*amalgama #8: fernando ancil (brazil) and glaura cardoso vale (brazil)
i always thought house was a place of care
and not an imprisonment
at the same time, i locked doors and drawers out
creating a barrier to prevent
strangers to come in and out
this flawed ideia of security
while fear scares me inside
for a long time house was only a room
where books, clothes, and long plays were gathering
while doors and drawers were still locked
i realized in the cloudy room the possibility to not to fear the world
locked doors and drawers
did not make possible strangers to come in and out
nor writing either
*amalgam #7: fernando ancil (brazil) and marina tsvetaeva (1933, russia)**
*amalgama #6: rafael fares (brazil) and virginia yiny (spain)
A savage inside the cave and the man goes out to hunt.
Ripped in two both sexes.
She will be the womb, he will stay in the midst of
There and hither.
A tamed man cooks and the woman picks her children.
They have never been married.
They met each other cuz he was a migrant
He wanted a home, he was tired to be an errant
She wants only a lover, she had life done.
* amalgam #5: ko sakauchi (japan) and ronaldo macedo brandão (portugal)
*amalgam #3: bruno vasconcelos (brazil) and ko sakauchi (japan)
When I was little, my dad used to say “if you’re lost, I can find you looking for the girl who has three moles like Orion on her thigh and bring back home anywhere you are.” Two out of three are almost gone now and maybe I don’t need them.
…and this leap from age to age,
from the order of a child to that of an old man,
will not diminish us.
– paul eluard-
… and, as ancient times,
i could sleep in the sea.
*amalgam #2: yelena popova (UK) and eassis (Brazil)
“The house was quiet and the world was calm”
This is the sentence by which a man
loses his place, sells his peace
curses his soul. A poem
is not a lake, his home
among lilies, it isn’t
a chair by the window, a page
from Cristina, a song
in the evening, it isn’t
he or she, it is not
*amalgam #1: lígia diniz (brazil) and anna volkova (latvia)
So strange, you see,
these windows so wide don’t get a grip of this city’s infinity.
From our room I see trees-with-branches-with-leaves-with-mangos so big
they could fall and smash someone’s head
and yet they are homelike for me.
(Ever since I was little I look up to the sky in terror:
such greatness must be famished for being so long so blue.
And in a city like this – all turquoise sky, no ocean, no woods –
it will surely feed on a lesser woman
That is why (you see)
I need those trees-with-branches-with-leaves-with-mangos-so-big:
so I can hold on to them when the ravenous universe finally sends for me.
And that is why
when the sun is high
I ask you to close all the windows
and throw your body both gently and heavily –
I ask you to throw your body over me.
“we feel and essay
my love has no meaning
I met a friend of mine with her 6 years old son.
He looked at me and asked his mom: ‘Why she keeps her hands in pockets?’
There is no such word in English as ‘Handschmeichler’ in German. But that’s for I need my pockets.
*autocromo, lartique, 1912
on my writing desk:
a computer, notebooks, faded pictures, some lists to do.
among them rests a small chinese ball you once offered me
on its surface, a delicate blue painted foliage.
love can be that flimsy.
I never pick up the phone here.
I know it’s not for me.
Nobody knows that I am here.
for today, at least for today, i’ll close the windows and turn off lights for the men and children murdered in an indigenous village in brazil.
for today, at least for today, i’ll sing them a song I use to sing to my little boy when he feels threatened. it has no meaning. but i’ll sing it anyway.
(a song to Guarani-Kaiowa)
the theme: drawers, chests and wardrobes
i lay on the floor
in the middle of rests
you brought me
The herbs in the pots have breeded so many flies around, that I decided to cut all herbs off and ate them with my lunch.
No more home windowsill garden…
For a while we’ve stopped posting here. And we both started wondering why. Yesterday we met by chance on skype and talked about it (a little bit) and life. We always find something potentially interesting when talking about life randomly. It is, probably our method. A fluid, open-ended conversation about minor daily things: my son, your MA, films, books we are reading, and other ordinary situations. We were talking about what to do with our blog, trying to set a new theme and start publishing on it again. What does we have in common, besides “mouse gray” hair, red shoes, accents, photography and books? Our relationship has been marked by such coincidences. And it wasn’t different yesterday.
We were talking about leaving home, about having no more home, at least a traditional home. We are both having to deal with it, in different ways though. How is to live in between two cities and build up a feeling of home on the road, or how to feel at home when you had to leave your home unexpectedly and had no chance do set a new one? And, again, by chance, I wrote you a quotation from Bachelard’s La poétique de l’espace. You were reading it as well. So we decided to understand it better. The coincidences but, mostly, what drove us to this book. We both want to understand the idea of intimacy, of the relationship between exterior and interior, personal objects and spaces, the sense of building a home and live in it, or leave it, of home and its poétique.
So we decided to start writing/picturing to each other again, like the first time, when we fist ‘met’ each other, as a diary, as a description of ordinary time and space of life.
* from La poétique de l’espace, by Gaston Bachelard
For this theme, we decided to do each post together: one of us will post an image, another – text. We are going to swap every time who will post what, but without indication on it. We try to build one story told by two people. Let’s see how it works.