Este, muito bom. Exemplo:
"Queres palavras.
Aqui as tens. Para ti. Como dantes, quando nem sabia onde iam parar. Guarda-as, afinal és a razão tardia e maior pelas que hoje me sobram".
Ou este:
"Tão longe tão perto
a liberdade tornaria a solidão mais suportável?"
«Rir torna-nos invencíveis. Não como quem vence sempre, mas como quem não desiste. »
Frida Kahlo.
28.2.06
25.2.06
Balsâmicos bálsamos
O chili foi feito de uma forma banal: após o refogar das cebolas e da carne - em cubos, claro - 3 ou 4 horas de cozedura em água e cerveja, alternadamente (com uma preferência inocente para esta em detrimento daquela), malaguetas, cominhos, orégãos, colorau e alho em doses, digamos, equilibradas, pouco muito pouco feijão. Basta controlar a consistência e a coisa faz-se per si.
À parte fiz um molho de piri-piri de que gostei muito: malaguetas (não sei o nome, são grandes e redondas e picantes) e picadas, sal, azeite, cebola, alho, salsa e vinagre balsâmico, tudo muito picadinho e cuidadosamente esmagado. Muito vinagre balsâmico - é inacreditável o que este vinagre pode fazer por si e pelos seus cozinhados.
PS - Só agora vi isto.
À parte fiz um molho de piri-piri de que gostei muito: malaguetas (não sei o nome, são grandes e redondas e picantes) e picadas, sal, azeite, cebola, alho, salsa e vinagre balsâmico, tudo muito picadinho e cuidadosamente esmagado. Muito vinagre balsâmico - é inacreditável o que este vinagre pode fazer por si e pelos seus cozinhados.
PS - Só agora vi isto.
Tarde de sábado com nada para fazer
... Your mind is an incubator for good ideas, it just takes a while for them to develop...Your thoughts tend to be huge, and they come on quickly - like an explosion...
... You've dated enough to know what you want...
...You seduce people by tapping into their dreams and desires.
And because of this sensitivity, you can be the ideal lover for anyone you seek...
...
"Ficaste cheio de ti", diz-me H.
"Sim", respondo, "enjoado, mesmo".
Better get drunk.
... You've dated enough to know what you want...
...You seduce people by tapping into their dreams and desires.
And because of this sensitivity, you can be the ideal lover for anyone you seek...
...
"Ficaste cheio de ti", diz-me H.
"Sim", respondo, "enjoado, mesmo".
Better get drunk.
Figos
Figs
D. H. Lawrence
The proper way to eat a fig, in society,
Is to split it in four, holding it by the stump,
And open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist, honied, heavy-petalled four-petalled flower.
Then you throw away the skin
Which is just like a four-sepalled calyx,
After you have taken off the blossom with your lips.
But the vulgar way
Is just to put your mouth to the crack, and take out the flesh in one bite.
Every fruit has its secret.
The fig is a very secretive fruit.
As you see it standing growing, you feel at once it is symbolic:
And it seems male.
But when you come to know it better, you agree with the Romans, it is female.
The Italians vulgarly say, it stands for the female part; the fig-fruit:
The fissure, the yoni,
The wonderful moist conductivity towards the centre.
Involved,
Inturned,
The flowering all inward and womb-fibrilled;
And but one orifice.
The fig, the horse-shoe, the squash-blossom.
Symbols.
There was a flower that flowered inward, womb-ward;
Now there is a fruit like a ripe womb.
It was always a secret.
That's how it should be, the female should always be secret.
There never was any standing aloft and unfolded on a bough
Like other flowers, in a revelation of petals;
Silver-pink peach, venetian green glass of medlars and sorb-apples,
Shallow wine-cups on short, bulging stems
Openly pledging heaven:
Here's to the thorn in flower! Here is to Utterance!
The brave, adventurous rosaceæ.
Folded upon itself, and secret unutterable,
And milky-sapped, sap that curdles milk and makes ricotta,
Sap that smells strange on your fingers, that even goats won't taste it;
Folded upon itself, enclosed like any Mohammedan woman,
Its nakedness all within-walls, its flowering forever unseen,
One small way of access only, and this close-curtained from the light;
Fig, fruit of the female mystery, covert and inward,
Mediterranean fruit, with your covert nakedness,
Where everything happens invisible, flowering and fertilisation, and fruiting
In the inwardness of your you, that eye will never see
Till it's finished, and you're over-ripe, and you burst to give up your ghost.
