I’ve cried for you
So many times
I’ve cried for you
Daughter of Eve
Will you forgive?
For all those times
I’ve failed to you
And cried for you
One step behind
One hand beyond
I sense you’ve gone
And I’m alone
My heart in pain
Makes me insane
I can’t breathe
The lover gasps
The dream met an end
It wasn’t just a friend
It wasn’t just the passion
It was a chemical reaction
It was his young love
That raised all above
The values of his life
But she was decided
And walked into the light
She gave up the fight
To find peace inside
I’ve cried for you
So many times
I’ve cried for you
Daughter of Eve
Will you forgive?
For all those times
I’ve failed to you
And cried for you
I didn’t hold your hand
On the very end
I couldn’t let you go
I didn’t whisper hope
Or throw you another rope
To save you from the edge
But now I’ll pledge
To my heart, soul and mind
I promise I will find
Your bed in heaven
domingo, fevereiro 01, 2009
quinta-feira, janeiro 29, 2009
Continuando o espírito de partilha.
Emily Haines & the Soft Skeleton - Our Hell
Mais uma música, e uma banda a ser partilhada.
The Lost Sanjak - Um conto de Saki
The prison Chaplain entered the condemned's cell for the last time,
to give such consolation as he might.
"The only consolation I crave for," said the condemned, "is to tell
my story in its entirety to some one who will at least give it a
respectful hearing."
"We must not be too long over it," said the Chaplain, looking at his
watch.
The condemned repressed a shiver and commenced.
"Most people will be of opinion that I am paying the penalty of my
own violent deeds. In reality I am a victim to a lack of
specialisation in my education and character."
"Lack of specialisation!" said the Chaplain.
"Yes. If I had been known as one of the few men in England familiar
with the fauna of the Outer Hebrides, or able to repeat stanzas of
Camoens' poetry in the original, I should have had no difficulty in
proving my identity in the crisis when my identity became a matter
of life and death for me. But my education was merely a moderately
good one, and my temperament was of the general order that avoids
specialisation. I know a little in a general way about gardening
and history and old masters, but I could never tell you off-hand
whether 'Stella van der Loopen' was a chrysanthemum or a heroine of
the American War of Independence, or something by Romney in the
Louvre."
The Chaplain shifted uneasily in his seat. Now that the
alternatives had been suggested they all seemed dreadfully possible.
"I fell in love, or thought I did, with the local doctor's wife,"
continued the condemned. "Why I should have done so, I cannot say,
for I do not remember that she possessed any particular attractions
of mind or body. On looking back at past events if seems to me that
she must have been distinctly ordinary, but I suppose the doctor had
fallen in love with her once, and what man had done man can do. She
appeared to be pleased with the attentions which I paid her, and to
that extent I suppose I might say she encouraged me, but I think she
was honestly unaware that I meant anything more than a little
neighbourly interest. When one is face to face with Death one
wishes to be just."
The Chaplain murmured approval. "At any rate, she was genuinely
horrified when I took advantage of the doctor's absence one evening
to declare what I believed to be my passion. She begged me to pass
out of her life, and I could scarcely do otherwise than agree,
though I hadn't the dimmest idea of how it was to be done. In
novels and plays I knew it was a regular occurrence, and if you
mistook a lady's sentiments or intentions you went off to India and
did things on the frontier as a matter of course. As I stumbled
along the doctor's carriagedrive I had no very clear idea as to what
my line of action was to be, but I had a vague feeling that I must
look at the Times Atlas before going to bed. Then, on the dark and
lonely highway, I came suddenly on a dead body."
The Chaplain's interest in the story visibly quickened.
"Judging by the clothes it wore, the corpse was that of a Salvation
Army captain. Some shocking accident seemed to have struck him
down, and the head was crushed and battered out of all human
semblance. Probably, I thought, a motor-car fatality; and then,
with a sudden overmastering insistence, came another thought, that
here was a remarkable opportunity for losing my identity and passing
out of the life of the doctor's wife for ever. No tiresome and
risky voyage to distant lands, but a mere exchange of clothes and
identity with the unknown victim of an unwitnessed accident. With
considerable difficulty I undressed the corpse, and clothed it anew
in my own garments. Any one who has valeted a dead Salvation Army
captain in an uncertain light will appreciate the difficulty. With
the idea, presumably, of inducing the doctor's wife to leave her
husband's roof-tree for some habitation which would be run at my
expense, I had crammed my pockets with a store of banknotes, which
represented a good deal of my immediate worldly wealth. When,
therefore, I stole away into the world in the guise of a nameless
Salvationist, I was not without resources which would easily support
so humble a role for a considerable period. I tramped to a
neighbouring market-town, and, late as the hour was, the production
of a few shillings procured me supper and a night's lodging in a
cheap coffee-house. The next day I started forth on an aimless
course of wandering from one small town to another. I was already
somewhat disgusted with the upshot of my sudden freak; in a few
hours' time I was considerably more so. In the contents-bill of a
local news sheet I read the announcement of my own murder at the
hands of some person unknown; on buying a copy of the paper for a
detailed account of the tragedy, which at first had aroused in me a
certain grim amusement, I found that the deed ascribed to a
wandering Salvationist of doubtful antecedents, who had been seen
lurking in the roadway near the scene of the crime. I was no longer
amused. The matter promised to be embarrassing. What I had
mistaken for a motor accident was evidently a case of savage assault
and murder, and, until the real culprit was found, I should have
much difficulty in explaining my intrusion into the affair. Of
course I could establish my own identity; but how, without
disagreeably involving the doctor's wife, could I give any adequate
reason for changing clothes with the murdered man? While my brain
worked feverishly at this problem, I subconsciously obeyed a
secondary instinct--to get as far away as possible from the scene of
the crime, and to get rid at all costs of my incriminating uniform.
There I found a difficulty. I tried two or three obscure clothes
shops, but my entrance invariably aroused an attitude of hostile
suspicion in the proprietors, and on one excuse or another they
avoided serving me with the now ardently desired change of clothing.
