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


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.)


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.


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? 



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.



«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


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)


Yesterday I woke up sucking a lemon

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


Contaminações, XIII

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

[double bill perfeitinho (para cortar os pulsos)]


Pale Honey

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



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].



© Menina Limão

A primeira foto dos 32, na Casa do Gigante.


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


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.


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)

Museu de História Natural

À criança que eu não cheguei a ser e à adulta que o sabe

E ao meu amigo Triceratops

com um high five da Iguanodon:

...a 1984 photograph of a life-size brontosaurus being transported by helicopter to the Boston Museum of Science, by Arthur Pollock.





Tem sido muito educativa esta vida de entrevistas de emprego. Desde a empresa que invadiu o meu whatsapp para me responder a uma candidatura que fiz por e-mail, exigindo que eu tratasse com eles exclusivamente através da aplicação, à funcionária de uma outra empresa que me olhou como se eu fosse um alien (ou estivesse claramente a mentir) quando lhe respondi que não tinha facebook (e não tinha) para submeter a minha candidatura (outra invasão de privacidade nada pequenina, no meu entender retrógrado), ao entrevistador que, numa outra empresa, me disse que "nunca tinha visto um designer com tantas preocupações fiduciárias", porque, imagine-se, eu perguntei quanto pagavam (ao fim de quase uma hora de entrevista, ele não achara importante mencioná-lo), acrescentando de seguida que "geralmente, os designers estão mais preocupados com os vectores e as cores e essas coisas", pois toda a gente sabe que os designers vivem dos castelos que desenham no ar e do prestígio que lhes conferem os arco-íris que projectam no mundo, e nunca precisam de ingerir mais do que as merdas que lhes dizem para sobreviver. Bem dizia a wastedrita: "I'm an artist and I need money like anyone else". Já devia ter comprado o raio da t-shirt.

A partir de uma história verdadeira

Delphine de Vigan, A Partir de Uma História Verdadeira, Quetzal, trad. Sandra Silva

Biografia não autorizada

Muito curioso que o título da minha biografia não autorizada seja «A partir de uma história verdadeira». Ainda para mais porque o livro passa o tempo a jogar com as noções de ficção e autobiografia, ficção e verdade, autoria, etc. Para minha surpresa, a obra vai além da história de manipulação entre as duas personagens, que foi o que me seduziu, aliás, que me impeliu a lê-lo (qualquer pessoa que já tenha vivido ou presenciado de perto uma relação manipuladora reconhecerá a mestria e eficácia com que o fenómeno é aqui descrito), resultando num livro inteligente, com várias camadas e que está sempre a comentar-se a ele próprio, mesmo quando não parece, e a baralhar as cartas, até à última linha. Nunca cansa, até porque Delphine de Vigan dá a impressão de estar simplesmente a contar uma história.

(Era simpático poder discutir este livro com pessoas, mas já sei que nunca ninguém o lerá. Pior, daqui a uns meses, toda a gente terá visto o filme, que será uma merda (mark my preconceived words!) Ca sina mais triste.)



Poverty's paradise
I don’t think I could find a way to make it on this earth
I've been hungry all my life


Why God, why God do I gotta suffer?
Pain in my heart carry burdens full of struggle
Why God, why God do I gotta bleed?
Every stone thrown at you restin' at my feet
Why God, why God do I gotta suffer?
Earth is no more, won't you burn this muh’fucka?
I don’t think I could find a way to make it on this earth


If I could smoke fear away, I'd roll that mothafucka up
And then I'd take two puffs
I'm high now, I'm high now
I'm high now, I'm high now


I'll prolly die anonymous
I'll prolly die with promises
I'll prolly die walkin' back home from the candy house
I'll prolly die because these colors are standin' out
I'll prolly die because I ain't know Demarcus was snitchin'
I'll prolly die at these house parties, fuckin' with bitches
I'll prolly die from witnesses leavin' me falsed accused
I'll prolly die from thinkin' that me and your hood was cool
Or maybe die from pressin' the line, actin' too extra
Or maybe die because these smokers are more than desperate
I'll prolly die from one of these bats and blue badges
Body slammed on black and white paint, my bones snappin'
Or maybe die from panic or die from bein' too lax
Or die from waitin' on it, die 'cause I'm movin' too fast
I'll prolly die tryna buy weed at the apartments
I'll prolly die tryna diffuse two homies arguin'
I'll prolly die 'cause that's what you do when you're 17
All worries in a hurry, I wish I controlled things


When I was 27, I grew accustomed to more fear
Accumulated 10 times over throughout the years
My newfound life made all of me magnified
How many accolades do I need to block denial?
The shock value of my success put bolts in me
All this money, is God playin' a joke on me?
Is it for the moment, and will he see me as Job?
Take it from me and leave me worse than I was before?
At 27, my biggest fear was losin' it all
Scared to spend money, had me sleepin' from hall to hall
Scared to go back to Section 8 with my mama stressin'
30 shows a month and I still won't buy me no Lexus
What is an advisor? Somebody that's holdin' my checks
Just to fuck me over and put my finances in debt?
I read a case about Rihanna's accountant and wondered
How did the Bad Girl feel when she looked at them numbers?
The type of shit'll make me flip out and just kill somethin'
Drill somethin', get ill and fill ratchets with a lil' somethin'
I practiced runnin' from fear, guess I had some good luck
At 27 years old, my biggest fear was bein' judged
How they look at me reflect on myself, my family, my city
What they say 'bout me reveal if my reputation would miss me
What they see from me would trickle down generations in time
What they hear from me would make 'em highlight my simplest lines

I'm talkin' fear, fear of losin' creativity
I'm talkin' fear, fear of missin' out on you and me
I'm talkin' fear, fear of losin' loyalty from pride
'Cause my DNA won't let me involve in the light of God
I'm talkin' fear, fear that my humbleness is gone
I'm talkin' fear, fear that love ain't livin' here no more
I'm talkin' fear, fear that it's wickedness or weakness
Fear, whatever it is, both is distinctive
Fear, what happens on Earth stays on Earth
And I can't take these feelings with me
So hopefully they disperse
Within fourteen tracks, carried out over wax
Searchin' for resolutions until somebody get back
Fear, what happens on Earth stays on Earth
And I can't take these feelings with me
So hopefully they disperse
Within fourteen tracks, carried out over wax
Wonderin' if I'm livin' through fear or livin' through rap

Kendrick Lamar, FEAR., em DAMN. (2017)

This what God feel like

Antologia Virtual dos Nomes Extraordinários, II (vá, alguns só compõem o ramalhete)

Margarida Amador disse (...)


Para evitar uma situação de conflito de imprevisíveis consequências, Prudêncio Canhoto apelou ao presidente da Junta de Freguesia da Salvada, Sérgio Engana (CDU), localidade vizinha de Cabeça Gorda (...)


Para acautelar a repetição de situações como a que se verificou na freguesia da Cabeça Gorda, Pedro Calado irá ter “em breve” uma reunião com Álvaro Nobre. (...)

E não, a notícia não é fictícia. Antes fosse.