*tiaguinho, nuno and me
Sunday, 18 July 2010
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
on my way to the beach
but not here... there! in that place next to the ocean, where the water is cold, the sun warm, and there are things I miss.
Monday, 12 July 2010
today even the Dutch sky cried for the loss of yesterday in the World Cup...
and I... well, I just walked under my umbrella.
Saturday, 10 July 2010
FMM
it's in a portuguese village, near a portuguese beach and landscape, with a portuguese sun and moonlight.
It has a portuguese castle nearby, close to a portuguese cold sea kissed by a portuguese and yellow warm sand.
Of course there will be the Bacalhau and the Cosido à Portuguesa (i.e. portuguese food) down there, as well as the typical high portuguese temperatures and the portuguese blue sky!
In what concerns to the music and the people, well: those are a lot, great and from the World. :)
World Music Festival in Sines
(eu vou, pois claro!)
It has a portuguese castle nearby, close to a portuguese cold sea kissed by a portuguese and yellow warm sand.
Of course there will be the Bacalhau and the Cosido à Portuguesa (i.e. portuguese food) down there, as well as the typical high portuguese temperatures and the portuguese blue sky!
In what concerns to the music and the people, well: those are a lot, great and from the World. :)
World Music Festival in Sines
(eu vou, pois claro!)
Friday, 9 July 2010
Thursday, 8 July 2010
since portugal lost with spain and Holland is my second home...
Then I am against Spain... Joder!!!
well... me and them (except eva... of course: sorry guapa! :p)
*nikos, thanos, duarte, fred, luís, tiago, thomas, eva and me.
well... me and them (except eva... of course: sorry guapa! :p)
*nikos, thanos, duarte, fred, luís, tiago, thomas, eva and me.
Wednesday, 7 July 2010
besides his fast-forward somersaults in black and white, his squared moustache and his way of walking with his huge shoes...
...I just love his "mute" simple way of being in front of the camara, and his way of, together with the orchestra playing behind the scene, easily making each moment sweet and sooo funny. :)
here you have Mr. Charlot!
here you have Mr. Charlot!
Tuesday, 6 July 2010
Into the sea
It’s difficult to know yourself enough and be able to decide your tomorrow.
Actually it's so difficult that sometimes I would like to just turn off my brain and not think anymore. Not think about the river of things that life is about: my dreams and harsh realities, my family and friends, the mistakes I did and the victories I had, my talents and weaknesses, the new challenges, my hobbies, the situations I avoid, the opportunities I shouldn’t miss.
And then I find myself between beautiful memories from my past and those great gatherings from my present, between places where I would like to be and landscapes I would love to see, between projects I plan to do, moments I enjoy to live and stories I wish to tell.
Is this being lost? And is it bad to be lost sometimes? Or is this all just a way of finding myself?
I don’t know... and I shouldn’t care.
I think it’s just better to follow the wave and let my tide decide the rise and the fall of the sea.
I think it's just better to dive and swim no matter what in that never-ending horizon of water.
I think it’s just better to feel that river of good things that life is about.
This is what I think... but maybe I shouldn’t think, maybe I am just lost, maybe it’s not so bad to be lost, maybe I am just finding myself.
Actually it's so difficult that sometimes I would like to just turn off my brain and not think anymore. Not think about the river of things that life is about: my dreams and harsh realities, my family and friends, the mistakes I did and the victories I had, my talents and weaknesses, the new challenges, my hobbies, the situations I avoid, the opportunities I shouldn’t miss.
And then I find myself between beautiful memories from my past and those great gatherings from my present, between places where I would like to be and landscapes I would love to see, between projects I plan to do, moments I enjoy to live and stories I wish to tell.
Is this being lost? And is it bad to be lost sometimes? Or is this all just a way of finding myself?
I don’t know... and I shouldn’t care.
I think it’s just better to follow the wave and let my tide decide the rise and the fall of the sea.
I think it's just better to dive and swim no matter what in that never-ending horizon of water.
I think it’s just better to feel that river of good things that life is about.