The uniform that I had so thoughtlessly donned seemed as difficult
to get out of as the fatal shirt of--You know, I forget the
creature's name."
"Yes, yes," said the Chaplain hurriedly. "Go on with your story."
"Somehow, until I could get out of those compromising garments, I
felt it would not be safe to surrender myself to the police. The
thing that puzzled me was why no attempt was made to arrest me,
since there was no question as to the suspicion which followed me,
like an inseparable shadow, wherever I went. Stares, nudgings,
whisperings, and even loud-spoken remarks of 'that's 'im' greeted my
every appearance, and the meanest and most deserted eating-house
that I patronised soon became filled with a crowd of furtively
watching customers. I began to sympathise with the feeling of Royal
personages trying to do a little private shopping under the
unsparing scrutiny of an irrepressible public. And still, with all
this inarticulate shadowing, which weighed on my nerves almost worse
than open hostility would have done, no attempt was made to
interfere with my liberty. Later on I discovered the reason. At
the time of the murder on the lonely highway a series of important
bloodhound trials had been taking place in the near neighbourhood,
and some dozen and a half couples of trained animals had been put on
the track of the supposed murderer--on my track. One of our most
public-spirited London dailies had offered a princely prize to the
owner of the pair that should first track me down, and betting on
the chances of the respective competitors became rife throughout the
land. The dogs ranged far and wide over about thirteen counties,
and though my own movements had become by this time perfectly well-
known to police and public alike, the sporting instincts of the
nation stepped in to prevent my premature arrest. "Give the dogs a
chance," was the prevailing sentiment, whenever some ambitious local
constable wished to put an end to my drawn-out evasion of justice.
My final capture by the winning pair was not a very dramatic
episode, in fact, I'm not sure that they would have taken any notice
of me if I hadn't spoken to them and patted them, but the event gave
rise to an extraordinary amount of partisan excitement. The owner
of the pair who were next nearest up at the finish was an American,
and he lodged a protest on the ground that an otterhound had married
into the family of the winning pair six generations ago, and that
the prize had been offered to the first pair of bloodhounds to
capture the murderer, and that a dog that had 1/64th part of
otterhound blood in it couldn't technically be considered a
bloodhound. I forget how the matter was ultimately settled, but it
aroused a tremendous amount of acrimonious discussion on both sides
of the Atlantic. My own contribution to the controversy consisted
in pointing out that the whole dispute was beside the mark, as the
actual murderer had not yet been captured; but I soon discovered
that on this point there was not the least divergence of public or
expert opinion. I had looked forward apprehensively to the proving
of my identity and the establishment of my motives as a disagreeable
necessity; I speedily found out that the most disagreeable part of
the business was that it couldn't be done. When I saw in the glass
the haggard and hunted expression which the experiences of the past
few weeks had stamped on my erstwhile placid countenance, I could
scarcely feel surprised that the few friends and relations I
possessed refused to recognise me in my altered guise, and persisted
in their obstinate but widely shared belief that it was I who had
been done to death on the highway. To make matters worse,
infinitely worse, an aunt of the really murdered man, an appalling
female of an obviously low order of intelligence, identified me as
her nephew, and gave the authorities a lurid account of my depraved
youth and of her laudable but unavailing efforts to spank me into a
better way. I believe it was even proposed to search me for
fingerprints."
"But," said the Chaplain, "surely your educational attainments--"
"That was just the crucial point," said the condemned; "that was
where my lack of specialisation told so fatally against me. The
dead Salvationist, whose identity I had so lightly and so
disastrously adopted, had possessed a veneer of cheap modern
education. It should have been easy to demonstrate that my learning
was on altogether another plane to his, but in my nervousness I
bungled miserably over test after test that was put to me. The
little French I had ever known deserted me; I could not render a
simple phrase about the gooseberry of the gardener into that
language, because I had forgotten the French for gooseberry."
The Chaplain again wriggled uneasily in his seat. "And then,"
resumed the condemned, "came the final discomfiture. In our village
we had a modest little debating club, and I remembered having
promised, chiefly, I suppose, to please and impress the doctor's
wife, to give a sketchy kind of lecture on the Balkan Crisis. I had
relied on being able to get up my facts from one or two standard
works, and the back-numbers of certain periodicals. The prosecution
had made a careful note of the circumstance that the man whom I
claimed to be--and actually was--had posed locally as some sort of
second-hand authority on Balkan affairs, and, in the midst of a
string of questions on indifferent topics, the examining counsel
asked me with a diabolical suddenness if I could tell the Court the
whereabouts of Novibazar. I felt the question to be a crucial one;
something told me that the answer was St. Petersburg or Baker
Street. I hesitated, looked helplessly round at the sea of tensely
expectant faces, pulled myself together, and chose Baker Street.
And then I knew that everything was lost. The prosecution had no
difficulty in demonstrating that an individual, even moderately
versed in the affairs of the Near East, could never have so
unceremoniously dislocated Novibazar from its accustomed corner of
the map. It was an answer which the Salvation Army captain might
conceivably have made--and I made it. The circumstantial evidence
connecting the Salvationist with the crime was overwhelmingly
convincing, and I had inextricably identified myself with the
Salvationist. And thus it comes to pass that in ten minutes' time I
shall be hanged by the neck until I am dead in expiation of the
murder of myself, which murder never took place, and of which, in
any case, I am innocent."
* * *
When the Chaplain returned to his quarters some fifteen minutes
later, the black flag was floating over the prison tower. Breakfast
was waiting for him in the dining-room, but he first passed into his
library, and, taking up the Times Atlas, consulted a map of the
Balkan Peninsula. "A thing like that," he observed, closing the
volume with a snap, "might happen to any one."
(está em inglês porque é extremamente difícil encontrar um texto de Saki, ou Hector Munro como preferirem, que esteja em português)
to give such consolation as he might.
"The only consolation I crave for," said the condemned, "is to tell
my story in its entirety to some one who will at least give it a
respectful hearing."
"We must not be too long over it," said the Chaplain, looking at his
watch.
