silent sigh

Now you know what all these sad songs are about. Know every hidden meaning, every deep intense feeling behind each and every word. Still, it does not make any sense. The voice saying goodbye on the other end. A nightmare, you’re still lying in your bed, you are just waiting to wake up and it’s gonna happen any time soon:the images gone with a shrug… the marks will be gone, the tears will be dry, words erased, your skin intact. You will wake up and the songs will be gone too ’cause he’s gonna be there, sleeping, his hair all messed up, his back turned to you. The perfect curve of his neck, his lovely smell over the pillows and he will be sleeping like a child, like the beautiful innocent child he is when he sleeps. You will just have to come closer, draw the blanket over your cold shoulders, hug his long thin arms and breath deeply, ever so deeply on his nape, as to fall asleep again, hoping not to dream this time.

Then

Then I defy you stars.

Hi.

Everything in its right place

…’cause, see?
We are alone in this world.
Love is not a savior, love won’t really help us step into significancy nor make things meaningful. Stop us from expecting things from each other – quite the contrary.
It’s got nothing to do with love. Or, well, maybe it does, but that’s not the point, for instance.
The final raw naked ultimate truth we’ve been trying to hide from for centuries, for all of our history, is that simple:

we are born alone.
we will die alone.

We are all alone in this world. Whether as a sole human being or as a race.
Living our lives by ourselves, occasionally touching each other.
We shall not and we cannot expect anything from the Others.
The Others are miracles which could – or could not – happen.
We will still be here tomorrow.
Alone.
You are alone.
Anything anyone ever make to you – bad or good or meaningless – is just mere occasion, coincidence – call it what you may.
Someone had a choice.  The choice was made. Anyhting anyone ever does is by choice.
And there’s always, always, the fucking choice, in the extreme.
THERE IS ALWAYS A CHOICE. An alternative.
All you do is by yourself. Thinking of others or not.
You are alone.
We are alone.
We are lonelinesses serendipitously touching each other.
…
[Just too hard to realize that:
whether you take part in the general insanity
- or take your own life]

Definition by opposition

Love is the opposite of modern cynicism.

Stay out of my head

Stay out of my head, you would repeat, like a lullaby to put yourself to sleep.

Now the house is silent,the glasses are quiet, the books are dead, the curtains are still. Memory is fading. Time runs wild.
Like an old lady losing sensitivity -
You put your hand in the fire: a ritual.
Tearing your hair and your heart out, strand by strand -
Pushing the limit assuming love conquers it all:
love will hold your hand, love won’t let you fall.

Regarding the silver pepper of the stars

me: missing london these days. sometimes i dont even miss it anymore, but when i do… i listen to elliott smith, like i’m doing now
anders: i got the same thing with san francisco, but right now its only people and burritos. I watch star trek like i’m doing now
me: it´s not really people that i miss the most in london. and the food only when i’m hangover, craving for an english breakfast. i miss the streets, the greasy spoons, the dusty pubs. my right to loneliness without guilt.
anders: word, i had a nice sunday lamb roast at this pub in a park.
that is nicely phrased. how do you feel guilty about being lonely? I mean, what about it brings up guilt for you?
me: i dunno. like, when i’m here in sao paulo and i know people who are in the same city, i feel like i should be with them and if i’m alone i feel guilty. like i should be socializing and showing people i like them and enjoy being with them and that they are important to me. and if don’t, i feel anxious and guilty and you never can give enough atention to all the people you know and like. so i’m constantly feeling guilty.
anders: I know exactly what you mean. I was tryingto say something true about it but the words aren’t coming… thinking…
me: …
anders: this is something that I’ve struggled with a lot too. i have come to choose that the only OBLIGATIONs I have to my friends is to keep what promises I make (so I make few) and to live a life that they can enjoy having as part of theirs. it’s really easy to try to be there all the time, especially since its a ton more fun than thinking about crappy things you don’t feel like dealing with … but the loneliness is important for taking care of those things
me: but see, foreigners they respect it more. brazilians are famous for being “friendly”. but by “friendly” you can understand: obtrusive. is it a word? like not respecting your space and individuality. if you’re not socializing, if you’re not attending every event they make up, you’re akward, you’re weird, you’re cold, etc
anders: yeah, but that’s just not possible to do all the time.
me: BUT THAT’S WHAT PEOPLE EXPECT YOU TO DO. ops, sorry for the caps
anders: do you mean loneliness when you are actually alone or do you include feeling lonely when you are around other people? dont yell at me! joking
me: both, i guess, but mostly being on your own
anders: I’m just trying to make sense of the guilt that is felt based on a feeling or a self expectation to be with other people … it’s self imposed. I dont think that it actually exists in other people’s expectation of you … it’s something I’ve been thinking about here. I get to spend a ton more time alone without feeling like I’m letting someone down, but I don’t fully understand why. it reminds me of this:

My life is not this steeply sloping hour,
in which you see me hurrying.
Much stands behind me; I stand before it like a tree;
I am only one of my many mouths,
and at that, the one that will be still the soonest.
I am the rest between two notes,
which are somehow always in discord
because Death’s note wants to climb over-
but in the dark interval, reconciled,
they stay there trembling.

