quarta-feira, 24 de agosto de 2011

and Dostoyevsky wrote in prison.






As I walked into the street I thought
about Keats,

and how people in such a place like England
have considered him to be a great poet
probably since he was 20 odd years old,

and how Jack London worked like a dog,
and could still write a thousand words
everyday of the week.

That was pretty hard, and it made life a bit too cold.

But I walked down the street anyway,
I crossed the lights and I kept walking,
I met my boss at the corner store near the truck
like any other day,
and as we drank coffee
girls kept passing by, on their way to work, home, their way out or
any other way but 

for some reason, like we probably had one too to be standing there,
they kept passing by, more beautiful than anything else I could think of.

There was, in fact, no thinking. There was silence.
Then my boss finally spoke:
- There! Look there, that one, the one on the left, short,
with the brown boots, see?

- Yep.

- Man, I just feel like... Eating them boots...All of it...

I laughed.
And as I sipped my coffee I thought, well,
the world's not a bad place after all 

and life was good enough to be happy.

segunda-feira, 8 de agosto de 2011



"In the cab I leaned back and lit a small cigar I'd bought
in the coffee shop. I was feeling better now, warm and
sleepy and absolutely free. With the palms zipping past
and the big sun burning down on the road ahead, I had a
flash of something I hadn't felt since my first months in
Europe - a mixture of ignorance and a loose, 'what the
hell' kind of confidence that comes on a man when the
wind picks up and he begins to move in a hard straight
line toward an unknown horizon."


"At the same time, I shared a dark suspicion tha the life
we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actors,
kidding ourselves along on a senseless odyssey. It was the
tension between these two poles - a restless idealism on
one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other -
that kept me going."






- Hunter S. Thompson, "The Rum Diary"

quarta-feira, 3 de agosto de 2011

during days when she was found dead.



" I haven't found a drug yet that can get you anywhere near
as high as sitting at a desk writing , trying to imagine a story
no matter how bizarre it is,..."

Hunter S. Thompson, "Kingdom of fear".





Na sacada, no sofá, a caixa de fósforos no trilho da porta, a manhã
que ainda escura, o silêncio, a chama, mais um dia. Dores de um mundo
em madrugada, janelas e mais janelas desâmparadas,
o último dia de alguém. Até os anos se passaram.
Foi num hotel em Brugge que escutei a notícia a primeira vez.
E o que restou de tudo isso, do pó, do copo, da fumaça, uma mão ruim de cartas,
lembranças de dias no paraíso apagadas
e um milhão de músicos que não valem nada.
Voltei. Reencontrei a caneta e um velho caderno quase em branco
e vim tentar te entender mais um pouco, um encontro no papel,
tentar enteder o porquê de ter que entender.
Allen Ginsberg um dia escreveu:
" I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
Angel-headed hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection
to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,..."
Well, and so did I, and it leaves nothing but a damned feeling of sadness.
E algo estranho dentro de mim me diz que eu de alguma forma deveria
ter tentado, tentado qualquer coisa...Sensação sem sentido, lições
de um mundo que sabe ser frio, rancor de quem não sabe perder.
É que eu também já morri cem vezes, mas tu agora cansou de voltar.
E eu sinto muito, e declaro cem dias e noites de luto.