The condemned repressed a shiver and commenced.
"Most people will be of opinion that I am paying the penalty of my
own violent deeds. In reality I am a victim to a lack of
specialisation in my education and character."
"Lack of specialisation!" said the Chaplain.
"Yes. If I had been known as one of the few men in England familiar
with the fauna of the Outer Hebrides, or able to repeat stanzas of
Camoens' poetry in the original, I should have had no difficulty in
proving my identity in the crisis when my identity became a matter
of life and death for me. But my education was merely a moderately
good one, and my temperament was of the general order that avoids
specialisation. I know a little in a general way about gardening
and history and old masters, but I could never tell you off-hand
whether 'Stella van der Loopen' was a chrysanthemum or a heroine of
the American War of Independence, or something by Romney in the
Louvre."
The Chaplain shifted uneasily in his seat. Now that the
alternatives had been suggested they all seemed dreadfully possible.
"I fell in love, or thought I did, with the local doctor's wife,"
continued the condemned. "Why I should have done so, I cannot say,
for I do not remember that she possessed any particular attractions
of mind or body. On looking back at past events if seems to me that
she must have been distinctly ordinary, but I suppose the doctor had
fallen in love with her once, and what man had done man can do. She
appeared to be pleased with the attentions which I paid her, and to
that extent I suppose I might say she encouraged me, but I think she
was honestly unaware that I meant anything more than a little
neighbourly interest. When one is face to face with Death one
wishes to be just."
The Chaplain murmured approval. "At any rate, she was genuinely
horrified when I took advantage of the doctor's absence one evening
to declare what I believed to be my passion. She begged me to pass
out of her life, and I could scarcely do otherwise than agree,
though I hadn't the dimmest idea of how it was to be done. In
novels and plays I knew it was a regular occurrence, and if you
mistook a lady's sentiments or intentions you went off to India and
did things on the frontier as a matter of course. As I stumbled
along the doctor's carriagedrive I had no very clear idea as to what
my line of action was to be, but I had a vague feeling that I must
look at the Times Atlas before going to bed. Then, on the dark and
lonely highway, I came suddenly on a dead body."
The Chaplain's interest in the story visibly quickened.
"Judging by the clothes it wore, the corpse was that of a Salvation
Army captain. Some shocking accident seemed to have struck him
down, and the head was crushed and battered out of all human
semblance. Probably, I thought, a motor-car fatality; and then,
with a sudden overmastering insistence, came another thought, that
here was a remarkable opportunity for losing my identity and passing
out of the life of the doctor's wife for ever. No tiresome and
risky voyage to distant lands, but a mere exchange of clothes and
identity with the unknown victim of an unwitnessed accident. With
considerable difficulty I undressed the corpse, and clothed it anew
in my own garments. Any one who has valeted a dead Salvation Army
captain in an uncertain light will appreciate the difficulty. With
the idea, presumably, of inducing the doctor's wife to leave her
husband's roof-tree for some habitation which would be run at my
expense, I had crammed my pockets with a store of banknotes, which
represented a good deal of my immediate worldly wealth. When,
therefore, I stole away into the world in the guise of a nameless
Salvationist, I was not without resources which would easily support
so humble a role for a considerable period. I tramped to a
neighbouring market-town, and, late as the hour was, the production
of a few shillings procured me supper and a night's lodging in a
cheap coffee-house. The next day I started forth on an aimless
course of wandering from one small town to another. I was already
somewhat disgusted with the upshot of my sudden freak; in a few
hours' time I was considerably more so. In the contents-bill of a
local news sheet I read the announcement of my own murder at the
hands of some person unknown; on buying a copy of the paper for a
detailed account of the tragedy, which at first had aroused in me a
certain grim amusement, I found that the deed ascribed to a
wandering Salvationist of doubtful antecedents, who had been seen
lurking in the roadway near the scene of the crime. I was no longer
amused. The matter promised to be embarrassing. What I had
mistaken for a motor accident was evidently a case of savage assault
and murder, and, until the real culprit was found, I should have
much difficulty in explaining my intrusion into the affair. Of
course I could establish my own identity; but how, without
disagreeably involving the doctor's wife, could I give any adequate
reason for changing clothes with the murdered man? While my brain
worked feverishly at this problem, I subconsciously obeyed a
secondary instinct--to get as far away as possible from the scene of
the crime, and to get rid at all costs of my incriminating uniform.
There I found a difficulty. I tried two or three obscure clothes
shops, but my entrance invariably aroused an attitude of hostile
suspicion in the proprietors, and on one excuse or another they
avoided serving me with the now ardently desired change of clothing.
The uniform that I had so thoughtlessly donned seemed as difficult
to get out of as the fatal shirt of--You know, I forget the
creature's name."
"Yes, yes," said the Chaplain hurriedly. "Go on with your story."
"Somehow, until I could get out of those compromising garments, I
felt it would not be safe to surrender myself to the police. The
thing that puzzled me was why no attempt was made to arrest me,
since there was no question as to the suspicion which followed me,
like an inseparable shadow, wherever I went. Stares, nudgings,
whisperings, and even loud-spoken remarks of 'that's 'im' greeted my
every appearance, and the meanest and most deserted eating-house
that I patronised soon became filled with a crowd of furtively
watching customers. I began to sympathise with the feeling of Royal
personages trying to do a little private shopping under the
unsparing scrutiny of an irrepressible public. And still, with all
this inarticulate shadowing, which weighed on my nerves almost worse
than open hostility would have done, no attempt was made to
interfere with my liberty. Later on I discovered the reason. At
the time of the murder on the lonely highway a series of important
bloodhound trials had been taking place in the near neighbourhood,
and some dozen and a half couples of trained animals had been put on
the track of the supposed murderer--on my track. One of our most
public-spirited London dailies had offered a princely prize to the
owner of the pair that should first track me down, and betting on
the chances of the respective competitors became rife throughout the
land. The dogs ranged far and wide over about thirteen counties,
and though my own movements had become by this time perfectly well-
known to police and public alike, the sporting instincts of the
nation stepped in to prevent my premature arrest. "Give the dogs a
chance," was the prevailing sentiment, whenever some ambitious local
constable wished to put an end to my drawn-out evasion of justice.
