubro de 2010

Ana and the marketplace

In between, all this time, there was the city of Mbale.

And the market place.

The marketplace where Ana searched and found the best Calvin Klein shirts on earth for twenty cents. The best Liz Claiborne, best name this side of the valley. The best dried fish wholesale, best groundnut paste and sesame, best cloth. Dainty white hands touched the greenish silver of antelope home-made from Zambia, a tingling sensation, smooth fingers lingering over merikkani cloth of Zanzibar, maybe the yellow lions of Kenya touched on a coffee cup. Blue eyes delighted in the raised texture of gold trim surrounding cloth of indigo. Protection cloth, she was told, for the young girls who did not know "what to do with themselves". She was told, the best plastic colanders ever made from China. Sculptured airplanes out of tin, oil can into airplane lamp, the best she had seen engineered and thought out so far. Exquisite sense of gadgetry, the tiny, the large, wear ever forever in there for the flow of their lives.

terça-feira, 28 de setembro de 2010

Mañana me chanto GLIFOSATO nuevo video clip oficial


An international music group from Barcelona, travelling around the world.  Great videos.  Also featuring Aurelio, the Dog.

domingo, 8 de agosto de 2010

The Three Silphiums

Once upon a time, more than ten years ago, a friend from West Virginia came to the Eastern Shore of Maryland with a gift of three tiny, scraggly native plants called Silphiums. Today they are doing well in the garden, favorites of mine, the birds, the bees and the butterflies.


All three develop deep tap roots, the ability to endure rough weather, bright sunflower like yellow blooms, great structural form in winter and a definite desire to attract wildlife of the flying kind in all seasons.


Large, strong plants with a controversial past, one is considered invasive in New England, another made the endangered list in Michigan, the third is known for medicinal properties – all three silphiums enchant my place and will, I hope, choose to stay. Or as I like to think of them, the plants for the future of gardens,reminders of the great prairie spaces inhabited by buffalo in the Midwest, of ancient days when ferns were trees, and clubfoot pine grew to heights unimagined.


Cup plant (Silphium perfoliatum)



A water needy plant, yet it grows well in my yard, it multiplies (happily, it invades) with our disturbing and alternate regime of drought and flood. I do set the hose and water it for ten minutes, when things get truly bad. Tiger swallowtails, black swallowtails, monarchs, cabbage white, skippers and a myriad of bees and wasps play and feed with the mineral water sweet nectar food of the flowers.



Silphium perfoliatum quenches the thirst of an infinite number of insects. While photographing butterflies, I am always careful of the wasps and spiders hovering and crawling about. The common name refers to the intersection of the square stem and rounded leaves, where a virtual drinking vessel is formed. (Photo above)


I do not collect seeds because the plants self seed and spread. In my garden this is desirable and I enjoy the tall showy mass of yellows in flower. It is threatened in Michigan and considered invasive in Connecticut.


Prairie Dock (Silphium terebinthinaceum)

The second Silphium is Prairie Dock. Silphium terenbithinaceum, or the one that contains turpentine. It sends roots down deep and survives harsh drought conditions. Rough leaves spread out in a rosette and strong stalks reach up for the sky in multiple yellow blooms. This year it is starting to bloom only now, later than in other years. I fotographed the flowers for the first time and have not seen butterflies there yet.


Compass Plant (Silphium laciniatum)


Then we come to the forgotten one, the endangered one – the Compass plant. Described in the literature as a guiding companion to explorers, it blooms in July and August here. Favorite perch for goldfinches in the fall, when seeds are ready and plentiful.


When young it reminds me of the tropical Monsteras deliciosas of my teen years, house plants in the Northern Hemisphere, but wilderness statements in the South.




The Compass Plant sends strong shoots up into the blue sky and it blooms, like sunflowers tend to bloom. The stalks are so heavy they eventually fall. I leave them on the ground and have seen early spring birds feeding on the seeds.


In a recent article in the Missouri Conservationist, Carol Davit explains how the basal leaves arrange themselves in a North South direction so as to maximize exposure to the morning sun and conserve energy during the heat of the day.


The Compass plant is my wild companion, it dies in winter and I wonder every year if it will come back to grace my territory. So far, for some twelve years, it has. This year I will try to propagate it by seed.


segunda-feira, 26 de julho de 2010

Ritual dos beijinhos

Beijos de papel


As borboletas, aos jardins, aos amigos, aos gatos, aos cachorros, aos passarinhos,
e aos rituais dos beijinhos.


