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Hello World

I stayed out for some time. Then I noticed that my first post dated 2011 ! ….time passes. After receiving a profissional post I rediscovered my own blog…some questions arised,,,why continue to write here?,,,only one answer: missing some people. Perhaps I will continue to write…here…to stay closer with people

last night of this winter

today is the fourth rainy and cold day…to go out of house its needed a proper dress up…and the clothes are a second skin…don’t forgetting the umbrella…even though some rain drops touch my face and my clothes…cold drops…and walking few steps I sense the moisty floor…at some point of my little walk yesterday…I watch the cloudy sky…the thunders…the flshlightening…and for a while my tears drops and the rain drops were inly one water…as the rain seems to be tears drops from heaven…a lovely friend remind me that I can lead inside me the winter poetics…one of the few things I need to keep on walking trustful and joyful…for myself, winter season is a poetic state

toffee apple

I was walking along a playground near my house…in a winter day, but with a summer sight… a sunny day…and such a good surprise!…among other activities…an old man was cooking toffee apples…I asked him for one…that toffee apple was very well done…the sense of the boiling sugar and butter toghether…so good!…lead me to other times…the old times of my childhood…when I could play joyful at the streets…most of all…lead me to hollydays summer days along the beach…by night, the trip to the big playground always was a joyful experience…perhaps because of the sweetness of the apple…and all love I feel…even nowadays…the sense of sweet is soothing…the love is the ever love inside me…I remember also to ask for my mother and father a book…I remember to read a fairy tale about an apple of love…the taste of happy days…the taste of ever love…memory…memoirs…reveries

the enternainer

writing is some task that each writer keep going on because of it’s own motivations…writing off line is a solitary task…reading seems most a conversation in between reader and the author…reader and the book…after all, I have nothing to say, so I do write…the solitary writing is the real act of the writer…as a beacon is a solitary light at horizon…someway, writing is some creative work that leads to some learning and some teaching…most of all, leads to some enternaining…I don’t know what I have to learn or teach…I guess fiction writing is close to some old jazz song I’ve listened some day…’the enternainer’, a great Scott Joplin song…an up beating song…joyous…like a good trip and walking at a playground…where peoples, families and children can sense the joy of each bit of time

to Ravi Shankar

this month is being hard to me…yesterday I had to say my last goodbye to Ravi Shankar, 92 years old…a great and virtuous and lovely musician and person…somehow he helps the meeting east and west music and culture…through the initiative of George Harrison…at late’s 60…citar is his great musical instrument…played with passion and devotion…the ragas…the improvisation…the other musical east scale offering the way to express the music…the autobiographical book ‘my music, my life’ is a sweet testimony of his endeavor…I feel me today an orphan…almost all the big artists and thinkers and workers of his generation are going away…life short, art so long…so long thta seems longer than a life spam…somehow this lovely and sweet generation is a part of my family…and my family is being shorter…yesterday I listened evening ragas…today I listened morning ragas…tears drops on my face…slowly…drying by itself…somehow life enompasses all I can sense…somehow birth and death are two wings of a blue bird…listening citar improvisation from Ravi help me to accept these facts…so hard to me…the human finitude is a struggle issue in my writings…perhaps I write to support the death, the silence, the no possible knowledge that art works upon…today my writing is another last goodbye…Ravi and George composed ‘my sweet Lord’…and the concert remembering George is so beautiful…Ravi and Anoushka, his daughter playing citar…the son of George playing guitar…a sentimental and soft presentation…memorable…his another daughter is playing today in my city…I’ll try to attend this show, but I feel difficult…Ravi, so dear friend…my last goodbye…with love…I feel me today a little bit sad, even more orphan…my family keep well, although shorter…without you, this writing is only a collection of phrases…I’m searching for phrases to express myself…to express love…it’s a long run…I keep on the road…it’s a long road…I alive in