This is what I think... but maybe I shouldn’t think, maybe I am just lost, maybe it’s not so bad to be lost, maybe I am just finding myself.
Sunday, 4 July 2010
in the summer here...
the sun is selfish, it doesn't sleep as much as it should... and it just sets to rest for a bit.
then it rises again... kicking the moon out of the sky.
poor moon...
and poor me, who needs the moon to fall asleep.
then it rises again... kicking the moon out of the sky.
poor moon...
and poor me, who needs the moon to fall asleep.
Saturday, 3 July 2010
a sunset made of pink and blue
We were four on the table. Well, maybe five, if we count with Bob Marley playing on the PC.
Random conversations went by, and some jokes as well, followed by quiet and sometimes loud laughs.
The noodles were so spicy that I couldn’t stop drinking water. and it was so warm that I couldn’t keep myself inside neither. So I left them... for a bit.
In the balcony there were no longer words, jokes or laughs… only me, the wind touching the trees, the “miau” of the cats, the lights of the neighborhood houses, and a beautiful sunset mixed with pink and blue colours.
I stayed there alone for a while… waiting for nothing to happen, just looking to a never ending landscape becoming dark blue, just taking pictures in my mind and keeping them somewhere in a nice place of myself.
They joined me later... together with a guitar.
"There are no stars today!"
Indeed, there weren’t any stars, only the moonlight and the candles, which were already enough to follow our songs.
...
“What time is it?”
It was late, really late. But the singing and the playing outside felt so good that we didn’t even realize the passing of the time.
The only thing I realized is that tomorrow I would remember that yesterday forever.
Random conversations went by, and some jokes as well, followed by quiet and sometimes loud laughs.
The noodles were so spicy that I couldn’t stop drinking water. and it was so warm that I couldn’t keep myself inside neither. So I left them... for a bit.
In the balcony there were no longer words, jokes or laughs… only me, the wind touching the trees, the “miau” of the cats, the lights of the neighborhood houses, and a beautiful sunset mixed with pink and blue colours.
I stayed there alone for a while… waiting for nothing to happen, just looking to a never ending landscape becoming dark blue, just taking pictures in my mind and keeping them somewhere in a nice place of myself.
They joined me later... together with a guitar.
"There are no stars today!"
Indeed, there weren’t any stars, only the moonlight and the candles, which were already enough to follow our songs.
...
“What time is it?”
It was late, really late. But the singing and the playing outside felt so good that we didn’t even realize the passing of the time.
The only thing I realized is that tomorrow I would remember that yesterday forever.
"lover, you should've come over"
if there are good songs that help me on falling asleep,
this one is a good one on making me dream... "cause is never too late" to dream.
this one is a good one on making me dream... "cause is never too late" to dream.
Monday, 28 June 2010
To Be Or Not To Be??... Is That the Question!?!
I just prefer being something without realizing I am being it, without
asking if I should be it. then, when I Am already, its easier to be...
and it's done!
asking if I should be it. then, when I Am already, its easier to be...
and it's done!
Sunday, 20 June 2010
Monday, 14 June 2010
A moonlight on the beach
it's almost three o'clock in the morning...
but I still don't feel the dark.
I am already in my room, left the moon outside.
the bed says "hello"
my eyes say "goodnight"
I don't want to go.
But it’s so hard to fight.
So I try to stay awake...
...somewhere in a blue ocean
Of the kind I never forget.
Feeling the warm wind’s motion
And staring at the late sunset.
So I stay and I feel...
...the waves meeting my feet
while I lay down on the sand.
Almost falling asleep
deeply into the horizon’s end.
So suddenly I wake up...
With the sea in my mind
and a smile I cannot hide.
in my room with no light
and the moon still outside.
but I still don't feel the dark.
I am already in my room, left the moon outside.
the bed says "hello"
my eyes say "goodnight"
I don't want to go.
But it’s so hard to fight.
So I try to stay awake...
...somewhere in a blue ocean
Of the kind I never forget.
Feeling the warm wind’s motion
And staring at the late sunset.
So I stay and I feel...