My final capture by the winning pair was not a very dramatic
episode, in fact, I'm not sure that they would have taken any notice
of me if I hadn't spoken to them and patted them, but the event gave
rise to an extraordinary amount of partisan excitement. The owner
of the pair who were next nearest up at the finish was an American,
and he lodged a protest on the ground that an otterhound had married
into the family of the winning pair six generations ago, and that
the prize had been offered to the first pair of bloodhounds to
capture the murderer, and that a dog that had 1/64th part of
otterhound blood in it couldn't technically be considered a
bloodhound. I forget how the matter was ultimately settled, but it
aroused a tremendous amount of acrimonious discussion on both sides
of the Atlantic. My own contribution to the controversy consisted
in pointing out that the whole dispute was beside the mark, as the
actual murderer had not yet been captured; but I soon discovered
that on this point there was not the least divergence of public or
expert opinion. I had looked forward apprehensively to the proving
of my identity and the establishment of my motives as a disagreeable
necessity; I speedily found out that the most disagreeable part of
the business was that it couldn't be done. When I saw in the glass
the haggard and hunted expression which the experiences of the past
few weeks had stamped on my erstwhile placid countenance, I could
scarcely feel surprised that the few friends and relations I
possessed refused to recognise me in my altered guise, and persisted
in their obstinate but widely shared belief that it was I who had
been done to death on the highway. To make matters worse,
infinitely worse, an aunt of the really murdered man, an appalling
female of an obviously low order of intelligence, identified me as
her nephew, and gave the authorities a lurid account of my depraved
youth and of her laudable but unavailing efforts to spank me into a
better way. I believe it was even proposed to search me for
fingerprints."
"But," said the Chaplain, "surely your educational attainments--"
"That was just the crucial point," said the condemned; "that was
where my lack of specialisation told so fatally against me. The
dead Salvationist, whose identity I had so lightly and so
disastrously adopted, had possessed a veneer of cheap modern
education. It should have been easy to demonstrate that my learning
was on altogether another plane to his, but in my nervousness I
bungled miserably over test after test that was put to me. The
little French I had ever known deserted me; I could not render a
simple phrase about the gooseberry of the gardener into that
language, because I had forgotten the French for gooseberry."
The Chaplain again wriggled uneasily in his seat. "And then,"
resumed the condemned, "came the final discomfiture. In our village
we had a modest little debating club, and I remembered having
promised, chiefly, I suppose, to please and impress the doctor's
wife, to give a sketchy kind of lecture on the Balkan Crisis. I had
relied on being able to get up my facts from one or two standard
works, and the back-numbers of certain periodicals. The prosecution
had made a careful note of the circumstance that the man whom I
claimed to be--and actually was--had posed locally as some sort of
second-hand authority on Balkan affairs, and, in the midst of a
string of questions on indifferent topics, the examining counsel
asked me with a diabolical suddenness if I could tell the Court the
whereabouts of Novibazar. I felt the question to be a crucial one;
something told me that the answer was St. Petersburg or Baker
Street. I hesitated, looked helplessly round at the sea of tensely
expectant faces, pulled myself together, and chose Baker Street.
And then I knew that everything was lost. The prosecution had no
difficulty in demonstrating that an individual, even moderately
versed in the affairs of the Near East, could never have so
unceremoniously dislocated Novibazar from its accustomed corner of
the map. It was an answer which the Salvation Army captain might
conceivably have made--and I made it. The circumstantial evidence
connecting the Salvationist with the crime was overwhelmingly
convincing, and I had inextricably identified myself with the
Salvationist. And thus it comes to pass that in ten minutes' time I
shall be hanged by the neck until I am dead in expiation of the
murder of myself, which murder never took place, and of which, in
any case, I am innocent."
* * *
When the Chaplain returned to his quarters some fifteen minutes
later, the black flag was floating over the prison tower. Breakfast
was waiting for him in the dining-room, but he first passed into his
library, and, taking up the Times Atlas, consulted a map of the
Balkan Peninsula. "A thing like that," he observed, closing the
volume with a snap, "might happen to any one."
(está em inglês porque é extremamente difícil encontrar um texto de Saki, ou Hector Munro como preferirem, que esteja em português)
quarta-feira, janeiro 28, 2009
Mea Culpa
Porque raio é que me acontecem sempre destas coisas comigo? Quando tenho mais coisas para fazer e o tempo corre, é quando me lembram de outras obrigações como uma conta de e-mail onde estão 350 mails para ler. Peço desculpa aos senhores da Amazon, Hispavista, e de um monte de outros produtos que costumam encher a minha caixa de correio com promoções, desde a flores.pt, ou erosfarma. Sim eu já ofereci lingerie e flores pelo correio.
A todos aqueles que tenho negligenciado nos últimos tempos, com pouca presença ou informações, e talvez um simples "como está? passou bem?", e que não se comportem em pessoas colectivas com o intuito de me fazer gastar dinheiro, peço desculpa por não dar a atenção que merecem. São coisas da vida.
Em minha defesa alego que sou um velho rabugento e com tal conhecimento quero evitar-vos encontros ou situações enfastiantes e com mal estar.
A todos aqueles que tenho negligenciado nos últimos tempos, com pouca presença ou informações, e talvez um simples "como está? passou bem?", e que não se comportem em pessoas colectivas com o intuito de me fazer gastar dinheiro, peço desculpa por não dar a atenção que merecem. São coisas da vida.
Em minha defesa alego que sou um velho rabugento e com tal conhecimento quero evitar-vos encontros ou situações enfastiantes e com mal estar.
E hoje não me calo, mas também sou um gajo estranho.
Ultimamente costumo rir-me muito das minhas próprias piadas e fantasias rocambolescas. Até poderia ser normal, se não fosse o facto de estar sozinho.
Poderá ser indício de distúrbios mentais?