Oscar Niemeyer, my last goodbye

my so dear friend…the death arrived for you today…I was awaiting this fact…you, Oscar, would complete 105 years old next december, 15…but I am a physician…I keep in touch with you…I was sensing the time so painful for me, the time to say my last goodbye to you…you builded the modern architeture: pilotis…brise-soleil…the work upon concrete shaping sensuous and fine lines…curve lines…like the curves of a sensuous woman…like the course of a sinuous river…like the waves in the sea…like the clouds in the sky…like the love blowing in the winds…like the smile of a child…like the tenderness of a lovely embrace…your builts were done of bricks of art…brick after brick…bricks of love…you, so rebellious…so sweet…my praise and complimets…your legacy lasts for ever…I know and I sense in you and your work…one of my main sources of inspiration…the best I can do is keeping me on the road…the long road…the widing road…the love road…and honor my own work with recognition of your inspirational work…your builts for people walk, stay for a while, sensing the art…your builts remembering the lovely living as a possible experience…you do architeture, you do empty spaces…for human delihght…you know, I know…art so long…life so short…but you are a man…I am a man…we are human beings…mortality, finitude…pieces of an understanding trial to watch life…love…somehow birth and death are two wings of a blue bird flying secret routes…a blue bird that fly with no end…an endless flying crossing skies and universe frontiers…love remains…when all fall, love remains upright…the bricks of your builts are done of earth, water, air and fire…and love…I am also a writer, a romancist, a romancer…my bricks are words…my builts are writings…art, our common ground…mine, yours…and your’s, reader…because i also write for you, reader…without you, my writings were only a collection of disconnected phrases…I am almost whispering…perhaps the blue bird is an amazing surprise, may be…love remains…against anything…I am feeling rather sad, I must write, even desolate…trying to build myself up again…to keep working…sometimes I sense  knowing when to leave is like knowing when to love…and in such a way, with these bricks so fast arranged…I know it’s time to say my last goodbye to you, Oscar…I know I must do this…love is useless, love is letting go my ego wish and let joy fly with you…my joy, for such an opportunity to share this so painful and lovely writing…throwing away my blues, I listen the love whistle blowing…it’s all right…people, you that read this writing…love presents no beginning and no ending…life is a lovely flying…a flying with no return…lovers, keep living…no matter the direction, the flying is safe. So, I could write my last goodbye to Oscar, the great modernist architet…utmost, a so lovely human being

the tempest, two months later

the tempest that changed my house arrangement was cost expensive, uppermost was emotion expensive, time expensive and today I can watch my house in another fashion, not so different, but different…perhaps well arranged…my safety corner where there are my prefered chair, spotlight, souvenirs of all sorts, pages collected, personal objects, some my father and mother and friends writings, a kind of corner for relaxing, some meditation, reading, some hand writing, listening devices as my old cd player and my vynil craft device, well, this place is today surrounded by some hills of books…some books I lost…a lot of books I placed in another lounge at the second floor where there’s my acoustic piano and my eletronic piano and a special small piece of lounge out door where I can see the sky, feel the winds, hear the city sounds…there’s my little hearth and a plenty of self valued objects of art, paintures, sculptures, another littel garden, and so on…I live in a modest house…the tempest two months later changed the house…and changed my conviction that the my chair corner was the most safety place of the universe…the tempest tested my capacity of survival, take fast actions and so on…some change I notice in myself…as love do, this tempest changed my life somehow…I need to mention that my home remained safe all the time…my home is what I put in my house, my daily care of the house…it’s roof, walls and building structure…manutention is done with more attention…the neighbors are more aware of this task…I may write somehow that today I stay well in this new arrangement, somethings are in better places…I discovered some books and notes that I was missed out…I live in a little house and my recent and daily efforts of inhabiting well my house made it a better house, and a more sweet home…’home, sweet home’…a mountain of books remained untouched…at the top of this mountain I appreciate more accurately the worth of life, the worth of a house, the lovely work of a home…home is inside me…and at the same time, my home is the world…even when I sense the danger in the streets, the urban violence in the city…I don’t walk on the streets in the city I live, so I walk in shopping center…in one shopping center, plenty of remembrances, where there’s my prefered restaurant, where I meet rarely some people and friends, where I can watch a movie…perhaps this skyfall tempest made feel me in an almost impossible mission: keep confident in human goodness, sense the solidarity, sense how well living can be…sense the sentiment of love with joy, freedom, peace and gratitude…my health is good…I am alive…I feel great gratitude regarding living…the tempest present me a challenge…I was responsible to this event…I may write today that everything is all right regarding me and my loved people…love resembles a tempest, but love itself is like a happy and calm sailing day in a serene sea and a sparkling night when the moon and the stars turns this time of night a fairy night, for rest, for celebration, for love…shared with  whom love…yesterday night I attended a dinner meeting…watching the sky the quarter moon was beautiful and I invited her to stay with us