...the waves meeting my feet
while I lay down on the sand.
Almost falling asleep
deeply into the horizon’s end.
So suddenly I wake up...
With the sea in my mind
and a smile I cannot hide.
in my room with no light
and the moon still outside.
Monday, 7 June 2010
coffee conversation... on the table 13!
João: your hand has a "Not"! Mine Not!
---------------------------------------------------
Conversa de café... na mesa 13!
João: A tua mão tem um "Não"! A minha Não!
ps - vah... daqui a uns dias vou respirar ar fresco para ai e em troca eu riu-me! ;)
---------------------------------------------------
Conversa de café... na mesa 13!
João: A tua mão tem um "Não"! A minha Não!
ps - vah... daqui a uns dias vou respirar ar fresco para ai e em troca eu riu-me! ;)
Thursday, 3 June 2010
não gosto nada...
...de perder o fio à meada! mas perdi, em muitos blogs.
mas já fui buscar uma roca, para (re)começar as minhas meadas e acompanhar o fiar das dos outros.
mas já fui buscar uma roca, para (re)começar as minhas meadas e acompanhar o fiar das dos outros.
A lovely (and rainy) day...
.
Lisbon, 28th December 2009
The mobile was ringing while I was running to the bus stop... in the rain, in a hurry; and while I was juggling to get inside the bus and take my wallet out of the bag, I manage to pick up the phone. A portuguese voice...
“Hey Inesita, where are you?”
The driver looks suspicious at me, while the machine fails to validate my ticket. On the third attempt a “Beep” makes him turn his distrustful eye to the following passengers; and there I continue, grabbing my phone and the bags across the commotion, looking for any little space where I can seat.
“I’ll be there in 10 minutes!”
But when I hang up, I realize that the traffic jam might hold me up longer.
Through bumps and nudges, among the people and the chaos in the corridor, I find a place to sit.
In the meantime, those around start or continue their conversations. There are also the silent ones: some absent-minded and others alone or simply shyer.
But the voices overcome the silence and flood the whole bus.
I focus on the speaking bunch...
In the front seats, the two old ladies complain about life and compare their knitting calluses. They grumble about the weather and their 1001 illnesses, praise the vegetables of the local grocery store, the one near Mr. André’s place, and gossip about the neighbour who has just divorced. They also protest, and a lot. They protest about the hyperactive grand-child, the presumptuous daughter-in-law, the son who “works like hell” or the fact that “everything is extremely expensive nowadays”.
The teenagers, on the other hand, laugh while chatting. They speak about Daniela (who supposedly likes Afonso), argue about new clubs near the river and discuss the new iphone mobiles.
On my left side, two men accuse incompetent politicians, schedule a beer meeting for later, and disagree in what concerns to football matters. But suddenly, in the middle of their talk, one of them shouts to call his wife, on the other side of the corridor:
- Maria, when should we pick up Bia at the school?
Maria, interrupting her complains and frights about the A flue, stares at him with a reproachful look, as if condemning him for not knowing when to pick up their child, and answers:
- At 7pm, after her ballet class!
And she turns again to her friend at her side to now speak about the selfishness of Leonardo Correia, probably a villain of some soap popper.
All of them gesticulate while speaking and vary their face expressions during the speech. They speak loud, as if the ones around were participating in the dialogue as well.
I don’t know any of them, but their discussions are classic and predictable. Daily moments and dialogues that recall portuguese routines and people, things that never change, that are typical. Stories I already saw, lived and talked about.
I then decide to turn my look to the window... when I already guess the following words, sentences and conversations. And that’s when the vehicle brakes, stumblingly, in a new bus stop.
Some get in, others get out and the same conversations certainly unroll, but now without catching my attention from the outside, from the music that plays on my mp3.
It rains intensively and the air is humid, stale. The hazed glass of the window blurs the view from the outside, but still I realize the new differences among those familiar routes... routes that once were mine, that still are.
