A Katie e o Orbie

Mas porque será que ninguém se lembra desta série? Isto é que era televisão infantil de qualidade!

Não há palavras...

Dias passaram e cada vez que tento escrever nada sai. Ainda faltam palavras, as emoções continuam numa amálgama atarefarada. Imagens que borbulham e fervem cá dentro. Sorrisos que brotam. Tudo desfocado entre as lágrimas. Por muito que tente ainda não consigo descrever o que se passou na sexta-feira. Sei que não esperava tanto. Tanta gente, tantos sorrisos, tantos abraços, tanto... não! ainda não há palavras suficientes. Olho para trás e digo simplesmente: momentos mágicos.

Hate to say I told you so

I wanted to bail. I warned you but you wouldn't listen. Nonsense, you said. And now here we are - you the center of my universe, me aching for the time we're apart. Hate to say I told you so. But I did! This is a burden you didn't have to carry. I shouldn't ask so much of you - I know it and therefore don't say a word about it. Though you were warned it's still my fault to feel it, even because I knew what was coming. But you wanted me to stay, said you could take it. Guess what - you probably won't. And that's alright! I understand you can't always be here. But even so... I miss you...

One day more*

Mais um dia, mais um ano... Vinte e um são um sítio estranho. Por razão nenhuma, simplesmente o dia em si foi de modos que bizarro. Começo a aprender que os aniversários podem ser apenas mais um dia, vulgarucho como qualquer outro mas com mais telefonemas à mistura. A criança cá dentro ainda acha estranho - passar o dia sozinha. O toque constante do telemóvel é deveras simpático e arranca-me sempre um sorriso, mas faltaram os abraços, os sorrisos. Não sei, é estúpido. Não sei porque é que não sabe a certo. Acho que é o já não correr por aí aos saltos a atirar confetis para o ar, anunciar a amigos e professores que é o meu dia. Porque não me sabe correcto chegar e pedir mimo. E fico a olhar, a esperar felicitações que (compreensívelmente) não chegarão do nada. E depois chega a hora do adeus e tenho pena do que deixei por dizer. Houve abraços por dar. Abraços que estiveram quase lá. Alguns que custaram a deixar para trás. Idiota! Custava muito sorrires e dizeres qualquer coisa subtil acerca do assunto?... Vinte e um anos e continuo a mesma parva...

*One day more, Les Miserables Soundtrack

Friends # 2

Chandler: Alright, so I'm back in high school, I'm standing in the middle of the cafeteria, and I realize I am totally naked.
All: Oh, yeah. Had that dream.
Chandler: Then I look down, and I realize there's a phone... there.
Joey: Instead of...?
Chandler: That's right.
Joey: Never had that dream.
Phoebe: No.
Chandler: All of a sudden, the phone starts to ring and it turns out it's my mother, which is very-very weird, because... she never calls me!

Pequeno detalhe

O problema de quando uma pessoa veste um pijama no carnaval é que passa a noite a ser mandada/convidada a ir para a cama! E volta e meia alguém se lembra do Vitinho ou dos Patinhos, o que apenas torna o momento num tesourinho deprimente. Isto para não esquecer que dançar agarradinha e de pijama é no mínimo... bizarro.

Há sempre uma primeira vez...

Nunca pensei ver chegar o dia em que me virasse para um homem e lhe dissesse: "Epah, a tua saia não deixa a minha perna passar!"

*E viva o carnaval...

Friends # 1

Rachel: I'm sorry about that Joey, but do you think that maybe on some level, you don't want to take off my bra?

Joey: (contemplates for a few moments what Rachel just said) NAH! I don't have another level!!

Sweet valentine*

Leio um livro horroroso - ossos do ofício! Cabeça moída no avançar da noite. Trabalho que tortura, que mói, que se prolonga. E por muito que leia parece sempre haver mais e mais e os meus feitos de um dia parecem tão pequeninos... O relógio bate mais uma hora completa. Chega! Pico o ponto por agora. E também porque é São Valentim vou mimar-me meigamente. Manta. Grande caneca de chá. Filme. Sofá. E chega! Não falta nada nem ninguém. Espreguiço-me longamente no sofá, sozinha e feliz.

*My funny valentine, Michael Bublé

Once upon a dream*

Sonhos arrumados. Enterrados sob as rosas do jardim. Sementes renegadas que sozinhas encontram forma de germinar. De crescer às escondidas. Mesmo quando não é suposto. E seguimos com a vida para a frente, ignorantes do que se passa lá fora. Um dia, sem razão aparente, reparamos no que floriu nas nossas costas. E agora? Que fazer?...

