Quero um trabalho que faça sentido
Não consigo sonhar com um
(agora que minha imaginação se fez menos burra)
Quero um amor que faça sentido
Encontrei-o e estou a ponto de arrancar-lhe o sentido
pra comer
Porque essa fome se sentido me provoca um canibalismo feroz
Era capaz de arrancar as próprias pernas pra matá-la
E não o faço?

Nem sei o que te dizer de tanta saudade
palavra inventada,
affection misplacement
empurrado o afeto de cá
para lá
Inventei então esta saudade burra
analfabeta de pai e mãe

Tenho um dente solto,
e sonhei com um alemão que procurava um business partner.
Como já te disse, o plágio é subestimado
e sigo deglutindo essa carcaça elástica,
disforme, sem carne.

Te queria
Te quis, Te quero
desesperadamente - páro.
(com acento)
de desesperadamente que não me enleva do lado de cá.
Só esse cheiro de cigarro que vem do prédio em frente
Nem meu é o pulmão, mas é meu o vício.

Não tenho palavras pra te pedir tamanho favor.
Lembra-te?

Me traz de volta numa rede como uma sereia muda e estúpida
Queria acordar alienígena tendo que aprender Português,
amor, etiqueta,
violência, regras do tráfego
acentuação, masturbação,
mastigação
e tudo mais.
Queria acordar burra estrangeira desenterrada
descongelada
beijada pela primeira vez
feito uma besta rara de museu
Assustada e convicta.
sem contar as horas de um dia
Completamente inábil, incapaz de indecisão.

Queria acordar translúcida sob seis focos de luz em raio-x
oito bisturis
e bocas por trás de máscaras que não interpreto

Sem saber os símbolos
disléxica, a-léxica
Massa amorfa por ser inventada
reinventada
A Menor Mulher do Mundo
A sobrevivente dos mais ancestrais
inocentes dos animais

Me ponha na cama.
Diz que sim.
Canta-me uma canção que eu já cansei de xingar teu nome
Me explica a teoria da evolução
e o que quer dizer "i-n-d-i-s-c-u-t-i-v-e-l-m-e-n-t-e"

e segura pra mim
um minuto
esse aparelho,
que eu não o entendo
eu não o entendo
eu não o entendo,
aleluia, eu não o entendo.

tiny lyrics

(It´s as important to be in love, as it is to have been heart-broken)

cause I rarely write about love, now our silence´s well spoken,
now I have only the time to live your night´s token.
And I love having been in love with those early gonners,
those morning mourners
those horny corners...

You leave me room to relate
with all the songs of heartbrake
and maybe I can still write love poems for my lates
back in the day.

All my old muses,
they just all excuses
those fifty-three uses,
I find for your rhymes.

And hell I do love this feeling
This flashback, the wheel in
the road where I´d been in
those early long dreamin,
a child dumb-struck

the trucks that we´d jumped on,
the travels I´d dreamed of
the night´s that we planned on
The weather of babilon,
when you were just gone


and they can all become words, and they can all become line,
and they can all become cream, dripped into the coffee
I sipped in my mind
they melt in the bars while I pay for my crime

I keep them a notebook,
a rose by the bed-side
A chime and a key-chain
(maybe even a postcard, of that strange never-been plain)
A garlic-bread, a graffiti line, steak-knife case and
the words said in wine.

they´ve got all those sobbed tones,
they´ve got all those pink moans,
they´ve got it all drawn out,
they´ve got it all waxed in
they´ve got it all stuffed as
the old envelope´s skin

They´ve got a few tears
A book by the year
Unforgetfull sins, spoken right in my ear
One last joke unspoken,
the leaves still unbroken
and maybe three hearts
of the ones I had stolen...

while I leave you mine.

Chapeuzinho Vermelho - first draft

Sua cor favorita tinha sempre sido vermelho. Aos 8, seu Pai lhe dera de presente um canivetinho vermelho, logo antes de morrer de tuberculose. Depois da morte do Pai, a Avó cortou-lhe um tecido e fez uma capa com capuz, da cor mais bonita, para alegrar sua netinha.
Alguns anos depois, a Avó ficou doente, e Chapeuzinho Vermelho (que não tinha nome, porque capuz e máscara são quase a mesma coisa) ficou muito preocupada. A Mãe preparou doces, bolos e uma garrafa de vinho. Colocou todos numa cesta, e entregou a Chapeuzinho.

