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Month: September, 2012

writing as reading, too

somehow writing is a form of reading although writing is solitary…reading and writing are sweet solitudes…writing is an expression with words, in strictu sensu…writer is whom tell a story in coutless ways, one can tell a story at the same time the story is invented, or remembered, as when we tell a story as a lullaby for a child feel secure and sleep…my grandmother was a great storyteller for me…I care her so much…an adult is a child that grown up, I try to stay always connected with the child inside me…and in nowadays most of the time I tell stories for me for me fell me secure and get fall asleep…fiction and art and play has it’s function, the function of superpone another world to this world, or, a way to face reality creating countless realities…future is shaped in this way, and future is a black lion…as the blue rose, black lion does not exist in nature, but they exist in imagination…perhaps the fine expression of wishes and the main builder of confidence in future is imagination, and future may be a rainbowlike…future does exist now?, I guess no, definitely for me…future is random one, serendipitous one, unprevionable one, chance, but future does exist on our souls, in my soul…as a wish, a deep wish grounded in a strong good will and hard work…future is building and invention, imagination and dream, desire and will, work, utmost…somehow future is this constructedness faculty of the human being…far way from prevision, future seems to me envisionment, confidence in human goodness…even if I am telling about my future, as  does exist more than my personal future…the future we want is the main dimension in future issues…what is the future we want?, what is the future I want…I want a better world for all the people and I colaborate for this goal…this needness…this facing the nowadays real world for creating other and lovely world…perhaps there exist a progress related to civilization, but tiny progress…people is the source of art and joy of living, people wellbeing is the main wish I wish daily and work to turn on the streets some walking good…streets are not houses, the city can be a big house someway, but streets are not house…so many people living on the streets in the city I live!…I do something, but everybody can do more, I can work harder for walking on the streets as i walk on the shopping…shopping seems to me a small city…I feel fear of the urban violence…I feel compassion for the people that I see on the streets living there…I can not save the world, I want and I need to live my life, but my life is the life of all of us…my life is not of mine…now, watching through the window I see such a wonderfull moon…full moon, full of hope and full of inspiration in this sunday sundown preparing a brand new night…I like the night, I like the moon, I like the stars, I like the sun, source of the sparkingly moon joy…but the moon and the night are mistress for me…someway the day is a dream for me…and I wake up touched by the moonlight seduction…is my reading of the night and day waves of the life, in this wandering writing…sunny days, moony nights, for dream, for live

just gone live on

I looked now through the window of wisdom and see her, beautiful…the moon, a pregnant full moon, brilliant, sparking a silver light to the world, to me, to you…a full love moon…letting go the deep woes…receiving joy and peace…gratitude, I listen also to the birds that already begun their music as a symphony of simple melody…no thinking…..just feel me alive and me and the moon are one…life is just gone live, every time I can see myself and you…full moon, such a gift!…I can see you, you can see me…I like the nights, the stars, soon a brand new day, if I build the brand, the new and the days, if I am aware of such a wonderful moment, now

the tempest, one week after

the tempest was a ciclone and last for four days ending in three days of strong winds…and till today cold days weather…the winter departure and the printemps arrival…today i see the effects on many things…the place I feel more secure, the chair I lay down to read and meditate and contemplate and pray and sleep sometimes, this nest is not secure as I felt…the water dropped from the tempest rains and reach my chair and my books and my photos and some souvenirs and some little things that I appreciate so much…a liitle book of my mother’s pray…some souvenirs of travels…some manuscripts of three decades ago…this room is empty till today…I lost few books and loved things…I also discovered other things I had forgetted…my second book manuscript, that is dry now…other books…other manuscripts…the notebook of my early age of school register…some appoitments of the teacher, a letter of my mother, a letter of my father…I was a good student and this notebook in handwriting reported to my first year of school at five yeras old age…I read this notebook with great emotion and joy…I feel my mother and my father love and care…I was a happy child…also some photos of my childhood anf family…we are happy…also, some other little precious things…some sea shells…some sand of  the beach of my childhood…some little books on paiting technique of my mother…some souvenirs of the travellings I’ve made…some postscripts of wandering writings and sketches…some poems…moleskine drafts…some fragrances of other time…my longchair is now where it was, with some books around…I must do the needed arrangement in this chamber…it seems secure now…when on the tempest i felt ‘ everything must fall, I not’…’everything can disrupt, but me no’…and one week later my house is still in a working progress…my little garden is well…the flowers are coming with the printemps…during the tempest I stayed in good stand…sensing the cold, the water in my feets, the songs of thw winds…some wind’s crying, some wind’s strenght, some winds songs, and the wind and his song is music for me…the cold of these nowadays days turn on sunny days…I like the sun…I feel close to the moon…the moon is in the crescent phase, almost full moon, I would write, the moon is almost full moon, the moon is pregnant!…but the tempest in despite of danger for people and my concerns and help, the tempest resembled the point of turning point weather…dramatic manifestations of nature…beautiful manifestations of a new season…I want to appreciate the summer days, I have conditioned air craft…but I guess the four seasons seems like my life as I feel me in winter after a large autumn period of changes, deep changes, and today, three months after my last goodbye to my mother I feel her and my father happy…I feel me happy…I am alive!…I don’t know what is life…life is to be lived, life is not a matter for thinking…in the rescue of my chair and books during the tempest for a while I felt the beauty of the thunders, of the rain, of the winds…like wings leading me to the high way ahead…the future…the future is a wish…far away from destiny, future is soul freedom, future is joyful…the days ahead are good days itself, or may be good days…disregarding destiny and chance, my choice is building a beautiful future with a blue rose on the centre of my friendship, the family that each of one can build, the family that is builded daily…the future is like a black lion…the sea, the ocean that refuses no tiver, my loving path…I don’t say goodbye…i like to say I will see you soon, or farewell…i don’t say goodbyes…I should have to say last goodbyes, even though it seems illusion…I don’t say goodbye…I say ‘I love you, I see you soon, I am here, always, we are together always, till the next meeting…’and so on, we are together soon, it is just a pause in between two notes, a rest, a piece of peace,  one note is arrival,  the other note is departure in Sol major, improvising ad libidum, till the never end arrival and departures as a mellow flying of a sea bird in a sunset blue sky with pink streaks…when I see a rainbow, I make a wish: the future I wish, the future I want, the future we want…at least the good sailor sails in tempest seas, but the ocean refuses no seas, no river, no tear

