C O D E S

Different Codes

Meaning

Finding meaning

Relationship with the universe

People and nature

Nature and arts

Arts and survival

Survival and war

Meanings

Looking for answers

Conscious and events

The events and gestures

Gestures and voice

Meaningful products

Made to provide meanings

Given meanings

Meanings for the existence

Existence and death

Presence and absence

Science and religion

Local and universal

Knowledge and lack of

Paragraphs and chapters

Chapters and no-stories

Meaningful meanings

for meaningless minds

Build meanings only,

that’ll serve them right.

Since they’re finding

There won’t be fight any longer.

By Laila Chris

Bukowski Interview 1982

NOTHINGNESS

by laila Chris

there is
no fun
anymore

you dunno...

what don't
I know?

no clue?

hell no.

there is fun.

you know?

no.

anything?

nothing.
no one
knows.

noble
knight
knew it?

nope.
neither this,
nor that.

never?


nodded.

ever?

nonsense.

naturally new
knowledge?

numb

news.
don't
nurture them,
nowhere.

no?

not at all.

none of
them?

null!

no-good?

not

noticeable?

and noxious,
nearly deadly.

that bad?

have no
idea...

you said
you didn't
know.

nevermind.

?

?
by rebekah hearn


if the earth
switched to green and purple
if life was blooming blood on every corner,
if space could multiply itself, square it,
triple it-
if love could be communicated
and translated into one grand, bursting
raincloud, showering itself on us all, smother hate but
not fire,
it would be utopia. apologies
exhaust our time together—
sweat steeps our pores in regret. yet, here—here, you ask?
here,
i would catch the night with my toes as it passes by,
and listen to the sunset fall,
and release darkness when you
were ready. and the rest can wait, for once.
but i am selfish.
i love only you.

and the rest of the earth
is my broken paradise!

too bad i cannot live 1000 years to make you
realize
my eyes
are on fire
when you come to mind.

THIS by Fernando Pessoa

They say I fake or lie
in everything I write.
No, its symply that
With me imagination
Feels - I don't use
The heart.

All I dream or go through,
All I fail or lose out
On, is like a terrace
Facing something else
Again. And that's the lovely
Thing.

It's why I write
Steeped in things not readily
At hand - free of emotions,
Serious about what isn't.
Feelings? That's the reader
Lot!

(1933 ?)


translated and edited by Edwin Honig and Susan M. Brown

°

Chaos
Chaos
Dodging fights brought me fear
A frightening idea...
Hey, waiter! Give me another word for fear!
No! No! Actually, I need another one for idea.
What a scare... an unthoughtful one!!!
Just one more dare?
Anyone? Who'd care for some more?
Hey, Sir! Serve me another chance to spare...
... my old fears, ideas, and swears
(despairs)!?

by L.C. June/2006

Art-bitch

I don't actually listen to this Brazilian band called "Cansei de Ser Sexy" but their myspace page is placed under my top 8. Why is that, you psycho? Simple. The reason is not for their music which is fun, colorful, and modern in a way. The reason is mostly for the lyrics. They write songs with dry, sometimes harsh words, but they always wind up soft. I appreciate their sour mood. It's poetry to my ears.

Art Bitch
by Cansei de Ser Sexy

My art is called egocentric soft porno
Or maybe it's just narcissism
My one and only subject
Goes from something like anything but
Me ism

Wouldn't it be easier for Beardsley
He could drop the paintings
And photograph his penis
Or take pics of the chicks
Yeah, you know what i mean
Wouldn't it be easier for Escher
He could drop the marh
And make it happen on his mattress
2 girls and a cam
3 girls and a cam
Put a dog there and you got Polaroid scam

I ain't no art-ist
I am an art-bitch
I sell my panties to the men i eat
I have no port-fo-lee-o
Cuz i only show
Where there's free al-co-hol

I am so hardcore
I sell my crap and people ask for more
Call me re-vo-lu-tionaire
I poo on a plate and get it published on visionary
What i do, it's called art-shit
And don't you dare make fun of me
Cuz everything i do was featured on the pages of id

I ain't no art-ist
I am an art-bitch
I sell my panties to the men i eat
I have no port-fo-lee-o
Cuz i only show
Where there's free al-co-hol
I ain't no art-ist
I am an art-bitch
I sell my paintings to the men i eat
I have no port-fo-lee-o
Cuz i only show
Where there's free al-co-hol