-Está bem, minha filha, se quer mesmo visitar sua avó, aproveite e leve a ela esses doces, para alegrar seu dia. Escuta menina, já estás bem grandinha. Não vai pelo bosque florido, que é muito perigoso. Segue sempre o caminho pedregoso da ferrovia.

Chapeuzinho fez que sim, porque era muito obediente, e menina obediente o trem não passa em cima.
Vestiu a capa e as botas pretas de couro, e desceu os degraus da frente.

Mente quem diz que mentira tem perna curta, e que é de pequenino que se torce o pepino. Mente ou escutou muita mentira, e eu desminto porque pressinto cheiro de churrasco. Quem parte, reparte, e não pega a melhor parte, ou é burro, ou não entende da arte. Já dizia minha mãe. E a mãe de Chapeuzinho disse a ela que fosse pela ferrovia, mas veja bem, aí é que está, ela não via as belas flores que crescem bem na beirinha do bosque escuro. Não precisa entrar no bosque, é só seguir pela beira.

Chapeuzinho queria levar, além de doces umas flores vermelhinhas para a Avó. Mal não faz. Esticou os braços, e foi andando pela beirinha do bosque, rente à linha de árvores, muito cuidadosamente. Mas não tem bosque alinhado assim tão bem, e com mais três ou quatro florzinhas, ela já estava no meio do bosque lindo e escuro. Nessa rua, nessa rua tem um bosque. Que se chama que se chama solidão. Dentro dele dentro dele mora um anjo que roubou que roubou meu coração. Chapeuzinho florzinha Vermelha ali no meio do bosque, tão bonita de se colher. Dizem que Lobos são espertos. A vontade é mais esperta que a esperteza, e o que Lobo tem, é uma vontade enorme. Se assim funcionar, então sim, o Lobo que espiava Chapeuzinho ali daquela árvore, era mesmo muito esperto. A fome bateu, como só a fome sabe bater, mas ele sabia que por ali não podia ser. Foi jogar conversa fora, olhar melhor a florzinha vermelha.

-Boa tarde, menina!
-Boa tarde, senhor.
- O que uma menina tão linda como você faz por aqui, no meio do bosque?
- Estou colhendo flores para a minha Avó, ela está muito doente. Quem é você?
- Eu sou o Lobo.
Chapeuzinho olhou então pela primeira vez a figura que lhe dirigia a palavra. Ele tinha olhos, orelhas e uma boca tão grandes. Sim, isso ela já notou logo de início.
- Não posso ficar conversando agora, Lobo, tenho que ir encontrar minha Avó.
- E onde mora a sua Avó?
- Do outro lado do bosque.

Cada um seguiu seu caminho, e algum tempo depois Chapeuzinho chegou, com a cesta cheia de flores, à casa da Avó.
Bateu na porta. Ninguém atendeu. Vovó?
Abriu a porta e entrou. A casa escura de tão deitada, deixou-se iluminar um pouco pelo dia que já ia caindo. No canto, uma cama. Vovó?

Chapeuzinho sentiu um cheiro triste de final, de depois de depois de amanhã. A capa envolvia-lhe, e o medo da chuva é o mesmo medo que o medo da seca. O cheiro de poeira e doces, o cheiro de vinho e...
Deu três passos. A figura na cama, debaixo dos cobertores. Debaixo dos cobertores um rosto cara escura de bicho sob panos brancos. Ele, com um gesto de cabeça, apontou a mesa de cabeceira. Ela olhou, viu a taça de vinho, o prato de carne. A carne é vermelha.

Aproximou-se, dois passos.

Desentendida menininhinhazinha diminuindo com olhos de cadê minha mãe que eram mesmo cadê minha Vó, minha velha velhinha que já me esquecia cadê. Estendeu as mãos para a taça, bebeu um gole do vinho. As mãos tremiam, não de medo, mas de frio. Tinto descendo um antes-do-amargo de quem ia entender. Rastro queimado de álcool que traçava uma linha da cabeça ao ventre, e de volta aos olhos. Olhou-o novamente.

Na cama, a figura esguia, de esguelha transparência. O monstro do homem. O escuro debaixo da cama, deitado em cima, invertendo palíndromo a ordem dos medos. A ordem dos modos.

