A little bit like hunger

 

 

Saudade é um pouco como fome. Só passa quando se come a presença. Mas às vezes a saudade é tão profunda que a presença é pouco: quer-se absorver a outra pessoa toda.

 

Clarice Lispector

Dying souls

 

 

Come sit next to me
We’ll talk for hours in a row
Discuss the importance of romance
Theorize about love and soul

We’re both armed with logics
We’re also way out of control
Science doesn’t make us happy
Love’s the saviour of our dying souls

Made to love

 

 

You! Yes, really.

Sunday mood

 

 

sem te tocar
vives-me nas mãos.

Nelson D'Aires

Cine Me

 

 

 

Behind the Candelabra

 

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1291580/

 

http://www.hbo.com/#/movies/behind-the-candelabra

 

There's much more than the spectacle of a famous, closeted life draped in rhinestone-and-feather excess to be gleaned from HBO Films' "Behind the Candelabra," a superbly acted and exquisitely rendered gem itself.
The backstage tell-all concerns Liberace and the handsome young man to whom he acted as father-brother-lover during a five-year relationship. Their tragic romance was strange, but it remains strangely revealing of a larger cultural blind spot

Director Steven Soderbergh masterfully illuminates a now outdated sense of shame and denial, the desperate fear of aging, the craving for spectacle that was a stereotype embodied by Władziu Valentino Liberace or "Lee" as his friends knew him. Yes, Liberace was a pathetic "old queen," as his young lover says more than once. But, really, who made him that way?

 

The film is fun but tragic, like the personality at its center, and an unpleasant reminder of the times that produced him.
The stunning and quite intimate performances by Michael Douglas and Matt Damon are award-worthy. The piece is more explicit than viewers might expect.
The supporting cast, including Debbie Reynolds, Scott Bakula, Rob Lowe and Dan Aykroyd, is top-notch, staying just this side of camp. Lowe, as sleazy plastic surgeon Dr. Startz whose skin is so tight he can scarcely open his eyes, is a perfect parody of 1970s Hollywood. Reynolds, as Liberace's Polish-accented mother Frances, is a kick. Only Aykroyd trespasses into shtick as the showman's gruff manager Seymour Heller.
The kitschy costumes so synonymous with Liberace are replicated along with the locations and props. The music, adapted by the late Marvin Hamlisch, is a constant fleeting keyboard undercurrent, a reminder of Vegas shows gone by.
As over-the-top as Liberace was on and offstage in the repressed 1950s, the film observes that his celebration of excess was applauded as oddly all-American. He was the world's highest-paid entertainer for decades.
"Too much of a good thing is wonderful," he famously said.
The yipping of his little dogs fills the soundtrack just as the mirrored surfaces, the gaudy antiques and ornate painted murals of his home fill the frame.
Douglas masters the voice and mannerisms (including hands on keyboard) of his character in a transforming turn, although a particular sweetness that was part of Liberace's presentation is missing.
"I love to give people a good time," Liberace said. His smile was so innocent, so well-meaning, it was clear he meant it. Douglas never seems quite so cherubic. Still, he captures the essence.
Here, whether traipsing into an adult bookstore and video booth emporium in a full-length fur, or watching gay porn with a little white poodle in bed, or explaining the vision that inspired his devout Catholicism, Liberace is shown to be the expert manager of his image. Nobody loved his stardom more than he did.
Damon, although significantly older than Scott was when he and Lee met, inhabits the chauffeur-bodyguard-boyfriend role seamlessly. He devolves from boy-toy to drug addict to jilted ex-, exuding his frustration from every pore.
What stays with you after the mesmerizing two hours is the eager collusion of the majority of Americans at the time, who were able to will themselves into unknowingness. The "secret" of Liberace's sexuality, laughable as it seems now, is a tragic example of a dark period in history. The film observes the easy manipulation of public opinion at the time. Phony stories were planted in the press about Liberace's romantic interest in actress-skater Sonja Henie and others. Fans chose to see only what they wanted to see.
Now that professional athletes are beginning to talk about their homosexuality, perhaps it won't be so shocking for audiences to hear that Liberace's first gay encounter was with a Green Bay Packers football player.
The film focuses on the unequal relationship — suffice to say both Thorson and Liberace were looking for some kind of acceptance that eluded them; the 40-years-older Liberace ultimately had Thorson endure a chin implant in order to more closely resemble the young Liberace. After their bitter falling out, Thorson sued for "palimony."
Soderbergh grants Liberace his due as a talented pianist and showman. He shows us the adoring fans, namely middle-aged women, responding enthusiastically to Liberace's Vegas act.
"It's funny this crowd would like something this gay," young Scott (Damon) marvels at his first Liberace concert, the night the hunk will be introduced to the star backstage at the Las Vegas Hilton.
"Oh, they have no idea he's gay," his friend Bob Black (Bakula) says. And that's the joke for the whole of his life, the whole of the film, the whole of a closeted generation.
The intention, Soderbergh has said, was not to treat the man as a cartoon but to get inside the five-year love affair Liberace had with Scott Thorson (the film is based on Thorson's autobiography of the same title). He succeeds admirably.
Liberace died in 1987 at age 67 of complications from AIDS.
The film has no epilogue, but the tragic tale continues: A recent profile of Thorson in the New York Times notes that Thorson won't get to watch the film, as he's currently being held in aReno jail for burlary and identity theft, without access to HBO.