Till the drop of ripeness exudes,
And the year is over.
And then the fig has kept her secret long enough.
So it explodes, and you see through the fissure the scarlet.
And the fig is finished, the year is over.
That's how the fig dies, showing her crimson through the purple slit
Like a wound, the exposure of her secret, on the open day.
Like a prostitute, the bursten fig, making a show of her secret.
That's how women die too.
The year is fallen over-ripe,
The year of our women.
The year of our women is fallen over-ripe.
The secret is laid bare.
And rottenness soon sets in.
The year of our women is fallen over-ripe.
When Eve once knew in her mind that she was naked
She quickly sewed fig-leaves, and sewed the same for the man.
She'd been naked all her days before,
But till then, till that apple of knowledge, she hadn't had the fact on her mind.
She got the fact on her mind, and quickly sewed fig-leaves.
And women have been sewing ever since.
But now they stitch to adorn the bursten fig, not to cover it.
They have their nakedness more than ever on their mind,
And they won't let us forget it.
Now, the secret
Becomes an affirmation through moist, scarlet lips
That laugh at the Lord's indignation.
What then, good Lord! cry the women.
We have kept our secret long enough.
We are a ripe fig.
Let us burst into affirmation.
They forget, ripe figs won't keep.
Ripe figs won't keep.
Honey-white figs of the north, black figs with scarlet inside, of the south.
Ripe figs won't keep, won't keep in any clime.
What then, when women the world over have all bursten into self-assertion?
And bursten figs won't keep?
D. H. Lawrence
The proper way to eat a fig, in society,
Is to split it in four, holding it by the stump,
And open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist, honied, heavy-petalled four-petalled flower.
Then you throw away the skin
Which is just like a four-sepalled calyx,
After you have taken off the blossom with your lips.
But the vulgar way
Is just to put your mouth to the crack, and take out the flesh in one bite.
Every fruit has its secret.
The fig is a very secretive fruit.
As you see it standing growing, you feel at once it is symbolic:
And it seems male.
But when you come to know it better, you agree with the Romans, it is female.
The Italians vulgarly say, it stands for the female part; the fig-fruit:
The fissure, the yoni,
The wonderful moist conductivity towards the centre.
Involved,
Inturned,
The flowering all inward and womb-fibrilled;
And but one orifice.
The fig, the horse-shoe, the squash-blossom.
Symbols.
There was a flower that flowered inward, womb-ward;
Now there is a fruit like a ripe womb.
It was always a secret.
That's how it should be, the female should always be secret.
There never was any standing aloft and unfolded on a bough
Like other flowers, in a revelation of petals;
Silver-pink peach, venetian green glass of medlars and sorb-apples,
Shallow wine-cups on short, bulging stems
Openly pledging heaven:
Here's to the thorn in flower! Here is to Utterance!
The brave, adventurous rosaceæ.
Folded upon itself, and secret unutterable,
And milky-sapped, sap that curdles milk and makes ricotta,
Sap that smells strange on your fingers, that even goats won't taste it;
Folded upon itself, enclosed like any Mohammedan woman,
Its nakedness all within-walls, its flowering forever unseen,
One small way of access only, and this close-curtained from the light;
Fig, fruit of the female mystery, covert and inward,
Mediterranean fruit, with your covert nakedness,
Where everything happens invisible, flowering and fertilisation, and fruiting
In the inwardness of your you, that eye will never see
Till it's finished, and you're over-ripe, and you burst to give up your ghost.
Till the drop of ripeness exudes,
And the year is over.
And then the fig has kept her secret long enough.
So it explodes, and you see through the fissure the scarlet.
And the fig is finished, the year is over.
That's how the fig dies, showing her crimson through the purple slit
Like a wound, the exposure of her secret, on the open day.
Like a prostitute, the bursten fig, making a show of her secret.
That's how women die too.
The year is fallen over-ripe,
The year of our women.
The year of our women is fallen over-ripe.
The secret is laid bare.
