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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Peanuts for September 22, 1963

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Charles M Schulz drew nearly 18,000 strips over 50 years of his career; while he claimed they were ‘about nothing’, and made up only of ‘little incidents’, “Peanuts’ influence on culture and society is nothing short of seismic,” says Claire Catterall, curator of a new exhibition dedicated to Schulz’s work at @somersethouse. At its peak, Peanuts was syndicated in 75 countries, translated into 21 languages, and had a notional total readership of 355 million.

The Stranger Song

It's true that all the men you knew were dealers
Who said they were through with dealing
Every time you gave them shelter
I know that kind of man
It's hard to hold the hand of anyone
Who is reaching for the sky just to surrender
Who is reaching for the sky just to surrender

 

And then sweeping up the jokers that he left behind
You find he did not leave you very much not even laughter
Like any dealer he was watching for the card
That is so high and wild
He'll never need to deal another
He was just some Joseph looking for a manger
He was just some Joseph looking for a manger

 

And then leaning on your window sill
He'll say one day you caused his will
To weaken with your love and warmth and shelter
And then taking from his wallet
An old schedule of trains, he'll say
"I told you when I came I was a stranger
I told you when I came I was a stranger"

 

But now another stranger seems
To want you to ignore his dreams
As though they were the burden of some other
O you've seen that man before
His golden arm dispatching cards
But now it's rusted from the elbow to the finger
And he wants to trade the game he plays for shelter
Yes he wants to trade the game he knows for shelter

 

Ah you hate to watch another tired man
Lay down his hand
Like he was giving up the holy game of poker
And while he talks his dreams to sleep
You notice there's a highway
That is curling up like smoke above his shoulder
It's curling just like smoke above his shoulder

 

You tell him to come in sit down
But something makes you turn around
The door is open, you can't close your shelter
You try the handle of the road
It opens do not be afraid
It's you my love, you who are the stranger
It is you my love, you who are the stranger

 

"Well, I've been waitin', I was sure
We'd meet between the trains we're waitin' for
I think it's time to board another
Please understand, I never had a secret chart
To get me to the heart of this
Or any other matter"
When he talks like this you don't know what he's after
When he speaks like this you don't know what he's after

 

"Let's meet tomorrow if you choose
Upon the shore, beneath the bridge
That they are building on some endless river"
Then he leaves the platform
For the sleeping car that's warm
You realize, he's only advertising one more shelter
And it comes to you, he never was a stranger
And you say, "Ok, the bridge or someplace later"

 

And then sweeping up the jokers that he left behind
You find he did not leave you very much not even laughter
Like any dealer he was watching for the card
That is so high and wild
He'll never need to deal another
He was just some Joseph looking for a manger
He was just some Joseph looking for a manger

 

And then leaning on your window sill
He'll say one day you caused his will
To weaken with your love and warmth and shelter
And then taking from his wallet
An old schedule of trains, he'll say
"I told you when I came I was a stranger
I told you when I came I was a stranger
I told you when I came I was a stranger
I told you when I came I was a stranger"

Martín Espada - Who Burns for the Perfection of Paper

At sixteen, I worked after high school hours
at a printing plant
that manufactured legal pads:
Yellow paper
stacked seven feet high
and leaning
as I slipped cardboard
between the pages,
then brushed red glue
up and down the stack.
No gloves: fingertips required
for the perfection of paper,
smoothing the exact rectangle.
Sluggish by 9 PM, the hands
would slide along suddenly sharp paper,
and gather slits thinner than the crevices
of the skin, hidden.
Then the glue would sting,
hands oozing
till both palms burned
at the punchclock.

 

Ten years later, in law school,
I knew that every legal pad
was glued with the sting of hidden cuts,
that every open lawbook
was a pair of hands
upturned and burning.

Silent Mode

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From Adam Wilkoszarski's site:

To say that Asia is far away and different is to say the most shallow thing; but it doesn’t mean that it’s not true. In Silent Mode continent of billions is empty and uninhabited. The perspective is focused on the shape of the world itself, crafted by humans, on the mark left by Japanese, who orbit between almost non-existent private sphere and omnipresent public - all seen by an observer from the outside, who’s not claiming a right to understand all of this. What was supposed to happen here, happened long ago - or will not happen at all.

Jericho Brown - Duplex (I Begin With Love)

I begin with love, hoping to end there.

I don’t want to leave a messy corpse.

 

       I don’t want to leave a messy corpse

       Full of medicines that turn in the sun.

 

Some of my medicines turn in the sun.

Some of us don’t need hell to be good.

 

       Those who need least, need hell to be good.

       What are the symptoms of your sickness?

 

Here is one symptom of my sickness:

Men who love me are men who miss me.

 

       Men who leave me are men who miss me

       In the dream where I am an island.

 

In the dream where I am an island,

I grow green with hope.  I’d like to end there.

Lisboetas

Autores/Authors - Gaspar Varela/Sebastião Varela

Guitarra Portuguesa/Portuguese Guitar - Gaspar Varela
Viola de Fado/Classic Guitar - André Ramos
Baixo/Bass - Francisco Gaspar

 

Realização/Directed - Sebastião Varela
Direcção de Arte/Art -Nani Campos
Operador/Camera - Rafael Matos

Uma Produção/A Production by EGEAC/ MUSEU DO FADO

Produção Executiva/Executive Production – Hot Chilli Films

Produtor Musical/Producer - Paulo Parreira

Produtor Executivo/Executive Producer – Diogo Varela Silva

Eng.º de Som/Sound Engenear – Rui Guerreiro

Assistente/Assistent - Rita Campos

Estúdio/Studio – Dynamis Studio

Misturas e Masterização/Mixing – Rui Guerreiro/Studio Magellan

Fotografias/Photo– Luís Carvalhal

Agradecimentos/Thanks: Grupo Desportivo da Mouraria / Stella krämer Horta / Deb Struzyna / António e Emmanuelle Matos

Martín Espada - Rules for Captain Ahab’s Provincetown Poetry Workshop

1.   Ye shall be free to write a poem on any subject, as long as it’s the White Whale.
2.   A gold doubloon shall be granted to the first among ye who in a poem sights the White Whale.
3.   The Call Me Ishmael Award shall be given to the best poem about the White Whale, with publication in The White Whale Review.
4.   The Herman Melville Memorial Picnic and Softball Game shall be open to whosoever of ye writes a poem about following thy Captain into the maw of hell to kill the White Whale.
5.   There shall be a free floating coffin for any workshop participant who falls overboard whilst writing a poem about the White Whale.
6.   There shall be a free leg, carved from the jawbone of a whale, for any workshop participant who is dismasted whilst writing a poem about the White Whale.
7.   There shall be a free funeral at sea, complete with a chorus of stout hearties singing sea chanteys about the White Whale, for any workshop participant who is decapitated whilst writing a poem about the White Whale.
8.   Ye who seek not the White Whale in thy poems shall be harpooned.