Qué más
Sino esta Primavera,
Estar tumbado sobre la hierba fresca
Y junto de este árbol
Recibir al SOL parpadeante.

Quizás subir al árbol
Joven y fuerte, alto
Tan alto cuanto pueda,
Agarrarme a él
Y danzar con el viento.
Ser el árbol.
Ser el viento.
Observar el frenesí
De los bichillos voladores
Saltando de flor en flor,
Y las abejas
Con sus grandes pistoleras

Y de llegar a la fuente
Meter uno y después otro
Los pieses en el agua.
Sonreír como murmulla
El agua sus reflejos
En la piedra:
En especia
Que van tan bien con cada
Pajarillo alborotado
Y su trova

Oh! Una nube

Latest events or Grammar of the Home-made Drama

........................Being late at night, the normaly quiet neighbour decides to play hard rock in his stereo. And I cannot asure it is not because of the weather unstability, last year, this time 35 degrees colder! Ana complains, I tell her it is not scandall “enough”. I work on the computer with my headphones, when I hear some yelling. I stop to find Ana in the corridor telling me that Mustapha, the neighbour from downstairs is knocking on the musical fellow's door. Before I open the door she informs me of neighbour's screaming when she gave some hits on the wall – I’ve never like those advising knocks... Here we’ve got the esential elements for a improvised piece of drama.
........................I open the door. I find Mustapha knocking really hard on this guy’s door and vehemently shouting. He looks at me. In french, he crys out (for) what an stupid asshole the other guy is. AH! I just noticed Mustapha carries an enormous kitchen’s knife semihidden in the sleeve of his jacket (he spent a couple of years in a french prision because he hadn’t “pappers” – I’ve being told ) I look at him and tell What are you doing man? That’s not necessary. You’re going to be in trouble if you make use of that. Of course my french is not so articulatedly cool. Then I try him to handle over the knife C’omon don’t be stupid. Give me that knife. He didn’t and replyed that was the only way of dealing with such scum. In that moment two things passed my mind:
........................1st How could Mustapha (and inspite of the arab blood, that normally gives extra very-passionate-way of dealing with things and an incontinent verbal agressiveness) which have always behave as a reasonable laid back man, talk about that’s the only way? Where there other ocasssions when music was playted loud? Other conflicts with this particular neighbour? – at least not in the last four months – Did he ment the knife’s the only way? Does he normally deal with things like this? And why was he carrying the blade as in some tough jail american film? Why did he looked so out of his mind? – I know these are many issues but thoughts/images just run through your mind
........................2nd I remember too many deaths because of being in the midst of a knifes fight. I wondered what would it happen when this guy opened the door. Also I thought of Mustapha, that if he used the weapon he would get in serious problems – I know, it’s incredible how litle I seemed to care about the festive neighborg, the thing is that I was trying to get the knife before the door was open. And finally there I was, standing in between two grown men being truly stupid.
The door opens: a caucasian, long hair, corpulent young man in striped shorts and glasses (nice atrezzo), looking at us as if everything was cool. Mustapha very nervously tells him to quiet down (he doesn’ t speak good czek and he blends it with german, french and some italian words like capicci?, which is very funny, more because of the situation. Humour has a strange sense of opurtunity). The other guy is a provocateur, he tells Mustapha he doesn’t understand. Another funny thing is that Ana is walking up and down as a theatrical directress who endevours to correct the performers in the play, I don’t really know if unaware about the seriousness of the situation or in a very brave act of trying to calm things down ( I am more inclinated about the second posibility).
........................Next! Two men, big men, with the arms around each other and with their foreheads touching as in some ancient grecoroman wrestling fashion. Mustapha grabs the other guy and flings him down against the floor, almost throwing him down the stairs, glasses fall, Ana picks them. Dangerous, look all those broken neck, my God, it is so easy to truncate someone’s life! We start againg, the guy’s standing as nothing happened. I return him his glases, he says děkuye (thank you) in such a polite manner that it’s obvius to me that he is drunk. More nonsense talk. The drunk hard rock lover invites Mustapha in. Mustapha turns the invitation down, he doesn’t understand, I do (good that I am not angry or drunk, or drunk of angryness) the neighbour wants to be Mustapha to set the volume of the music, nice moove! Mustapha gets in, Ana trannslates he is apologizing, he says he is sorry ... then in the intimacy of the dark room some quiet phrases and calm reconciliating dialogs happen. I can even see some hugs and taps, it is so pathetic now... I come back in to make some good out of it. Here I am writing to you.
........................Short reflexions
God that all ended with nondead bodies or chopped lims: well. I imagine having drunk a litle bit too much and being happly playing my jewish klezma music loud. It would be catastrophic. Some one thretening me or Ana with a knife! I shall look for skeletons in the court yard.... I can imagine Mustapha and Lea being patience and trying not play the represive neighbours rol. But what‘s the use of refrain yourself if in the end you are going to explode in violence? And for mahoma’s sake, how can you “show” a knife to your own neighbour, the very same one you are going to meet tomorrow in the stairs. And how can you be so stupid and racist by saying to your neighbour I don’ t understand. I do understand (because of our flat becoming vacant) when mustapha’s wife says she doesn’t want any more arabs in the building.
To meditate things for ten seconds before taking an action. Not to do things out of or in fear. Mustapha’s a big, strong and sportive guy, he needed no knife to solve the situation, even in worst case scenario.
Between the gas thief, the spying lady, the rocker and Mustapha we have emotion and stories granted. What it is we could do to enter the freakshow? – Maybe put fire into the house...