Um beijo, então
Beijinho
Grande, apertado abraço
Beijo beijão por hora
Um super beijo
Um enorme beijo
Beijaço


Beijo com cheiro de saudade
Abraços e mais abraços
Beijos, beijos
Te envio beijos
Saudosos 
Carinhosos
Beijin


C’est ça ma petite, baisers
Bons sonhos mon cher
Saudadinha
Três beijos alternados
Kisses na correria
Bracitos
Pitani bwino


Um beijo divertido pras borboletas
outro pro Rio de Janeiro,
Saudades coloridas
Gracias por tudo
No amor de mais uma lua cheia


Beijocas pra ti


Bacci baccini.



Um poeminha desenhado inteiramente
dos beijos virtuais
de cinco anos
de correios eletrônicos

quarta-feira, 7 de julho de 2010

Mistaken Identities


If the larvae of Monarch butterflies (Danaus plexippus) are dependent on the Milkweed (Asclepias species) for survival, how come they have devoured my entire supply of parsley and of dill?  Milkweed is just down the road a few steps...

Iconoclast caterpillars?
Ah, no, not quite. In my human zeal I even attempted to move the last caterpillar to the milkweed patch.



Similar but not the same as Monarchs, these were Black Swallowtail larvae (Papilio polyxenes) that like to feed on dill, fennel, parsley, celery and other plants from the Umbelliferae family. At least, that is what my body of evidence suggests.


Within ten days or so, I witnessed the return of what looked to be the Progenitor of them all and soon, vibrant colorful swallowtails started to fly in the garden.


Today I found the third batch of larvae.
Great fun to learn to stay away from the nets, unwarranted urge to protect and interfere in transformation.

sábado, 3 de julho de 2010

July 3, 2010



Revelations inside the borders of the solar plexus


Life awakening



Still clinging to the dew beauty of dream, once more I wake up to fright, gasping at dawn, one more time alone and lost. Pinned to this bed by the gothic ceilings of this caravelle, this oh, so beautiful house. The gardens of my enchantment and of the butterflies, a country that was a stranger to me and that is now mine. I am a citizen of this community, in the more mundane sense, having sworn to the truth of wanting to stay.


I breathe and from the air that enters my body, the feeling of alone penetrates. I breathe and watch my face, open pores of nose, skin color of marzipan, a hair growing in the wart, the mouth demanding deeper and deeper air to stop this daily ache in the awakening of my days. Of my aloness, in my body, I breathe, I feel.


On the road maybe to my end in this bed made of my own body. On the road I have no desire because desire does not work in this journey.


The insight to feel, to breathe,


so as to be alive, to get over this fright of life and death. To accept, in the awake and in this breath that ageing is to know how to inhabit one’s own body. In this morning and moment I do not have the body of others as my aim, my own physical body is what composes me.


Of the bodies of others I know they compose music, sex, vibrations, love, the words of art, friendships, marriages, falling out of love, the people, relationships, all that which in illusion makes me corporeal.


In this instant, I do not need the bodies of others to be. I do not relate. I enter inside my own body, I recognize a borderline in this morning of mine. My unique possibility to inhabit my own time and to age. To have some peace.

quinta-feira, 1 de julho de 2010

Aprendizados

Quinta-feira, 1 de julho de 2010



Waking up
June 30, 2010


Revelação nas fronteiras do plexo-solar
e na vida do acordar

Acordo para mais um susto, apêrto do plexo solar, sufôco no amanhecer, mais uma vez, mais um dia, sózinha e perdida. Ainda apegada a fantasia do sereno dos meus sonhos. Nessa cama, deitada diante desses tetos altos e góticos deste veleiro, nessa casa tão bonita, com tanta beleza. No jardim dos meus encantos e das borboletas, num país que era estranjeiro pra mim e que agora é também meu. Sou cidadã dessa comunidade, no sentido mais mundano da palavra, até prestei juramento na verdade do querer ficar.


Respiro, e do ar no acordar que entra dentro do meu corpo, entra o sentir do só que entra dentro. Ao respirar enxergo a minha cara de perto, o nariz respirando, a pele côr de marsipã sem tintura, os poros abertos, os cabelos nas verrugas, a bôca pedindo ar para parar a dôr no plexo solar diário dos meus dias,

Do meu corpo, do meu só. Sou eu respirando e sentindo, talvez até a caminho do meu fim.

A caminho não tenho desejos porque desejar o que não tenho não funciona.








Na revelação sentir, respirar para poder estar viva, para ultrapassar o susto de viver e de morrer. Aceitar, no acordar e no respiro, que envelhecer é saber estar dentro do meu corpo próprio.

Nessa manhã e instante não tenho o corpo dos outros como meu proposito, o corpo físico meu é o que me compõe.


