Between Classes
Scribbles during seminars.
2017
Texts written in Brazilian Portuguese.
The translations were made automatically so that other cultures could at least come close to the lyrical universe.
Anthill
Destroyed homes
Swollen feet
Full room: academy of sleepy dreamers. After all, isn't it from them that we produce the guiding thread of ourselves? This tiredness that attacked me seems to be from a flea. A flea that could be free and therefore not seek lodging in me, but it rang the doorbell... I couldn't help but answer. Now in this room full of dreamers, the sleepiness of tiredness makes me write so as not to sleep. My face is marked, in both senses. I still maintain conventions... I shouldn't! I want to exhaust the pages of the notebook with words of sleep, but then I would already have a poetic anthology. No problem. But the flea still itches me and, consequently, I get sleepy, dream more and end up wanting to sleep in the middle of so many dreamers. Don't sleep! Convention demands it. If I opened the door to the flea, should I not open it to the convention? It has such a beautiful name... Dreaming with sleep, dreaming with sleep, dreaming consumes, dreaming in accordance, dreaming with form, dreaming comforts, dreaming comforts. Full room.
Disillusionment with everything that accompanies the famous bureaucratic production of knowledge. I don't know if it's a hippie, but if it is, that's fine too. Traveling without much idea of the route or where to sleep must be a great college. It's not at all complaining to say that the gym is no good, but what's the point? Five days with my eyes immersed in other looks of kilometers of step-by-step adventure passport. Glimpses of the outfit that can accompany me on the road to the rest of life. The school opens some very important doors, but a large part of its house has mold and leaks that constantly intoxicate me. I'm already in, I celebrated when I got in and I need to leave with honors too. The patience I think I have can't stand dining here for long, especially since there's no proper dinner. If there's no dinner, the table is empty and there aren't many exchanges of glances. The seductive production of knowledge doesn't exist. Unlike the bureaucratic one. Thank goodness, during breaks I know a few other free spirits who constantly do this delicate work of questioning themselves about what they do with their time. It turns into a circle of melancholy. Funny. Quite rebellious. I miss those eyebrows. The look in my eyes deepened. The train of thought sank, including this outburst. Enough… It’s time to get ready to leave. I don’t know exactly which bus to take to where I’m going, and I don’t even know if it exists. The glittery looks might help me. It won’t work. Good thing.
Ah, those deep gazes... when they looked at me they were contemplating the stars, at the same time. Another city. Every now and then a bag of popcorn would hover over my hands. A moment when friendships went up another notch. In fact, popcorn is incredible. A link to many situations. Even breakups. I wonder if they treat us as if we were corn. They boil us and cover the pot so we don't jump out. Then, we already know. Swallowed. In a link to many situations. Circus.
It yearns for age. From polished stone, clay softens. Touching clay demands care. It demands risk. It takes time for its phase to change. It whispers calm. Calm. Calm. Anxiety. Age. Disorienting the entire cerebral complex. Suffering the day before. Typical of being. Human. Standing on a park bench, sitting on the back, slowly watching the wooden spoon stirring the sugar and the peanuts, exhaling a smell that instigates the stomach and the conscience to think about the life of a street vendor. I tripped on the sidewalk when I saw myself lamenting what could still go wrong. I cry with longing for what I did not experience. Longing hurts when you love. Your knee hurts when you are alive. The blood runs part of you. The ceramic is part of you. From the compound of thousands of years of reorganization of the earth, clay is generated. It whispers calm. With each passing second, nature manifests itself to pacify its conflicts. We do not heed the whispers. Break down the walls of the rooms! Anxiety.
I made a bet with my iris. Would she be able to stage the seas? I woke up in a mix of tidal moods. Awakening from the depths of the waters and floating on the surface of the turbulence of its paths. I was surprised by her counter-bet. Taking over the rest of the crabs.
I acknowledge death
Life is strange
From the cold-blooded sneeze there goes the last breath
Health to death
Goodbye to life
Pierce your ego with the shards of this chalice of sorrows
Suicide capital trends
Cheers to life
Longing for death
How many times I hugged you in the warring streets
Fearing to be life
Relieved to be death
Being alive requires contact
Requires touch
Avoid friction
But you can't
Slip into the distressing stage of failure to live out of order
Searching for water that satisfies this thirst to exist until seeing the last of all kings be dethroned
Screaming for life