Olhos nos olhos quero ver o que você faz

(A morte era flor cor de vinho ali com cheiro de mofo, de carne, de sangue seco, de saliva ainda viva. A morte cheirava sua nuca, nunca dantes mordida. A morte acenava da janela de trás enquanto sua pele branca pedia pedia pedia um copo d´água, tenho sede, e os meus olhos pedem teu olhar. A pele pedia um novo atrito dissecado e branco, explosivamente branco de onde surgem todas as células. E a morte ali, penetrando a vida amolecida de sucos, sulcos banhados de vinhos antigos, nascimentos trágicos e outros tantos ardores futuros. A morte e o desejo de abrir todas as janelas. A morte na cama, o orgasmo discreto dos teus dentes. Quando a dor e o desejo soltassem um o corpo suado do outro, ela teria finalmente entendido.)

Dos medos todos que poderiam ter aflorado em passos desesperados, gritos aflitos ou não, nenhum deles conseguiu distanciar-se da beira do estômago. A tristeza das realizações mais duras tomou-lhe os vinte dedos, os dois milhões e quatrocentos fios de cabelo, as duas pernas, os olhos tão grandes e a única boca vermelha, entreaberta. Deu um passo em direção ao lado da cama, como que para velar um doente. A perda corta as cordas e as amarelinhas, as pedrinhas de cinco marias, os panos das bonecas e uma capa vermelha.

- Você matou minha Avó?

Era e não era um pergunta. Ele inclinou ligeiramente a cabeça para baixo, sem tirar os olhos dos seus olhos. Os olhos seguravam cada um a ponta de uma vara de equilibrista. O perigo abísmico sobre a cama, ameaça vulnerável, despida, crua de animal. Os olhos negros de bicho não diferenciavam pupilas, e ela insistiu em ver melhor seu próprio reflexo no poço: deu o último passo, expondo perpendicular. Espelhada vermelha nos dois círculos negros. A barra da sua saia branca roçava de leve os cobertores. Nunca estivera tão próxima.

O tempo virou do avesso suas mangas e bolsos, desembaraçando a vastidão inerte que se alastrava. E tudo aconteceu no tempo em que um olho prepara-se para piscar. As duas bocas se abriram em espelho: A dele num rosnado de bote, dentes na velocidade de flechas brancas, afiadas como a lança na mão do selvagem, o homem em seu berro de posse, de perfuração. Sua vida pela minha, minha vida sobre a sua, por entre a sua. A dela num gemido agudo e curto, do susto sabido e fundo, de arregalar os olhos verticais e olhar de frente pela primeira vez o grande abismo. Desperta a dança, simultânea sacou invisivelmente do bolso o canivete.

Os caninos brancos apenas talharam levemente o ventre macio, afastados rapidamente pelo ardor do corte que o canivete espelhava em sua pele negra de pelos grossos. Estancou novamente o ar. Dois cortes. Feridos, ambos: Chapeuzinho via a linha vermelha cortada logo abaixo do seu umbigo, o sangue que lentamente transbordava transversal, manchando sua saia branca. Ainda tremia, segurando com força desembainhado seu canivetinho vermelho. O Lobo na cama, o corte que ela lhe abrira manchando sua carne de um vermelho vivo, superficial, excruciantemente real.
Traçada a linha, cortada a margem. Ela levou a mão ao ventre, apertado de dor. Ele retraiu um pouco o corpo de fera acuada.

Ainda segurava o canivetinho, baixava devegar o braço. O Lobo já não mostrava os dentes. Olhavam-se ainda, talvez tomados do mesmo assombro.

Quando chegasse em casa diria à Mãe que enterrara a Avó no jardim, e que o corte no ventre era dos espinhos das roseiras. Não saberia jamais explicar, e nem tentaria nunca entender o motivo do que fez em seguida. Executou as ações como se não estivesse lá, lentamente, como alguém que nunca tivesse decidido se mover: Fechou a lâmina do canivete vermelho, e ainda olhando-o nos olhos, guardou no bolso a arma. Cortou com força um pedaço do pano da saia. Deixou, dolorida, que lhe escorressem três lágrimas dos olhos, e molhou com elas o retalho. Aproximou-se calmamente e esticou a mãozinha branca na direção da figura monstruosa. Estancou com o pano branco o sangue que escorria do corte, abaixo dos olhos negros do Lobo. Ele não se moveu. Apenas o som de duas respirações, contraídas em direções opostas. Ela então soltou o pano, e percebeu tirando a outra mão do ventre, que também o seu corte estancara. Ardia.

Deu um passo atrás. É para te ver melhor.

