11 de novembro de 2009
Bored
All those times I was bored
out of my mind. Holding the log
while he sawed it. Holding
the string while he measured, boards,
distances between things, or pounded
stakes into the ground for rows and rows
of lettuces and beets, which I then (bored)
weeded. Or sat in the back
of the car, or sat still in boats,
sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel
he drove, steered, paddled. It
wasn't even boredom, it was looking,
looking hard and up close at the small
details. Myopia. The worn gunwales,
the intricate twill of the seat
cover. The acid crumbs of loam, the granular
pink rock, its igneous veins, the sea-fans
of dry moss, the blackish and then the graying
bristles on the back of his neck.
Sometimes he would whistle, sometimes
I would. The boring rhythm of doing
things over and over, carrying
the wood, drying
the dishes. Such minutiae. It's what
the animals spend most of their time at,
ferrying the sand, grain by grain, from their tunnels,
shuffling the leaves in their burrows. He pointed
such things out, and I would look
at the whorled texture of his square finger, earth under
the nail. Why do I remember it as sunnier
all the time then, although it more often
rained, and more birdsong?
I could hardly wait to get
the hell out of there to
anywhere else. Perhaps though
boredom is happier. It is for dogs or
groundhogs. Now I wouldn't be bored.
Now I would know too much.
Now I would know.
.
Margaret Atwood
.
out of my mind. Holding the log
while he sawed it. Holding
the string while he measured, boards,
distances between things, or pounded
stakes into the ground for rows and rows
of lettuces and beets, which I then (bored)
weeded. Or sat in the back
of the car, or sat still in boats,
sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel
he drove, steered, paddled. It
wasn't even boredom, it was looking,
looking hard and up close at the small
details. Myopia. The worn gunwales,
the intricate twill of the seat
cover. The acid crumbs of loam, the granular
pink rock, its igneous veins, the sea-fans
of dry moss, the blackish and then the graying
bristles on the back of his neck.
Sometimes he would whistle, sometimes
I would. The boring rhythm of doing
things over and over, carrying
the wood, drying
the dishes. Such minutiae. It's what
the animals spend most of their time at,
ferrying the sand, grain by grain, from their tunnels,
shuffling the leaves in their burrows. He pointed
such things out, and I would look
at the whorled texture of his square finger, earth under
the nail. Why do I remember it as sunnier
all the time then, although it more often
rained, and more birdsong?
I could hardly wait to get
the hell out of there to
anywhere else. Perhaps though
boredom is happier. It is for dogs or
groundhogs. Now I wouldn't be bored.
Now I would know too much.
Now I would know.
.
Margaret Atwood
.
Gustave Jean Jacquet
um olhar atento
. Boo, Forever
Spinning like a ghost
on the bottom of a
top,
I'm haunted by all
the space that I
will live without
you.
.
Richard Brautigan
.
on the bottom of a
top,
I'm haunted by all
the space that I
will live without
you.
.
Richard Brautigan
.
10 de novembro de 2009
George Freeman
da nostalgia
. O Jardineiro Míope
(recordado por Ana Paula Pinto Lourenço)
.
O jardineiro míope levanta-se às cinco horas e vai dar alpista às flores
a seguir rega os pássaros
e enquanto vai regando vai dizendo:
"Que bem cantam as minhas papoulas!"
Um dia a Liga das Senhoras mais Bondosas do Mundo
teve um gesto malvado
e ofereceu óculos ao jardineiro míope
que ajustou implacavelmente as imagens
perdeu toda a poesia
e viu tudo de maneira tão clara
que teve a ideia escura de pedir um emprego de funcionário público
enquanto a presidente da Liga
da Liga mais Bondosa
mais bondosa do mundo
subia para o céu
e se sentava à mão direita de Deus Padre
que lhe enfiou uma bofetada divina
que todos nós ouvimos em forma de trovão.
.
Sidónio Muralha
.
.
O jardineiro míope levanta-se às cinco horas e vai dar alpista às flores
a seguir rega os pássaros
e enquanto vai regando vai dizendo:
"Que bem cantam as minhas papoulas!"
Um dia a Liga das Senhoras mais Bondosas do Mundo
teve um gesto malvado
e ofereceu óculos ao jardineiro míope
que ajustou implacavelmente as imagens
perdeu toda a poesia
e viu tudo de maneira tão clara
que teve a ideia escura de pedir um emprego de funcionário público
enquanto a presidente da Liga
da Liga mais Bondosa
mais bondosa do mundo
subia para o céu
e se sentava à mão direita de Deus Padre
que lhe enfiou uma bofetada divina
que todos nós ouvimos em forma de trovão.
.
Sidónio Muralha
.
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