night in the coach

It was dawn when I woke up in the coach. I was cold, but not shivering. I pulled my cardigan to me and looked around. The cat was at the balcony step watching the sun raise and it turned its head back and looked at me with its big eyes. My head was clear. I could hear the sound of a car going down the street alone.  She should be sleeping in her room, next door. I remember her coming in the night to watch me sleep. I could not be sure of it, but I was almost sure she had come. Last night we went clubbing and I had all the drinks and I danced with her. Couldn’t remember when it was the last time before that. With the right hand I looked up for my watch in the floor. It was 7. I had a deep breath and got up and went for the toilet to put cold water on the face. When I came back I saw her through the door that was just half closed. She was quiet turned to the other side. I came back to the sitting room got my things and my coat. The cat came after me up to the door. Then it stood. I said ‘bye cat’.‘bye darling’. And I went out.

Diálogo intergeracional

baseado em factos reais

velho: Afinal, como é que pensam os jovens?

jovem: Não seria avisado falar por uma geração inteira, mas eu diria que é cada um pela sua cabeça…

pescadores figurantes

Alguém pintou uma mentira no alcatrão e fez uma rima a branco e preto neste bocado de mundo para onde eu fujo para me sentar a pensar com os pescadores pelo lado e as suas canas de pesca geometricamente plantadas. “Ninguém nunca pensou no que há para além do rio da minha aldeia”. Devia encher-me de coragem para me levantar um dia e escrever a cores uma estrofe de três versos, EU PENSEI, EU PENSO, EU PENSAREI, um metro adiante, mas sinto sempre um medo de que as minhas letras sejam engolidas pelo preto e que não haja testemunhas para falar por mim contra o alcatrão. Os pescadores, velhos, nunca ali estiveram realmente, passam os dias de costas para a morte à espera que qualquer coisa os apanhe de frente – pode ser um peixe ou uma bota e se for de noite um pirilampo mágico, tudo vale, é preciso é ter paciência e imaginação – e com os olhos fechados, a fazer uma sesta envergonhada e escondida atrás de uns óculos de sol dos anos setenta, esses sim, fazem o trabalho todo, passam uma vida virados para o mar e quando não, devolvem os sorrisos rasgados e fáceis das japonesinhas que passam. Quem esteja a ver este filme pode, legitimamente, pensar que está a ser intrujado, e reclamar que, afinal, tudo isto é uma fotografia gigante colada sobre o ecrã da televisão, que se mexe devagarinho, para cima e para baixo, como as ondas que chegam de longe, ecos do eco do motor de um cacilheiro, que seria a única coisa a quebrar esta imagem de gelo, não fosse o peixe que, parvo, mordeu o isco. Depois é como se alguém fizesse Play ou talvez mesmo Fast-Forward. O pescador acorda do torpor e começa com uma mão a enrolar a linha mais depressa, mais depressa, mais depressa, e o outro pescador ao lado, tomado pelo diabo da inveja, vira-se para ele e atira: você anda a esfregar o isco na pele. Eu sigo tudo com o olhar, primeiro o parvo que mordeu o isco, depois a mão que enrola a linha e finalmente a inveja do vizinho. Ainda não sei o que vai sair dali mas digo para mim mesmo, devias agarrar no peixe, na bota ou no pirilampo, atirar-te ao mar e nadar para longe, para além do rio e do mar, só para avisar a esse alguém poeta que é hora de acabar com as mentiras escritas no chão para uma cidade inteira ler.

manifesto anti-velho

BASTA PUM BASTA!

UMA GERAÇÃO QUE CONSENTE EM DEIXAR-SE REPRESENTAR POR UM VELHO É UMA GERAÇÃO QUE NUNCA DEVIA TER SIDO. UMA GERAÇÃO DE GORDOS CANALHAS, UMA RESMA DE CHARLATÃES E DE SABUJOS. UMA GERAÇÃO DE CEGOS QUE ALÉM DE SEREM SURDOS DEVIAM ERA SER MUDOS. ABAIXO A GERAÇÃO DOS VELHOS!

MORRA O VELHO, MORRA! PIM!

auto_retrato

“Estás a olhar assim para mim. Não sabes, mas eu já fui poeta. Fazia versos com rimas e até alguns que não rimavam. As rimas não eram precisas para nada porque as metáforas faziam música. E, por isso, também cantava em plenos pulmões e vivia a vida a dançar com o corpo todo. Deves estar a pensar, como é que eu me tornei nisto, então? Eu respondo-te: a culpa é toda do amor.”

suicídio

Deus e um homem, às portas do Céu

Deus: O que foi que fizeste?
Homem: Matei-me.
Deus: Eu vi. Porquê?
Homem: Era a única saída.
Deus: A única saída?
Homem: Apaixonei-me.
Deus: Isso é razão para viver!
Homem: Quando te apaixonas pela primeira vez…
(silêncio)
Deus: Tu és louco homem?
Homem: Talvez. Mas perdoo-te porque tu não sabes do que falas.

