The night was humid and cold, however the intensity of the winter was now gone, and the wind hit with less roughness when on the bare skin. And that, as an announcement, was a prefix for the rapid springtime, which would dilute itself on the fluidness of the crazed summer. While trembling through the city streets he was unsure if he was longing for it or his mind was bound to freeze in the winter. With the cigarette still hanging unlit on his hands, he was fast-walking in the direction of nowhere – nowhere not due to the lack of direction, but due to this growing uneasiness which was resulting in a heavily disturbed personal state. He could taste the red wine on his mouth already, however it wasn’t permitted for him to drink a sip of it for the next days – and his mind was set to skip that on the following afternoon.
As he watched the street bums trying to arrange a dry shelter for their pipes to rest on, he finally lit the cigarette, and he sat in an uncovered bunch, moist, and paid some attention to the smoke lifting up to the sky. He thought about how much brilliance risen from such moments – moments of vagueness, moments where ideas came from, watching the cigarette smoke as it filled the area in front of it, and how much those moments contributed to society enrichment. The artists, the scientists, the industrials. But the structure needed in order to brighten his brain and lead to that state of mind still longed some maturity, and that reflected on the nature of the wasteland which hanged his wits.
The rain came again, and he ran, unworriedly, uncaring, not fast enough to stay reasonably dry, and there he ran to the closest covered bus stop. There wasn’t many people walking around in that particular night along those downtown streets – a weekday, and already past commerce working time – and the bus stop was empty. He thought about how much loneliness did those urban streets resonated at night - even though constantly bloated by many and many people whose life lines complemented each other without any particular interference, in this incredible state of harmony which couldn’t exist anywhere else except inside the intricate (and, some may call, the obscure) organism of the city. And, whether it didn’t resemble much heat from distance, the diversity applied into its mechanics make up for a hell of a passionate and lively pulse. And, as he wandered through those thoughts which weren’t exactly arguments, but rather the trail to a mind who was boiling with excitement and urgency, as he curiously wandered throughout his own in-formation ideological pathway he thought to himself that there could be nowhere else to live but inside of one of the big devices which constituted all of that built around him.
Though having some unfinished business, his psyche wasn’t particularly focused on them, and he felt light and nice. Confused he was sure he was – but at least he was sure of something. He smiled to himself and lit another cigarette, as the other fell down while he ran, and he did his usual observation. He could hear the usual sounds on the urban nightlife; the screaming, the police cars sirens going north, the cars always running by, the possible echoing of some random slaughtering somewhere... That urban fluidness gave him a proper ground, gave him a sense of movement and gave the time some needed worth. And those weren’t mere sensations – they were personal traces which belonged to them, in the sense that that was his true home. While some consider that to be a source for stress and wrath, he felt rather embraced by all that amazing human labor, the skeleton and the foundations of its work. Whereas he didn’t perceived this every time, he was always feeling it, and, as he got out of the bus and lit his first cigarette in the primer minutes past sunrise, as the noise and the straightened faces hit them first thing in the morning, as he did those repetitive daily matters, he brought to his mind some inspiration. The general idea of the mechanical nature of those deeds are completely false – how could it be mechanical while entangled in such a vibrant and diverse background that the city life represents? The invented idea of the ideal daily life was a complete dystopian and false scenario – and he knew that with the conviction that he generally had in his ideological root.
The lights of a metropolitan bus coming his way blurred his eyes and prevented him from extending that thought – but he let it ran without stopping it, he wasn’t craving to go back home. He knew that, while back there, he would again fight with his mind, so he decided to take another walk, as the rain showed herself thinner. As the night fell through, the movement felt shortened, allowing the lights of the streets to risen its importance. Amidst the ecstasy of his thrill, however, he could smell something wasn’t right about all of that. He couldn’t exactly figure out what it was – maybe he lacked the books, the age, whatever reason – but he felt firm about the comprehension. The machinery was working, but it might was struggling to work with in its full power. Maybe it was one of those lampposts without any light in it.
one hundred lights
all day I’ve been waiting for the whistle to blow
She held tighter her can as the wind grew stronger and colder, rushing to resuming summer with its heat and its lack of preoccupation and intense zest. An hour had already gone by and about dozen of those same six hundred milliliters cans turned into a light pile of metallic garbage, joining four bottles each with that sip of content glass bottles always leave to themselves. The alcohol hurried through their blood tissues, but not as intense as they’d like, so the plans for something stronger became more recurrent as the night grew darker and the prospects more and more nostalgic and, at the same time, anxious, anxious to make more moments to laugh and share about for many nights like that to come. They weren’t trapped in the cage of the past yet – no, they were still too young for that – but their minds were permanently bound to that arrangement, members of a human race with all its rationality constantly wasted by these personal veins, which spurred into uncalculated fear – and part of that fear partly came from the one we have about not being able to repeat our happiness of outer times, not being able to repeat its place in our confused and impartial mind, which its lack of cohesion and truth we ignore in order to keep running a individual timeline. No, they weren’t trapped in that obnoxious work of mind yet, as it sets its linearity only in the elder – with few exceptions; none of them being a true exception – and, at this young age, appears conflicting with its surge for living the present and foreseeing the future, while being misguided and pleaded and accused by a past blended with that untrue complete fulfillment.
Though lightly, that special sensation the transitory state from sober to its opposite offers was filling her eyes with excitement and her laughter was surely rising stronger, and this condition was spread all over that five-member club. The conversation was rising its tone as one memory lead to another, and as the end of one recipient led to the opening of another.
