Inesquecível...

Unforgettable, that's what you are
Unforgettable though near or far
Like a song of love that clings to me
How the thought of you does things to me
Never before has someone been more

Unforgettable in every way
And forever more, that's how you'll stay
That's why, darling, it's incredible
That someone so unforgettable
Thinks that I am unforgettable too


No never before
has someone been more ooh

Unforgettable in every way
And forever more, that's how you'll stay
That's why, darling, it's incredible
That someone so unforgettable
Thinks that I am unforgettable too

Porquê... ?

Porquê eu? Porquê comigo?
Porque mudaste quando te conheci?
Porque não continuas a ser como dantes?
Porque só agora (quando apareci na tua vida) tens uma outra atitude?
Não é por eu ser especial, eu sei. Também nenhum dos outros o era.
Então, porque tenho eu outro tratamento?
Raio de altura para te conhecer... Quem me dera ter-te conhecido antes!

23/08/2006 - 18:54

Sem palavras...

Oxalá...

Oxalá, me passe a dor de cabeça, oxalá
Oxalá, o passo não me esmoreça;
Oxalá, o Carnaval aconteça, oxalá,
Oxalá, o povo nunca se esqueça;
Oxalá, eu não ande sem cuidado,
Oxalá, eu não passe um mau bocado;
Oxalá, eu não faça tudo à pressa,
Oxalá o meu futuro aconteça.
Oxalá, que a vida me corra bem, oxalá.
Oxalá, que a tua vida também.
Oxalá, o Carnaval aconteça, oxalá,
Oxalá, o povo nunca se esqueça;
Oxalá, o tempo passe, hora a hora,
Oxalá, que ninguém se vá embora,
Oxalá, se aproxime o Carnaval,
Oxalá, tudo corra, menos mal.

Madredeus - Álbum "Antologia"

Queimando os últimos cartuchos...

... que amanhã já é dia de trabalho.

As férias já se foram, mas foram boas: praia, amigos, descanso... pequenas coisas... grandes momentos!

Fighting Away the Tears - Mocky feat. Feist

Uma das minhas mais recentes paixões musicais - não consigo encontrar a letra, por isso aqui vai o video:

Mocky feat. Feist - Fightin' Away The Tears



P.S.: encontrei a letra (13/11/2008)
E o video só mesmo no YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xg9vp2ylnXY

Mocky :
Fighting away the tears
Fighting away the tears
I've been holding on for years
Fighting away the tears

Feist :
I woke up in the middle of the night
Dreaming I had you by my side
You saw my hair look like a bird's nest
I swear I'll make you forget all the rest

Then I saw that I was all alone
Your location, I did not know
It was a dream, nothing more, nothing less
I guess there's still a couple things I regret
That's why I'm

Fighting away the tears
Fighting away the tears
Holding on for years
Fighting away the tears

Mocky :
My tears fall like rain drops
The years passed like pills pop
Like smoke in my eye
Like pigs, they don't fly
Like Santa he don't care
My rainbow's gone nowhere
The sound of your voice
Replaced by white noise
I don't want time to erase
My memories of your face
That's why I keep on fighting
That's why I keep providing
Goosebumps in my song writing

Feist :
Fighting away the tears
Fighting away the tears
Holding on for years
Fighting away the tears

Oh, don't you worry
I'll keep on fighting
I'll keep on calling your name in my dreams

Mocky & Feist :
In my dreams (in my dreams)
In my dreams (in my dreams)
In my dreams (in my dreams)

Feist & Mocky :
Fighting away the tears
Fighting away the tears
And I've been holding on for years
Fighting away the tears

Mulheres...