Rawls, o arrogante

O meu problema com John Rawls é parecido com o que tenho com o Papa. Na minha condição – humana – nunca me senti capaz de resolver o mistério do Absoluto. Muito menos falar em seu nome para que outros, tão homens quanto eu, me dessem ouvidos. O Papa faz isso com Deus. Embora passe o tempo a tentar evitá-lo, John Rawls faz isso com a Justiça.

perdido

Ele ainda pôs a mão na maçaneta da porta, mas depois sem saber muito bem porquê sentiu uma insegurança tremenda, deu um passo atrás e parou diante do espelho. Viu o reflexo apertar o último botão do casaco, ajeitar o cachecol ao pescoço e enfiar as mãos nos bolsos. Depois, no fim, ficou a ver o sorriso. Aquele sujeito tinha um look surreal. Como se fosse um criminoso procurado que não tem medo de mostrar a cara, mas precisa de se esconder por dentro. Não se demorou a pensar sobre isso. Sacudiu a introspecção com um encolher de ombros. Depois abriu a porta e o céu apareceu cinzento escuro. Era domingo. O terceiro dia em Paris.

a sad girl

Her face was serious when she looked at the mirror for the tenth and last time. She saw the ponytail was perfectly done. Then she smiled. The bell of Saint-Suplice tolled as she closed the door and the sound of her high-hells echoed fast down the stairway. It was ten o’clock, then. In twenty-five minutes the train was arriving at Saint-Lazare. She left the building and waved happily at the cafe owner who stood outside. He waved back at her and said ‘bonjour mademoiselle’. His eyes followed her down the street, but when she went out of sight the man felt hollow and rushed inside. When she reached Saint-Michel she turned to the left and sat at the bus-stop looking to des jardins. She thought about the iron chairs that are around the fountain. In the afternoons, they would sit there, the two, chatting. Another day, they would sit and remain silent for hours looking at each other. She woke up with the roar of the bus. It was Saturday so she found one place next to the window. She liked to see the Paris passing by and had this habit of coming up with a story for everyone she saw. The saddest thing there is is a life that doesn’t fit a story, she thought. After passing l’Opera she became more anxious. She looked for the reflex in the window to see her ponytail. She hopped off opposite the old station, walked inside and stood next to the railway. There were many people in the platform with her. Girls in their twenties with their hands together. There were two boys nervous with bouquets des fleurs. One on her left had red roses. Another one had margaridas of many colours. There were also some old ladies who should be mothers. She stood motionless, as if she had all the time in the world. At 10:27 a chug was heard. The sound grew louder and louder and finally the train came in slowly and stopped and suddenly the doors opened and dozens of people rushed out. She was smiling again. She put herself on the tips of her toes so she could see in the distance and through the crowd. You could hear people laughing and see people hugging and kissing. This lasted for some minutes. Then, the train driver hopped off. He was the last passenger. He skimmed the platform. It was quiet and empty. Only a girl was standing frozen in the middle of it. She was very pretty and she looked very sad.

Memoirs de Paris

The first time I went to Paris I was already a man and I was in love. That was my second time, to be honest, but it felt like the very first one for when I left I kept telling to myself, ‘one day I am going to live in Paris’. I dreamed of living in the tallest apartment of a three story old building, in one of those steep cobbled streets of Quartier Latin that end in the Jardins du Luxembourg. I would spend the time writing in the esplanades around Rue de Saint Michel and would sit towards Notre Dame so I could see her coming home. One day she’d come pregnant and wearing a white casual dress and a ponytail carrying shopping bags with clothes for me. As soon as I saw her I would jump and I would hide in the corner and as she went by I would rush behind her and cover her eyes, She would gasp but before she could even say a word I would whisper to her hear ‘got you’. And then she would turn to me with a false inpatient smile and say, “for doing me that Coelho, you are now putting yourself inside this new suit I just bought you and you are taking me out to dinner to that restaurant I fancy and I will drink white wine and you will carry me home in arms. Then, she’d kiss me in the face and turn and walk down the street leaving me behind, frozen as if the clock had stopped for good. Those were the days I liked the most, in spring or autumn, when it was chilling but sunny. In winter it was sadder so I spend most of the time working home and looking to the snow outside. I was a correspondent and I was also studying political philosophy. I had a scholarship and I sold articles that kept me living. I was poor but I was happy. And this life went on forever.

I didn’t dream all this that second I took off from Charles de Gaule. It took me some time to make it all up but now I can watch the scene now over and over again and while I walk along the lane of perfectly cut trees of des jardins. And yet, those are my memories that have never been.