Há sítios aos quais não podemos regressar, uns que são impossíveis de lhes passar ao lado e outros ainda que são ambos a mesma coisa. Entramos por uns segundos - visita de médico, dizemos. Só para matar saudades. Falácias! No fundo já sabemos de antemão que quando passarmos a ombreira da porta o resto do mundo fica para trás. Entramos numa bola de sabão e o resto deixa de existir. E o sonho vive! Floresce forte no nosso colo. Recriamos o cordão umbilical enquanto a realidade lá fora se torna cada vez mais inalcansável. Até que chega o momento fatídico de ceder à verdade, de deixar as ondas levarem o nosso castelo de areia. E por muito que seja só um suspiro e um encolher de ombros algo cá dentro ficou dorido, arranhado. Ficamos os próximos dias a matutar, a deixar a ferida sarar. Depois voltamos à vida de todos os dias, fingindo que não foi nada. Tentando acreditar de coração que não teve importância. Sonhos parvos!

*Jekyll and Hyde Soundtrack

Saudades

Tenho medo do tempo que nos escapa. Do tempo que nos molda. Medo que possa fazer de nós pessoas cada vez mais diferentes. Assusta-me a possibilidade de vos ver a escaparem-se-me pelos dedos como um punhado de areia. Olho para trás e gosto tanto do que relembro... Podemos roubar uma noite ao tempo? Voltar àqueles dias? Limpar o pó a private jokes antigas, criar memórias novas...

[so I'm a crying baby, what else is new?]

Amores congelados

Isto não estava nos planos. Aos poucos algo acaba (tantas vezes) por me furar o que tinha estipulado. O nariz que começa a fungar, a tosse que me assalta aqui e ali, a moleza que se espanha pelo corpo. Tudo a pedir colo, a fazer beicinho por uma tarde de descanço. E eu mesmo sem tempo a perder lá consinto. Monto o estendal no sofá - manta, chá, lenços, e um grande dvd. E lá começa o serão. Uma hora. Duas. Três. Olho de soslaio, já a antecipar o que se segue. Quatro horas. The end. E nada... Os créditos finais a passar e eu com o olhar ainda fixo no ecran. Bolas! Mais um grande filme! E agora? Como seguir com o resto da noite? Como passar pela prateleira sem tirar mais um livro para o meu regaço, para os meus olhos cansados mas tão sedentos? Como voltar mais uma vez a dizer "fica para o Verão"? Como apagar as vozes, os cenários, os rostos? E porque é que continuo a ver adaptações de clássicos quando já sei que no fim acabo sempre a dedinhar o livro no colo?... Suspiro... Mesmo depois de tanto treino ainda me custa congelar este coração literário até ao Verão. Até aos dias e noites em que me perco do mundo dentro de livros. Mundos e mundos uns atrás dos outros. Ainda sabe a pouco o contentar-me em embalar obras como tesouros que desconheço...

So she dances

A waltz when she walks in the room She pulls back the hair from her face She turns to the window to sway in the moonlight Even her shadow has grace A waltz for the girl out of reach She lifts her hands up to the sky She moves with the music The song is her lover The melody's making her cry So she dances In and out of the crowd like a glance This romance is From afar calling me silently A waltz for the chance I should take But how will I know where to start? She's spinning between constellations and dreams Her rhythm is my beating heart So she dances In and out of the crowd like a glance This romance is From afar calling me silently I can't keep on watching forever I give up this view just to tell her When I close my eyes I can see The spotlights are bright on you and me We've got the floor And you're in my arms How could I ask for more? So she dances In and out of the crowd like a glance This romance is From afar calling me silently I can't keep on watching forever And I'm givin' up this view just to tell her

* Josh Groban, So she dances

Video do youtube aqui

Fizeste-me regressar a músicas arrumadas no sótão...

The white room

It was near sunset when Charlie got to the park. A cool spring breeze was blowing through the trees and the view was perfect for his first outdoor painting. He breathed in the fresh twilight air. "It's nice to be out of that tiny black hole of Calcutta", he thought. His flat was just big enough for him, and with his mother staying over life had become nearly unbearable, especially with her annoying little habit of picking holes in everything. And to top it off, she could carry on and on about something like there was no tomorrow. He had had it up to here with her constant nagging, so he decided to take out his canvas and easel and paint something under the approaching sunset. On his way to the park he even went the whole hog and bought one of those berets one sees painters wearing in old movies. He thought it gave him a kind of distinctive, old-fashioned look.