dear jurgen doc

Dear Jurgen (sorry about the uncomplete “u”, this keyboard’s crazy):



How are you doing, man?
I bet you are so buisy as a turtle eating spaguetty with chopsticks.

Well, you know, this nice south african cheap cabernet sauvignon and me, just wanted to say hello...
Hello!
Need to go see the rice...it’s donne!.
.............I just took a photo of a plant thinking about you.
This plant inhabits the kitchen (another one’s in the living), center of known Universe. She is a solo performer, in one of the most astonishing things I’ve ever seen. She dances, man!, I‘m not kidding, a really slow, butoh like, on going posture (could even say gesture) movement. Her shows are more intense during the night –which is the most of the time, now. And no, I’ve only drunk one and a half glass, the previous glass I did clumsily spilt it all over the place, which stain resulted (by the way impossible to take out, once the walls seem to have been painted with whiff) pretty enough.
Anna came back. Care and proper atention brake.
It wasn’t the plant that remind me of you, was the background:
.............Behind the plant there are two offset photo posters that I’ve glued together. One (the upper image) is a person in gabardine and glasses replacing a sett of the street paving for a flower plant , neat, eh? Czek artist’s performance of the 70’s or 80’s –not sure right now. The image below is upside down and it’s also from a performance: Spani na strome, Sleeping in a tree (the “i” should have an acute accent tilde. As well, the “e” should go with an inverted portugueesse circumflex look like tilde on top) by Petr Stembera (the “s” in the surname should have another of those portugueesse inverted on top), occured in April 1975 in Praha –here the date it’s of more interest, I imagine for a sec this act-in-winter: “frozen artistis is found on top of a tree, after three days missing... “After three days and nights without sleep I spent the fourth night in a tree” says in the part of the poster I’ve cuted out. Finaly, out of the photo range *like the expression*, dodging an electric cable and making a 90 degrees between the door frame and the skirting board on wich alights surrounded by “train stones” (dark grey bluish and white granite), there is a woman lying completely streched on the curb of a road.
.............Interesting group of gymnastic weridos...
.............I wonder where does this “sett” word come from?. I would like to point that in the dicctionary (Langesnscheidt, modern dictionary, Spanish-English, English-Spanish by Santillana –my God, what a mix!) there wasn’t the english version of “adoquin” wich is “sett”. Anyway, I’ve checked out this gap between the words “set” and “settback” (funny thing), so before the last definition of “set” it is an expression use in farming, meaning “to transplant”. Just in case I’ve looked for the spanish version of “transplant” and in one of the figurative meanings says “emigrate”.
.............That’s a way of going outrooted!
... Fresh bread coming out the oven!, an integral barley and rye bread (couldn’t make it only from rye, with comercial yeast it wouldn’t grow, you know?). I am on time if you think it is half past six in the morning.
.............Okay, now let’s take our picture-performance-pic story back, profitting the bread boost –which reminds I have some workshop/activity proposal for Maumaus’ new kitchen department...
Of course by this time you are thinking, probably in German, “but where do those interesting images come from?” and perhaps also “is it dear max always cooking?”.
.............My sweetheart and I went to this museum/gallery, named easy forgot, to see the performance we were told was going to happen. It Resulted that a contest “who-is-best-artist-like?” was being held, as if an edp prize thing for czek artists –the new day’s lighten blue tints the sky such in a violet and petroleum tones...- and that day a dernisage, as this nice participant guy said, was going on and they were going to reveal to the whole wide big world who deserved best all those crowns and the first quality trip to New York –I wonder “would I talk (would it be possible or would it be fair?) like this if I had the first place in edp’s?...