Lick lick lick my art-tit
Suck suck suck my art-hole

I ain't no art-ist
I am an art-bitch
I sell my panties to the men i eat
I have no port-fo-lee-o
Cuz i only show
Where there's free al-co-hol

hehehe

In the mind of god
The dead sleeping lie
And the little cogs though unmoving
Hover over the turning wheel
All life's a farce
The broken bird is draped over the paths
And paths and paths and paths
And those who say this world is not
The bloody gleaming paradise of blood and jewel
Lie
Opal and pearl bloodsocket castings
Ruby jasmine jasper onyx
Chalcedonthrone and ambergriscrown
Golden green leafwork
Scrolled with the farstars
Pitted with the moonworlds
Mother alldewey
Arrayed with the twinkling lights
The wovengold spungilded blinking godeyes
The spearshafts of heaven
The souldwelling rockhomes
Are...
Dormition and Dominion
Dormition and Dominion
The Mother is dead
The Mother awakens
Dormition
She sleeps
Dominion
He rules
She sleeps and rules
In her starry bodied glory
The Mother sleeps
The Mother loves
Dormition and Dominion
I wait
..Are the holders of the world and its dreams
I say there is no death
No death
We have lived before and shall live again
And again
We have slept before and shall sleep again
We have danced through the shallow pools
And shall rejoice once again
To those who say there is no hope
I say liars
Liars
Liars you are
Over the starry dancing stars
There is a land
Under the sweatribbed brow
There is a land
And this is the globed world of the Pantocrator
Finally I have understood
I have understood
I have understood
Though when I slip sleeping and silently
From this ribbed room of sighs
You shall not find the history of His personal visit
Sewn into my linings perhaps
Nevertheless I have understood
Where the logician watches god hinge all on a die
Nevertheless: I have understood!
That all this is the breathbetween moment
Our eyelids open and close
Between is the land
Between the time I first was accepted
In between Your brightboned body
Between then and there and the time You wept:
"Goodbye my love goodbye to you"
Goodbye oh goodbye
There there was the land
In the pearls of our heart
There is the immaculate heavenly loveland
In the middle of the forest Actæon is slain by his own hounds
In the middle of the forest Eustace meets the crisscross Stag
There is the land he has reached paradise
There is no death
There is no death
There as the stag turns and smiled loved
There he was takencaught by the prey
All the flowers are blossoming
And all the world calls to you:
"Dormition" -- so you sleep
"Dominion" -- so he rules
Dormition -- oh You sleep, Mother
Dominion -- Father, You rule

by Haroldo de Campos

Babies...

Missing blood!!! Missing my own blood!!! I've been missing you girls... I've been missing you FERNANDA, my baby sis!!!!

I ain't the trainman!!!

I've come to realize that most of my students have taken the red pill... So that means, I may not be a teacher - I AM THE ORACLE!!!

Why?

Why am I this so altruistic?
Why is it so hard to wait?
Why do I feel stoic in some ways?
Why is it so scary to be alive?
Why do I sense that sometimes my life is sliding through my fingers?
Why can't I just be me?
Why do my words promote tricks against my thoughts?
Why do I lose the best of my chances?
Why is it expected from us? Offspring only?
Why does what I offer is never enough?
Why do we wake up in the morning?
Why have I never given up?
Why do we agree that being alone in this world is NOT the way it is supposed to be?
Why must we seek for pleasure?
Why can't we be fulfilled with a glass of water?
Why do we strive for more and more?
Why should we drive if we can fly?
Why have I told to smile when deep inside all I wanted was to breathe?
Why am I looking for answers?
Why does one think he/she can tell right from wrong?
Why is it so special to own things?
Why am I sitting in front of this PC?
Why do I feel that I have to write such bullshit?
Why are you reading my words?
What do we live for?
Why can't I fully admit that what's happening to this world right now is the plain reality?
Why is all so simple but they have to look so complicated?
Why can't I go deeper into this shitty post????

POETRY TUESDAY

The threads that run through your life
Hang from your sleeve
Wind through your soul
The kind you can't control
The kind you can't conceive
The kind you can't believe
But wish you could break
Wish you could weave
I wish you could see
It ties you to me
And you fly in the face of the sun
And you float in the tides of the moon
The paths that run from your door
Climb through the trees
Wind like a snake
The kind you can't escape
The kind you can't conceive
The kind you can't believe
With prickly little thorns
Sharp tiny teeth
They're hungry for the threads
Hanging from your sleeve
Waiting on a path
The kind you can't conceive
But wish you could take
Wish you could leave
I wish you could see
It leads you to me

by Mercury Lev

Sunday is theater day!

I want attention...

Since blogs are f****** stupid according to this essay and they exist only as an exhibitionist tool for its authors, as they were kids, I decided to publish the last shots I've just now snapped (this Saturday afternoon) randomly, for no purpose whatsoever, in order to gather some sort of ATTENTION.