Olhou pela última vez aqueles fundos olhos negros. Compreenderam-se, em acordo silencioso e imóvel.

Voltou-se para a porta, deixando cair dos ombros a capa vermelha. Só um vestido branco, manchado leve de sangue. Nunca mais veria a capa, nem o Lobo, nem a Avó. E depois de certo tempo, chapeuzinho vermelho sem seu capuz não faria mais sentido, e teriam de chamá-la por seu verdadeiro nome.

trying to rid part I

Mais um pêssego, e outro, nacional tradicional e o teor coisal da minha cama eu não aguento mais. Não satisfez, eu tentei expurgar, exorcisar, voltar ao centro do que... voltar ao centro de quem?

And no I don´t oh no I don´t and no I can´t change the subject.

He´s been gone for eight years, I told her. Eight whole fucking years and the short story I wrote repeats itself as a perverted myth.
We sat some five feet from the recent grave, me and The Boy With the Callous Mind. The Boy with the Callous Mind, and the Girl of the Callous Heart. We sat there some five minutes in silence, as our own version of the funeral developed inside our eyes. Our own version of his song, and our own silent goodbye. We imagined teenly we were witnessing the sad ending of a disease we couldn´t imagine naming. The two of us, we were children, and the beggining seemed like an ending.
Of all the people to sit with that day, I sat with him. Imature for death as we were for sex, love, and all separations to come, we tortured our minds with the guilt of not having saved our loved one. And looking around at him, sitting with me, simply passed me by. We never truly understood life as it sat there, we could only grief death, as it laid.

I do not blame myself, I blame both of us. For the lack of sensibility to what really there was: life, and the shortness of breath you would one day experience. As if his testament to you: hold on to my life, as I haven´t, hold on to the wind, hold on to their hearts till you queeze their blood, and the air off their lungs. And so you did.
And we loved, though we did not know how. Me and the Boy of The Callous Mind. We loved the size of friendship and our childish arguments, we loved rainy days, and rainy cinnamon cakes. We loved the same man, and as kids we roamed in the dead of dangerous indoor nights. I took things from the Boy, he took things from me. As a pair of brother dogs, we pleeded the milk to ourselves, and we loved each other in tears. I made so many mistakes, and I needed you to understand. You made so many mistakes, and I needed you to keep away.

I´m sorry. And I still need you to be sorry.

One day, after one of the Boy´s Callous Mind-spats with my Heart, I exploded in seven million tears, and told him to leave and never come back. I despised his laughter as I did his jealousy, I felt tired and small under his enormous lack of need for niceness. For consideration. I ate stale popcorn as I watched that awfull starwars movie, and cried with the princess as she said it: "Ani, you´re breaking my heart." I imagined I watched my devilish friend becoming a monster, and then I realised my exagerated hatred and desperation. And then I didn´t realise my exageration was nothing short of true. I was scared of your ability to cause pain, as I am now. I am scared of your ability to feel pain. I am now. I kept away from your hatred and love for a blesses period of rational self-care... And I almost hate myself for it.

Whatever you did during that time, I have no record, I have no idea. I hurt you deeply, as you hurt me. I shot it all with a ridiculous bebegun, and the wounds are almost laughable. But I was right. As I was wrong.
You knew I´d come back, I always did.

Whatever he left for you, you seem to have left for me. Although you have not gone. The Boy with the Callous Mind, of a thousand faces, smiles at the moon as if he knows her. And yes, although you have gone, you have.

The perfection of that bleeding vein, the perfection, it scares me out of my mind. It scares me, worst, out of my Heart. Yes, what is this? Yes, I feel it. Whatever it is you felt, I cannot name, and I feel it. Oh dear god I plead in your inexistance, I feel the Boy´s scar, it hurts between my eyes, and I cannot hold your life in my hands. But that is a line, and it is my life, and it is all our lives, and it is also the body that´s been dead for 8 years.
Lacks air. Lacks hair. Lacks light. Exceeds, expells, extracts, and it contracts and spins down and out again. I cannot hold it, and I ask you to sit.
I had asked you to sit, hadn´t I? Then I pleeded. I kneed, and I pleaded, and prayed that you would sit. For I was tired, for I still am, for you left me with the giant lock and I am searching, and I see the door to your apartment, and I see the dusty light outside, and I feel what you felt: and I start separating them, one by one... like kettle. I start seeing the disease in them, and they scare me, and they threaten me, and they will they will all betray me. So I start separating them as kettle. I´m scared of you, and I am scared of me. As I was scared of him.