.............But first must say that in my way I remembered Jimmie Durham’s advice, he encourage me to cook; so I was having an affarir (or was it just a flirt?) with these thoughts when I got to the exhibition. In the beggining (was the rythm) saw a barrel with fire in front of the building, thought it was nice moove, contrasting. Then I was admired by how many people where there, specially gypsies. And finally understood that somebody was cooking, nothing too fancy merely popular nutritive food: sausages and other roastable stuff over the barrel, and a delicious chilly cous-cous in the entrance hall. They were properly set up for the task with a gas stove (over a washing machine) pans and pots and all imaginable items; also visually looked very nice, somewhere between a students’ cantine and a quick fix street stand. They made a pretty nice knocking tea with rum... Can you imagine this scenario with the fire and the gypsies and the food and drinks in Serralve’s garden, ja ja aja would it be super!!!.
.............It is day, I can turn off the lights.
.............Those of the cooking collective *could be the name for a group* were from Praha and they didn’t even enter the exhibition spaces, instead they send gypsy children with spray cans to paint in the walls... I know, sounds crazy. So, “crazy” should have sound in the minds of the judges who gave the prize. And –finally we’re getting to the core- the girl artist who won and was happy and smiling and probably not trying to remember if she had left the heating on– saw her being riddled by the photographers- was the one of the posters.
.............She reflects. She picks five performative artists of the 70’s and 80’s (dead or alive). She talks to them (even the gonne ones). She reflects. Then she decides to mimic the performances, chosing video documentation instead of photo. She does the zhing. She reflects once again. She exhibits everything (tv monitors, headphones) and, laying aside in the floor, the posters with the original (this piece could work as an intro for discussing benji’s text) photo, underneath you can read the name of the artist, title, date and a brief description of the work. On the posters she stamps (quite horrible, idea and outcome) REPLACED. She wins.
.............While crossing the big puddle, she stops reading her “how to eat the apple pocket dictionary or manual for prize winning artist’s trip”, she looks out through the litle window, she can see the wing sharpely contrasted against the depthless bleu du ciel (sound like cheese). The white mass of clouds floating lower down... she reflects “I came off well”.
.............Because I know you would like to know: the actions were nice (although they were copies, in the literal not pushed forward or emancipated –here you are, with your own, many times used, words- sense) the videos where done okay, she ad english subtitles with deep fried thoughts (come on, now you’re being naughty). I liked it, it was simple, eficient, she did it, she was lying there, on the ground, while people just passed by not wanting to know (with the actions, she was generating some thinking, maybe), and specially I wondered how she managed the tree thing and, most of all, how she managed not to sleep for four days. Anyhow I still have the feeling that the first performances involved a more political and defiant fresh statement. The only real but(t) was that everything was prety bad installed. Not honest care about space, not care about viewer’s view details.
.............Well... I realy enjoyed the cooking part, the crafty gypsy children bruised faces and the freeness of entrance and wine.


Meanwhile the tea got coldhearted.
This is another day, long ago,
Another night ’n’ dawn
Together : Miles
Me and U
...
Too
D A Y
Feels
Like lost sense
Of humor and sour
Cream eyelids, just be
Cause I wanted:
To meet Him,
To let go
of ev e r y t h i n g
of
the
very
word
hands
Off !
and
Be
One
with
The
.............V
................E
...................L
.....................O




Now it’s time to plug in the headphones , shift from never played to before sunarise, and drink my cold tea looking at the wonderfull spectacle in sky.


Hoje escrevi um poema para o gonzalo, branco.