As biopic, black comedy and portrait of celebrity loneliness, Behind the Candelabra really is hard to beat.



Unexpectedly great performances!

About love

 

 

Para te ver bastava fechar os olhos com força e eras outra vez tu, igual a ti própria. O abismo entre querer-te e ter-te afundava-me. A doce paz de te sonhar trazia consigo uma discórdia infinda, de mim para comigo. Não sabia onde estavas, com quem, de que maneira. É normal que já não se entendesse o que nos unia, se nem eu já era capaz desse esforço. O amor tornara-se uma forma de tortura recíproca.

Pedro Paixão
 

As always comes back to love

 

like I feel your body in intimacy.

You turned my whole world upside down

 

 

Alguém disse palácio para dizer mulher
ou a delícia de um nome que era desejo e mundo
Um delicado navio rasgava o corpo na ausência
e morria na espuma de uns amorosos pés
da volúvel semelhança de uma estátua de veludo...
Era apenas um nome a abolição de um nome
descobrindo a primavera absoluta
com os ramos brancos de uma estrela
perfeita nos músculos de lâmpada
No alto poderio das pernas no sumptuoso espelho
das ancas verdes cintilava o palácio
da adoração primeira com janelas de um navio
de sombra e de silêncio em que o oiro estremecia
Opulenta pálpebra povoada
pelos frutos da água e de um fogo azul
E se o nome morria na respiração do seio
a sua ferida era límpida e puro era o deserto

António Ramos Rosa 

 Listening  (love this music)

 

 

 

Be my baby ( So won't you, please?)

 

 

The night we met I knew I needed you so
And if I had the chance I'd never let you go
So won't you say you love me? I'll make you so proud of me
We'll make 'em turn their heads every place we go

So won't you, please?
(Be my, be my baby)
Be my little baby
(My one and only baby)
Say you'll be my darlin'
(Be my, be my baby)
Be my baby now
(My one and only baby)
Whoa oh oh oh

I'll make you happy, baby, just wait and see
For every kiss you give me, I'll give you three
Oh, since the day I saw you, I have been waiting for you
You know I will adore you 'til eternity

So won't you, please?
(Be my, be my baby)
Be my little baby
(My one and only baby)
Say you'll be my darlin'
(Be my, be my baby)
Be my baby now
(My one and only baby)
Whoa oh oh oh

So come on and be
(Be my, be my baby)
Be my little baby
(My one and only baby)
Say you'll be my darlin'
(Be my, be my baby)
Be my baby now
(My one and only baby)
Whoa oh oh oh

Be my, be my baby
(Be my little baby)
My one and only baby
Be my, be my baby
My one and only baby

Be my, be my baby
My one and only baby
Be my, be my baby



Love comes the soul

 

 

 

Não te amo, quero-te: o amor vem d'alma.
E eu n'alma – tenho a calma,
A calma – do jazigo.
Ai! não te amo, não.

Não te amo, quero-te: o amor é vida.
E a vida – nem sentida
A trago eu já comigo.
Ai, não te amo, não!

Ai! não te amo, não; e só te quero
De um querer bruto e fero
Que o sangue me devora,
Não chega ao coração.

Não te amo. És bela; e eu não te amo, ó bela.
Quem ama a aziaga estrela
Que lhe luz na má hora
Da sua perdição?

E quero-te, e não te amo, que é forçado,
De mau, feitiço azado
Este indigno furor.
Mas oh! não te amo, não.