And the song goes on, beautiful.

me: which song is that?
anders: thats rainer maria rilke

me: i don’t think it’s totally self-imposed, i mean, i havent been going out as much lately as i used to, and people are always like “what happenend? are you ok? you disappeared”

anders: yeah, but being “party friend” is different than being friend

me: and you do want to get closer to some people

anders: I can’t imagine that the people who really matter mind if you hang alone more

me: but it’s life, there’s never enough time. and in here? they do. they think you’re depressed

anders: hm, I guess. I dont really see anything wrong with depression

me: it’s in fact necessary

anders: thats where I’m at with it

me: i read some article about it, about how depresison is a way to deal with reality, with frustration. it’s a way to align your expectations with what the world has to offer and how, till a certain point, it actually protects you from hurting yourself even more or from suicide

anders: sure, read a paper on how the reason people in colder climate are more depressed because it is useful to be lazy and not want to do anything when humans couldn’t go outside and didn’t want to eat or fuck during winter when there wasn’t enoug food for an apetite or more kids. I’m not sure about the truth of aligning your expectations … I think that is more self fulfilling than anything

me: i don’t know either, that’s just something scientists and psychologists, etc, said

anders: yeah, but I think psychologists end up explaining things satisfacorily from one perspective, an sometimes lose sight of how it actually impacts somebody’s life to hold a belief like that

me: hm, what do you think of this quote:

“I came to realise depression is when nothing matters… and sadness is when everything matters.”

anders: I think that its great, but the “nothing matters” to me is more of a “what’s the point” and the “everything matters” is not just “matters” but “is significant”.  did that make sense? what I mean is “fuck it” vs. “omigod omigod omigod”

me: yes, exactly

anders: it’s really late here and I’m getting sleepy and not thinking well, but I think depression is related to consiousness

me: self conciousness most of the time

anders: there is a philosopher at UC Berkley named alva noe, and I think this is a decent paraphrasing:

“I don’t reject the idea that the brain is necessary for consciousness; but I do reject the argument that it is sufficient. That’s just a fancy, contemporary version of the old philosophical idea that our true selves are interior, cut off from the outside world, only accidentally situated in the world. The view I’m attacking claims that neural activity is enough to explain consciousness, that you could have consciousness in a petri dish. It supposes that consciousness happens inside the brain the way digestion occurs inside the GI tract. But consciousness is not like digestion; it doesn’t happen inside of us. It is something we do, something we achieve. It’s more like dance than it is like digestion.

Even if we had a perfect way of observing exactly what a brain was doing, we would never be able to understand how it made us have the kinds of experiences we do. The experiences just aren’t happening inside our skulls. Trying to understand consciousness in neural terms alone is like trying to understand a car driving down the road only in terms of its engine.”

what is the difference between being conscious and being self-conscious?

me: hm,they are both linked, but when you say self-conscious you’re concentrating on yourself and your direct relationship with the world around you. when you’re conscious, it can refer to how you see relationships outside of yourself, not directly related to you, though it’s still your vision anyway

anders: but everything that shows up for you in the world is something you have a direct relationship with: of recognition and some sort of engagement. I can’t think of a single thing that somebody coud be consious of, and not have any relationship with. the direct relationship would exist I guess in language, in having an abstract symbolic structure to relate to the thing itself with. a word or phrase which includes the world how it is outside you, objectively, as an aspect of what makes your consciousness, and therefore, in part, where consciousness resides.

it’s an interesting idea

me: it is. i really like the text you quote. when i think about it, i reach a point where everything is so linked, in such a complex way, that it makes a whole of everything, like every little thing is so connected in so many forms that it makes it difficult to think. because we think in words and words are a way of cutting pieces of reality, separating things. and it feels..incomplete. like it’s always missing something, leaving something out

anders: hm but words are also the only way we have to access these ideas. they are real, but they don’t exist outside of words

me: true. but still… when i think in terms of language…

anders: i think the reason it feels that way might be that it’s never an answer, and just a series of questions, or a query

me: like, knowing english pretty well, made me realize how it’s almost impossible to translate things. translations are always going around stuff, but never putting your finger there, understand?

anders: I do

me: different langauges cut through reality in different ways

anders: sure, I think thats very well said

me: and when you come to think of how many languages there are out there…

anders: sure, and if would even be possible to know which to learn to think better about what…

me: exactly!  (staring at the horizon thinking)

anders: regarding the silver pepper of the stars

me: ha, still one of my favourite english sentences.



Chelsea Syndrome

Them and their photographs and their jobs and their trips and their drugs and their freedom. Their promises of truth and beauty, their good taste and all the books they read, all the important books they read, and the places they’ve been to and the people they know and the questions they keep.

