à l´éveil
déplier les mains que la nuit a tordues
le sang fourmille au bout des doigts
à chaque éveil

on the eve of a fat sunday

Around midnight, she is walking home, her pace brisk against the cold. No traffic, no people, she hears the music from far away. Its longing.  Getting louder. It pours from an old theater. An open door, a flight of steps...  here's the milonga.
The hands. Wide open on backs, around hips. Taking such clear possession, turning each dancing pair into lovers. Then the music ends, pairs shift, and the same hands claim a different body. Surrender into brief belonging. 

o que me falta quando a noite

...
















...

insecto místico

Ao Norberto Lobo acho que lhe aconteceu uma mutação pessoal que lhe permite segurar a guitarra com o corpo inteiro. Da espinha aos joelhos, aquilo enrola e encaixa e faz vibrar tudo, até ao que na ponta do cabo sobra das cordas como trombas de borboletas.

ensinar palmas à estrangeiros

o bicho sabe-se lá se tinha lingua mas tinha coração. não estou a falar de ser boa pessoa ou assim coisas associadas. coração bate e cadências são o que eu ensino. o bicho aprendia depressa. depois dum pouco rebolou de barriga para o ar e, sem perder o compasso,  com as palmas dos pés começou a bater outro ritmo por dentro do primeiro, das mãos. fiquei contente. nem todos os alunos dão satisfação.  

please never stop pinking all over











..

Zut, la wifi ne fonctionne que dans le lobby.  Vieil hôtel, le silence pèse lent, lui non plus ne rajeunit pas.  Le cliquetis d'un fax fait sursauter le réceptionniste de nuit, il se rendort tout de suite.  Ces énormes fauteuils fleuris personne ne pourra jamais les déplacer.

(j'aimerais un amant à étages. A nombreux étages. et je me fous de l'ascenseur. certains de ses étages correspondraient aux miens, d'autres seraient en plus en moins entre deux mais surtout surtout mystérieux.)

pour le moment je vais me coucher. 
demain, c'est rodéo.

la dernière main

ou plutôt

on va dire

oui, c'est en code

suiyoobi ou neiges éternelles

"Tout est suspect, sauf le corps"
Louis Jouvet

“Trust only movement. Life happens at the level of events, not of words. Trust movement.”
Alfred Adler

sobre o poder das mãos (fim)

A verdade é que nem as vi com olhos de ver, as mãos do osteopata. Estava eu tão concentrada em estar inteira debaixo delas, estas mãos, que nem me lembrei de abrir os olhos. Em troca a camada de cérebro que me serve de pele trabalhava a dois mil à hora. Basta que lhe tocam de certa forma em certos sítios, e hop hop hop lá se põe ela a iradiar mensagens líricas à todo o lado. Um disparate. Não há problema, até é normal, mas hoje o descodificador não queria funcionar. Acabei por dizer barbaridades e estou envergonhada.

first times

This osteopath began his work today by clasping electrodes to my back and turning the voltage as high "as you can stand". This meant i could feel my muscles twitching and switching with a life of their own, hopping like crazy in electric rhythm. Thus i was left alone for 10 minutes. Alone with somebody's panicking heart grafted to my shoulders (that's how it felt, and that's how my heart was taking it, faster and faster, before I talked him down, can't see anything without wanting the same, the sympathetic bastard) 10 minutes is a long time.
Afterwards came bliss.

On the power of hands

Years ago, Emilia worked in a bar for some time. One night, she witnessed a very sweet very drunk bum who'd gotten a gash on his head, and was being tended by a young nurse who happened to be there. As the nurse worked on him, he looked at her, rambling softly about how she had beautiful breasts, how he knew women like to be looked at, how he 'd want to make her one baby, or better : two, so they would never be lonely... if she'd only let him. What could have been harsh crude talk was actually tender, sincere, even respectful. Very vulnerable.
Afterwards, when Emilia asked the nurse how she coped with these things, she said she didn't mind because she had learned that when you touch (as in "put your hands on") very lonely persons, they sometime want to marry you on the spot. That's the effect hands can have, touching.

Sounds terrible. Well, it almost happened to me this afternoon, and I'm not even so lonely these days. During the whole second half-hour of the appointment, I seriously thought of proposing to the unknown osteopath who was kneading my sore back to a raw and happy pulp. Seriously.

(Yesterday, retouching. today, touching. Is there a pattern emerging here???)