Nota: agora os links já em funcionamento. Desculpem a inconveniência e obrigada pela paciência!

http://www.bust.com

http://www.hipmama.com

http://www.hues.net

http://www.wigmag.com

http://www.gurl.com

http://www.adventuredivas.com

http://www.michfest.com

http://www.womynkind.org/scum.htm

Cunt: a declaration of independence

"I looked up «cunt» in Barbara G. Walker's twenty-five-year research opus, The Women's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets, and found it was indeed a title, back in the day. «Cunt» is related to words from India, China, Ireland, Rome and Egypt. Such words were either titles of respect for women, priestesses and witches, or derivatives of the names of various goddesses:
In ancient writings, the word for «cunt» was synonymous with «woman», though not in the insulting modern sense. An Egyptologist was shocked to find the maxims of Ptah-Hotep «used for 'woman' a term that was more than blunt», though its indelicacy was not in the eye of the ancient beholder, only in that of the modern scholar. (Walker, 1983, 197)

The words «bitch» and «whore» have also shared a similar fate in our language. This seemed rather fishy to me. Three words which convey negative meanings about women, specifically, all happen to have once had totally positive associations about women, specifically."
____

"The inforced silence of women allows men's fear of us and our sexual power to reign unchallenged. Thus the wisdom of brilliant people such as Audre Lorde is not venerated, and we are still sent to schools where idiotic puds like Aristotle are worshipped.
A-hem:

Just as sometimes happens that deformed offspring are produced by deformed parents, and sometimes not, so the offspring produced by a female are sometimes female, sometimes not, but male. The reason is that the female is as it were a deformed male; and the menstrual charge is semen, though... it lacks one constituent, and only one, the principle of Soul... Thus the physical part, the body, comes from the female, and the Soul from the male, since the Soul is the essence of a particular body... females are weaker and colder in their nature, and we should look upon female state as being as it were a deformity, though one which occurs in the ordinary course of nature. (Aristotle, as quoted in Brown, 1986, 188)

To the best of my knowledge, it wasn't until 1968 when Valerie Solanas published her S.C.U.M Manifesto, that this particular form of intolerance was duplicated with any serious eloquence:

It is now technically possible to reproduce whithout the aid of males (or, for that matter, females) and to produce only females. We must begin immediately to do so. Retaining the male has not even the dubious purpose of reproduction. The male is a biological accident: the y (male) gene is an incomplete x (female) gene, that is, has an incomplete set of chromosomes. In other words, the male is an incomplete female, a walking abortion, aborted at gene stage. To be male is to be deficient, emotionally limited; maleness is a deficiency disease and males are emotional cripples.
The male is completely egocentric, trapped inside himself, incapable of empathizing or identifying with others, of love, friendship, affection or tenderness. He is a completely isolated unit, incapable of rapport with anyone. His responses are entirely visceral, not cerebral; his intelligence is a mere tool in the service of his drives and needs, he is incapable of mental passion, mental interaction; he can't relate to anything other than is own physical sensations. He is half dead, unresponsive lump, incapable of giving or receiving pleasure or happiness; consequently, he is at best an utter bore, an inoffensive blob, since only those capable of absorption in others can be charming. He is trapped in a twilight zone halfway between humans and apes, and is far worse than apes because, unlike the apes, he is capable of a large array of negative feelings - hate, jealousy, contempt, disgust, guilt, shame, doubt - and moreover he is aware of what he is and isn't.

While Aristotle is lauded in our culture, Valerie Solanas is considered - when she's considered at all - to be a terribly unhinged individual who died homeless on the streets of San Francisco in 1988. Whereas, if you changed the pronoums throughout her manifesto, and backdated it a couple of decades, you'd probably have the ramblings of a brilliant, Pulitzer Prize-winning male scholar."
____

"Asked to design a bilboard for the Public Art Fund (PAF) in New York (City), we welcomed the chance to do something that would appeal to a general audience. One Sunday morning we conducted a 'weenie count' at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, comparing the number of nude males to nude females in the artworks on display. The results were very 'revealing'. (Guerrilla Girls, 1995, 61)

They designed a billboard depicting a reproduction of Ingres's reclining Odalisque, with a gorilla mask on her head and a dildo in the hand draped over her hip. Accompanying this image was the following statement: «Less than 5 percent of the artists in the Modern Art Sections are women, but 85 percent of the nude are female.»"
____

"I was offered another profound perspective on the actual reality of American women when I interviewed Soraya Miré, a Somali woman who made Fire Eyes, a deeply moving, powerful film about genital mutilation.