Em minha defesa alego que as piadas são bem giras, e não tinha ninguém ali para rir delas por isso dei uma mãozinha e com a bipolaridade que nos caracteriza cada vez mais hoje em dia desempenhei os dois papeis. Se sabia também tinha tentado o cénico na faculdade.
Poderá ser indício de distúrbios mentais?
Em minha defesa alego que as piadas são bem giras, e não tinha ninguém ali para rir delas por isso dei uma mãozinha e com a bipolaridade que nos caracteriza cada vez mais hoje em dia desempenhei os dois papeis. Se sabia também tinha tentado o cénico na faculdade.
terça-feira, janeiro 27, 2009
Porque no ano de 2009 quero 365 posts.
Os meus princípios só servem para os outros se regerem. Se eu me regesse pelos meus princípios, de certeza que era uma pessoa bem mais feliz e bem sucedida.
Tenho moral para dar e vender, mas não garanto a qualidade visto que não a sei utilizar, se a soubesse utilizar, não a dava e não vendida porque seria um preço bem acima do de mercado.
Sei dar bons conselhos, mas sou mau a segui-los, sou a voz da razão com um ouvido decadente, um ponto cardinal com uma interrogação em cima, sei todos os passos a dar, mas nem sou cambado nem coxo, sou inerte.
É triste. É cruel falar assim de mim, mas no fundo faz-me rir que tenha tanto em mim, e ninguém que me saiba fazer explorar o potencial, porque no que depender de mim começo como um mudo cego, e acabo num surdo gago. Sozinho não vou lá, mas gosto pouco que me incomodem com estas coisas.
Vá-se lá saber.
Tenho moral para dar e vender, mas não garanto a qualidade visto que não a sei utilizar, se a soubesse utilizar, não a dava e não vendida porque seria um preço bem acima do de mercado.
Sei dar bons conselhos, mas sou mau a segui-los, sou a voz da razão com um ouvido decadente, um ponto cardinal com uma interrogação em cima, sei todos os passos a dar, mas nem sou cambado nem coxo, sou inerte.
É triste. É cruel falar assim de mim, mas no fundo faz-me rir que tenha tanto em mim, e ninguém que me saiba fazer explorar o potencial, porque no que depender de mim começo como um mudo cego, e acabo num surdo gago. Sozinho não vou lá, mas gosto pouco que me incomodem com estas coisas.
Vá-se lá saber.
Com cada golpe de lógica.
Não faças hoje o que devias ter feito ontem, faz hoje o que tinhas para fazer amanhã.
Porque a lógica tem destas coisas, e melhor do que remediar é prevenir, então nada melhor que uma prevenção remediada.
Porque a lógica tem destas coisas, e melhor do que remediar é prevenir, então nada melhor que uma prevenção remediada.
Porque nada mais importa se não viveres para a vida.
Olha para o céu e diz que é bonito
Toca no mar e sente o movimento melódico
Dança ao sabor do alegre vento
Encosta-te a uma árvore e sonha
Senta-te na areia e descansa
Deita-te na relva e sente a calma
Entrelaça-te na chuva e vive a esperança
Abraça o tempo e colhe a liberdade
Lança-te na neve e aprecia o espaço
Olha em volta e respira a alegria
Beija-me os lábios e vive, vive para esse momento.
Toca no mar e sente o movimento melódico
Dança ao sabor do alegre vento
Encosta-te a uma árvore e sonha
Senta-te na areia e descansa
Deita-te na relva e sente a calma
Entrelaça-te na chuva e vive a esperança
Abraça o tempo e colhe a liberdade
Lança-te na neve e aprecia o espaço
Olha em volta e respira a alegria
Beija-me os lábios e vive, vive para esse momento.
Expressões portuguesas.
Quem não gosta de uma bela expressão portuguesa de vez em quando? Um dito popular, uma tolice qualquer que nos faz esboçar um sorriso por ser tão tola.
Venho partilhar com vossas excelências que o Zica é um mata-sete, mas por fas e nefas a situação descrita no post anterior é de cortar o nó górdio, pelo qual se entende que lhe tenha dado a filoxera.
Dias melhores se avistam.
Venho partilhar com vossas excelências que o Zica é um mata-sete, mas por fas e nefas a situação descrita no post anterior é de cortar o nó górdio, pelo qual se entende que lhe tenha dado a filoxera.
Dias melhores se avistam.
sexta-feira, janeiro 23, 2009
O mundo quer derrubar-me, mandar-me abaixo...Filho da mãe.
O mundo quer me derrubar, já não tenho a mínima dúvida de tal verdade. Não é ser negativo, nem derrotista, nem o pessimismo de quem está cansado ou farto das coisas.
Hoje tive a derradeira prova que o mundo me quer ver espalhado no chão e de preferência muito mal passado em sangue.
Hoje em 40 minutos enquanto fui de casa às compras, estive para bater com a ferradura no chão ou com o costado, alternando, por 9 vezes. Ouviram bem, em 40 minutos e não mais que 800 metros de caminho, talvez um pouco mais vá, escorreguei, ou patinei, ou tropecei por 9 vezes, sem que o pior se tenha verificado, mas ficando o constante susto e incredibilidade.
Depois de observar tal coisa, fiquei sem dúvidas que o mundo me quer derrubar.
Contra o mundo estão factos como o da sola dos sapatos ser anti-derrapante e bastante aderente ao solo. O facto de não andar a correr ou a saltitar, andar num passo calmo e sem ser muito largo ou irregular. Normalmente levo os olhos sempre postos no chão para evitar pisar cócós, poças de água, pastilhas elástica, tropeçar em pedras, e porque sou tímido.
O caminho não era acidentado, muito do percurso é feito em escadas, pelo qual não existe motivo para este tipo de acidentes. Em escadas só cai ou tropecei quando alcoolizado. Mãe, Pai, ignorem esta parte se faz o favor, e se não ignorarem lembrem-se que também foram um dia jovens inconsequentes.
