Hasta el fracasso exige una integridad...

É sexta-feira e está rolando o festival Curta Brasília lá no Teatro Nacional, com um monte de filmes bacanas. Mas, depois de um dia chatinho de trabalho em pleno feriado em Brasília, cheguei em casa super sem energia. ‎E com todo o combo melancolia+ansiedade+dismorfismo+irritação que a TPM sempre me traz. Então, em vez de pular da janela, é melhor ler poesia.

E aí minhas escolhas são certeiras. Nada melhor para me encher a alma de beleza do que o mestre Roberto Juarroz e sua Poesía Vertical. E hoje ele me presenteou assim:

"Nos fatiga más y más la poesía a medias, la poesía donde no se juega íntegramente el poeta, en todos los aspectos de la creación. La poesía a medias es el peor enemigo de la verdadera poesía, como el hombre a medias es el mayor adversario del hombre. Tal vez ocurra lo mismo con todo cuanto es a medias, en relación con lo que es o trata de ser. 

Hasta el fracasso exige una integridad, especialmente en poesía."

Midnight in Berlin

It was autumn night in Berlin, when an old Chevy stopped in front of Rosa Luxemburg Platz and someone invited me to come inside. I can't explain why, but I wasn't afraid. I entered the car and it suddenly took me somewhere in the early 50s. When I opened my eyes, I was in a cozy club, with a small stage where the musicians were playing their new kind of music. The place had the colours of a Hopper painting. There, at the counter, I saw Billie Holiday asking for something to drink. At the other side, Nina Simone was chating with Miles Davis, while Ray Charles Robinson was alone on a corner table, smoking a cigarette, watching piano notes dancing with the smoke.

Mr. Otis Redding invited me to dance after offering me a drink. I asked for a Veuve Clicquot, but he said: "sorry, babe, I can't afford it to you now, but I'll buy this full of love beer", and then he took me to the dance floor with his heart just close to mine. We kept dancing on the dock of the bay, just wasting time. I closed my eyes and we were back to our home in the Deep South, back to our white fence house. Daydreaming. I knew the car would come back to pick me up. So I just stayed there, queen of my private dance floor, shooting my own poetry film made by fantasy, music and love.