And all this not just because I "want" attention, but because I "crave" attention!!! Yeah, every blogger wants that!!!

Here, you will see pictures of my and my students' All Star sneakers; Felipe and Anderson (both students of mine) logging on comedy junk on the web with Roberto; snaps of part of my "Hello Kitty" souvenir collection (including a pen which was gift from a sweet student called Camila); my real kitty sleeping on the rug; and our living room furniture which was my last Christmas gift from my mom.

Cold Saturday afternoon, after a holiday Friday, and I am having such a terrible FLU... I can only need attention... I want to go back in time and be a child forever...

O Rio de Janeiro continua lindo...

1

2

3

4

5

6

... and so does the entire country!!!
1- Iguaçu Waterfalls - Paraná State
2- Fernando de Noronha Island - Pernambuco State
3- Snow in Gramado - Rio Grande do Sul State
4- Guimarães Canyon - Goiás State
5- Pantanal Swamps - Mato Grosso do Sul State
6- Woods in Brotas - São Paulo State

...:::Poetry Tuesday:::...

Romance Sonambulo

Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea
and the horse on the mountain.
With the shade around her waist
she dreams on her balcony,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
Green, how I want you green.
Under the gypsy moon,
all things are watching her
and she cannot see them.

Green, how I want you green.
Big hoarfrost stars
come with the fish of shadow
that opens the road of dawn.
The fig tree rubs its wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the forest, cunning cat,
bristles its brittle fibers.
But who will come? And from where?
She is still on her balcony
green flesh, her hair green,
dreaming in the bitter sea.

--My friend, I want to trade
my horse for her house,
my saddle for her mirror,
my knife for her blanket.
My friend, I come bleeding
from the gates of Cabra.
--If it were possible, my boy,
I'd help you fix that trade.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--My friend, I want to die
decently in my bed.
Of iron, if that's possible,
with blankets of fine chambray.
Don't you see the wound I have
from my chest up to my throat?
--Your white shirt has grown
thirsy dark brown roses.
Your blood oozes and flees a
round the corners of your sash.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--Let me climb up, at least,
up to the high balconies;
Let me climb up! Let me,
up to the green balconies.
Railings of the moon
through which the water rumbles.

Now the two friends climb up,
up to the high balconies.
Leaving a trail of blood.
Leaving a trail of teardrops.
Tin bell vines
were trembling on the roofs.
A thousand crystal tambourines
struck at the dawn light.

Green, how I want you green,
green wind, green branches.
The two friends climbed up.
The stiff wind left
in their mouths, a strange taste
of bile, of mint, and of basil
My friend, where is she--tell me--
where is your bitter girl?
How many times she waited for you!
How many times would she wait for you,
cool face, black hair,
on this green balcony!
Over the mouth of the cistern
the gypsy girl was swinging,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
An icicle of moon
holds her up above the water.
The night became intimate
like a little plaza.
Drunken "Guardias Civiles"
were pounding on the door.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea.
And the horse on the mountain.