Do corpo dos outros o que sei é que compoem a música, o sexo, as vibrações, o amor, enfim, o palavreado da arte, as amizades, os casamentos, os disamores, o povo, os relacionamentos que na ilusão nos fazem corpóreos.

Tem a ver com o meu envelhecer,
a minha possibilidade unica
de habitar o meu tempo.



me dar paz.

domingo, 20 de junho de 2010

Dreams

Grandes sonhos pontuam meus pensamentos

no fazer dormir
a inocência
do meu querer.



Fantasmagoric dreams place periods
onto my thoughts
lullabye to sleep
the innocence
of my wants.

segunda-feira, 7 de junho de 2010


Árvores tombadas


Tramas, enrêdos, cenas, capítulos
protagonistas, heróis, vilãos e piratas
podem habitar o espaço branco da página
das árvores tombadas.

Mas não o poema.

O poema precisa pousar breve
respirar leve a sombra delas
pedir perdão pelo pedaço nosso
que arrancou da floresta


se enterrar
no esquecimento do castelo,
na selva da memória.


Fallen trees


Plot, characters, scenes, chapters,
protagonists, heroes, villains and pirates,
can populate the blank page
of dead trees.


But not the poem.


The poem must rest briefly
in their shade
take a breath,
ask forgiveness for the chunk it takes away
from us and from the forest


disappear inside,
the composting jungle of memory.

 
Original & translation by Erica Weick

sexta-feira, 4 de junho de 2010

Amazing Grace

In the forget

life is here

composted
compounded confused
geometric tantric fields of sky
landscape dream cloud
in elephant shape

sliding away (as clouds tend to)
from three generations
of women and many of their men
waltzing to Cohen
and to Lorca


amazing grace light green of spring
swell of pregnant poppies
tight solar plexus
creeping happily
in the forget


dance of summer

here
is wonder in waiting
willing wish


life wanting to stay.


May 2010
Erica Weick as the scribe



Nossa Senhora das Graças
dos esquecimentos
da vida aqui

compostada
complicada confusa
em planos geométricos
tântricos das paisagens do céu
em nuvens de elefantes

deslizando (como só as nuvens sabem)
por três gerações de mulheres
e muitos de seus homens
valsando ao som de Lorca
e de Cohen

Nossa Senhora das Graças
luz clara verde de primavera
das papoulas grávidas
do apêrto na boca do coração

se insinuando
nessa felicidade do esquecer
da dança do verão

aqui
na surprêsa do esperar
do querer saber

da vida querendo ficar

Tradução da autora

quarta-feira, 28 de abril de 2010

Patterns - Padrões:

A importância de nós e o jeito certo de dobrar uma rêde

Paulo Velho, rapaz da Paraíba, não só nos ensinou como dobrar uma rêde mas nos ensinou como tirar nó delas. Essa rêde da foto tinha dois nós muito antigos, daqueles desbotados que já parecia que faziam parte dela. O Paulo Velho soprou três vezes e isso é importante. Depois, em menos de cinco minutos e com a ajuda de um prego grande, desatou os dois nós e tirou todos aqueles enrôlos e amarrados que tôda as rêdes tem. Conta que foi com a Mãe dêle que aprendou, lá na Paraiba. Essencial, dizia ela, notar que uma rêde sem nós tem dono sem nó na vida, e vice versa.

O dobrar segue o exemplo dos velejadores – dobre como se fôsse uma vela.

The importance of knots and the right way to fold a hammock

Paulo Velho (The Old One), a young man from the state of Paraíba taught us not only how to properly fold a hammock, but also how to remove its knots. The hammock in this photo had two ancient knots so discolored and tight they seemed to be part of it. He blew three times on each knot and that is important. Then, in less than five minutes and with the help of a long nail, he untied the knots and untangled the strings. He tells us his Mother taught him this, back north in Paraiba. Essential to know, she used to say, that a hammock without knots has an owner who has no knots in his life, and vice-versa.

The folding pattern is the same sailors follow, in a sailing boat, when folding a sail for the winter.

domingo, 21 de março de 2010

Borboletando na Mata: Asas para que?


Visões

E volto ao princípio. Isso tudo começou com uma curiosidade insistente e um bate papo de e-mail com um amigo sôbre um enxame de Monarcas que êle avistou dentro de um terreno baldio, na cidade de São Paulo, na zona sul, perto da embaixada americana, a alguns anos atrás. Foi quando descobri que o algodãozinho do campo (Asclepias curassavica) era primo das asclepias nossas, em Maryland, nos Estados Unidos, e que as Monarcas, embora originárias das Américas, estariam hoje espalhadas pelo mundo inteiro. A sua sobrevivência nas Américas continua ameaçada porcausa da destruição de seu habitat.

