hair

i tried to check my bonuses in a system called multiplus, that corresponds to my expenses in the credit card. i already had a reasonable number of poits and tati told me i might get an interesting prize. the result was that i had the right to a tool to extract hair from my nose. i don't know the name of this object. i don't have any hair in my nose. but i came to the conclusion that, finally, capitalism has fulfilled its duty. what can be more essential and useful than that? extracting hair from your nose occupies the body and the time, in other words it makes one distract from oneself, what leads to a detachment from matter and from everything that weighs on one's spirit and pocket. extracting hair from one's nose detaches the person from the frenzy of consumerism and alienation of the market. extracting hair from one's nose makes people less capitalist. it's capitalism, in its very essence, leading to its self-destruction. marx's fulfilled prophecies. i didn't want the thing, i didn't obtain the prize. i let it accumulate for, maybe, a tool to extract pits from olives. after all, i didn't want it to be me to destroy the importance of movements such as the occupy and the journeys of june two thousand thirteen. 

goat

everyday i wake up for a new etymology. i don't know which one it will be. maybe skylight, the light of the sky or nausea, which comes from nau, or boat in greek. as much as i look for it, it finds me and, when it calls me, i answer its call. it's me the one who is being found and i find, in my origins, roots coming from the arab and the japanese. i leaf through dictionaries, comparing pasts and divining the derivations, concluding that etymology is, as much as a science, is also a story, a case and a convenient foreseeing of memory. for instance, philologists suppose that the word tragedy comes from tragos, or goat, but they're not sure about it. i think to myself: i want it to be the goat, because this way the scapegoat would be the utmost tragic fact. and, as i want it to be so, so it will be. i lie the certainty of the goat. i betray the readers and i wait, peacefully, that they forgive me or get mad at me. may you figure us out.

cat

cat

do you know why my cat is so beautiful? because she doesn't know she doesn't know; because she knows, without this knowledge having an object; because she looks at things as if things were her and she were the things; because, in this very moment, it is this very moment and this moment is complete when i look into her eyes; because the consistency of her body carries a cat that coincides exactly with the limits she draws in space; because she loves me without thinking that she loves me or knowing what is love; because she is beyond, and for this very same reason also before alberto caeiro and drummond; and even before e.e.cummings, that wished he had gotten there; because she's just like any other cat but different from them all; because she is a lady comparing to my dog that, on her turn, is a tramp and that's also why i love her; because she explained to me what is elegance and i didn't understand it quite well, but now i have an unreachable model; because her tail moves differently for every single thing and, finally, because she really likes strawberry yogurt.  

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obvious

i write because i want to recognize the obviousness of the obvious. i write because i want to unknow the obviousness of the obvious.

gap

to disorganize the agreeable scripts of the same and speculate the stars of the abracadabric nothing of the gap.  

nothing

nothing

sometimes i think, i feel, i'm almost scratching the non name, the non center, the center of almost nothing, the nothing of almost, even there. but, soon, then, i resist. i return to the wrong name of things that are almost things, almost words, almost real. i remain here, where you can, by little, still do some thing, almost no thing, for what was not, is not, may be. who knows if there, where i almost went, which i foresaw, maybe i also could, maybe it would work, but there is so far, so near, i'm not going, no. 

socks

in portuguese we say " menos vaidade, menos meias". in english, less vanity, fewer socks. i so much prefer the portuguese, in which vanity and socks are not divided into countable and uncountable nouns, as in english. who said socks are more accountable than vanity? i'd say it's the very opposite. socks belong to the order of the abstract, the conceptual and vanity is rather pedestrian. but what i really like is this indistinction between sugar, love, granulated sugar and anguish. everything less. 

someone

everything is always in a state of coincidence, inciding always at the same time. for it to become a sort of miracle, it's enough for someone to gather it into a story. coincidences are the love of someone for a narration.

it

the hypothesis may sound preposterous, but it's poetic: the impossibility, in english, of creating sentences without a subject or an object, is what makes the english and the americans people who are so much more pragmatic than the speakers of the portuguese language, for instance. after all, with this requirement, it becomes always necessary to know who acted, who suffered the action, whence one is coming, where one is going. how hard it must be not to be able to simply say: "rains". why and to what purpose: "it rains"? and also the terrible pain of not being able to say: "i feel", "i need" and "i want", but always "i feel it", "i need it", "i want it". for an unsebjective and unobjective grammar. down with the its!