E infame sou, porque te quero; e tanto
Que de mim tenho espanto,
De ti medo e terror...
Mas amar!... não te amo, não.

Almeida Garrett

Things I read that I love

 

 

"(...) e ela sentiu toda a sua natureza inclinar-se como uma caravela numa ventania, a atravessar num disparo fervilhante os mares desconhecidos."

 

Lawrence Durrel

Is there anything you want that you don’t have?

 

 

 

O tempo existe a fim de que não aconteça tudo ao mesmo tempo, e o espaço existe para que não te aconteça tudo a ti.

Susan Sontag
 

 

Wanted to tell you

 

 

 

Queria dizer-te. Queria.
Queria olhar-te. Olhar-te com força – como se olha com força? E dizer-te.
Dizer-te que sim. Sempre sim. Desde o primeiro não que sim.
Dizer-te que quero. Olhar-te com força. Dizer-te. Queria.
Dizer-te. Negar o não. Negar o não que desde sempre – onde começou o sempre? – foi sim. ...
Dizer-te menti. Dizer-te fugi. Dizer-te parti.
Queria. Dizer-te aqui. Dizer-te agora. Dizer-te já.
Queria. Sempre queria.
Queria, amor. Amor.
O imperfeito. Queria. O imperfeito.
Amor.

 

                                                                  Pedro Chagas Freitas

Taking a moment to reflect

 

we will never forget.

Ask me

 

 

Pergunta-me
se ainda és o meu fogo
se acendes ainda
o minuto de cinza
se despertas
a ave magoada...
que se queda
na árvore do meu sangue

Pergunta-me
se o vento não traz nada
se o vento tudo arrasta
se na quietude do lago
repousaram a fúria
e o tropel de mil cavalos

Pergunta-me
se te voltei a encontrar
de todas as vezes que me detive
junto das pontes enevoadas
e se eras tu
quem eu via
na infinita dispersão do meu ser
se eras tu
que reunias pedaços do meu poema
reconstruindo
a folha rasgada
na minha mão descrente

Qualquer coisa
pergunta-me qualquer coisa
uma tolice
um mistério indecifrável
simplesmente
para que eu saiba
que queres ainda saber
para que mesmo sem te responder
saibas o que te quero dizer

Mia Couto

Cine Me

 

 

The Butler

 

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1327773/

 

 

http://www.weinsteinco.com/sites/leedanielsthebutler/

 

 

First and foremost, the unusual choice of Portuguese composer Rodrigo Leao has paid off in a flavorsome, non-cookie cutter score that's abetted by a raft of pop tunes that helps identify the quickly passing time periods.

 

Nobody who has seen “Shadowboxer,” “Precious” or, heaven knows, “The Paperboy” would mistake Lee Daniels for a realist. Nonetheless, his new film — released, as a result of a ridiculous film industry food fight, with the ungainly official title “Lee Daniels’ The Butler” — is a brilliantly truthful movie on a subject that is usually shrouded in wishful thinking, mythmongering and outright denial.

 

Taking inspiration from an article by Wil Haygood in The Washington Post about the life of Eugene Allen, who worked as a butler in the White House during eight presidential administrations, Mr. Daniels has told the story of the civil rights movement in the bold colors of costume pageantry and the muted tones of domestic drama. He also throws in a few bright splashes of crazy, over-the-top theatricality, in the form of outrageous period-appropriate outfits and startling celebrity cameos, as well as dabs of raucous comedy. You may hear it said, in praise of “The Butler,” that it shows this director in a more restrained, responsible frame of mind than his earlier films did. This may be true — most movies not directed by John Waters can be described as more restrained than “The Paperboy” — but it misses both the subtlety of Mr. Daniels’s previous movies and the wild exuberance of this one.

 

The history of repression, protest and reform did not just happen on the abstract plane of activism and politics, but also in the lives of ordinary families, who were always doing more than just suffering and struggling. The genius of “The Butler” lies in the sly and self-assured way it connects public affairs to private experience. Early on, Cecil Gaines, the character loosely based on Mr. Allen, is taught that he, like every other African-American who wants to survive in a white-dominated world, must have two faces. This practical advice is an echo of W. E. B. Du Bois’s idea, articulated in “The Souls of Black Folk,” of the “double consciousness” at the heart of the black experience in America. “We wear the mask that grins and lies” is how the poet Paul Laurence Dunbar bitterly summarized the duplicity imposed by post-Civil War white supremacy on its emancipated but disenfranchised victims.