.............Ainda hoje, ao ver acontecendo um novo evento na galeria (acho que e chamada “A Casa da Arte”) onde foi do premio, infiltramo-nos la para dentro, e qual foi a nossa surpressa ao descubrir que o espazo todo estava a ser utilizado para a festa da empressa butterfly uma dessas modernas e livres empresas onde o patrao e os empregados aparecem todos, casualmente vestidos (?), e sao retratados em coloridas fotografias no hall de entrada, e e todo superluminoso, quase ate a cegueira, como se essa luz pudesse trespassar o peito das pessoas...
.............Havia um cattering e claro, com fonte de chocolate incluida, e cocteis. Tudo uma merda, e digo isto porque experienciamos e experimentamos. Nem vou falar do trio de entertainers (o que e que esta gente fara no seu tempo livre?, nao consigo imaginar) a cantar a capela o “if i saw you in heaven” do eric clapton, o da megaprojeccao de fotos de bebes. O mais horripilante foi asistir a tentativa de algumas pessoas de conjuntar pezas de roupa que nao deviam era mesmo existir, num estilo post-saloio-chique (o que e que uma pessoa pode fazer senao rir dos fatos de 600 euros com meias dos ciganos), ou as que pareciam ter ido ao evento em camisa de noite (la fora 4 graus), no estilo denominado quase-puta-mas-sem-skills. Nem de carnaval tinha a reuniao ar.
.............Isto e que duvido que acontecese mesmo em serralves, pelo menos a fonte de chocolate seria maior, e nao estaria tao separada da mesa, que uma pessoa quase que cai ao por nela a bolacha... Em fim, uma triste dor de alma de se ver, num santuario da arte.





Espero que nao te importes de eu por este texto no meu blog.


Gostei destes momentos.

E hora de ir.

ate breve

abrazo

max

Got blue feet-in Vila Tugendhat.doc

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Dear herr Bock
Here we are in a new chapter of our czek odissey.
This one could be called

Got blue feet-in Vila Tugendhat

When I told you we were comming to Brno, this “house by Mies van der Rohe” was the thing you told me about. So today, finally, we went to check it out.
..........Today was an awesome sunny day for this akward winter in which, and despite of usual grey cimented sky, every day gets hotter. That brings to mind, by the opposite, that I saw the neighbourg we borrowed the fridge from, and she, Lea, explained in french (she speaks five lenguages) they were installing a new heating terminal (normal neighbours small talk, why they call it “small talk”, when it can last for hours?) and how they discovered that the neighbor next door was stealing gas – yeah, can you believe it? Here, they steal gas!!! And somehow the police got to know, she affirmed vehemently that wasn’ t her making the call, and came and tooked pictures (I wonder if they used a digital camera or analogic one). Then Lea told me about other incidents we will skip, but the main thing is that all the smell of gas was not paranoia (relax) and it is good to know that perhaps one of these days we will be thrust to the roof ‘cause a wako gas thief lives just below us (tense again).

..........Back to the Vila.
A TOTAL RIPOFF, in all senses.
First was awfully expensive.
..........Second the house was so neglected and in bad shape, ceiling falling appart, uncleaned.
Third the guided visit was in czeck when most of us were not czeck talkers...(?)
Fourth they made us wear a blue sheath over the shoes – indeed much more “not-clean” that our shoe soles – wich the guide didn’t and anyway the floor was quite dirty.
Fifth they showed like one third of house space, and when it came the time to see the gardens, that are at least ten times the house area, they didn’t allowed, the reason given was that it is wintertime!!!