world

it's ridiculous to say that ulysses is better than the divine comedy, than shakespeare, than homer, because ulysses is so good, that it would be an insult, both to ulysses and to the other works, to read it viewing at comparisons or competitions. but it so happens that it's hard, in order to describe the sensation, not to resort to this foolish device. ulysses is the best thing in the world and that's it.

mask

patience can be nothing but the mask of anger.

yugoslavia

my parents were born in the old yugoslavia. how i loved to be a descendant of yugoslavians and how it hurts not to be able to say this and, every time i say this name, to hear the inevitable question: but from which region, as if it made any difference to the listener. yugoslavia, yugoslavia, where are you? neither in servia, nor in coratia, in slovenia, or in macedonia. yugoslavia of dalmatia, dubrovnik, herzegovina, voivodina and the adriatic sea. yugoslavia where my father saw a woman slice a bread and a chicken inside a train. don't fight anymore, yugoslavians, let me say i'm yugoslavian.

discussion

we had a discussion. i got angry and he did too. on the following day, in the morning, i felt sorry. when i was leaving the supermarket i bought a little vase of yellow flowers to give it to him. when he was coming back from the veterinarian, he bought a vase of yellow flowers to give it to me.

ginger

i bought a small porcelain one sided grater. it seems that its main function is to grate ginger. it's beautiful and it looks like a japanese tool from the no dinasty, in which the imperial cooks were accurate in the preparation of rare meals, full of fine spices. i then decided to make a pumpkin soup with ginger. i was ready to grate the fresh ginger, still moist and perfumed, and all the fibers of the root got stuck in the grater. i needed to beat it against the sink and withdraw the fibers with a toothpick. but while i carefully removed the fibers with a kind of knife i invented with the toothpick, i thought about many good and bad things, blended to the appeal of the detailed task, the strong smell and the expectation of the soup. of course. that's what this grater was made for.

mass

i had to have an inhalation at the hospital. right in front of me, a guy in a red shirt, portable phone in his hands, was singing endlessly, out loud, an unknown song. to me, it sounded like a derivation of russian. he was slowly having his blood tested and he made comments on the syringe and the wires. he made comments to no one, only for himself. we were all in that room, inhaling the air, gathered, and the guy was singing. to rro li shat la kav nin to plis. the nurses passed by and asked: are you feeling better? from one to ten, how would you rate your pain? would you like to take the inhaler home with you? no. poor inhaler. nobody wants to take it home. at the same time that i felt like the most solitary of the victims of cold, i also felt part of a group of breathers, lullabied by that strange song. man of the strange song, you saved me from the bureaucracy of the flu and you've transformed it into a russian mass.

yellow

today i saw a yellow car just like the yellow pudding that my grandmother used to make.

measure

a silence of something that is not being said, different from the silence of nothing being said, the silence charged by itself, the silence of all being said. one is power, the other is apathy, the other is autonomy, the other is agreement. there's no dictionary nor method to learn it. in order to communicate with silence the access language is time. when facing some silences one must watch out. others wish no care at all. for a hermeneutics of silence, the best measure is to breathe.

sheet

i was in a state between slumber and awareness. she got to my room and said: mom? i didn't answer, but i felt as if a sheet had come from the air to cover me. in that moment, i felt i had been born to hear this sentence.

body

time passes and the body, son of time, wiser than the soul, follows on its journey downwards. the breasts and the buttocks fall, the column falls, the skin eases. the body stops resisting and approaches the earth, its final dwelling. the mind, stupid, tries to rise.

box

i kept all the material for a contest I wasn't approved in, in a box under the stairs in the living room. it's all inside a big paper card box, which contains wide thick folds. mia loves to remain in this corner, where she scratches her fingers to sharpen her nails. the box is well past destroyed. i want her to destroy the whole thing. it's my revenge against the institution that didn't approve me and, after all, the box is serving a much more useful function than passing a contest.