A favor do mundo, admito que possa ter atado mal os atacadores, mas só provocou um incidente dos 9 por isso nem é grande coisa, o piso alternava entre mosaico, tijoleira e calçada, e isso aliado ao facto de ter chovido e o chão estar molhada, ajuda nas escorregadelas, o que motivou 5 das ameaças de queda. Uma das outras quedas foi um tropeçar nas escadas por estar a olhar para uma menina que passava, não vou dar detalhes sobre a rapariga, mas era de ir ao chão pelo qual aquela se justificava.
Seja como for, podem vocês perguntar, que porra de post desinteressante, qual é a tua paranóia, e o que temos nós a ver com isso. Outros podem ainda dizer que é pena não ter ido de cara ao chão.
Apesar de tudo isso temos de convir que estar para ir ao chão por escorregadelas ou tropeções 9 vezes em 40 minutos, não é nada normal, e é no mínimo insólito para mim. Não sou pessoa de escorregar muito. Para além disso decidi postar isto aqui no blog porque fiquei com medo. Peço a uma alma caridosa que me faça uns sapatos quadrados de cimento para que me mantenha assente na terra.
Hoje tive a derradeira prova que o mundo me quer ver espalhado no chão e de preferência muito mal passado em sangue.
Hoje em 40 minutos enquanto fui de casa às compras, estive para bater com a ferradura no chão ou com o costado, alternando, por 9 vezes. Ouviram bem, em 40 minutos e não mais que 800 metros de caminho, talvez um pouco mais vá, escorreguei, ou patinei, ou tropecei por 9 vezes, sem que o pior se tenha verificado, mas ficando o constante susto e incredibilidade.
Depois de observar tal coisa, fiquei sem dúvidas que o mundo me quer derrubar.
Contra o mundo estão factos como o da sola dos sapatos ser anti-derrapante e bastante aderente ao solo. O facto de não andar a correr ou a saltitar, andar num passo calmo e sem ser muito largo ou irregular. Normalmente levo os olhos sempre postos no chão para evitar pisar cócós, poças de água, pastilhas elástica, tropeçar em pedras, e porque sou tímido.
O caminho não era acidentado, muito do percurso é feito em escadas, pelo qual não existe motivo para este tipo de acidentes. Em escadas só cai ou tropecei quando alcoolizado. Mãe, Pai, ignorem esta parte se faz o favor, e se não ignorarem lembrem-se que também foram um dia jovens inconsequentes.
A favor do mundo, admito que possa ter atado mal os atacadores, mas só provocou um incidente dos 9 por isso nem é grande coisa, o piso alternava entre mosaico, tijoleira e calçada, e isso aliado ao facto de ter chovido e o chão estar molhada, ajuda nas escorregadelas, o que motivou 5 das ameaças de queda. Uma das outras quedas foi um tropeçar nas escadas por estar a olhar para uma menina que passava, não vou dar detalhes sobre a rapariga, mas era de ir ao chão pelo qual aquela se justificava.
Seja como for, podem vocês perguntar, que porra de post desinteressante, qual é a tua paranóia, e o que temos nós a ver com isso. Outros podem ainda dizer que é pena não ter ido de cara ao chão.
Apesar de tudo isso temos de convir que estar para ir ao chão por escorregadelas ou tropeções 9 vezes em 40 minutos, não é nada normal, e é no mínimo insólito para mim. Não sou pessoa de escorregar muito. Para além disso decidi postar isto aqui no blog porque fiquei com medo. Peço a uma alma caridosa que me faça uns sapatos quadrados de cimento para que me mantenha assente na terra.
Ajudinha para despertar.
Musiquinha que ajuda a acordar. Na continuação dos sons viciantes que me fazem mexer.
Move your feet come on..clap your hands come on...
quarta-feira, janeiro 21, 2009
É verdade deve ter custado a levantar.
Não há frio que se espalhe
Debaixo de tal agasalhe
Tão confortável e quentinho
Tudo muito bem encaixadinho
Com almofadas e cobertores
Na cama dos excelso amores
Pode parecer muito saloio
Mas separando o trigo do joio
Eu serei o menos nobre
Falo como o parente pobre
Boca cravada de balbucia
Com penumbras de astucia
Não sou o tolo da aldeia
Nem o carrasco da cadeia
Sou pó no meio de poeira
Não sou filão de peneira
Mas sei de muita coisa
Sabedoria em mim poisa
E já não fazendo nexo
E não falando de sexo
A minha boa sapiência
Diz de plena consciência
Que na cama se está bem
Quentinho e feliz como ninguém
Debaixo de tal agasalhe
Tão confortável e quentinho
Tudo muito bem encaixadinho
Com almofadas e cobertores
Na cama dos excelso amores
Pode parecer muito saloio
Mas separando o trigo do joio
Eu serei o menos nobre
Falo como o parente pobre
Boca cravada de balbucia
Com penumbras de astucia
Não sou o tolo da aldeia
Nem o carrasco da cadeia
Sou pó no meio de poeira
Não sou filão de peneira
Mas sei de muita coisa
Sabedoria em mim poisa
E já não fazendo nexo
E não falando de sexo
A minha boa sapiência
Diz de plena consciência
Que na cama se está bem
Quentinho e feliz como ninguém
terça-feira, janeiro 20, 2009
Filmes para ver durante a vida.
Por causa do Dexter, anda ai uma discussão aguerrida sobre filmes entre a malta. Pegando no assunto decidi tirar uns minutos de pausa e escrever algo sobre isso.
Este post não têm o intuito de caracterizar, definir, ou impor, uma ideia, um gosto, um padrão.
Vejo pessoas a dizer que o Pulp Fiction é o melhor filme de sempre, não concordo mas compreendo. Não concordo porque não é o meu filme favorito, mas compreendo porque é sem dúvida um filme de culto.
Decidi assim from the top of my head, fazer uma lista, e disponibiliza-la aos caros leitores, onde encaixe aqueles filmes que eu acho que toda a gente devia tentar ver durante a vida. Sem ordem de valor, sem preferência gostava de deixar aqui uma lista dos filmes que já vi e acho que todos deveriam tentar se possível, com paciência, e só em tom de recomendação, visionar num dia de acalmia em casa.