stay today, come tomorrow

my akward english!, I don’t know the reason why I write in english…the simple is that I like to write in english…reading english texts I notice my poor english…reading poetry in english is hard…vocabulary, semantics, grammar…idiom…but the sound of english words sounds like a song…I continue reading even if all the words I don’t understand, but I feel the sense and the sentiment when I read and write…so, stay today, come tomorrow…nobody knows about tomorrow…although I stand on my road today, tomorrow I don’t know…so, I say to you, stay once more time and come tomorrow if you wish, if you can, if is it possible…this morning writing is some sketch of writings…some shuffle for work with words and phrases and sentiment…I say to her, stay tonight and come tomorrow…I guess i will stay here too…what about tomorrow?, a possibility, a wish, a will, an invention, the future…this is also a spring writing, I am letting go the winter, I welcome spring…I like flowers and a blue sky, but the sunlight is like a neighbour with whom I only want a good convivence…i feel some painful sentiment, because i feel some passion for moonlight, even if the sky is the same sky in any season, i like the night, the sky in the nights, i like the moonlight…the pain I refer is related to summer…summer is hard for me…although the night and the sky are the same, but the days are longer, the nights are shorter in summer…and I like the moon, the night…not the night for sleep, not for dream…I dream in daylight…as if i dream at day for live at night…somhow the night is not for rest for myself…I like the night for live, for stay with you…so, esperanza, stay today, we can share the night

writings on women’s day

march, 8…women’s day…women support all of us…feminine spiritual things nurture and nature in between men’s place in the world…human beings are precious for the world…male spiritual things…human things…the child that plays confident…I want to say that my mother is a wonderful woman…she is an old woman with so love for life!…living a prosperous life…confident in the future…joy of mankind…all mothers are one

wondering

wondering is not thinking…it seems almost thinking…is not feeling…is not no thinking and nor no feeling…I guess thinking is not a good one for me…thinking requires logical path…I am not out of logic, but logic itself seems automatic steps…I am not automatician…logic seems to me somehow obvious one…if I am not far away from thinking, logic and obviety…living is a hard one for me…and I have the most I need to live…the most danger is on thinking…the logical and obvious steps from an equivocal ‘a priori’, an initial argumentation point, an illusionated point of departure, may lead me to an illusional arrival point…a subtil equivocated logical and obvious initial point can lead me to a dangerous end…logic and obviety lead to an end point…it sounds me that living has no begin nor end, only turnaround, like  a jazz music song I’ve played…a solo piano music piece, almost only improvisation…only performatic…flash little pieces of composition and interpretation, little time of begining and little time of ending…seconds, and the turnaround live for minutes…I want to play for hours, but it’s impossible…the end comes from exsaustion…the last keybord sounded ringingly and loundly fro almost one minute with the advice of pedal upbeating…and the sound of the music of the song I’ve played today on my solo piano performance seems to me that  not reached an end, but continues at the infinite…on my soul this last musical note sounds till now, although other music songs come from me…on the radio and from a other devices…but that turnaround is ringing on me till now, while I am writing this writing piece…for someone to read…perhaps writing is so important for me, I write for someone to read…my solo piano I played with an intention, and I sent that song for people I love…but these people did not listen my solo piano performance and I did not recorded it…perhaps one person should had listen…ot two, or tree, or four…my performance on my solo piano had an intention to express feelings and perceptions…but I was playing alone…on my old acoustic piano, in a time of the day when neighbours get out for parking or walking…I was alone on the chamber where the piano is located…in my house only sky above myself…no people near me…perhaps I played for myself…perhaps one person should listen…or two persons…in the sky…writing is somehow stronger on me, I hope someone shall read…I like very much play music and I need a lot to write…I was wondering about my friends…my life…my last goodbye, the name I gave to this song…a joyful song…some few beginning seconds…countless minutes of turnaround…no ending…full intention of loving love…reveries of days gone by…remembering my loved ones…so, I take a large distance from thinking, obviety and logic…and for a while I am out of the time and the place I was when playing my piano solo blues