Flowers & Boots

:: Cardigã, vestido e cinto de brechó
coturnos Chebel (sim, é daí que vem o nome)::

A Menina e o Pássaro Encantado

Era uma vez uma menina que tinha um pássaro como seu melhor amigo.
Ele era um pássaro diferente de todos os demais: era encantado.
Os pássaros comuns, se a porta da gaiola ficar aberta, vão-se embora para nunca mais voltar. Mas o pássaro da menina voava livre e vinha quando sentia saudades… As suas penas também eram diferentes. Mudavam de cor. Eram sempre pintadas pelas cores dos lugares estranhos e longínquos por onde voava. Certa vez voltou totalmente branco, cauda enorme de plumas fofas como o algodão…
— Menina, eu venho das montanhas frias e cobertas de neve, tudo maravilhosamente branco e puro, brilhando sob a luz da lua, nada se ouvindo a não ser o barulho do vento que faz estalar o gelo que cobre os galhos das árvores. Trouxe, nas minhas penas, um pouco do encanto que vi, como presente para ti…
E, assim, ele começava a cantar as canções e as histórias daquele mundo que a menina nunca vira. Até que ela adormecia, e sonhava que voava nas asas do pássaro.
Outra vez voltou vermelho como o fogo, penacho dourado na cabeça.
— Venho de uma terra queimada pela seca, terra quente e sem água, onde os grandes, os pequenos e os bichos sofrem a tristeza do sol que não se apaga. As minhas penas ficaram como aquele sol, e eu trago as canções tristes daqueles que gostariam de ouvir o barulho das cachoeiras e ver a beleza dos campos verdes.
E de novo começavam as histórias. A menina amava aquele pássaro e podia ouvi-lo sem parar, dia após dia. E o pássaro amava a menina, e por isto voltava sempre.
Mas chegava a hora da tristeza.
— Tenho de ir — dizia.
— Por favor, não vás. Fico tão triste. Terei saudades. E vou chorar…— E a menina fazia beicinho…
— Eu também terei saudades — dizia o pássaro. — Eu também vou chorar. Mas vou contar-te um segredo: as plantas precisam da água, nós precisamos do ar, os peixes precisam dos rios… E o meu encanto precisa da saudade. É aquela tristeza, na espera do regresso, que faz com que as minhas penas fiquem bonitas. Se eu não for, não haverá saudade. Eu deixarei de ser um pássaro encantado. E tu deixarás de me amar.
Assim, ele partiu. A menina, sozinha, chorava à noite de tristeza, imaginando se o pássaro voltaria. E foi numa dessas noites que ela teve uma ideia malvada: “Se eu o prender numa gaiola, ele nunca mais partirá. Será meu para sempre. Não mais terei saudades. E ficarei feliz…”
Com estes pensamentos, comprou uma linda gaiola, de prata, própria para um pássaro que se ama muito. E ficou à espera. Ele chegou finalmente, maravilhoso nas suas novas cores, com histórias diferentes para contar. Cansado da viagem, adormeceu. Foi então que a menina, cuidadosamente, para que ele não acordasse, o prendeu na gaiola, para que ele nunca mais a abandonasse. E adormeceu feliz.
Acordou de madrugada, com um gemido do pássaro…
— Ah! menina… O que é que fizeste? Quebrou-se o encanto. As minhas penas ficarão feias e eu esquecer-me-ei das histórias… Sem a saudade, o amor ir-se-á embora…
A menina não acreditou. Pensou que ele acabaria por se acostumar. Mas não foi isto que aconteceu. O tempo ia passando, e o pássaro ficando diferente. Caíram as plumas e o penacho. Os vermelhos, os verdes e os azuis das penas transformaram-se num cinzento triste. E veio o silêncio: deixou de cantar.
Também a menina se entristeceu. Não, aquele não era o pássaro que ela amava. E de noite ela chorava, pensando naquilo que havia feito ao seu amigo…
Até que não aguentou mais.
Abriu a porta da gaiola.
— Podes ir, pássaro. Volta quando quiseres…
— Obrigado, menina. Tenho de partir. E preciso de partir para que a saudade chegue e eu tenha vontade de voltar. Longe, na saudade, muitas coisas boas começam a crescer dentro de nós. Sempre que ficares com saudade, eu ficarei mais bonito. Sempre que eu ficar com saudade, tu ficarás mais bonita. E enfeitar-te-ás, para me esperar…
E partiu. Voou que voou, para lugares distantes. A menina contava os dias, e a cada dia que passava a saudade crescia.
— Que bom — pensava ela — o meu pássaro está a ficar encantado de novo…
E ela ia ao guarda-roupa, escolher os vestidos, e penteava os cabelos e colocava uma flor na jarra.
— Nunca se sabe. Pode ser que ele volte hoje…
Sem que ela se apercebesse, o mundo inteiro foi ficando encantado, como o pássaro. Porque ele deveria estar a voar de qualquer lado e de qualquer lado haveria de voltar. Ah!
Mundo maravilhoso, que guarda em algum lugar secreto o pássaro encantado que se ama…
E foi assim que ela, cada noite, ia para a cama, triste de saudade, mas feliz com o pensamento: “Quem sabe se ele voltará amanhã….”
E assim dormia e sonhava com a alegria do reencontro.

Ruben Alves