 

“The Butler” has the historical insight and the generosity of spirit to honor the father and the son equally, and to look with skepticism at each’s point of view. Louis can be courageous and principled, but when his radicalism turns foolish, the film does not hesitate to take his father’s side. Cecil, on the other hand, is blind to the intensity of his son’s convictions and the necessity of the work his son is doing, and his proud patriarchal stubbornness hurts everyone in the family.

But Cecil and Louis, in the end, are doing the same work: they are insisting that their country, at long last, recognize them as full citizens and human beings. Mr. Daniels measures how much of this work has been accomplished, at what cost and with what enemies and allies, and never lets us suppose that it is finished. He dedicates “The Butler” to “the heroes of the civil rights movement” and leaves no doubt that people like the title character — including the unsung maids, Pullman porters, janitors and kitchen workers who toiled far from the White House — belong in that category. We remember those who marched and who stood up for themselves in the face of injustice. It is good to remember that, to paraphrase Milton, they also stand who only wait and serve.

 

 

There's no denying the stumbles that mar this alternately riveting and risible historical epic (big stars in bad makeup doing cameos as American presidents – yikes!). Yet Lee Daniels' The Butler holds you, provokes you and ultimately moves you. It's a huge task, trying to detail the battle between Uncle Tom-ism and radicalism that divided African-Americans during civil rights movements between 1957 and 1986. And to do it through one man, Cecil Gaines (a stellar Forest Whitaker), a White House butler who served seven presidents, defines risky.

Props for ballsiness to Oscar-nominated director Lee Daniels (Precious) and Emmy-winning screenwriter Danny Strong (Recount, Game Change). As for the legal ruling that Daniels' name be added to the title to not infringe on a 1916 silent short called The Butler, I'm saying bullshit.

The Butler (sue me, that's what I'm calling it) begins with five words that always arouse suspicion: "Based on a true story." For starters, Cecil Gaines never existed. There was, however, Eugene Allen, a White House fixture for 34 years until he retired as head butler in 1986. Eugene, a widower, did live long enough to attend the historic swearing-in of Barack Obama, as Cecil does in the fi m. For strict adherence to facts, that's mostly it.

The backstory that The Butler gives Cecil is fiercely melodramatic. On a segregated Georgia plantation in 1926, young Cecil watches his mother (Mariah Carey) raped and his father murdered by a white owner (Alex Pettyfer). Taken in as "house nigga" by the family matriarch (Vanessa Redgrave), Cecil soon flees, picking up pantry jobs that lead to employment at an elegant D.C. hotel and then 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. These incidents are meant to indicate the fear that builds subservience into Cecil's DNA.

At the White House, Cecil shows a humility that disarms fellow servants (Lenny Kravitz and a very fine Cuba Gooding Jr.) and white leaders of the free world. It's the quickie presidential drop-ins that nearly sink the film. As Dwight Eisenhower, Robin Williams barely registers. James Marsden's JFK is all sweet martyr. Liev Schreiber's LBJ spouts racial slurs but supports key civil rights bills. John Cusack's Richard Nixon supports his own neuroses. Gerald Ford and Jimmy Carter (seen in news clips) get no stars to play them. Alan Rickman's Ronald Reagan (Jane Fonda plays Nancy) o ffers Cecil kindness while hypocritically supporting apartheid. Silent Cecil stands and waits. What's roiling inside him? Ask his family.

It's the family angle that gives The Butler its heat. Whitaker works beautifully with Oprah Winfrey as Gloria, Cecil's not-so-dutiful wife. Gloria sublimates her frustration over her husband's 24/7 devotion to the Oval Office by finding sham solace in booze and a sleazy a air with a neighbor (Terrence Howard). Winfrey is a full-throttle wonder, filling her role with heart soul and a healing resilience. It's Gloria who tries to give Cecil common ground with their two sons, neatly divided in their politics. Daddy's boy Charlie (Elijah Kelley) enlists for Vietnam. Rebellious Louis (a deeply affecting David Oyelowo) veers from Martin Luther King to the militancy of Malcolm X. Louis' takedown of Sidney Poitier as Hollywood's Uncle Tom is a notveiled attack on Cecil. Dramatic sparks, a Daniels specialty, really fly in this scene. What a shame the Daniels roar is often muffled by prestige-picture respectability. At its best, The Butler lets us into Cecil's head and his dawning consciousness. Dinah Washington is heard twice on the soundtrack singing "I'll Close My Eyes." But it's watching Cecil open his eyes, in Whitaker's reflective, powerfully understated performance, that fills this flawed film with potency and purpose. Striving really does bring its own glory.