..........It reminded me of the worst things in/over the best things. It remind me of things I’ve seen and specilly hated specilly in Portugal but also specilly in other places . When we got out one old nice czeck lady said (with the sense of humor of the used to) “in Czeck Republic and specilly in Brno it is always a problem”.
..........And these problems brings you down, because of the marvelous piece of arquitecture you’ve got in front of your eyes. The doors only, made out of a dark dense wood and with almost three meters high (I love big tall doors) ... or about the windows, made of a single (the original) piece of antireflections glass, from top to bottom, being possible to retract them into the floor and them you are not inside this wonder anymore you are flying with the birds over the gardens aahhhhhhhHHH. Or how Mies care about these windows and so that couldn’t get misty he installed a special heating system, or the general heating spreaded from the ground mixed with natural fragances... I can transport myself to those times... oh wonderfull, wonderfull.
..........I’m not going to talk about the african fist thick (like a freezed watterfall, like the one in jeff wall pictures, as thick too) wall reflecting the enviroment or how the straigh lines were sharpen even more by the curves and how both embraced the nature and also embrace what it is of being human. This man loved his work, he understood it.
Ahoy sir van der Rohe, nice shack!!!
..........I must admit that allthough sad and angry, I couldn’t help to notice how funny we were walking around, all those blue sheaths, and the different attitudes in each one of us, aren’t these strange ocasions when you do the same activity, sharing the moment and space, with a group of persons you don’ t know from anywhere and wich, afterwards, you would probably never see again. We all transport a sort of coreographed stories without noticing it... I truly enjoyed this man with dark skin, black litle and sharp small eyes that serached everywhere and opened every door and droor as if he tried to find something he alreday knew wasn’ t there, as he had to make it worth that money he had payed... and, at certain time he weared his purple glasses, there he goes trying to sneak under and over them, twisting the neck as a bultre...
.........I am a bit frustatded of not seing the facade from the garden.
And I understand that shortly they are going to reppair the house, and that it has pass through many hands. From the nazis (almost destroyed when russians fought back) to dance school to hospital. But for Christ sake it has been Unesco monument for nearly thirteen years now. And anyways to sweap and wash the floor it is not so expensive, is it?. Or to have a english speaking guide (I think not speaking english being a plus in the search of a job here, or “I’m proud of you son, you don’t speak any english at all”). The same you can aply some plaster on (it is curious that’s “on”, being under) the ceiling. Don’t these people feel embaraced and a litle ashamed of what they haven’t donne? – it is said that is Mies most important work in Europe. Of their forgotness?


..........Well, I said it.
VIVA MIES VAN DER ROHE!!!
Abajo los escarabajos burocratas!
Viva el funcionalismo integrado!
Abajo los idiotas integrales!
VIVA EL ARTE!!!
Abajo el dejarte!

Ah..., and


Thanks jurgen for the tip

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ad meet ouh?!!

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para o gonzalo.



Admito que hoje quase ia subindo a uma arvore,
mas nao pelo prazer dessa subida e do estar vendo alto com ela,
mas sim antes por tirar uma fotografia de mim la acima.
E isto faz-me envergonhar um pouco,
So que depois penso melhor
E declaro envergonhar
o mesmo que furar o ceu
Com inmediatos.
Segui pela trilha do comboio, segui-lhe a pista ...


Admito que me demorei, no duche especialmente.
Nao por uma razao, porque a agua estava quentinha.
Ate pus sabao e fiz espuma e esfreguei o corpo de que tenho
Carinho,
Em quanto compunha na minha cabeza, perfeitas frases parvas,
Para momentos de estupidez perfeita.
Nao, hoje a espuma ficou no fora do olho,
Por isso sai do banheiro a sorrir,
um pouco.

Admito assim mesmo, ter pensado deliberadamente
E as vezes, com reincidencia, que sou qualquer coissa
De bom.
Passa logo que vejo um tram com as luces todas,
Afogarse no riacho
Que vai sujando a noite
do ranho que as fabricas lhe deitam –
esse que, nao fosse seu feitio fedorneto,
ate era bonito de se ver, assim, a boiar na agua.

Admito ter nao ficado inmediatamente nu
De culpa, uma vez ‘stando em cassa.
Pode isto ser, pelo estar:
Tambem-encontrei-livros,
Folhas brancas e uma pesada caneta
Que escreve a preto
Tudo quanto uma pessoa lhe diz.
Ja nu, desenho, fazo sopa
e belisco o rabo de couve roxa em numeros ao calhas.

Admito e readmito que fazo sem querer
A vida como ela se presenta,
Isto e:
Durmo no dia e acorda-me a escuridao
para o desafio de preparar e comer, seis o sete refeizoes,
e estudar e estudar. E estudar com vehemencia
quase tudo o que sobrar das refeizoes.
E agora
quando perguntas-te onde arranjo a massa?

Admito que nao admito coissa alguma
De ser minha, nem que me diga respeito.
Assim, so digo o que dizer
Se o meu advogado nao estiver presente
Ou pronto ou nascido ainda melhor.
Jogos e jogos de palavras sao
Mas eu quase que nao os vejo,
Estou cego pois,
Entao, Vamos la acabar com esta merda, pois entao fim.

Ainda admito fora de horas
Ter assassinado uma data e uma lembranza,
Mas foi, e claro, em defessa propia:
Pensei na arte
Assim tao de abstratamente
Que ja era esquecimento o eu ser anartista, espera...
SOU UM ARTISTAAAAAAAAaaa!!!
Depois tive remorsos,
Maus sonhos e uma longa erezao

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