The Godfather - O Padrinho - colecção inteira
Shawshank Redemption - Condenados de Shawshank
Schindler's List - Lista de Shcindler
Goodfellas - Tudo Bons Rapazes
Scent of Woman - Perfume de Mulher
Reservoir Dogs - Cães Danados
My Left Foot - O meu pé esquerdo
In Name of the Father - Em nome do Pai
Pulp Fiction - Pulp Fiction
American Beauty - Beleza Americana
One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest - Voando sobre um ninho de cucos
Amadeus - Amadeus
Departed
Vitta è Bella - A vida é Bela
The Pianist - Pianista
Full Metal Jacket - Nascido para Matar
Memento - Memento
2001 A Space Odyssey - 2001 Odisseia no Espaço
Clockwork Orange - Laranja Mecânica
Barry Lyndon
Raging Bull - Toiro Enraivecido
Taxi Drive - Taxi Driver
Cinderella Man
Batman - The Dark Knight - Cavaleiro das Trevas
Million Dollar Baby
The Insider
The Machinist
Psycho
The Green Mile
Forrest Gump
Blade Runner
Scarface
Mulholland Drive
The Devils Advocate
Fargo
Gladiator
Platoon
Deer Hunter
Apocalypse Now
Amores Perros
Todo Sobre mi Madre
Snatch
The Prestige
3:10 to Yuma
Cinema Paraiso
Crash
Good Will Hunting
The Game - O Jogo
The Shining
Mystic River
Star Wars
Lord of The Rings - Senhor dos Anéis
Cidade de Deus
Tropa de Elite
The Usual Suspects - Suspeitos do Costume
Fight Club
Se7en - Seven
American History X
Fabuleux Destin d'Amelie Poulain
Casino
Heat
L.A. Confidential
Lost in Translation
Beautiful Mind
Babel
Sleepers
James Bond
Bourne - colecção
Youth Without Youth
E muitos mais que me esqueci de certeza, e que seriam muito óbvios, mas estes foram os que me vieram à cabeça, e me dizem alguma coisa de momento.
Este post não têm o intuito de caracterizar, definir, ou impor, uma ideia, um gosto, um padrão.
Vejo pessoas a dizer que o Pulp Fiction é o melhor filme de sempre, não concordo mas compreendo. Não concordo porque não é o meu filme favorito, mas compreendo porque é sem dúvida um filme de culto.
Decidi assim from the top of my head, fazer uma lista, e disponibiliza-la aos caros leitores, onde encaixe aqueles filmes que eu acho que toda a gente devia tentar ver durante a vida. Sem ordem de valor, sem preferência gostava de deixar aqui uma lista dos filmes que já vi e acho que todos deveriam tentar se possível, com paciência, e só em tom de recomendação, visionar num dia de acalmia em casa.
The Godfather - O Padrinho - colecção inteira
Shawshank Redemption - Condenados de Shawshank
Schindler's List - Lista de Shcindler
Goodfellas - Tudo Bons Rapazes
Scent of Woman - Perfume de Mulher
Reservoir Dogs - Cães Danados
My Left Foot - O meu pé esquerdo
In Name of the Father - Em nome do Pai
Pulp Fiction - Pulp Fiction
American Beauty - Beleza Americana
One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest - Voando sobre um ninho de cucos
Amadeus - Amadeus
Departed
Vitta è Bella - A vida é Bela
The Pianist - Pianista
Full Metal Jacket - Nascido para Matar
Memento - Memento
2001 A Space Odyssey - 2001 Odisseia no Espaço
Clockwork Orange - Laranja Mecânica
Barry Lyndon
Raging Bull - Toiro Enraivecido
Taxi Drive - Taxi Driver
Cinderella Man
Batman - The Dark Knight - Cavaleiro das Trevas
Million Dollar Baby
The Insider
The Machinist
Psycho
The Green Mile
Forrest Gump
Blade Runner
Scarface
Mulholland Drive
The Devils Advocate
Fargo
Gladiator
Platoon
Deer Hunter
Apocalypse Now
Amores Perros
Todo Sobre mi Madre
Snatch
The Prestige
3:10 to Yuma
Cinema Paraiso
Crash
Good Will Hunting
The Game - O Jogo
The Shining
Mystic River
Star Wars
Lord of The Rings - Senhor dos Anéis
Cidade de Deus
Tropa de Elite
The Usual Suspects - Suspeitos do Costume
Fight Club
Se7en - Seven
American History X
Fabuleux Destin d'Amelie Poulain
Casino
Heat
L.A. Confidential
Lost in Translation
Beautiful Mind
Babel
Sleepers
James Bond
Bourne - colecção
Youth Without Youth
E muitos mais que me esqueci de certeza, e que seriam muito óbvios, mas estes foram os que me vieram à cabeça, e me dizem alguma coisa de momento.
sexta-feira, janeiro 16, 2009
Be Happy..Dance like a crazy..
Para a minha irmã dançar quando quiser sorrir e não pensar em nada.
;)
Saudades para esta música.
quarta-feira, janeiro 14, 2009
Ai vem a fera brava. Pleonasmo? Um bocadinho...
Alguém andou a chatear o Zica?
É que começam a provocar o rapaz e depois querem que eu tenha unhas para o agarrar e impedir de fazer estragos. Peço desculpa meus amigos, mas estão por vossa conta. Importunaram o rapaz, agora levam com ele.
