16.9.17

Yo, Adrian!

No meio do caminho

No meio do caminho tinha uma pedra
tinha uma pedra no meio do caminho
tinha uma pedra
no meio do caminho tinha uma pedra.
Nunca me esquecerei desse acontecimento
na vida de minhas retinas tão fatigadas.
Nunca me esquecerei que no meio do caminho
tinha uma pedra
tinha uma pedra no meio do caminho
no meio do caminho tinha uma pedra.

Carlos Drummond de Andrade

7.9.17

Estado da arte


© Michael Dumontier & Neil Farber 

In the present state of the art this is all that can be done.

5.9.17

Vícios #10


HINO INSTANTÂNEO
para dedicar ao merdum
para acordar bem disposta
para dançar na pista
para ouvir em loop

💟

Tell me about my potential
And if you were me what you would do
You love the sound of your own voice
Is this conversation an interview?

Jump down from your high horse
Let's talk truth
Try something other than low-hanging fruit
Pour out the champagne
While I sing myself the blues
This one's for you

Everyone around me
Thinks I'm going to fail
But they can go to hell
They can go to
Hello, I'm no one to you
And before I wish you well
Go to hell

There's more than two dimensions
But you only see a point of view
You spend your nights doing spoonfuls
Keep your nose out of the things I do

Jump down from your high horse
Let's talk truth
Try something other than low-hanging fruit
Pour out the champagne
While I sing myself the blues
This one's for you

Everyone around me
Thinks I'm going to fail
But they can go to hell
They can go to
Hello, I'm no one to you
And before I wish you well
Go to hell

Go to hell

It's too late for words
I can hear your eyes
Roll backwards loud and clear
On this little Earth
Life's too short to waste it
On somebody else's fears

Everyone around me
Thinks I'm going to fail
But they can go to hell
They can go to
Hello, I'm no one to you
And before I wish you well
Go to hell

💟

Empress Of, Go To Hell (single de 2017)

Woolfite aguda

Obrigada, sistema nervoso, por ciclicamente me levares os quilos, a capacidade de ler e a paz de espírito.

(Lolz, paz de espírito.) (Ahahah, paz de espir

28.8.17

Horrível

Quando estou infeliz, sozinha e abandonada em casa, e tenho de trabalhar e não me apetece, e está a chover e o sol não brilha, encontro algum consolo na roupa já seca que os vizinhos deixaram estendida na corda.

25.8.17

How's the work going?












© Rubyetc

24.8.17

Marmelada quer alhada: noite straubulhê



OMG, fiz um cartaz. Não fazia uma coisa dessas há melhor-nem-pensar.

Este SÁBADO, dia 26, no Fontória, há mega festa do cock e do rock, com os mestres Rambóliveira, Sister Raimunda e Fred A. Histérico e a participação embriagada da vossa Tupac Shakira (que comemora o começo de um novo trabalho dois dias depois).

O que garantimos? Boa música, balões e choro colectivo às 6h da manhã (porque o palhaço do Sister Raimunda vai-se embora do país). Melhor festa.

21.8.17

Total eclipse of the heart

[via aurea mediocritas, noutras paragens.]

Saying God,


On and on, I don't know what I want
On and on, I don't know if I want it

17.8.17

It's a faded picture bringing back my lost years

Oh, I want to go back
See my baby's face
Oh, I want to go back
To my happy place
That disappeared from view
Such a long, long time ago
It's a faded picture
Hanging on my wall
It's a faded picture
Isn't there at all
It's only there
When I closed my eyes
And started to cry
Over you

It's a faded picture
I can see it
Through colored tears
It's a faded picture
Bringing back
My lost years
It's only there
On rainy days
When tears have dried
And rainbows started to appear

Oh, I want to go back
When I was six years old
Just lying in the grass
Seeing all the clouds
Building castles in the sky
See all the animals go round
And hear music coming
From a merry-go-round
But it's a faded picture
Fade away on me
So hard to see