With them, there is the image of you, almost saintlike in white, and yet monster-like with eyes of Anakin turning red. I list the bad in the good, I search for the wolves amongst the sheep. And I had never been one to kill. Here I am pointing the gun at passer-bys, here I am holding tight to my pockets. Why am I you? I cry so terribly hard I cannot hear my heart anymore. I tell you to breathe. I had told you to breathe, hadn´t I?

breathe
ignore all, just breathe.
And I can´t.
What if it was me? - I scream at your face as if you´re guilty.
What if it were me behind the wind and over the window? would you have had me in your arms?! Would you have held me like I held his trembling wet body, would you!? Would you have had the guts to sit by my body, would you have held my hands and pleaded me to sit?! Would you have told me to fucking breathe?!

It is absolutely absurd to want any of this from you. You wouldn´t and you couldn´t have. And I am a spoiled brat with the notion of dual love. I am a spoiled brat and I need caring for. I am a spoiled brat and I wanted myself when I had given myself to all of you. When we were kids, and you all but me had me on my knees for your fucking saity. For your fucking love. For his fucking life. And I needed it to be me, in my own arms. I´m so sorry I left you. I´m so sorry I still consider leaving you.

"And I´m crying for things that I tell others to do without crying"

I´m scared of trust, and of my own open arms. Were his arms open as he fell? I´ve always wanted to know. I´ve always kept a secret hope that his arms were open as he fell. My unconditional love has developed into a little baby white boy, and he laughs at all my lack of will, as I try to feed it and help it survive. I am weaker, and less myself than I´ve been in years. Yet. Yet. I wonder. Would it could it possibly be the best time to find out? Maybe I don´t want to know. The door you opened that night scares the fuck out of all my organs, and I hope for a greater decision. Things are so fickle and they pass. You are as strong as the roots of your soul. I am a tree, and I want to be a tree. I want to love all of them, as I always have, and I want no more wounds to question light and water. I don´t want to wonder, I want to, as a child, walk straight into the wall, and cry my eyes out when it hurts. But your learn that walls can kill. And yes, I am scared.

lyrics. for you to song it, babe.

She tells me she´s in love. says she´s in deep absolute fucking love. and it´s complicated.
oh dear sweet heart, sugar babe, lay lay hun, lay your head hun.
And I tell her I´d been wanting to write love, and to think love. think. such an interesting verb to do love. like some kind of violation, I´d strip it down from it´s masked feelings, and think it. plainly. sexualy, as a ghost.
I tell you, sweet pea, love is almost understandable from two miles below.
I tell you, babe, you listen, eh?
Love be almost plausible, from two miles below.

I mean icecream here out from that park, and I look me this view of clifs and clydes. I find myself at the distance of your eyes. And I see it green, you be sixteen, I am a mean mean ol gal with her spyglass and her vail.
Nah, love, chant your hours away, pray t´yar gods you may, they may come to you at night to kiss your berry lips. I, dear?
I sit over here, I see it all, from two miles below.

And I tell ya, babe, maybe it just be simplest, from two miles below.

Out this park avenue, it´s sunny day, I see them kids, them run them play.
All the little girls and boys, and all o their little toys, seem they all be stil waitin,
just waitin on you.

Love is this, that I think right now, love is this quiet sound of Knowhow,
and the lack of object, and the choke of subject,
and I flow em out, til ya see the bubbles from my pipe-organ.
From outside o´love,my darlin, from inside of every drop of it,
I think love, my darlin, I remember and I build, my darlin,
all the love you live, my darlin,
for my leaves of summer.
for my clay-made mate.

From two miles downside, from two-miles offroad,
I hitchike my away across and over
those no-lonely trays of smiley faces on park avenue

I be tellin you the truth my love.
Love is simple thought, my love. I be honest as god, I be honest to you
as you to your love:
I miss the loss of this road ahead, and I remember the swirle of life over your head. And it´s all so clear, darlin,
from two miles below.