He started outlining the buildings one after the other, losing himself in the soothing rhythm of the moving brush. Suddenly something caught his eye. He looked around the dormant neighbourhood and, on one of the balconies, a man and a woman seemed to be having an argument. It did not look pretty. Apparently the woman was giving him the old heave-ho and the man seemed less than happy about it. In fact, he seemed to be getting very worked up. Trying not to be bothered by that ruckus he struggled to focus on the surroundings, but the couple was really wreaking havoc. The man's face was getting redder and redder by the minute and it seemed as if all hell was about to break loose. By that moment they had grown too loud to pass unnoticed. Suddenly Charlie noticed a small flash as the setting sun touched a reflecting surface. "Is that a kitchen knife?... No, he wouldn't have the heart to do it..." But he did, apparently, and with a turn of the wrist the enraged man dug the knife deep into the woman's chest. Charlie's heart skipped a beat.

He could not, hard as he tried, get his head round what he had just witnessed. What to do? Should he call the police? Should he...? No, he decided to go to the place. He knew he must be a little soft in the head to do such an imbecilic hing, but something on the back of his mind pushed him to take such a bold step. He did not need to think it through; he was set on being the hero, at least this once. He would not sit on his hands, he would see if the woman was still alive, if there was something he could do for her. He ran hell for leather, still somewhat unsure of what he was going to do. When he reached the spot his heart was racing and all he could hear was a constant pounding in his ears. What if the man was still inside? He needed a stabbing like a hole in the head. He listened carefully for any sound that could work as a clue for what awaited him on the other side of the door; it would not be a very clever move to walk right into the hand of an assassin, but neither could he stand there in eternis, looking out for a sound that would not come. He reached for the doorknob; it was cold under his sweating palm. He turned it slowly, wishing it not to move. But the gods plays funny tricks, and a subtle click warned him of a necessary next step in this little adventure of his.

You fool, you truly are a head case.

This was pure madness! He had no plan whatsoever and this chilvaric idea of saving the damsel in distress was just full of holes. First because most modern damsels would take issue against the very principle of ever needing rescuing, second because murderers would probably frown upon it as well. He entered slowly, breathing heavily. He looked around the living room, recognizing the window he had previously seen and was shocked by the fact that there was no sign of the man, let alone the woman. No blood, just a whiteness of walls and floor and a little mist creeping through the open window.

He leaned on the wall for balance. He was in way over his head. He had seen her, he cold see her right now; white creamy skin, eyes like the ocean and dark, raven hair. She was perfect and he killed her, that monster stabbed her.

Calm down Charlie, breath in breath out, just try and keep your head above water.

Sarah would laugh so hard if she could see him. "You little punk", she used to say, little Sarah used to say, so long ago.

Poor little Charlie, playing with pebbles on the pavement.

"Focus, I need to focus". He saw them, he was sure of it, by the window. In his heart of hearts he knew he did. He walked to the window. Nothing there: just glass and wood and fabric of some strange colourless tone.

Charlie, Charlie, in what mess are you now?

Sarah, she just had the sweetest voice. Little drops of cold water in the summer, that was her voice. Screams in the back of his mind, could not think, just focus. He walked the empty flat like a ghost, hovering over the corpse he could not find and the murderer he would not meet.

Charlie... Charlie... where are you now, Charlie boy?

His mother, another Sarah. The first Sarah had a voice of someone else, harsh and coarse; a coughing more than a voice. She dressed in linen that smelled of sweat and work and little Chalie was always in the way. "Charlie, will you be a good boy?" "Yes." "Promise?" "Cross my heart." Charlie, Charlie, always Charlie never once Charles, why ever give him the chance to feel like a bloody grown up? And the second Sarah was just the same, one with the first Sarah. Women... like Henry he could have conquered Europe, but he had women in his life.

He stopped in the middle of the white hall and put his hands to his ears to drown the noise. Too crowded, way too crowded, he could not hear himself think. Locked again in that tiny black hole of Calcutta. The white walls started to fade away and give place to other, padded, white walls. "Calm down Mr. Gunn, calm down". Hands strapping him down to a hard mattress. He laughed, a sad, loud laugh. Someone treated him like an adult after all. He saw in his mind the glassy dead eyes of the first Sarah and the trusting pleading fading eyes of the second Sarah.

Poor little Charlie, you said you'd be good.

Inês Simão

Joana Manata

Marina Calado