mort mot juste

maio 20, 2009


the image looks a bit shaky. it's my hands. i'll work on it.
faraway bird trilling, a technician groans
i cough, run my fingers down an invisible skirt. a glass of water would be fine, yes, please.

the legs are spread wide. they are long, enclosing the ride every so tightly. the breath is soundless. she is lean, inactive and red on the lips. they are always red on the lips, such a sly pattern. the eyes are smoky, not as in eye shadow but as in actual smoke.


the shimmering plastic acquires pale colors in the light, it seems fleeting. slightly dirty hands wave in the scentless air, they're hers, they're no one's. every hue is perfect in its contrast with the others, even the soiled ones. every string of hair aches from straightening, and hangs down motionless, inorganically alive.


it's time. make sure nothing else looks as crimson as her mouth not quite shut. it must look like it's galloping, like there's a music box playing as she rides. it must look like a disgusting, obscene fantasy suspended by a pink thread of silk. juvenile enough to cause a sense of outrage. unpretentious enough to make it seem sinless.


the shrubbery around the park quivers. i should hope it's only the breeze. 

maria 6:07 PM 2 vociferando estavam


I have recently noticed something quite universal: people are obsessed with names. Now, why is that? To tell you the truth I couldn't care less. Besides their grammatical function, names can have additional or pure honorary and memorial values. Names have meanings, you might say. They have purposes, ideas behind them. Names are unanimous, you find them just about everywhere. They're not too hard to grasp.  A name can do so much, and only so much. There are kinds of names: anthroponym, toponym, hydronym, ethnonym, pseudonym. First name, last name, middle name, nickname, pen name. There are names that a large amount of people tend to remember for a long long while: Ghandi, Winston Churchill, Rimbaud, Napoleon, Mozart, Greta Garbo, Socrates, Stalin, Degas, Anna Karenina, Billy the Kid, Alexander the Great.

I'll make a longer list right now. I'm afraid it'll be a bit on the useful side.
What sorts of things can you do with a name?

You can assign it, you can call it, you can make it up. You can look it up, you can like it, dislike it, you can simply not mind it. You can choose it, write it, spell it, print it, if you're a dolphin you can even whistle it. You can tattoo it on you, or on somebody else. You can etch it in skin or wood with a penknife and brand yourself with it. You can know it, hear it, whisper it, read it, scream it, make acronyms, call it out in vain. Abbreviate it, count the letters in it, cast out demons just by saying it. You can learn its meaning and its origin.You can describe how your tongue feels against your palate when you say it out loud, you can translate it, you can find all of its anagrams and put them in alphabetical order. You can sell a name, you can buy a name. It's true. I've heard you can moan a name. I've also heard about people who cuss names, praise names, and even repeat them as a form of religious procedure. You can remember a name, you can try not to remember a name. Sometimes, not too rarely, you can forget a name as well.

That's not all I hope. Writing about names makes it easier not to obsessively think about them as much. It removes the mystery, turns them into ordinary labels. it soothes the aching mind. You should try.

maria 4:36 PM 1 vociferando estavam

maio 06, 2009

5 p.m.

so it's 5 p.m. again, and you greet the hour with despair. it creeped up on you, the sly, untouchable... thing. where was I at 5 p.m. fifteen years ago? standing in sunny grass? fidgeting? was it midwinter? how healthy were my bones? the family photo doesn't show. what was I thinking? fifteen years ago's when they started to give up on the whole family photo thing. the best thing they ever did if you ask me. 

i'm still not sure about my bones.

6 p.m. Just a laughing proof of your failure. for if you know it's 6 p.m. and you suffer the fact, you're a goddamned loser. you're worth as much as the time you toss out the window. mark my words. winter is hell except the air moves and things get a bit chilly. oh yeah, and the billboards write drooping poems on themselves. i'm pretty sure that's how we get rain.

i can't rely on time anymore. my watch committed suicide, a perfect little human being only clockwork. i feel guilty because my first thought about it was ''phew, coulda been me''. but i guess i'm faking the guilt a little. it's not that i don't feel for it. i just think it was bound to break sooner or later. 


5 p.m. i'm not really glad I can choose what to do with the hour. It seems to me that someone else could have chosen more wisely. but there's no someone else at 5 p.m., so here we are, chap. i'm all yours.

now show me the right way.

maria 5:04 PM 2 vociferando estavam

ao rés da fala