Last night I asked him,
said honey please you do me this one favor:
I could see you walk around town with all kinds of maidens
I don´t mind the many Louises dresses in white,
I don´t mind them feelin you up real nice
I see she´s pretty sweet, that burnet Louise,
I´d treat her real nice, introduce myself, offer her a cup o´tea
hope she´s treatin you right, like once you treated me
glad she be the one by your side when it´s winter, babe
glad she´s puttin up those lights as well as me,
glad she makes you happy, babe, glad she can see.
Ain´t no irony in my friendly gaze towards her, love
aint no sarcasm when I say, love, she be doin you some good,
that sweet Louise.
But I tell you, babe,
Just don´t show up my town with that other maid,babe
Don´t stroll down my town with Johana, babe
Be it Louise, babe, she be sweet and I don´t mind.
Just don´t bring me Johana in your arms, she don´t be kind.
Don´t you dare, babe, tear me up, babe
and give her none o your fingers, mine all to her.
It aint me, or all the world.
It just be this confusing feeling, babe.

Love be this confusing thing, I told her...
Sometimes it just stings your eyes as if it was still there
sometimes there aint no figuring out our own affairs.
I just ask him: do me this favor, babe
don´t you go givin your smile
To Johana´s likes, babe.
that be all, babe, that be all.

And she told me she´s in love. Darlin, dear me. I can think of what you feel, and I love the deep indeed of all this that has gone, and I love me what comes. I can tell you the view of a few clues from up here, babe. The smile on my face from lovin no place from up here babe. The want of a lifetime, the heart of a gaze, from up here babe,
from two miles up.

unfinished

There are winters that last years,
There are nights that last for months
There are places in the world where the dark skies are filled with colorfull lights from a chilling reality,
that people of the summer lands could only call fantasy.
Rules do not aply.
Repetition does not indicate prediction,
and that harsh knowledge is pushed away by rules,
that do not aply.

There are flowers that grow under feet of snow.
As I watched it fall, from the window of a temporary home, summer would change into winter in hours of sleep. Because rules do not aply.
As I fled summer into winter, rules of continuous time, of cicles, rules of passages and phases, melted into ice.

religious thought

A "new" (nothing is new) view on Creation:

In his Unbearable Lightness of Being, Kundera explains that while humans come from other humans, characters are created from an image. A new belief starts to take over me, inevitable, as I embrace and accept more and more my love for those that have created, before me, the image and the words of me. While human bodies may very well come from the combination of other two human bodies... (And I thank my mother and father for their great love to each other, lasting however long it lasted)
All of the rest of a human existence cannot, to me, be reduced anymore to the studies of pshycology. While the human body is created of the human body, so many other parts of the self are, I now believe, created from pieces of the world, that may or may not have been accessed by those called our parents. Works of art, acts of love, random life moments, experiences lived and manufactured by other beings, in moments past may have the beauty and strenghth to create a fragment of someone to come. Fragments of an existence that excedes that specific moment and shines into some other form of being, in whatever random time or space.

Maybe we can divide the idea of epiphany into two: the epiphany of creation, and the epiphany of reception. (Dealing here with the art-related idea of epiphany, since I do not yet comprehend greater meanings). The epiphany of creation is the moment in which the brief experience of the divine is translated into a creation of art: words to a poem or prose, a perfect shot for a photographer, the precise brushstroke or line, a sequence of movements... That one "inspiration" moment that makes creation of something REAL possible. In art, epiphany is possible not only in a creative moment, but also as a receptive epiphany: when the work of some other inspired soul touches you so deeply and imediately that you feel you have seen in it... truth. It is not mere "relating" rationaly to the work of art, it is not subtle "identifying" something of yours, and of the world in it. It is the great moment when you experience that particular work as it is, as it may be, as a whole. Sometimes it feels as a fast glimpse into a mirror. Not an ilusive inverted mirror, but a real mirror. What I believe now is that the moment of receptive epiphany is IN FACT a glimpse into one´s creation. One sees in that particular artistical fragment, a detail in one´s creation. Sometimes I am absolutely certain, when reading very specific words put together by Ana C, or Virginia, or lately Patti, that some parts of my existence have been created by precisely those words.

Maybe the receptive epiphany is not a vision of god, but a vision of our partial creator: that exact moment without which our existence, as it is, would not be possible. A glance at one´s self. I look at a specific Paul Klee painting, and I am sure for a fragment of a second, to have seen myself in it´s most crude form; to have seen a beam of light responsible for one of the cells of my existence, of my soul, of my experience.

I have come to believe that parts of my life and experience, personality and coincidences, reactions and loves have been created by fragments of someone´s life, in it´s artistical form.

Just to have it registered, a self-memo, this was the phrase that brought one spcific part of me to life:

"I learned from him that often contradiction is the clearest way to truth"

by miss Patti Smith, to whom I would, if I could, dedicate entirely this new belief.