Dixie

I live in the south of the country…in the south of the state…in the south of America…in a petit fleur brazilien…on the road I go always to the south from where I live…I go to an aesthetics of the south…here, the south is cold…some aesthetics of the cold…the south of United States of America is where I found the blues and the southern literature…Dixie and Dixieland is a fictional and an historical and geographical place…I want to mention the work of Michael Kreyling, who writes about the south of the blues and of the literature…he writes about the literature regarding the autenticity of this literary tradition, waving from fiction to historical and non fictional aspects…I like very much his work…the rescue of Dixie songs and writings, tradition and culture…and, however, the south from where I live is cold…this culture produces a song also and a literature shaped by cold…but despite weather differences, the south I mention are two souths, somehow, and one south, from my experience…as the songs and art and literature is a narrative somehow of the surviving and living efforts from the people…the blues is a blue mood always…the nostalgia is a deep soul expression…the narrative is a struggle against many difficulties…perhaps I feel some one south on such diverse regions and culture expressions…here there’s a blues sense in the music, there’s a narrative in art and literature and this narrative in so many expressions is what retain the history and tradition, and the art and literature is the fiction that is a struggle against forgetness and missing human work…somehow Dixie is also a place inside myself…as if on the long road I always go to the south where and when I can find peace in some small sheleter, where I can watch mellow sundowns with pink streaks at the blue horizon… the stars are bright…the moon is a company…the flowers with it’s fragrances…the reveries…the love…the sea and her parfum…shimmy parfum…Dixieland, a place on my soul

wandering

bouquet and fragrances and parfums from a wide range of sources…sea…she…a remembrance…myself…a walking…spaces…places…flowers…dressing…wishes…the tempest…the winds…a season…my office…my house…streets…city…shopping…walking in the shopping watching something, a bouquet capt my attention…this fragrance came from the supermarket…people walking…my sense of direction lead me to flowers…the florist arranged my usual purchase…we talk alot about the roses and it’s colors, but a fragrance was remarkable…’a lily!’, I said to her…she said ‘it’s there, and today arrived a lot’…in a slow approach   I felt the fragrance…a myriad of flowers and a central lily arrangement…this fragrance is some magic for me…the lily picture is pure beauty…there were other plants, but I am not a gardener nor I study Botany, so, even though, I recognize some flowers from it’s fragrances, as some unique parfum on a theater show…sometimes I can link the parfum with the user, almost always a woman…as if I could recognize someone picture from the parfum I feel…in the shopping a rare parfum came from a dress shop…memories in a fragrance…a pitch of my life linked to some fragrances…I like parfums…parfums do not are envisioned, like music…music is not noise nor parfum is something not noticed by myself…I get my flowers and say farewell to the florist…she asked me ‘Mr. what about the blue rose?’…”Oh, there’s not exist in nature, you know…”yeah, but you can feel the fragrance of these roses”’thank’s but I do not make my arrangement with these colors’…there are some new colors of roses…however I say ‘and this rose?…’that is the blue rose I mentioned’…’but it’s not natural, you can see that only few streaks of blue on petals’…’sure, I guess you would like’…’I like, but I like roses from nature. Have a nice day’…and I felt some rare and strong fragrance  of a parfum of reveries of days gone by, the days, because I remember even when I was…in the airport lounge waiting my time to fly…she sit down by my side and we talked about things I don”t remembeer…but her voice and her fragrance is a parfum of joyful moments, memorable moments…when I can talk free with someone like her…she dressed a blue blouse with a  red thread embroidery…the flight was cancelled and a brand fairy night begun…this wandering writing was about the wanderer love…I feel this parfum in the shopping, perhaps a dream day, yesterday…perhaps not…I had some impression of her silhouette near me, but this can be only remembrance, but the parfum not nor the thread embroidery…wanderer and free love resembles the real fragrance that remains not only in my mind