It's a faded picture
A picture of my childhood
A faded a picture
I'd go back if I could
It's only there
When I hear children laugh
Sit and play
On a bright sunny day
All so gay

It's a faded picture
So hard to see
When you're cryin'
It's hard to see
So hard to see
Just like a painting
This feeling is falling
My heart's buried
Right in the ground
A masterpiece
Of hearts that've gone
Lost for all time
Gone from me
My faded picture
So hard, so hard
So hard to see

My faded picture
Fade away from me
I couldn't bring it back
If I had tried
I couldn't bring it back
If I'd died
My faded pictures
Fade away
On me
So hard, so hard
So hard, so hard
To see my faded picture
Fade away on me

(Agradecimentos ao Serge Bozon.)

14.8.17

Paredes de Coura

© Paulo Pimenta

Apareço no Público, junto de tanta gente fixe e o vhm, a explicar porque é que PdC é o meu festival do heart (a minha lista de momentos memoráveis teve de ser encurtada pelos editores — e já foi difícil chegar àquela selecção, ó caraças).

Obrigada à Inês Nadais (autora do texto que menciono no fim ❤️) e ao Mário Lopes pelo convite.

13.8.17

Don Corleone devia ter morrido num pomar de limoeiros

«For decades, from mid-19th century through the mid-20th, if you were growing citrus in northwest Sicily—lemons especially—you were almost certainly dealing with the Mafia. As Helena Attlee writes in her history of Italian citrus, The Land Where Lemons Grow, “the speculation, extortion, intimidation, and protection rackets that characterize Mafia activity were first practiced and perfected in the mid-19th century among the citrus gardens of [Palermo].” In fact, the association was so strong that some historians and political economists now think the group actually arose directly from the citrus trade: life gave them lemons, and they made organized crime.»

«What made the lemon farmers such ripe targets? According to Attlee, much of the blame can be placed on the fruits themselves. “Among species of citrus in Italy, lemons are some of the most difficult and demanding to cultivate,” she says. They need well-fertilized soil, a steady supply of water, and protection from wind and extreme temperatures, all of which come only at great infrastructural cost. Most trees need to be coddled for seven or eight years before they produce enough lemons to sell. When they do bear fruit, it’s easy enough for people to steal it, especially when compared with smaller crops like wheat or olives.»

«The Mafia also controlled the trade itself, often buying a farm’s fruits to resell before they were even off the trees, and creating artificial shortages by picking green lemons and storing them until the prices improved. As Attlee writes, they had a sinister signal to show off their relationship with a particular grove: they’d nail a single lemon to one of the garden’s doors, and hang a shotgun cartridge next to it.»

«But next time you squeeze a lemon into your tea, take a moment to pay it some respect—it’s a fruit with a bloody history.»

Can We Blame the Mafia on Lemons? 

9.8.17

-_-

Menina Limão vai à Junta de Freguesia, onde é atendida por estereótipo. Depois de vários sinais faciais e sonoros que constam do regulamento de ofensa ao utente, estereótipo insere os dados de Menina Limão no sistema.
— Olhe, isto diz-me que a menina não existe.

😑 Sou de opinião diferente.


8.8.17

Danger

«No, I’m not likely to take more risks in life, now that I know I’m dying. I’m not about to tackle skydiving or paragliding. I’ve always been physically cautious, preternaturally aware of all the things that can go wrong when one is undertaking a dangerous activity. Paradoxically, it was Dad, a peripatetic airline pilot, who taught me to be careful. I don’t think he was temperamentally suited to flying; the risks played unhealthily on his mind and made him fearful, tetchy, depressed. At the same time, he was addicted to the thrill of flying and couldn’t give it up.

