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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Sharon Olds - After Making Love in Winter

At first I cannot have even a sheet on me,

anything at all is painful, a plate of

iron laid down on my nerves, I lie there in the

air as if flying rapidly without moving, and

slowly I cool off—hot,

warm, cool, cold, icy, till the

skin all over my body is ice

except at those points our bodies touch like

blooms of fire. Around the door

loose in its frame, and around the transom, the

light from the hall burns in straight lines and

casts up narrow beams on the ceiling, a

figure throwing up its arms for joy.

In the mirror, the angles of the room are calm, it is the

hour when you can see that the angle itself is blessed,

and the dark globes of the chandelier,

suspended in the mirror, are motionless—I can

feel my ovaries deep in my body, I

gaze at the silvery bulbs, maybe I am

looking at my ovaries, it is

clear everything I look at is real

and good. We have come to the end of questions,

you run your palm, warm, large,

dry, back along my face over and

over, over and over, like God

putting the finishing touches on, before

sending me down to be born.

Sharon Olds - The Solution

Finally they got the Singles problem under control, they made it scientific. They opened huge Sex Centers—you could simply go and state what you want and they would find you someone who wanted that too. You would stand under a sign saying I Like to Be Touched and Held and when someone came and stood under the sign saying I Like to Touch and Hold they would send the two of you off together.

 

At first it went great. A steady stream of people under the sign I Like to Give Pain paired up with a steady stream of people from under I Like to Receive PainForeplay Only—No Orgasm found its adherents, and Orgasm Only—No Foreplay matched up its believers. A loyal Berkeley, California, policeman stood under the sign Married Adults, Lights Out, Face to Face, Under a Sheet, because that’s the only way it was legal in Berkeley—but he stood there a long time in his lonely blue law coat. And the man under I Like to Be Sung to While White Bread Is Kneaded on My Stomach had been there weeks without a reply.

 

Things began to get strange. The Love Only—No Sex was doing fine; the Sex Only—No Love was doing well, pair after pair walking out together like wooden animals off a child’s ark, but the line for 38D or Bigger was getting unruly, shouting insults at the line for 8 Inches or Longer, and odd isolated signs were springing up everywhere, Retired Schoolteacher and Parakeet—No Leather; One Rm/No Bath/View of Sausage Factory.

 

The din rose in the vast room. The line under I Want to Be Fucked Senseless was so long that portable toilets had to be added and a minister brought for deaths, births, and marriages on the line. Over under I Want to Fuck Senseless—no one, a pile of guns. A hollow roaring filled the enormous gym. More and more people began to move over to Want to Be Fucked Senseless. The line snaked around the gym, the stadium, the whole town, out into the fields. More and more people joined it, until Fucked Senseless stretched across the nation in a huge wide belt like the Milky Way, and since they had to name it they named it, they called it the American Way.

Sharon Olds - Stag's Leap

Then the drawing on the label of our favorite red wine
looks like my husband, casting himself off a
cliff in his fervor to get free of me.
His fur is rough and cozy, his face
placid, tranced, ruminant,
the bough of each furculum reaches back
to his haunches, each tine of it grows straight up
and branches, like a model of his brain, archaic,
unwieldy. He bears its bony tray
level as he soars from the precipice edge,
dreamy. When anyone escapes, my heart
leaps up. Even when it's I who am escaped from,
I am half on the side of the leaver. It's so quiet,
and empty, when he's left. I feel like a landscape,
a ground without a figure. Sauve
qui peut--let those who can save themselves
save themselves. Once I saw a drypoint of someone
tiny being crucified
on a fallow deer's antlers. I feel like his victim,
and he seems my victim, I worry that the outstretched
legs on the hart are bent the wrong way as he
throws himself off. Oh my mate. I was vain of his
faithfulness, as if it was
a compliment, rather than a state
of partial sleep. And when I wrote about him, did he
feel he had to walk around
carrying my books on his head like a stack of
posture volumes, or the rack of horns
hung where a hunter washes the venison
down with the sauvignon? Oh leap,
leap! Careful of the rocks! Does the old
vow have to wish him happiness
in his new life, even sexual
joy? I fear so, at first, when I still
can't tell us apart. Below his shaggy
belly, in the distance, lie the even dots
of a vineyard, its vines not blasted, its roots
clean, its bottles growing at the ends of their
blowpipes as dark, green, wavering groans.

Do aborrecimento.

Domingo à noite é talvez o momento ideal da semana para fazer um post sobre o aborrecimento, a chatice, o tédio. Em particular depois de um fim de semana excelente, de dias e noites plenos de sorriso. Com a noite a acentuar a inevitabilidade da segunda-feira (aquela coisa que o Garfield odeia), os sunday night blues batem com mais força.

É por isso a altura perfeita para falar de um textinho genial do Joseph Brodsky que está aqui. É um excerto de uma adaptação de um commencement address de uma universidade americana (Dartmouth) - pausa para aconselhar outros dois, um de Steve Jobs em Stanford e outro de Seth McFarlane em Harvard. Vão ver que vale a pena. Tudo isto me lembra também o "Into The Wild" e um poema de Sharon Olds, mas adiante.

Diz o genial senhor Brodsky: "you'll be bored with your work, your friends, your  spouses, your lovers, the view from your window, the furniture or wallpaper in your room, your thoughts, yourselves. Accordingly, you'll try to devise ways of escape. (...) you may take up changing your job, residence, company, country, climate; you may take up promiscuity, alcohol, travel, cooking lessons, drugs, psychoanalysis."

E mais adiante: "When hit by boredom , let yourself be crushed by it; submerge, hit  bottom. In general, with things unpleasant, the rule is: The sooner you hit bottom, the faster you surface."

Não me apetece dizer mais nada, depois de ler isto, mas também me lembrei de uma música, o "Rock Bottom Riser", de Smog, porque sempre achei que era uma música sobre isto, bater no fundo e voltar à superfície. É este vídeo aqui abaixo.

Sharon Olds - I Go Back to May 1937 (from The Gold Cell)

I see them standing at the formal gates of their colleges,
I see my father strolling out
under the ochre sandstone arch, the
red tiles glinting like bent
plates of blood behind his head, I
see my mother with a few light books at her hip
standing at the pillar made of tiny bricks with the
wrought-iron gate still open behind her, its
sword-tips black in the May air,
they are about to graduate, they are about to get married,
they are kids, they are dumb, all they know is they are
innocent, they would never hurt anybody.
I want to go up to them and say Stop,
don't do it--she's the wrong woman,
he's the wrong man, you are going to do things
you cannot imagine you would ever do,
you are going to do bad things to children,
you are going to suffer in ways you never heard of,
you are going to want to die. I want to go
up to them there in the late May sunlight and say it,
her hungry pretty blank face turning to me,
her pitiful beautiful untouched body,
his arrogant handsome blind face turning to me,
his pitiful beautiful untouched body,
but I don't do it. I want to live. I
take them up like the male and female
paper dolls and bang them together
at the hips like chips of flint as if to
strike sparks from them, I say
Do what you are going to do, and I will tell about it.