Conversas com minha mãe

Aniversario de 95 em 2013

Conversas com minha mãe

BH 21 de julho de 2011

Bruma seca

Sou eu que estou errada ou é o clima?

Minha mãe me fala das poeiras cósmicas que embaçam tudo, fazem parte do lusco fusco do fim da tarde, quando as portas devem estar fechadas para que esta sujeira cinzenta não entre pra dentro de casa, embaçando a vista, fazendo a sinusite doer, os ouvidos não ouvirem.

O sol no fim da tarde, ao se por, empurra esta sujeira cósmica dos malfeitos para dentro de nossas casas. São coisas que vão durar até que cheguem as chuvas pra limpar. 

Esta bruma seca.

 

 

CAPTIONS TO CARTOONS

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,
Reposted and revisited in 2013

BRAZILIAN RAIN

Rain falls

fast oily rain

big drops of

rain that wets you

juices to the bone

It must be Brazilian rain

it must be rain from home

 

 

 

 

CURANDEIRO DA ILHA - FALLEN BUT NOT DEAD

FALLEN BUT NOT DEAD WARRIOR

THE ISLAND FLOWERS/ AS FLORES DA ILHA

CASA DA ARANHA, AUGUST 2013

 

 

AS IT STANDS

As it stands

 

I do not wish to have a nation in me

 

no more.

As it stands,

 

I do not wish to have a city,

(urban legends to soothe me)

no more.

 

Brick on brick I wish for open ended walls

 

to meet the breeze on swaying grasses,

In open fields,

the sweat and speed of common labor,

the piercing thought of thought in common,

The common bond,

The common beat of human heart.

And given that I will then create

a nation of one with my surroundings,

a family of many youngsters with the rocks,

a place with birds among the spoil of cats,

a place of gentle stay in hurricane.

 

A clear place of sotto voice and not a muttering,

a place of a capella,

a paradise and hell in one.

 

 

 

 

Erica Weick

 

 

 

SLIVERS

"It is foolish to approach the infinite as if it is a product of the finite world. The infinite is primary. It is an inevitability of nature. The finite world follows in its wake. The finite we experience is a secondary component. And at some level we all know this." Harris.

 

In vindication for all my religious and mystical thoughts

about everything and about nothing
I will pour my poetry on to you
like a liquid with no vessel to contain it
Wonder and invent you
almost be romantic about you

And in the end

you and I will fall flat
between slivers in a parallel universe
a mundo splashed side by side
like treasures in a chest hunt
gift for the other

we will travel,

we will imagine,
die and compost
in the same no place at all
in the beginning
of earth and of dirt.

 

Erica Weick