There are new details but nothing has changed: the sidewalk has new patterns, the trees are bigger, the buildings were painted and the traffic signs were reorganized; but the same landscape is designed by the same roads, houses and gardens. Even the car horns continue frequent and the pollution coming from the exhaust pipes disperses in the same form and clouds of smoke.
I don’t want to come back to Portugal, it’s not yet the right time... but still I want this context not to end, to remain forever. I wish to stay here, among these portuguese people with whom I grew up, and relive these moments over and over again.
“I hope everything stays the same till I come back in the Summer, everything… even if it changes a bit”.
The arrival to my destination interrupts that nostalgia and premature feeling of missing my roots.
I grab my things and reorganize all the bags to get out.
Already outside, I put on my hat and run to not get wet, but it’s not enough.
I give up already soaked and continue... alone, with that tropical rain and, ironically, listening to the song “Lovely Day”.
I am stopped.
- Hey girl, it is about time you showed up. God I missed you…”
------------------------------------------------------------
Um dia lindo (e de chuva)
Lisboa, 28 Dezembro 2009
O telemóvel tocava enquanto eu corria para a paragem... à chuva, à pressa; e no meio de acrobacias entre entrar no autocarro e validar o bilhete, consigo atender.
Um “Inesita, onde estás?” soa no outro lado da linha.
O condutor olha-me desconfiado enquanto o bilhete falha em validar a viagem. Contudo, à terceira tentativa um “bib” vindo da maquineta desvia-lhe o olhar, que se foca agora, suspeito, nos restantes passageiros; e eu lá continuo com o peso dos sacos e da confusão, atenta a espaços minimamente confortáveis onde me possa sentar.
“Chego em 10 minutos”, respondo; mas penso que o transito talvez me demore mais.
Encontro um lugar, sento-me entre solavancos e encontrões, entre pessoas e torbilhões de coisas no corredor.
As conversas dos demais surgem entretanto, ou continuam.
Existem também muitos silenciosos: uns de olhar absorto, outros sós ou outros tantos mais tímidos.
Mas as vozes ganham os mudos e inundam o corredor.
Fixo-me nos faladores...
Duas idosas falam do cansaço da vida e dos calos de tricot. Queixam-se do tempo, resmungam por causa do reumático e elogiam os vegetais da frutaria Aquário, na esquina onde mora Sr. André. Desabafam ainda sobre o neto hiperactivo, a nora presunçosa, o filho que se farta de trabalhar ou os preços exorbitantes de hoje em dia.
Os mais jovens, por outro lado, falam da Daniela que gosta do Afonso, da nova discoteca nas Docas, e discutem sobre o iphone e outras tecnologias.
Já os dois homens nos bancos do lado acusam políticos incompetentes enquanto combinam uma cerveja para mais logo para ver o jogo de futebol. E, no meio das suas acesas cavaqueiras, um deles chama a mulher:
- Maria, a que horas é para ir buscar a Biazinha à escola.
Ela, interrompendo as suas queixas e medos sobre a gripe A, olha-o em olhar reprovador, como se o condenasse por não saber tal informação, e responde:
- Daqui a um hora, depois do ballet;
Virando-se novamente para a amiga, para agora falar da falta de escrúpulos do Leonardo Correia, provavelmente um vilão de uma novela qualquer.
Todos gesticulam enquanto falam e fazem caretas que variam durante o discurso. Falam alto, bem alto, como se todos os presentes no autocarro também participassem no diálogo.
As caras são-me estranhas mas as discussões previsíveis, típicas. Dia-a-dias e diálogos que me relembram rotinas e pessoas portuguesas, coisas que não mudam, que são assim mesmo, que eu já vivi e falei.
Desvio o olhar entretanto, para a janela, quando já adivinho as palavras, frases e conversas seguintes. Só o zumbido persiste; e eu ligo o mp3.
É então que o veiculo trava, aos tropeções, numa nova paragem.
As pessoas movem-se, encontram-se ou despedem-se, entram enquanto outros tantos se levantam para sair; e as mesmas conversas se desenrolam já sem eu as escutar, já sem me desviarem do que se passa lá fora ou da música que soa nos meus ouvidos.