by Federico Garcí­a Lorca

An Ana Cristina César poem

Postscript

I am going to pass around in a minute some lovely, glossy blue picture postcards.
In a minute I'll hand out some beautiful glossy postcards.
This is the leather suitcase that keeps the famous collection.
Look at my hands, empty.
My pockets are also empty.
My hat is also empty. Look.
Nothing up my sleeves.
I'll show you my back, I turn around.
As all of you can see, there's no illusionism here,
no cheating behind your backs, no tricky games with light.
The suitcase rests on the chair here.
I open the suitcase with this master key in ceremonies of this type, if you forgive the joke.
The first thing we find in the suitcase, on top of everything else, is—guess—a pair of gloves.
Here they are.
Suede.
Fancy stuff.
I put them on—left hand… right hand…
a perfect fit.
This reminds me of…
A young artist wandering astray by himself in the elegant Berlin of the Belle Époque who in vain is looking for pleasure. A noisy group of skaters go by, and a woman in white lets her glove drop, a glove with six padded buttons, white, long, perfumed.
The young man runs, grabs the glove, but can't decide whether he should accept the challenge or not. In the end he decides to ignore it, puts the glove in his pocket and returns to his hotel walking down dimly lit streets.
But I'm drifting from the purpose of this evening.
If there's time left I'll let you know the end of this fantastic story in which even Neptune 's chariot, a gigantic grinning bat that always flees, and an ocean of foliage appear.
Who's to say that this isn't that same glove?
Yet we don't have only one here, but a pair; it is delicate and in sharp contrast with the black suit.
Does the leather suitcase keep any toiletries?
No, my friends.
As all of you can see now as I slightly rotate the chair where it rests, the suitcase contains nothing but paper… postcards… dozens, maybe even hundreds of postcards.
Strange suitcase!
And now, pay attention.
With my gloved hands—one moment, let me button one… now the other… gingerly… this is no scam… I adjust the cuffs, like this…—now, with these hands, at random, I take the first postcard, I contemplate it for a second under the light… there's a reflection… but I see here a drowned girl under the rush… I'm handing out the first postcard, please pass it around… second postcard: the Avenida Atlântica… pass it around… a Cadillac in Acapulco … Carmen… the Pompidou Center … a church in Alabama … a castle seen from the Orient… two cupids wearing sunglasses… the jewelry thief and the duchess… and this one here is Fred Astaire in Lady Be Good , or he won't make art, honey… nostalgic… and a Marilyn, and here the beach in Clacton with bingo and fish and chips… Air France 's Boeing… streetcars going up the hills of San Francisco … a polar bear in the Barcelona zoo… Salome… London … another Salome… pass them around, pass them around.
Dear friends, this is a suitcase, not a hat full of rabbits.
We have enough postcards to last all night.
Alexandria … Beirut … Prague … Be Mysterious... A picture by Paul… Gaugin, followed by What's the matter, you're jealous?
A naughty question in a sly tone, just like that, sunbathing at the beach.
And others of museums over here:
The eye like a strange balloon rising up to infinity;
On the horizon, the angel of certitudes, and in the somber sky, a questioning gaze;
Lady in despair;
The blood of Medusa;
The evil mothers;
I close the door on myself;
The kiss;
Another kiss;
Jealousy again;
and now the real Wuthering Heights,
followed by a curious sports race,
some pornography, and a godfather named Cicero.
Dear friends, I have no idea where this is going.
I'm passing these postcards around quickly.
Notice these pockets attached with an elastic band, oh I almost forgot to say that you can and should turn them around to check whether any words are scribbled there, take this one for instance “When might we have an esquisite time again?”, exquisite with an s, or this one here, “Post 6, where I spent my childhood and adolescence, how has it changed!”, or this other one, listen, “I'm still trying to send you a piece of where I am but it's always missing.” And another with tiny letters: “I've calmed down, I distracted myself, I don't think as much, penso a te.”
I think the end is in Italian.
Go on reading, go on, the most part might be blank.
Excuse me.
I have to go but I'll be right back.
I've got something in my eye, a little speck: when I return I'll keep pulling out postcards from the bag, and who knows, when the time comes, I might tell you the end of that true story, but before I leave I should take off my glove, leave it here on the back of the chair.

Thanks Christopher Taylor...

Current Brazilian situation...

São Paulo state, in Brazil, witnessed the worst attacks ever promoted by this sort of gang called PCC last weekend. PCC is an acronym that standards for Primeiro Comando da Capital - First Capital Command. The attacks broke out after 700 "important" inmates members of PCC had been transferred to a distant jail located in my hometown where my parents live, btw. Since PCC's routine got changed, they felt they had to retaliate. Through cellphones, PCC members got highly organized and ordered to start the attacks on Friday last week. The violence was triggered in and out of jails.

All jails in São Paulo and several others throughout the country had riots. Meantime, in the "outside world" -- all over São Paulo state -- masked men attacked bars, banks, subway and police stations with machine guns. A few stores were sacked. Gangs set over 60 mass transit buses on fire only in São Paulo city. And inmates at countless prisons took guards hostage in an unprecedented four-day wave of violence which left more than 80 dead by Monday.

The attacks have been apparently under control since last Monday just because the PCC has accepted to put and end on it. Only today, kids got back to school. And many of my friends didn't need and they whatsoever wouldn't go to work until today. Things here are more strange than ever. The organized gangs showed they have got the skills and the tools to control the situation.

The PCC power lies on its complex web of inmates' connections. Members of this group pay monthly fees to keep heavy weapons, munitions, lawyers, and also to infiltrate cellphones and drugs in jails. The PCC was founded in 1993 in São Paulo's Taubate Penitentiary supported by international terrorist organizations and became involved in drug and arms trafficking, kidnappings, bank robberies and extortion.

To me, this is a clear image of a failed law enforcement. There is no safety in this country. These folks from PCC can do whatever they want to. They can start a war if it is needed one. I could just state: "I'm glad I don't live in São Paulo anymore", but I acutally can't. My entire family still lives there. My best friends work in São Paulo city. I've got relatives in the city too. I don't want any harm happening to any of them. Besides, this criminal group leads outlaws around Brazil. Oh gosh! I wish It didn't end up being this CHAOTIC!