As asas das borboletas Monarca me lembram dos desenhos dos tecidos vendidos no Borneo e na costa leste da Africa. Vale a pena visitar o site dos insetos (em inglês) para mais padrões(patterns). 

Asas para quê? Forma segue função ?

A meu ver, pouco sabemos sôbre as borboletas. Sabemos que elas, quando em repouso, quase sempre mantem as asas fechadas, as bruxas as mantem abertas. 
As asas abertas delas podem ter cores mais vivas que assinalam camuflagem ou veneno aos predatores. As asas fechadas enviam sinais subliminares bastante diferentes para as outras borboletas.

Imagine as asas delas construidas em duas camadas feitas de um material fininho e transparente chamado quitina, a mesma substancia que cobre os camarões.

Essas camadas estão esticadas sobre uma teia estrutural composta de veias tubulares que servem para conduzir os liquidos que sugam do polen, das flores, das frutas e do barro. Essas veias tambem funcionam como respiração.

Quem sabe até servem para pensar?

Nos machos, as asas contem escamas especializadas que produzem e soltam feronomas, a androconia que vai atrair as fêmeas.


As asas podem emitir raios ultravioletas que somente serão vistos por outras borboletas através de longas distâncias.

Pesquizas recentes sugerem que os cristais fotônicos presentes nas asas se comportam como luzes de LED.  

Cristais Fotonicos e Coletores Solares

Explica a cientista Fernanda Boletto em seu belo blog Bala magica:
 "...as cores que vemos estampadas nas asas de muitos gêneros de borboletas, como a morfo azul, ... se devem a estruturas nanométricas altamente organizadas (parecidas com plaquinhas). ...Essas plaquinhas fazem com que a luz que bate nelas seja espalhada apenas em certas direções e em certos comprimentos de onda, e é isso que vai definir a cor que veremos. O grau de organização das plaquinhas é parte fundamental desse processo, porque os espaços entre elas são exatamente da mesma dimensão que o comprimento de onda da luz espalhada. ...Os físicos chamam as estruturas nanométricas que espalham luz e causam o efeito de iridescência, de cristais fotônicos. Cada asa de borboleta possui diferentes tipos de cristais fotônicos: alguns mais organizados, que resultam na cor azul, outros menos organizados, que resultam na cor verde..."

Cientistas japoneses e chineses usam o padrão das asas de borboletas como bio-modelos para coletores solares mais eficientes. Testes em laboratório mostram que os coletores solares presentes nas asas de borboletas absorvem a luz de maneira mais eficiente do que as células convencionais.

Só no Brasil, mais de 3.500 espécies de borboletas já foram descritas, e muitas estão ainda a serem descobertas. Hoje pelo menos 57 espécies reconhecidas de Lepidopteras estão ameaçadas de extinção.

A cada dia novas descobertas apontam para os limites do nosso conhecimento dessas criaturas, que a meu ver, são parte peixe, parte pássaro e parte nós.

Pó de fada?
O que me espanta é que continuamos a estimular a cultura da caça delas.

O sociologo polônes Sygmund Bauman dizia numa entrevista recente a revista Cult da UFMG que "a utopia dos caçadores não oferece sentido nenhum a vida, verdadeira ou fraudulenta". Êle fala de nossa modernidade como a era metafórica dos jardineiros que conhecem e sabem como tratar de seus jardins.


As borboletas, como os sapos, são marcadores ambientais pois são extremamente suscetíveis aos abusos meio-ambientais e refletem a saúde de um lugar. Uma única aplicação de agro-toxicos como o famoso Round Up pode destruir gerações inteiras destes insetos, pois destroe a fonte de seu alimento e de suas fontes liquidas, tanto das lagartas como dos insetos adultos.


E aquele pozinho cintilante que fica nos nossos dedos quando pegamos as borboletas "Ai que linda, parece uma fada!", aquele pozinho faz parte integral da pele dela, faz parte de seu sistema auditivo, tactil, do seu sistema sexual.


Cada toque destroe mil escamas – é como se uma lixa de aço passasse com força no nosso braço e abrisse na marra os poros. Ou se alguem puxasse meu cabelo e arrancasse um bocado. Dá pra perceber.

Guia das ilustrações e fotos:
 "Population Genetics" de "Biology Today", um texto de biologia de 1972. Visite tambem o blogue Ajourneyroundmyskull para mais ilustrações divertidas.

Borboletas por ordem de entrada:
Lagarta da Monarca em Asclepias curassavica; Diatheria Clymena ou "88"; Hamadryas Vermelha ou Estaladeira Vermelha; Não identificada na amoreira; Morpho?; Adelpha; Não identificada no pé de mamão; Fritilaria Baunilha do Golfo