“You haven’t met yourself yet. But the advantage to meeting others in the meantime is that one of them may present you to yourself.”

Tem uma parte do “Waking Life” em que o guri encontra um cara num pátio, e este lhe fala: “Você não se encontrou ainda. Mas a vantagem de encontrar os outros é que um deles pode lhe apresentar a si mesmo.”

Quem somos nós se não espelhos uns dos outros? Nos relacionamos com aqueles que se nos assemelham, que nos espelham. Buscamos a empatia do próximo justamente para… nos descobrir. É importante fazer essa ponte entre essas pessoas-espelho, apresentando-os uns aos outros, permitindo que eles tenham conhecimento de outros fragmentos de seus espelhos, coisas de si que eles nem imaginavam. Se as pessoas se descobrirem dessa forma, reconhecendo-se no outro, talvez possamos viver em um mundo melhor, em breve.

Como diz Clóvis de Barros, em “O Mundo Percebido”:

“mas o mundo tá cheio de tiranos, pessoas que fazem questão que todos concordem com ele. (…) e assim, de tirano em tirano, guerras por perspectiva, guerras por percepção.”

Anúncios

‘Lorca warms’

‘… the Iguana will bite those who not dream’

In the sky there is nobody asleep.  Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the
street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the
stars.

Nobody is asleep on earth.  Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.

Life is not a dream.  Careful!  Careful!  Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead
dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist;
flesh exists.  Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.

One day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the
eyes of cows.

Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful!  Be careful!  Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention
of the bridge,
or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes
are waiting,
where the bear’s teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.

Nobody is sleeping in the sky.  Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world.  No one, no one.
I have said it before.

Lorca