fiction

fiction is a fundamental activity, for surviving, for living…time passage is a fact that make events be forgetted, tradition be missed, past be broken, future be numb, facts or non fiction itself shall be experienced in a sequential way…one event after another…but forgetness is a mind activity…remembering is also a mind activity…….in between fiction, the constructedness work of the soul…it’s impossible live without forgetting and without remembering…and present time is when fiction occurs as a work of making a continuity between past and future, that’s the function of art, reinvention of the  facts in fiction, history in stories, stories in history…forget, live, remember, live, forget, remember and so on in an infinite road…I must be capable of forget and remember, forgetness is not a lost, remember is not bring to today the past like it was, but as fiction modelate it, cause fiction is this soul drive for doing continuity over events discontinuity…I must forget deep woes, but the woes remains inside myself…I must remember my wish of future, the tomorrow, even if tomorrow is fiction…past is non fiction, future is fiction, present today is a mix of both fiction and non fiction…perhaps this occurs when I feel how good events are fast, and how pain and suffering I experirience as never end…in between yesterday and tomorrow the fiction of today…the rest of a sleep night…the dreams…the fiction…only fiction does support the real creating countless realities…art is world shaping, livinf shaping, life shaping…as when one hear that tomorrow is another day…the fiction in the realm of this exclamation is that tomorrow is a brand new day and must be…fiction do the new, fiction support bad or good tomorrows, bad and good news…and like a child…and what is an adult if not a child that grown up?…like a child I feel tomorrow as a new day and a good day…the sentiment of hope is directed to future, and aligned to confidence in the future, I say, confidence in human goodness and destiny goodness…I don’t imagine and no one imagine or desire tomorrow as worst than today…tomorrow is builded as a brand new day, I say also, a very good day, a day better than today or yesterday…as when I tell a story as a lullaby for me to sleep well during some non fiction bad news…during a tempest…after a painful event…even after a wonderful day…tomorrow is fiction and hope builded…tomorrow is good most of the time even when the weather prevision is a tempest…while hearing the thunders I tell a story to a child and to the child inside myself, tomorrow it will appear a rainbow…and when I or you see a rainbow, stop, and make a wish watching to the whole rainbow and in trust wish the wish come true…because truth is a form of fiction, good fiction…good fiction is when hope and trust on our strenght make a wish remains a wish after tomorrow…the last goodbye is tomorrow, the last goodbye of yesterdays shall be sweet memories and neutral remembrances full of gratitude because now I am alive and writing this wsriting…a fiction upon non fiction wandering text in a circunstance of the now and now is eternity, a pitch of eternity, an instant of eternity…beginning and end are fiction…now is what we do with eternity…eternity is a split of the now, now…so, fiction is a fabulation that makes the human being do and build a better tomorrow…tomorrow may be a brand new day, and will be, now I feel this way…and more, now I want this way…fiction is a will power…fiction is our good will power and tomorrow is utmost what I wish and I wish loveliness, peace and freedom…my autobiography and biography are somehow the same fiction good will and hope…I feel my life now as with no beginning and no end…fiction and non fiction  although fiction is the continuity of the good and lovely against the discontinuity and the non sense…fiction creates sense, and is not delusion nor dream, but confidence in goodness and in human good core heart…tomorrow may be a brand new world…art is linked to fiction and art is a step by step work against emptness and non sense…art is the bulding of a better tomorrow, now…art is the building of a brand new world, now and ever