 

 

 



"One quiet voice can ignite a revolution"

 

 

                                                                  What a great movie!

In a manner of speaking

 

 

I just want to say
That just like you, I should find a way
To tell you everything
By saying nothing.

 

Sunday mood

 

 

Sujei o teu nome
para me libertar de ti
o sujo foi sombra...
teu nome esqueci-o

O sujo era ferida
e eu falso cantava
Não reconhecia a minha voz
Ai que deserta liberdade

Preso de novo
que rede tamanha
de laços e vozes
Um eco talvez
Um eco incessante

                                                                              

                                                              ANTÓNIO RAMOS ROSA

 

Today

 

 

 

Hoje podes deitar-te na minha cama
e contar-me mentiras - dizer, não sei,
que o amor tem a forma da minha mão
ou que os meus beijos são perguntas que
não queres que ninguém te faça senão...
eu; que as flores bordadas na dobra do
meu lençol são de jardins perfeitos que
antes só existiam nos teus sonhos; e que
na curva dos meus braços as horas são
mais pequenas do que uma voz que no
escuro se apagasse. Hoje podes rasgar
cidades no mapa do meu corpo e
inventar que descobriste um continente
novo - uma pátria solar onde gostavas
de morrer e ter nascido. Eu não me
importo com nada do que me digas esta
noite: amo-te, e amar-te é reconhecer o
pólen excessivo das corolas, o seu vermelho
impossível. Mas amanhã, antes de partires,
não digas nada, não me beijes nas costas
do meu sono. Leva-me contigo para sempre
ou deixa-me dormir - eu não quero ser
apenas um nome deitado entre outros nomes.

Maria do Rosário Pedreira



Don't be late

Can't stop

 

thinking about you.

The next best thing to bare

 

“Quero o toque do abraço dela. O toque da pele dela. Já o sinto. Nunca o toquei. Mas já o sinto. Está na minha pele. Sinto-o na minha pele. Sinto-o a apertar-me. E nunca o apertei.

Quero o corpo que nunca deixei de tocar mesmo que nunca o tenha tocado.”

                                             Pedro Chagas Freitas, "In Sexus Veritas"


P.S- But I can't remember where ou when.

If I tell you I love you

 

 

There are so many things I could say, my love
Make you trip, so your lips would be mine
There are so many things I could do, my love
To convince you my love is divine
There are so many words I could tell you
There are so many moments in time
But I say 'fore we go to the land down below
If I tell you I love you, I'm lying

There are so many places to go, my love
There are so many places to find
There are so many worlds to explore, my love
There are so many stars yet to shine
There are so many secrets to tell you
There are so many men on the line
But I say 'fore we go to the land down below
If I tell you I love you, I'm lying

I maybe show the reason to call you up next time
So if you like your women sweet, ah, consider me your wine

I may be one for weekends to call you when you're flying
But if I ever utter I love you, honey I am lying
And if I look into your eyes and tell you, honey I am lying
And if I ever whisper words unheard, such sultry words
(Oh, je t'aime
Oh oui, je t'aime)
Darling, I am lying

 

How can I tell him I love him

While I whisper soft

 

 

o tacto é pouco

e curvo sob os lábios

e se um anel no corpo

é saliente

digamos que é da pedra

em que se rasga

Opala enorme

e morna

tão fremente

dália suposta

sob o calor da carne

lábios cedidos

de pétalas dormentes

Louca ametista

com odores de tarde

Avidamente amor

com desespero e calma

as mãos subindo

pela cintura dada

aos dedos puros

numa aridez de praia

que a curvam loucos até ao chão da sala

Ferozmente amor

com torpidez e raiva

as ancas descendo como cabras

tão estreitas e duras

que desarmam

a tepidez das minhas

que se abrem

E logo os ombros

descaem

e os cabelos

desfalecem as coxas que retomam

das tuas

o pecado

e o vencê-lo

em cada movimento em que se domam

Suavemente amor

agora velozmente

os rins suspensos

os pulsos

e as espáduas

o ventre erecto

enquanto vai crescendo

planta viva entre as minhas nádegas.

 

 

Maria Teresa Horta