I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free. Elsewhere we are as sitting in a place where sunlight Filters down, a little at a time, Waiting for someone to come. Harsh words are spoken, As the sun yellows the green of the maple tree....
So this was all, but obscurely I felt the stirrings of new breath in the pages Which all winter long had smelled like an old catalogue. New sentences were starting up. But the summer Was well along, not yet past the mid-point But full and dark with the promise of that fullness, That time when one can no longer wander away And even the least attentive fall silent To watch the thing that is prepared to happen.
A look of glass stops you And you walk on shaken: was I the perceived? Did they notice me, this time, as I am, Or is it postponed again? The children Still at their games, clouds that arise with a swift Impatience in the afternoon sky, then dissipate As limpid, dense twilight comes. Only in that tooting of a horn Down there, for a moment, I thought The great, formal affair was beginning, orchestrated, Its colors concentrated in a glance, a ballade That takes in the whole world, now, but lightly, Still lightly, but with wide authority and tact.
The prevalence of those gray flakes falling? They are sun motes. You have slept in the sun Longer than the sphinx, and are none the wiser for it. Come in. And I thought a shadow fell across the door But it was only her come to ask once more If I was coming in, and not to hurry in case I wasn't.
The night sheen takes over. A moon of cistercian pallor Has climbed to the center of heaven, installed, Finally involved with the business of darkness. And a sigh heaves from all the small things on earth, The books, the papers, the old garters and union-suit buttons Kept in a white cardboard box somewhere, and all the lower Versions of cities flattened under the equalizing night. The summer demands and takes away too much, But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes.
I’ll do what the raids suggest, Dad, and that other livid window, But the tide pushes an awful lot of monsters And I think it’s my true fate.
It had been raining but It had not been raining.
No one could begin to mop up this particular mess. Thunder lay down in the heart. "My child, I love any vast electrical disturbance." Disturbance! Could the old man, face in the rainweed,
Ask more smuttily? By night it charged over plains, Driven from Dallas and Oregon, always whither, Why not now? The boy seemed to have fallen From shelf to shelf of someone’s rage.
That night it rained on the boxcars, explaining The thought of the pensive cabbage roses near the boxcars. My boy. Isn’t there something I asked you once? What happened? It’s also farther to the corner Aboard the maple furniture. He Couldn’t lie. He’d tell ‘em by their syntax. But listen now in the flood. They’re throwing up behind the lines. Dry fields of lightning rise to receive The observer, the mincing flag. An unendurable age.
Remark the comparative zip and panache of those beautiful hammerhead sharks. Farther down we get into reptiles, the "bucket of mud club."
I don't even know if there was a Klondike Scotty. Lamassu, a protective deity sketched by Gutzon Borglum, intervened, twice. And you could... one of the top—
Our weatherologist is here.
You're talking to myself— a slave never forgets its name. I can put it off right now, summon your blasphemous magician friend.
So he's not thirty-eight yet. Sure, Mario had a dentist appointment. So's your old man run weapons through your eyes. I wanted to read that book, close the circus. We don't speak to John again and there's a lot of them.
Like other millennials I could get you a line. I wish I had been there! Days you want to be careful, you still have to live here. Shopping wasn't safe. OMG. A Fortuny slick, basking on uninterested waters, turns to leave. But it's not over.
A Net tem destas coisas, momentos em que vindas de várias fontes, nos chegam impressões sobre o mesmo tema. Ou se calhar eu é que estou particularmente atento a alguns temas, neste momento.
Tudo começou com o brilhante artigo do Jonathan Franzen de que já tinha falado aqui ("Liking Is for Cowards. Go for What Hurts." - nunca é demais continuar a citá-lo) que colocava de forma particularmente inteligente algumas questões sobre o papel da tecnologia no alimentar de um narcisismo preguiçoso. É claro que a tendência para o autorretrato como forma de expressão tem particular relevância na Internet, desde o mais ridículo e vulgar até projetos com pés e cabeça, como o do Alex Stoddard ou o do Jeff Harris, com os seus 4.748 autorretratos. Este vídeo aqui abaixo explica.
Toda esta questão dos autorretratos cruza-se também com a definição do que é ou não um artista, uma das questões implícitas na discussão da infame proposta 118. Se calhar a arte está na intenção, se calhar pode surgir por acaso, não sei bem e não tenho conclusões para partilhar, eu que não gosto de me retratar mas ponho necessariamente tanto de mim no que escrevo, nem sempre pelos caminhos mais óbvios.
A somar a isto tudo, recebi no e-mail um poema do John Ashbery que toma como mote o famoso "Autorretrato num espelho convexo" de Parmigianino (aqui abaixo). Retive a certa altura, este excerto: "The soul establishes itself. / But how far can it swim out through the eyes / And still return safely to its nest?" Salto de repente de novo para o texto do Franzen e pergunto eu, até onde podemos colocar a nossa imagem de nós na rede sem ela nos fugir?
Para completar todo este nó de relações, ontem a RTP 2 exibiu um documentário do ARTE sobre o artista plástico Anish Kapoor, que usa precisamente os espelhos convexos para provocar a reflexão (e que melhor palavra?) intuitiva e abstrata sobre a realidade e a nossa presença dela. Fica como exemplo, o maravilhoso "Cloud Gate" no Millennium Park em Chicago, abaixo.