In countries like mine, the law is blatantly against women. What we do have, though, is love and community. You never think only of yourself, you always think of your neighbors and family, too.
The problem with a lot of Western women is they think they can help me, that they know what's best for me. Especially feminist women. They come into conversations waving the American flag, forever projecting the idea they are more intelligent than I am. I've learned that American women look at women like me to hide from their own pain. They can't face their pain, and mine is so obvious, they think they can help me without looking at themselves. But many women in this country are empty. They desperately try to find something to fill the empty space inside them - the loneliness deep inside. In my country, this kind of loneliness does not exist.
In America, women pay the money that is theirs and no one else's to go to a doctor who cuts them up so they can create or sustain an image men want. Men are the mirror. Western women cut themselves up voluntarily. In my country, a child is woken up at three in the morning, held down and cut with a razor blade. She has no choice. Western women pay to get their bodies mutilated.
When you base your whole self-image on a man - on another human being - how can you expect that person - whether it's a man or a woman - to respect you? How can you respect yourself when you do not have love and respect for yourself?"

"Cunt: a declaration of independence", Inga Muscio

____

Este livro fez-me pensar: há muito que mudar na mentalidade feminina e masculina sobre o ser Mulher.
Sem radicalismos, mas com assertividade, vamos mudar mentalidades, vamos deixar de objectificar a mulher e o seu corpo da forma como o fazemos agora; vamos dignificar a mulher, o homem, o ser humano!

"Bookcrossing - mais comentários"

Fazer... Amor...

"Não fazemos amor quando queremos, mas quando podemos."

Testemunho na reportagem "Labirinto do Desejo" (SIC)

É triste, mas é a realidade. Temos que a alterar. Vamos todos trabalhar para isso!

Resistir...

"Eu sou capaz de resistir a tudo menos às tentações."

Oscar Wilde

"O Papalagui"

"Todos os Papalaguis (1) têm uma profissão. É difícil explicar-vos o que isso é. É qualquer coisa que uma pessoa devia ter vontade de fazer, mas que raramente tem."

"É raro que um Papalagui adulto saiba ainda dar cambalhotas ou fazer cabriolas como uma criança. Ao andar arrasta o corpo, como se houvesse alguma coisa a entravar-lhe os movimentos. Nega ele que isto seja uma fraqueza e pretende que correr, dar cambalhotas ou fazer cabriolas é contrário à dignidade de um indivíduo que se preze. Mas é uma explicação falsa, esta; na realidade, os seus ossos endureceram e tornaram-se rígidos e os músculos perderam toda a flexibilidade, pois a profissão dele os condenou ao sono e à morte."

"Com efeito, o homem não é constituído unicamente por uma mão, por um pé ou por uma cabeça: ele é tudo isso ao mesmo tempo. Mão, pé, cabeça foram feitos para estarem juntos. Um ser humano saudável sente-se realmente feliz quando todas as partes do seu corpo vivem em harmonia com os seus sentidos, e não quando apenas uma parte do seu corpo vive, e todas as outras estão mortas. Isso perturba, desespera e faz uma pessoa adoecer."

"Quando se pergunta a um Papalagui:«Porque é que pensas assim tanto?», ele responde:«Para não ficar estúpido!» Um Papalagui que não pense é considerado válea (2), quando, na verdade, se devia ter como sinal de inteligência encontrar alguém o seu caminho sem ter necessidade de pensar."

"O Papalagui, com a sua maneira de viver, prova-nos que pensar é uma doença grave, que grande valor rouba a um ser humano."

"(1) Papalagui designa o BRanco, o Estrangeiro, mas traduzido literalmente significa «o que trespassa o céu». O primeiro missionário branco a abordar Samoa ia num barco à vela. Vendo, de longe, o barco, tomaram os indígenas as suas velas brancas por um buraco feito no céu, pelo qual o Branco descia até eles; e foi assim que este «trespassou» o céu."