Chove intensamente e o ar está húmido, abafado. O vidro embaciado desfoca o exterior mas mesmo assim dou-me conta das diferenças que encontro naqueles caminhos familiares, que já foram meus, que ainda o são.
Há pormenores novos mas nada mudou: a calçada tem novos padrões, as árvores estão maiores, os prédios foram pintados e os sinais de transito reorganizados; mas as mesmas paisagens desenham as mesmas estradas , casas e jardins e até as buzinas continuam frequentes ou a poluição vinda dos tubos de escape se dispersa nas mesmas formas e nuvens de fumo.
Não quero voltar para Portugal, não é a altura certa ainda... mas, contudo, sou invadida por um desejo de continuar neste contexto, de que ele nunca acabe. Um desejo de ficar aqui, entre estas pessoas portuguesas com quem cresci, de reviver estes momentos vezes sem conta.
“Espero que continue tudo na mesma até eu voltar no Verão, tudo... mesmo que mude só um bocadinho!”
A chegada ao destino interrompe-me aquele sentimento de nostalgia antecipado. Pego nas coisas e reorganizo os sacos para sair.
Saio, ponho o chapéu e corro para não me molhar, mas não chega. Desisto já encharcada e continuo a andar comigo, com aquela chuva tropical e, ironicamente, com a música “Lovely Day” a soar.
Sou travada.
- Ai miúda, tava a ver que nunca mais! que saudadesss...
Donavon Frankenreiter - Lovely Day
Lisbon, 28th December 2009
The mobile was ringing while I was running to the bus stop... in the rain, in a hurry; and while I was juggling to get inside the bus and take my wallet out of the bag, I manage to pick up the phone. A portuguese voice...
“Hey Inesita, where are you?”
The driver looks suspicious at me, while the machine fails to validate my ticket. On the third attempt a “Beep” makes him turn his distrustful eye to the following passengers; and there I continue, grabbing my phone and the bags across the commotion, looking for any little space where I can seat.
“I’ll be there in 10 minutes!”
But when I hang up, I realize that the traffic jam might hold me up longer.
Through bumps and nudges, among the people and the chaos in the corridor, I find a place to sit.
In the meantime, those around start or continue their conversations. There are also the silent ones: some absent-minded and others alone or simply shyer.
But the voices overcome the silence and flood the whole bus.
I focus on the speaking bunch...
In the front seats, the two old ladies complain about life and compare their knitting calluses. They grumble about the weather and their 1001 illnesses, praise the vegetables of the local grocery store, the one near Mr. André’s place, and gossip about the neighbour who has just divorced. They also protest, and a lot. They protest about the hyperactive grand-child, the presumptuous daughter-in-law, the son who “works like hell” or the fact that “everything is extremely expensive nowadays”.
The teenagers, on the other hand, laugh while chatting. They speak about Daniela (who supposedly likes Afonso), argue about new clubs near the river and discuss the new iphone mobiles.
On my left side, two men accuse incompetent politicians, schedule a beer meeting for later, and disagree in what concerns to football matters. But suddenly, in the middle of their talk, one of them shouts to call his wife, on the other side of the corridor:
- Maria, when should we pick up Bia at the school?
Maria, interrupting her complains and frights about the A flue, stares at him with a reproachful look, as if condemning him for not knowing when to pick up their child, and answers:
- At 7pm, after her ballet class!
And she turns again to her friend at her side to now speak about the selfishness of Leonardo Correia, probably a villain of some soap popper.
All of them gesticulate while speaking and vary their face expressions during the speech. They speak loud, as if the ones around were participating in the dialogue as well.
I don’t know any of them, but their discussions are classic and predictable. Daily moments and dialogues that recall portuguese routines and people, things that never change, that are typical. Stories I already saw, lived and talked about.
I then decide to turn my look to the window... when I already guess the following words, sentences and conversations. And that’s when the vehicle brakes, stumblingly, in a new bus stop.
Some get in, others get out and the same conversations certainly unroll, but now without catching my attention from the outside, from the music that plays on my mp3.