And rottenness soon sets in.
The year of our women is fallen over-ripe.
When Eve once knew in her mind that she was naked
She quickly sewed fig-leaves, and sewed the same for the man.
She'd been naked all her days before,
But till then, till that apple of knowledge, she hadn't had the fact on her mind.
She got the fact on her mind, and quickly sewed fig-leaves.
And women have been sewing ever since.
But now they stitch to adorn the bursten fig, not to cover it.
They have their nakedness more than ever on their mind,
And they won't let us forget it.
Now, the secret
Becomes an affirmation through moist, scarlet lips
That laugh at the Lord's indignation.
What then, good Lord! cry the women.
We have kept our secret long enough.
We are a ripe fig.
Let us burst into affirmation.
They forget, ripe figs won't keep.
Ripe figs won't keep.
Honey-white figs of the north, black figs with scarlet inside, of the south.
Ripe figs won't keep, won't keep in any clime.
What then, when women the world over have all bursten into self-assertion?
And bursten figs won't keep?
20.2.06
19.2.06
18.2.06
Força de expressão
Por vezes ela exprimia uma vontade, uma só e sempre a mesma, com tanta força, e de uma forma tão directa, tão frontal, tão pura, que ainda hoje lhe sinto as palavras, o cheiro, o sabor delas, a luz, e ainda hoje tenho vontade de lhe satisfazer o pedido.
Vidas
A sua vida não era, como muitos pensavam, uma sucessão de derrotas. Antes pelo contrário: era uma sequência de vitórias - vitórias essas que foram sendo, em graus variáveis, abandonadas, desprezadas, mal-exploradas, deixadas de lado porque ele não sabia, simplesmente, o que fazer com elas. Ou não estava interessado, mais provavelmente.
17.2.06
Evolução
A partir de certa idade, as pessoas vêm em kits completos: passado, filhos, "bagagem emocional"; - nada a ver com aquela simplicidade pela qual nos apaixonávmos quando éramos jovens: uma pessoa e um projecto. O que complica um pouco as coisas, claro: os pacotes são indissociáveis, e para gostar de um dos seus elementos temos que gostar de todos.
PS - e o pior é que a experiência ensina-me que devemos desconfiar de quem, a partir de certas idades, não vem em package...
PS - e o pior é que a experiência ensina-me que devemos desconfiar de quem, a partir de certas idades, não vem em package...
11.2.06
Nem tudo é Chirac, lá para aqueles lados...
Ocorrem-me alguns posts (mais do que justificados) sobre a guerra do Golf em que se troçava da cobardia gaulesa - e aqui ficam posts no sentido contrário (Via A Origem das Espécies).
Charlie Hebdo
Canard Enchaîné
Charlie Hebdo
Canard Enchaîné
6.2.06
Ora bolas!
3.2.06
Serviço Público - Restaurantes
Passamos a vida a queixar-nos (enfim, eu passo) da falta de um restaurante simultaneamente italiano e decente em Cascais.
Mas a verdade é que há um, ao mesmo tempo bom e barato (também os há maus e caros, mas isso é outra história): trata-se da Pizzeria Il Siciliano, na Rua do Poço Novo, e tem uma empregada muito simpática, comida boa, alguns vinhos mais ou menos decentes (não tem, e é pena, Barolo), uma decoração assim assim; ainda por cima é facilmente acessível, e o Limoncello não é nada mau (nem a grappa, mas com esta a 3 euros mais vale beber Limoncello, a 2 e picos).
Rua do Poço Novo, 138 A, Cascais
T.: 214 868 357
Fecha às Terças.
Mas a verdade é que há um, ao mesmo tempo bom e barato (também os há maus e caros, mas isso é outra história): trata-se da Pizzeria Il Siciliano, na Rua do Poço Novo, e tem uma empregada muito simpática, comida boa, alguns vinhos mais ou menos decentes (não tem, e é pena, Barolo), uma decoração assim assim; ainda por cima é facilmente acessível, e o Limoncello não é nada mau (nem a grappa, mas com esta a 3 euros mais vale beber Limoncello, a 2 e picos).
Rua do Poço Novo, 138 A, Cascais
T.: 214 868 357
Fecha às Terças.
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