Maybe the alcohol effects and its worldwide search have something to do with the freedom that it involves – she thought, as she closed her eyes and bended her head a bit backwards. Excluding the socio-economic and biologic aspects which came in line resulting in a widespread consumption, of course, the alcohol is probably linked with this, she thought, though not taking herself seriously – and she didn’t want to, is not that she couldn’t, is that she felt happy for being able to not taking herself seriously, digging that mechanism that was involving her whole body, and accompanying perfectly the scent of the night and the buzzed bright streets.
“Hello there...?” her friend now. He wanted to know if she wanted a cigarette or something, they were heading to the market. She grabbed the last one of her package, lit it, and went with them to conclude the basic planning for the rest of the night – which meant buy more booze and some smoke – and, a week later, they would gather once more, united by that same basic planning, and would talk about it in the endless hope of attaining the same amount of pleasure, while remembering a past which wasn’t far enough to come in their way, only enough to enjoy the night in its basic premises, and drink a shot in a tribute.
Citação: Stray Cats - Let it Rock
dum dum boys
Como quando sentávamos em círculos, em grupos, felizes, embriagados, dividindo opiniões similares e precipitadas sobre determinado tema, e éramos tão imediatistas e teimosos sobre nossas palavras. Dividíamos naquele momento um profundo prazer, não exatamente aquele prazer refinado e poético que tanto se almeja e valoriza, mas sim aquele que promove as prosas intermináveis e a vontade sem pensar, sem pudor. Se mentíssemos o motivo seria puramente superficial e não havia malícia.
Éramos novos, e corríamos do sol e procurávamos por algo para beber e ansiávamos em ver o mar, em chegar na praia, e íamos perdidos em uma transe e uma fluidez, e tínhamos total certeza que acharíamos o caminho - exatamente porque não pensávamos muito nele.
Exaustivamente e repetitivamente, perguntaríamos todo o sentido, e discutiríamos ele com aquela certeza juvenil - porém nunca realmente procuraríamos ele, porque ele não era necessário, porque só estar era o fundamental.
Sem perceber, sem querer, construíamos o intrínseco de nosso ser, da nossa vivência, e traçávamos a linha principal que iria correr os boulevards e avenues da posterioridade. E iríamos alargá-la com cada momento de euforia e animação que iria proporcionar a mudança para highways e autobanhs. E o cansaço seria rapidamente substituído por mais, e estaríamos satisfeitos sentido no físico toda aquela exaustão - exatamente porque significava proveito. Estávamos preparando nosso terreno.
E continuaríamos a preparar, mas com o irritante atenuante de tentar imitar o passado, cujas imperfeições passaram despercebidas em meio à fluência que nossa imaturidade proporcionava.
Citação: Iggy Pop - Dum Dum Boys
non-sensical movement, vertical, horizontal, circular, between walls and through walls
Ele continuou andando, a passos rápidos, quase que fugindo. Estava em êxtase, aquele perdido, aquele dissolvido em paranóias crescentes e queria correr e fugir do frio que andava sentindo com tanta força - ainda que agora estivesse sentindo um estranho calor, sentia seu rosto quente, sentia-se em urgência e não sabia o que fazer em relação a isso.
Ao olhar ao redor, as preocupações nos traços dos rostos dos que esperavam o ônibus em silêncio, incomunicáveis, com uma tensão da pressa e aparentemente sufocados - e, como usar incomunicável com tantas feições a mostra?
Uma cortina de poeira se elevava ao fundo da estrada, e, naquele fundo, algo clamava e inspirava mudança. E ele sentia ela em cada movimento, sentia em sua conturbação solitária, sentia no gosto de café amargo da sua boca, sentia em todo e qualquer movimento que construía e reconstruía a máquina viva de seu cotidiano.
E resolveu andar, a passos mais rápidos, até o próximo ponto, e se via imerso naqueles pensamentos gastos e pensava nos últimos minutos, onde cedera parte de sua solidão para outro ser, onde questionava a densidade do extremismo que levava a cabo por sua ideologia e suas ações.
Estava pondo em dúvida sua própria fuga, se não era uma limitação errônea limitar-se a si próprio, e se não era esse o motivo daquela fuga mental, se era mesmo a frustração com lá fora - e como poderia, sendo esse ‘lá fora’ tão incrível e fascinante? - se, no fim, não era frustração com sua própria incapacidade de administrar aqueles que o rodeavam junto com os traços mais intrincados e absolutos de sua personalidade...
Citação: título adapto de trecho do livro de Henry Miller, Tropic of Capricorn.
the breath in my lungs feels clinging and thick
Aquela última inspiração antes de cair, aquela última que indica algo tão lívido e tão denso que precede uma total perda de sentidos depois do mais intenso. A raiva que bombeou com exígua rapidez sangue por nossos corpos e me fez lembrar, com total aproveitamento, a capacidade de êxtase que os segundos poderiam adquirir.
Agindo na base de um impulso animal quase reprovável de tão puro e desprovido de qualquer outra pretensão, mas desenvolvendo-se em um espectro de raiva entre duas pessoas quase totalmente desconhecidas uma da outra, mas que, nas linhas divisórias de cada ato, se tornavam intrinsecamente ligadas - e era daí que uma antagônica raiva surgia, no meio de uma profunda inspiração quebrada.
Imersos em nossas próprias vontades e com cada um tomando seu respectivo papel, a importância daquilo era apenas algo alimentício, sem nenhum vínculo sentimental - porém, a raiva era indicativo de algo que perduraria além de apenas uma inspiração.
Não que vá, realmente, seguir isso, com certeza não por muito tempo. Em contraste com um total desprendimento, senti uma fúria acolhedora, logo após daquela primeira inspiração, enquanto, deitado, procurava um apoio e observava o ambiente ficar denso com a fumaça de seu cigarro.
Citação: The Rolling Stones - Dancing with Mr. D