It rains intensively and the air is humid, stale. The hazed glass of the window blurs the view from the outside, but still I realize the new differences among those familiar routes... routes that once were mine, that still are.
There are new details but nothing has changed: the sidewalk has new patterns, the trees are bigger, the buildings were painted and the traffic signs were reorganized; but the same landscape is designed by the same roads, houses and gardens. Even the car horns continue frequent and the pollution coming from the exhaust pipes disperses in the same form and clouds of smoke.
I don’t want to come back to Portugal, it’s not yet the right time... but still I want this context not to end, to remain forever. I wish to stay here, among these portuguese people with whom I grew up, and relive these moments over and over again.
“I hope everything stays the same till I come back in the Summer, everything… even if it changes a bit”.
The arrival to my destination interrupts that nostalgia and premature feeling of missing my roots.
I grab my things and reorganize all the bags to get out.
Already outside, I put on my hat and run to not get wet, but it’s not enough.
I give up already soaked and continue... alone, with that tropical rain and, ironically, listening to the song “Lovely Day”.
I am stopped.
- Hey girl, it is about time you showed up. God I missed you…”
------------------------------------------------------------
Um dia lindo (e de chuva)
Lisboa, 28 Dezembro 2009
O telemóvel tocava enquanto eu corria para a paragem... à chuva, à pressa; e no meio de acrobacias entre entrar no autocarro e validar o bilhete, consigo atender.
Um “Inesita, onde estás?” soa no outro lado da linha.
O condutor olha-me desconfiado enquanto o bilhete falha em validar a viagem. Contudo, à terceira tentativa um “bib” vindo da maquineta desvia-lhe o olhar, que se foca agora, suspeito, nos restantes passageiros; e eu lá continuo com o peso dos sacos e da confusão, atenta a espaços minimamente confortáveis onde me possa sentar.
“Chego em 10 minutos”, respondo; mas penso que o transito talvez me demore mais.
Encontro um lugar, sento-me entre solavancos e encontrões, entre pessoas e torbilhões de coisas no corredor.
As conversas dos demais surgem entretanto, ou continuam.
Existem também muitos silenciosos: uns de olhar absorto, outros sós ou outros tantos mais tímidos.
Mas as vozes ganham os mudos e inundam o corredor.
Fixo-me nos faladores...
Duas idosas falam do cansaço da vida e dos calos de tricot. Queixam-se do tempo, resmungam por causa do reumático e elogiam os vegetais da frutaria Aquário, na esquina onde mora Sr. André. Desabafam ainda sobre o neto hiperactivo, a nora presunçosa, o filho que se farta de trabalhar ou os preços exorbitantes de hoje em dia.
Os mais jovens, por outro lado, falam da Daniela que gosta do Afonso, da nova discoteca nas Docas, e discutem sobre o iphone e outras tecnologias.
Já os dois homens nos bancos do lado acusam políticos incompetentes enquanto combinam uma cerveja para mais logo para ver o jogo de futebol. E, no meio das suas acesas cavaqueiras, um deles chama a mulher:
- Maria, a que horas é para ir buscar a Biazinha à escola.
Ela, interrompendo as suas queixas e medos sobre a gripe A, olha-o em olhar reprovador, como se o condenasse por não saber tal informação, e responde:
- Daqui a um hora, depois do ballet;
Virando-se novamente para a amiga, para agora falar da falta de escrúpulos do Leonardo Correia, provavelmente um vilão de uma novela qualquer.
Todos gesticulam enquanto falam e fazem caretas que variam durante o discurso. Falam alto, bem alto, como se todos os presentes no autocarro também participassem no diálogo.
As caras são-me estranhas mas as discussões previsíveis, típicas. Dia-a-dias e diálogos que me relembram rotinas e pessoas portuguesas, coisas que não mudam, que são assim mesmo, que eu já vivi e falei.
Desvio o olhar entretanto, para a janela, quando já adivinho as palavras, frases e conversas seguintes. Só o zumbido persiste; e eu ligo o mp3.
É então que o veiculo trava, aos tropeções, numa nova paragem.