É que começam a provocar o rapaz e depois querem que eu tenha unhas para o agarrar e impedir de fazer estragos. Peço desculpa meus amigos, mas estão por vossa conta. Importunaram o rapaz, agora levam com ele.
quarta-feira, janeiro 07, 2009
Novo vício musical
What did you learn today? (I learned nothin')
What did you do today? (I did nothin')
What did you learn at school? (I didn't go)
Why didn't you go to school? (I don't know)
It's cool to know nothin'
It's cool to know nothin'
Television's on the blink (there's nothin' on it)
I really wanna really big coat (with words on it)
What do you want for tea? (I want crisps)
Why didn't you join the team? (I just didn't)
It's cool to know nothin'
It's cool to know nothin'
Take a look, take a look, take a look at the
Kids on the street
No they never miss a beat
No they never miss a beat
Never miss a beat
Never miss a beat-beat, beat-beat
Take a look at the kids on the street
No they never miss a beat
No they never miss a beat
Never miss a beat
Never miss a
Never miss a beat
Never miss a beat
Here comes the referee (the light's flashin')
Best bit of the day (now that's livin')
Why don't you run away? (are you kiddin'?)
What is the golden rule? (you say nothin')
It's cool to know nothin'
It's cool to know nothin'
Take a look, take a look, take a look at the
Kids on the street
No they never miss a beat
No they never miss a beat
Never miss a beat
Never miss a beat-beat, beat-beat
Take a look at the kids on the street
No they never miss a beat
No they never miss a beat
Never miss a beat
Never miss a
Never miss a beat
Never miss a beat
Take a look, take a look, take a look at the
Kids on the street
No they never miss a beat
No they never miss a beat
Never miss a beat
Never miss a beat-beat, beat-beat
Take a look at the kids on the street
No they never miss a beat
No they never miss a beat
Never miss a beat
Never miss a
Never miss a beat
Never miss a beat
Kaiser Chiefs - Never Miss a Beat
What did you do today? (I did nothin')
What did you learn at school? (I didn't go)
Why didn't you go to school? (I don't know)
It's cool to know nothin'
It's cool to know nothin'
Television's on the blink (there's nothin' on it)
I really wanna really big coat (with words on it)
What do you want for tea? (I want crisps)
Why didn't you join the team? (I just didn't)
It's cool to know nothin'
It's cool to know nothin'
Take a look, take a look, take a look at the
Kids on the street
No they never miss a beat
No they never miss a beat
Never miss a beat
Never miss a beat-beat, beat-beat
Take a look at the kids on the street
No they never miss a beat
No they never miss a beat
Never miss a beat
Never miss a
Never miss a beat
Never miss a beat
Here comes the referee (the light's flashin')
Best bit of the day (now that's livin')
Why don't you run away? (are you kiddin'?)
What is the golden rule? (you say nothin')
It's cool to know nothin'
It's cool to know nothin'
Take a look, take a look, take a look at the
Kids on the street
No they never miss a beat
No they never miss a beat
Never miss a beat
Never miss a beat-beat, beat-beat
Take a look at the kids on the street
No they never miss a beat
No they never miss a beat
Never miss a beat
Never miss a
Never miss a beat
Never miss a beat
Take a look, take a look, take a look at the
Kids on the street
No they never miss a beat
No they never miss a beat
Never miss a beat
Never miss a beat-beat, beat-beat
Take a look at the kids on the street
No they never miss a beat
No they never miss a beat
Never miss a beat
Never miss a
Never miss a beat
Never miss a beat
Kaiser Chiefs - Never Miss a Beat
terça-feira, janeiro 06, 2009
Momentos de Demência pelos Gatinhos
ODE AO GATINHO
Miau Miau Miau
Miau Miau
Miau Miau Miau
Miau Miau ... Miau rnhau nhau nhau
Miau FSSSTTT FSSSTTT Miau
RRRRRRRrrrrrrrr FSST Miau
Miau Miau Miau Miau Miau
Miau Miau
COF COF Miau PEWWW PEWWW
MIAU MIAU OINK
RNHAUU NHAU NHAU FSSSTT FSSSTTT
MIAU MIAU
FSST FSSST RRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRrrrrrrrr MIAU
COF COF Miau FSSSTTT Miau
RHAU nhau NHAU FSSST Miau Miau
segunda-feira, janeiro 05, 2009
Uma questão de honra.
Temos entre nós uma leitora que passa a vida a dizer mal da nossa rádio só porque não sabe baixar o som das suas próprias colunas.
Como é óbvio, principalmente para quem nos conhece, nós no NQO levamos as coisas a mal, e somos uns sacanas vingativos. Ninguém diz mal do nosso blog. Criticar os escribas, tudo bem, eles padecem de auto estima pelo que o efeito seria o mesmo que dar banho a um rio. Dizer mal da rádio do blog? Das poucas coisas porque já fomos elogiados mais que uma vez? Não te ficas a rir sua malvada, tudo o que disseste de mal vai se virar contra ti.
Vou reunir todas as formas de contacto com esta senhora e disponibiliza-las aqui no blog, e faço o apelo que lhe digam das boas, que a repreendem, e que se façam ouvir em nossa defesa. Isto é um apelo às nossas tropas que formam uma legião de fãs do nosso blog. Caros leitores, não se deixem ficar, não a deixem a rir de soslaio, protestem e façam-lhe a vida negra com comentários cheios de indignação e um leve toque de ralhete.
A tua hora aguarda-te sua malvada.
Como é óbvio, principalmente para quem nos conhece, nós no NQO levamos as coisas a mal, e somos uns sacanas vingativos. Ninguém diz mal do nosso blog. Criticar os escribas, tudo bem, eles padecem de auto estima pelo que o efeito seria o mesmo que dar banho a um rio. Dizer mal da rádio do blog? Das poucas coisas porque já fomos elogiados mais que uma vez? Não te ficas a rir sua malvada, tudo o que disseste de mal vai se virar contra ti.
Vou reunir todas as formas de contacto com esta senhora e disponibiliza-las aqui no blog, e faço o apelo que lhe digam das boas, que a repreendem, e que se façam ouvir em nossa defesa. Isto é um apelo às nossas tropas que formam uma legião de fãs do nosso blog. Caros leitores, não se deixem ficar, não a deixem a rir de soslaio, protestem e façam-lhe a vida negra com comentários cheios de indignação e um leve toque de ralhete.
A tua hora aguarda-te sua malvada.
Subscrever:
Mensagens (Atom)