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To me, you


Chained

Paulo Mendes Campos

Who collects stamps for the son's friend, who wakes at dawn and shudders in disgust yourself by remembering that for many years struck he loved, and who cries at the movies to see the reunion of father and son, who holds no fear and a lizard makes a caress with the fingers, and who stands in the way to see the best wildflower, who laughs at their own wrinkles , who decides to apply himself to the study of a dead language after a failure sentimental seekers in the city traces of the city now, and whoever is left touching the symbol door closed, sewing clothes for whom Lazarus, who sends dolls to the daughters of Lazarus, who tells a little visit family: My dad just loved this chair, who sends books to prisoners, who are moved to see that go from white head or that, or master teacher, who was the beast of the college, who chooses to sell fresh vegetables for the canary, who remembers every day of the dead, who never neglects the rites of friendship, and who guard if offered her , the lighter that no longer work, and who, not having the habit of drinking, turn your phone on the second international whiskey in order to chat with a friend or girlfriend, who collects rocks, bottles and withered branches; who spend more than ten minutes to perform magic for children, who keep the letters of engagement with a tape, who knows how to build a good fire, and whoever comes in delicate trance in front of old trunks, mosses and lichens of: who seeks to decipher the design of the glyph of the timber there, and who is not shy of finding the going down of the sun perfection: he loosed into a smile at the sight of a waterfall, and who takes seriously the ocean liners that pass, those who visit the places they were alone was happy or unhappy, and who suddenly frees the birds from the pond, who feels sorry for the loved one and can not explain why, guess who thinks the thought of the horse, they are all convicts tenderness and walk everywhere in chains, tied to trap small loves of land.

Text excerpted from "The Drunken Angel," Sabia Publisher - Rio de Janeiro, 1969, pg. 105.

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private Lexicon - These Guys Women


This anxiety (sf) No reason to be but is rigid and unforgiving. Resumption date of old habits and old-time children. This concomitance

(sf) entries that unites all words of the lexicon. Also present at some moments of life in relation to others' feelings.

This wigging (sf) Rara word, but remarkable. It is preferable in moments of forgetfulness. Or not. This carelessness

(sf) is part of the universe what-could-have-been. Is very present in what we call day-to-day. Very common over time, art and knowledge. It requires some nerve. This inconstancy

(sf) word that sounds familiar, it feeds on my words, my writings, my being. It's like an eye that opens and closes - the transformation. My hands do not know what to do.
This indecision
(sf) Present in various moments of the flavor of tea to choose the uncertain future and details of words. Permeates even the most significant events of a lifetime.

this melancholy the (sf) The incidence of this term is seasonal. (For clarification, see: This inconstancy)

This loneliness (sf) One word heaviest in the world of words. 'Solitude' outweighs 'time' that 'world' and that 'truth'. Just do more than 'forgiveness'.

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Tourist in my province

The prospect of the city changes completely when you are a tourist. In this condition, everything has a magical air: the doves, the beggars, the old, the roofs, poles, sidewalks, buses, transit, taxis, trees, bicycles, street performers, prostitutes, dogs and rain. Even the overcast sky has its charm when one is a stranger.

course, everything is absolutely new. Not so. I travel every year to Recife, I've seen and reviewed all its fine landscapes. But whenever I return, I feel that their small details are infinitely more entertaining than those of my city. I can argue that Curitiba is not exactly a fun and beautiful place, which becomes an untruth painful when I realize that I lack the prying eyes of tourists to see it for real.

One day I decided to try. I vaguely remembered from my travels: the street from Recife to São Paulo taxi drivers, Caruaru Fair to 42nd Street in New York the night on the pier to the cups recifense y tapas in Madrid and saw the gaucho Portuguese bucolic countryside. When you breathe these memories, I had the distinct feeling I was careful observer of these places, but they are just memory. Curitiba is real, tangible. The map is not drawn, are intricate in the brain.

With that in mind, I put my specs 'tourist' and went out to walk the 'XV' in camera in hand, by the book. Without preconceived ideas, I managed to find the beautiful flight of doves Santos Andrade, the beggars of the Riachuelo, Bolivians bagpipers, the living statues and poets who love the moon. Until the political campaign I've enjoyed: I took all the saints. I saw so many beautiful things, wonderful, stupendous. I went by Largo - ask to take my picture with the fountain - I entered the cathedral and made purchases at Casa China. Then take a small sightseeing 'by Rui Barbosa, the Tiradentes by Rua 24 Horas (I found it charming to be closed). So I went into the tube and caught the biarticulated, thinking everything is great. I walked in the Botanical and went home.

The next day, I was developing the film: it was burned. From my tour of Curitiba nothing left. Upon leaving the store, there in the confusion of Marshal Deodoro thought everything so banal, that wanderlust.

* Chronicle produced for Journalistic Writing III

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Diazepam

New design blog, The Diazepam, in fact, we stop this project. The new blog Diazepam unites the forces of seven daring journalism students UFPR, including yours truly. The idea is daily postings, one author per day. There is a definite theme, speaks what is in the heart: can be a chronic, an outburst, a theoretical text, a complaint, a report etc etc etc. I call Saturday, Sunday Iasa Monique is faceless Sunday, Chico Tides is a sunny Monday (Garfield does not have time). Mari is a sweet Cioffi Tuesday and Amanda Audi makes the most pleasant Wednesdays. The youngest Fábio Pupo lends his gravelly voice on Thursdays and Sandoval Poletto your text sharp on Fridays. Expected to continue for many weeks.

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Lexicon particular: Languishing



The orange sky, eyes closed; rare peace. Moments until the silence that has name restir to quiet, stir, still. The silence of the orange sky I name languor, finding it impossible that life is made of something other than poetry.