As pessoas movem-se, encontram-se ou despedem-se, entram enquanto outros tantos se levantam para sair; e as mesmas conversas se desenrolam já sem eu as escutar, já sem me desviarem do que se passa lá fora ou da música que soa nos meus ouvidos.
Chove intensamente e o ar está húmido, abafado. O vidro embaciado desfoca o exterior mas mesmo assim dou-me conta das diferenças que encontro naqueles caminhos familiares, que já foram meus, que ainda o são.
Há pormenores novos mas nada mudou: a calçada tem novos padrões, as árvores estão maiores, os prédios foram pintados e os sinais de transito reorganizados; mas as mesmas paisagens desenham as mesmas estradas , casas e jardins e até as buzinas continuam frequentes ou a poluição vinda dos tubos de escape se dispersa nas mesmas formas e nuvens de fumo.
Não quero voltar para Portugal, não é a altura certa ainda... mas, contudo, sou invadida por um desejo de continuar neste contexto, de que ele nunca acabe. Um desejo de ficar aqui, entre estas pessoas portuguesas com quem cresci, de reviver estes momentos vezes sem conta.
“Espero que continue tudo na mesma até eu voltar no Verão, tudo... mesmo que mude só um bocadinho!”
A chegada ao destino interrompe-me aquele sentimento de nostalgia antecipado. Pego nas coisas e reorganizo os sacos para sair.
Saio, ponho o chapéu e corro para não me molhar, mas não chega. Desisto já encharcada e continuo a andar comigo, com aquela chuva tropical e, ironicamente, com a música “Lovely Day” a soar.
Sou travada.
- Ai miúda, tava a ver que nunca mais! que saudadesss...
Donavon Frankenreiter - Lovely Day
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
Friday, 21 May 2010
Thursday, 20 May 2010
thoughts on a door...
and...
for God we smoke.
as Human we drink.
amen.
(picture taken in a toilet of a squat in leiden :) )
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
Sunday, 16 May 2010
you know what?
someone told me recently that life can be made and expressed through music.
I like that idea... I think its true.
and many times it doesn't matter who composed those songs you are listening to or playing or singing;
and it shouldn't matter the silly rules and the dumb imposed ideas around you.
if you play/sing/listen to those songs according to yourself, your values, your people around, your culture... it will always sound good. It will always feel good. it will always make the things become better.
it will even always be "modern", if that matters.
and there's no way of avoiding it.
enjoy this short.
"be happy! it's an order!"
(thank you zoe)
I like that idea... I think its true.
and many times it doesn't matter who composed those songs you are listening to or playing or singing;
and it shouldn't matter the silly rules and the dumb imposed ideas around you.
if you play/sing/listen to those songs according to yourself, your values, your people around, your culture... it will always sound good. It will always feel good. it will always make the things become better.
it will even always be "modern", if that matters.
and there's no way of avoiding it.
enjoy this short.
"be happy! it's an order!"
(thank you zoe)
Saturday, 8 May 2010
what's on my mind!?!
or better, what's IN my mind: it's a collection of N-cells that get so excited, that become aggressive.
So aggressive that start arguing and giving electrical shocks to each other with a physio-electroshock-weapon.
Of course hate and love always walk together, so afterwards this Ménage always ends up as an Orgy of synapses!
Naugthy creatures, these cells!
So aggressive that start arguing and giving electrical shocks to each other with a physio-electroshock-weapon.
Of course hate and love always walk together, so afterwards this Ménage always ends up as an Orgy of synapses!
Naugthy creatures, these cells!
Friday, 7 May 2010
word puzzle in papen made of pieces of us...
...and a table, wine and cigarets, madames and meninas, mr. kutil, upside down pictures, a curly hair, his black t-shirt, and my salty will.