His ambivalence about danger confused me while I was growing up. He never discouraged me from taking up risky activities; instead, he filled me with fear about the possible consequences, with the result that I was never any good at them. When he taught me to drive, he made sure to emphasize the fallibility of the machine, something he would have learned during the war, at flying school, where mistakes could be fatal. He liked to open the bonnet of the car before we set off, and run through a sort of flight check with me to make sure everything was hooked up to everything else. These were good lessons and they’ve served me well, but I wonder if a certain enthusiasm for risk drained out of me as a result of his teaching methods, and whether that wasn’t his intent. It strikes me that I might have turned out differently if he’d taken me for a spin one day in one of the Tiger Moths he loved so much, shown me what had turned him on to flying in the first place, emphasized the mad joy rather than the danger.

The irony is that, despite my never having tempted death the way daredevils do, I’m dying anyway. Perhaps it is a mistake to be so cautious. I sometimes think this is the true reason for my reluctance to take my own life. It is because suicide is so dangerous.»

Cory Taylor, Questions for me about dying, The New Yorker

5.8.17

Don't even bother climbing out of the well

Don't even bother climbing out of the well
That ain't no way to get out of the hell that you're in
If you want to see the back of it girl
You better start to get down with your pail of tin
I got shat on by an eagle baby
Now I'm king of the neighborhood and it feels like I could
Just peel the gym pants off a single mother
But this run of good luck don't got me feeling all that good
And it hurts
And it hurts
But I don't want to talk about it

(...)

Don't bother flying when you jump off the cliff
Make sure it's set first if you don't want to deal with "what ifs"
I know you're wondering if you feel it again
Just keep on digging me down with your pail of tin
No shame in sleeping with the seagulls baby
This towns a tourist trap it's no place to be near
They made a meme out of my legacy darling
My hands are caught in the mit and they're pale and thin
And it hurts
And it hurts
But I don't want to talk about it

(...)

Alex Cameron ft. Angel Olsen, Stranger's Kiss (2017)

(Da coolest video pela cool da Jemima Kirke)

3.8.17

Yesterday I woke up sucking a lemon

Onna No Mizûmi / Woman Of The Lake (1966), Yoshishige Yoshida

2.8.17

Contaminações, XIII































The Hustler (1961), Robert Rossen // Too Late Blues (1961), John Cassavetes

[double bill perfeitinho (para cortar os pulsos)]

31.7.17

Pale Honey

Pale Honey, Why Do I Always Feel This Way (single de 2017)

20.7.17

-

Não há povo mais americano do que o irritante a falar.

Pow-pow-pow, Blue's Clues

Adivinha quem foi à vida.

(.)(.)

Celebremos esta vitória civilizacional com "a" coolness do ano passado.

I just woke up one day and randomly wrote a song about having no titties. I’m really into the fact that I could walk into any room and snatch any man in there like it’s nothing. A cup, baggy sweatpants, and a fucked up ponytail and they’ll still love me. I am one captivating son a bitch, and “Tomboy” is about that juice. Who I am and what makes me me, the New York City project rat; the messy but beautiful; the sloppy but still sexy. When you got the juice, everybody wants to drink from your pitcher. 

I mean, our society has created these unattainable body images and beauty “norms” that are super un-relatable for people like us. So that’s why you got to make it work for you. I make my own shit work for me—I manipulate the male gaze. This is my body, and you’re going to look at me, world, whether or not you like it. But they all do [Laughs].

19.7.17

-


© Menina Limão

A primeira foto dos 32, na Casa do Gigante.

18.7.17

Good times for a change

Haven't had a dream in a long time
See, the life I've had can make a good man bad
So for once in my life let me get what I want
Lord knows, it would be the first time

Anedotário

Pergunta a caricatura ao indivíduo: «O que é que achas da emancipação do sujeito em Rancière?» Isto num jantar de aniversário/noite de copos com dezenas de pessoas, e para início de conversa. Valha-me a santíssima. Há pessoas que por deus. A única emancipação que podem conhecer é a do sujeito ribanceira abaixo.

17.7.17

Madrugadas XII

Y recorrer al niño
que quiso parecerse
al hombre que no ha sido.

Y cada noche verle
llorar en los rincones.

Y cada noche oírle
decir que lo sabía.


Fernando Valverde, Razones para huir de una ciudad con frío (2004)