(2) Estúpido

"O Papalagui - discursos de tuiavii chefe de tribo de tiavéa nos mares do sul"

"Bookcrossing - comentários"

"Un viejo que leía novelas de amor"

"Arriba, al borde de la pendiente, la hembra movía el rabo frenética. Las pequeñas orejas vibrabam captando todos los ruidos de la selva, pero no atacaba. Sorprendido, el viejo se movió lentamente hata recuperar la escopeta. - Por qué no atacas? Qué juego es este? Abrió los martillos percutores y se echó el arma a los ojos. A esa distancia no podía fallar. Arriba, el animal no despegaba los ojos de encima. De improviso, rugió, triste y cansada, y se echó sobre las patas. La débil respuesta del macho le llegó muy cerca y no costó encontrarlo. Era más pequeño que la hembra y estaba tendido al amparo de un tronco hueco. Presentaba la piel pegada al esqueleto y un muslo casi arrancado del cuerpo por una perdigonada. El animal apenas respiraba, y la agonía se veía dolorosíssima. - Eso buscabas? Que le diera el tiro de gracia? - gritó el viejo hacia la altura, y la hembra se ocultó entre las plantas. Se acercó al macho herido y le palmoteó la cabeza. El animal apenas alzó un párpado, y al examinar con detención la herida vio que se lo empezaban a comer las hormigas. Puso los dos cañones en el pecho del animal. - Lo siento, compañero. Ese gringo hijo de la gran puta nos jodió la vida a todos. - Y disparó." (...) "Entonces apretó los gatillos y el animal se detuvo en el aire, quebró el cuerpo a un costado y cayó pesadamente con el pecho abierto por la dobre perdigonada. Antonio José Bolívar Proaño se incorporó lentamente. Se acercó al animal muerto y se estremeció al ver que la doble carga la había destrozado. El pecho era un cardenal gigantesco y por la espalda asomaban restos de tripas y pulmones deshechos. Eramás grande de lo que había pensado al verla por primeira vez. Flaca y todo, era un animal soberbio, hermoso, una obra maestra de gallardía imposible de reproducir ni con el pensamiento. El viejo la acarició, ignorando el dolor del pie herido, y lloró avergonzado, sintiéndose indigno, envilecido, en ningún caso vencedor de esa batalla. Con los ojos nublados de lágrimas y lluvia, empujó el cuerpo del animal hasta la orilla del río, y las aguas se lo llevaron selva adentro, hasta los territorios jamás profanados por el hombre blanco, hasta el encuentro con el Amazonas, hacia los rápidos donde sería destrozado por puñales de piedra, a salvo para siempre de las indignas alimañas. Enseguida arrojó con furia la escopeta y la vio hundirse sin gloria. Bestia de metal indeseada por todas las criaturas. Antonio José Bolívar Proaño se quitó la dentadura postiza, la guardó envuelta en el pañuelo y, sin dejar de maldecir al gringo inaugurador de la tragedia, al alcalde, a los buscadores de oro, a todos los que emputecían la virginidad de su amazonía, cortó de un machetazo una gruesa rama, y apoyado en ella se echó a andar en pos de El Edilio, de su choza, y de sus novelas que hablaban del amor con palabras tan hermosas que a veces le haían olvidar la barbarie humana."

"Un viejo que leía novelas de amor", Luis Sepúlveda

"Bookcrossing - comentários"

"So sick"

Gotta change my answering machine
Now that I'm alone
Cuz right now it says that we
Can't come to the phone
And I know it makes no sense
Cuz you walked out the door
But it's the only way I hear your voice anymore
(it's ridiculous)
It's been months
And for some reason I just
(can't get over us)
And I'm stronger than this
(enough is enough)
No more walking round
With my head down
I'm so over being blue
Crying over you

And I'm so sick of love songs
So tired of tears
So done with wishing you were still here
Said I'm so sick of love songs so sad and slow
So why can't I turn off the radio?