Sunday, 2 May 2010
um sonho
chegavas da suiça, e eu estava à tua espera no aeroporto, com a avó, a mãe e o avô.
vinhas cheia de casacos, com um carrinho de mão, muita bagagem e um embrulho (provavelmente a prenda que nunca esquecias de me comprar).
haviam 1001 luzes, flores e beijos, risos e lágrimas. Uns a chegarem, outros a dizer adeus. Amigos, familias e crianças como eu, à espera de alguém especial.
fui a primeira a sair da confusão de pessoas e a correr para te abraçar.
e tu, saindo por detrás do carrinho, baixaste-te para me pegar ao colo.
"meu amor lindo!"
"tiaaaaa!"
.......................................................
today I dreamed about you, I missed you...
You were arriving from Switzerland and I was waiting for you, in the airport, together with grandma, mum and grandpa.
You were full of coats, with a handcar, a lot of suitcases and a present (probably the gift you never forgot to bring me).
There were thousands of lights, flowers, kisses, laughs and tears. Some arriving, others leaving. Friends, family and children like me, waiting for someone special.
I was the first one getting out of the confusion, towards you, to hug you.
And you, coming out from the back of the handcar, bent down to take me in your arms.
"my sweetheart!"
"auntieeee"
Saturday, 24 April 2010
a monologue with you...
sometimes, when I dig into my things...
I find lost papers, lost words.
sentences written on a dirty napkin
texts on those bases made of cardboard that we use to put the drinks
drafts of thoughts on the back of a check of a restaurant.
most of them are mine...I wrote, I lived.
but there are some from others as well :
papers of stories I didn´t write... papers of moments I also felt.
...
I wish I could collect everything
each word, each sentence, each text...
and put them in a single book
give them a chronology
a link
a context...
a (maybe logic) sense.
and illustrate them with some colors
(besides the white and blue)
and some songs as well.
songs about conversations
people
moods
and instants alone.
songs then followed by pictures
of myself
of others
and landscapes
landscapes with lights and cities
and moons in front of my window while I fall asleep.
landscapes of laughing faces and beaches close by.
and rainy days hiding the sun
landscapes of angry attitudes I shouldn’t have shown.
of peaceful moments I will never forget.
landscapes of problems that took too long
and guitar sounds that should last forever.
...
in the end I think I would get an unclear story of my life
a huge book with a tick and old front page followed by hundreds of yellowish pages
pages made of lakes and waves
of breezes and storms
of flowers and forests
dances around camp fires
and the sand in my shoes.
And finally I would read it, maybe backwards
or maybe randomly, opening the book in whatever page
to then imagine a non predictable future.
a future of feelings that I could then write on a napkin
or on those card board bases to put the drinks
or even on a check of a restaurant...
to then find it later
lost
among my things.
mirah - don't die in me
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
lalala
"Everyday I wake up,
I choose Love
I choose Light
And I try, it's too easy just to fall apart..."
The Submarines - You, Me And The Bourgeoisie
I choose Love
I choose Light
And I try, it's too easy just to fall apart..."
The Submarines - You, Me And The Bourgeoisie
Monday, 19 April 2010
moments that...
Sunday, 18 April 2010
it's difficult to say something late in the night...
that has a logic sense.
I feel tired
and sleepy
smell like smoke
and rode my bike without gloves.
so I have my cold hands still cold
and my jacket still on
but it's not cold...
nor warm.
actually it's just a normal april night
still not warm
already not cold
and I feel sleepy
so I go to bed
before the moon leaves
and the sun rises...
or else I cannot sleep
or fall asleep.
Off my mind goes
and me as well.
have a good night
or a good morning
or whatever...
I feel tired
and sleepy
smell like smoke
and rode my bike without gloves.
so I have my cold hands still cold
and my jacket still on
but it's not cold...
nor warm.
actually it's just a normal april night
still not warm
already not cold
and I feel sleepy
so I go to bed
before the moon leaves
and the sun rises...
or else I cannot sleep
or fall asleep.
Off my mind goes
and me as well.
have a good night
or a good morning
or whatever...
Friday, 12 March 2010
summary of yesterday night!!! (by zoe)
*so the polish miranda, the swedish samantha the greek carrie and the portuguese charlotte (i.e. agnese, madeleine, zoe and me!)
haha
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