book leaves drying

and so the leaves of my second book are pending in the drier craft with winds waves moving it, each page is dry now, and I could read my book…incomplete yet…I wrote these pages on 2007 and the experience was good, cause it seems a book not writen by myself,  although regarding and identifying certain phrases as mine…this book does not have a title, perhaps ‘the tempest’, but it has not a title…a book must not have a title, but I like titles…I don’t remember the titles I’ve named it yet…some leaves are unwritten cause the force of ciclone, and this push me to continue writing it…I don’t know what is the main theme of this book, somehow wandering writings…in a sample page I’ve read a quotation from Montaigne, ‘there are worst things than death’, and this rediscovery put me close to my writings and readings…no neighbours were affected and I was able to help if needed…I was helped for people that are beautiful people, common people, and this is the gift in this garbage, people solidarity..people sentiment….people emotion…people action…an older woman visit me to get her consolation…she is a eighty four years old woman…she lives alone with soeone who cares for her…her visit is another gift of this ciclone…now I listen the sounds od the winds sounding a special music for all and I guess the leaves of the book lesten this wind too and perhaps the book is writing itself through the nature’s elements…water, air, earth, fire…and the fire here is the heat of the sun…today is a  blue coloful sky sunny day…with this gift, the community does exist, even if appears in a ciclone event…the force of the elements of nature and of the human goodness…love is a petit blue flower inside our hearts, so petit that is forgetted most of the time…and this narrative is a form of elaboration of a ciclone in my life…love is a ciclone in my soul

tempest, day after

and the winter is on departure…for printemps arrival…in between, a tempest…in fact, a ciclone…the water of the rainny five days was strong and entered part of my house…reached my personal library and my personal lounge, the room I stay for reading, listening music, do nothing, meditate and so on…and on tuesday night that ciclone reached my inner house…I did what I have to did…afterall I was noticing that I could safe the most…but some fourty book and another papers I lost…my second fiction book pages written in hand manuscript is now pending in the winds and sunlight…and I put some pages in a drier…for the rescue of some valued things for me…some posts of travelling, some little books, some drafts of old times…my chair is dry now…the room is dry now…the ciclone reachs me at home…it’s a painful experience…but I guess that in any event I can take some wisdom…as if there is some gift in garbage…I know that wisdom is not an instant perception…somehow some sequence of events elaboration…everything around me can fall, but I stay myself, I do not fall nor failed on my care of my things…at the night, tuesday, when ciclone was strong and sounding winds pictured a storm paisage, everything around me seems to be dropped by water of rains and winds, minus me, I stayed serene, and by morning I call for help…today the weather is good, the printemps arrived, and I see my second fiction book pending on the drier craft moving with thw winds waves…somehow this picture is good…I am welll…the house is right…and i could make tasks that I did know I could do…somehow I realize that there’s a gift in any garbage, the gift of challenge…and these events in this narrative are true although it resembled a nightmare looking back…but I live today and look ahead…tomorrow is another challenge full of gifts…I arranged most of the books and papers and i am prepared for another tempest…thunders…rain…water…that the winds force dried and the sunlight helped…welcome printemps

reader practice

reading is somehow also writing…a book does exist if readed, and I realize that reading is also a sweet solitude…love is somehow a sweet solitude…reading and writing are closer…both are a dialogue…both are two people talking…when this talking is good, it’s hard to stop…there must exist time…this need I feel, time…no matter what is time, reading and writing as art performance requires time…love needs time, when in love the time goes fast…there’s no exist fast love…love is a longing path…as a bird at sea mellow flying…when I read art I can fly…when I write I can fly…when I stay close to art, my daily living is a sweet arrival and departure from me to you…some loveliness journey…no beginning…no end…just loving…any word I read, any word I write, any word I listen, any human love expression is a wonderful trip…if a mellow song, without words, any movement with kindness…any human love gesture is supreme courage…love seems an art

love is freedom too

it’s very interesting and good listen people, read what people write, know what people read, how people live…in a short talk I hear an opinion about contemporary relantionships, especially regarding date, family and marriage…and it seems that in nowadays the things are very different comparing to thirty or fourty years later…I don’t feel this way, nor in my life neither in people live…what does occur is that in nowadays the freedom relating love and date inspires fear…be free is very difficult and simple, be free is an inner and outer hard work, recquires self love and respect and the same relating other self…an interesting writer called this ‘water love’, meaning in my interpretation that the boundaries are not very clear and the limits also relating to love relationships, even romantic relationships…and I feel that what changed from old times is exactly the freedom relating to how feel and share love…however, love is always freedom, is always a free choice, but requires confidence in human goodness, confidence in people, and this is what I observe, I say, I must be confident on myself to be confident to yourself…the trust in human goodness and love vocation is what changed as in my experience…an vocation means listen to a call, a voice…the inner voice and the outer voice…the voice of love…love is joy, work, confidence, construction, reinvention…and love is a sentiment that occurs after a meeting…by chance or not, the response to this event…must be passion…is a building among the lovers…perhaps this commitment with love path is fragile, seems somehow unclear…love path is not fast, even in love at first sight…after first sight the response and the building begins…as a mutual work…mutual confidence…mutual engagement…if not, love is not only water only, but some kind of illusion and fast breeze…utmost, to love is be free…if not free, no love, perhaps sketches of love and trials, love relationship, itself, is not fast, but hard and evolving mutual work with joy as one of the main parfums of the courage for love…love is freedom, love is creativity…love is some kind of writing in the water…and much more, the love, as an art