Gotta fix that calender I have
That's marked July 15th
Because since there's no more you
There's no more anniversary
I'm so fed up with my thoughts of you
And your memory
And how every song reminds me
Of what used to be

That's the reason I'm so sick of love songs
So tired of tears
So done with wishing you were still here
Said I'm so sick of love songs so sad and slow
So why can't I turn off the radio?

(Leave me alone)
Leave me alone
(Stupid love songs)
Don't make me think about her smile
Or having my first child
Let it go
Turning off the radio

Cuz I'm so sick of love songs
So tired of tears
So done with wishing she was still here
Said I'm so sick of love songs so sad and slow
So why can't I turn off the radio?
(why can't I turn off the radio?)

Said I'm so sick of love songs
So tired of tears
So done with wishing she was still here
Said I'm so sick of love songs so sad and slow
So why can't I turn off the radio?
(why can't I turn off the radio?)

And I'm so sick of love songs
So tired of tears
So done with wishin you were still here
Said I'm so sick of love songs so sad and slow
Why can't I turn off the radio?
(why can't I turn off the radio?)
Why can't I turn off the radio?

"So Sick", Ne-Yo

"The Virgin Suicides"

"We knew what it felt like to see a boy with his shirt off (...).
We knew the pain of winter wind rushing up your skirt, and the ache of keeping your knees together in class, and how drab and infuriating it was to jump rope while the boys played baseball. We could never understand why the girls care so much about being mature, or why they felt compelled to compliment each other, but sometimes, after one of us had read a long portion of the diary out loud, we had to fight back the urge to hug one another or to tell each other how pretty we were. We felt the imprisonment of being a girl, the way it made your mind active and dreamy, and how you ended up knowing which colors went together. We knew that the girls were our twins, that we all existed in space like animals with identical skins, and that they knew everything about us though we couldn´t fathom them at all. We knew, finally, that the girls were really women in duisguise, that they understood love and even death, and that our job was merely to create the noise that seemed to fascinate them."

"The Virgin Suicides", Jeffrey Eugenides

"Bookcrossing - comentários"

Cenas (que deviam ser) quotidianas da vida...

Na praia, a saltitar, água dentro, água fora.

A outra, constrói castelos na areia molhada.

Sorrisos, gargalhadas.

De dentro de água, o pai observa, com ar de satisfação.

"Ai...!", grita a mãe, ao mesmo tempo, que corre e solta pequenas gargalhadas.

"Podes vir. Eu não faço mais", promete a filha adolescente. Por dentro, deve estar a rir, pois, assim que a apanha desprevenida, torna a repetir o feito.

Desta vez, a mãe grita: "Tonta! Estou toda molhada!"

Tudo isto no meio de sorrisos e gargalhadas.

A filha começa a desenhar algo, com os pés, na areia molhada, enquanto a mãe dança ao som da música que vem do bar da praia. No meio da brincadeira, a mãe destrói, propositadamente, os rabiscos da filha.

"Ó mãe, é mesmo lixada!".

Repetição de risos e gargalhadas.

Dentro de água, dois amigos correm atrás um do outro e molham-se, simultanemente. Correm, depois, para a areia. Voltam para a água. Não param de correr. Não param de rir.

"Olhe, tem de inclinar-se para trás, para manter o equilíbrio. Olhe como o pai está a fazer."

Passam três bicicletas: à frente, o pai, seguido do filho mais pequeno e, logo, depois, o mais velho. Este tenta imitar o pai: larga as mãos da bicicleta e abre os braços. "Incline-se para trás, para se equilibrar", repete o pai, enquanto faz o mesmo. Aos poucos, o miúdo lá vai conseguindo efectuar a proeza.

Mais à frente, bicicletas no chão e sorrisos para a foto. Os miúdos inclinam-se para ver como ficaram no retrato tirado pelo pai.

"Este é o video. Quando chegarmos a casa, o pai mostra". Pegam nas bicicletas e rumam a casa, ao fim de uma tarde que pareceu preenchida de movimento, risos, divertimento.