Night train

This night train takes you to an imaginary space of escape, a city at the end of the world, where people talk as if they are imagining; a place that can't really exist. (...)
Has anyone ever been on a night train to Lisbon?
Pascal Mercier, during the launch of the Portuguese-language version of the Nachtzug nach Lissabon.

Sometimes I feel I was one.

Night train

Any story worth telling is always about two characters: The one that understand and the one that is understood.
Pascal Mercier, during the launch of the Portuguese-language version of the Nachtzug nach Lissabon.


Sometimes I feel we were both the both of them.

the sky today

The bluest blue in the sky all but breaks the rock-thick clouds
and yet
one can almost more than guess
the cotton-white topping that the silver lining announces.

Favourite quotes

"All this will not be finished in the first one hundred days. Nor will it be finished in the first one thousand days, nor in the
life of this administration, nor even perhaps in our lifetime on this
planet.
But let us begin."

Pres. John F. Kennedy

The Orson Wells Ressurection Awards

Also known as the OWRA, or just "the owras", the Orson Wells Ressurection Awards were based on the review Joel Siegel made of the 2006 movie Little Miss Sunshine. He says: "Orson Welles would have to come back to life for this not to make my year-end Top 10 list", a statement I wholeheartedly endorse.

Since then, whenever I really really like a movie, I kind of recurringly get the feeling that I wouldn't classify it as the "Movie Of My Life or whatever", but that it holds a special place, a place that cannot be better described than "Orson Welles would have to come back to life for this not to make my year-end Top 10 list".
Not that I'm a profound connoisseur of Orson Wells, but the thing just stuck with me.

holiness

In my arrogance, I often ask myself at the end of a day or a moment, if mine were the actions of a holyman. As arrogance is perhaps the unholiest of attributesl, I feel I'm automatically ruled out;
but I sometimes nonetheless try.

prayer

I mum words along the way. One step after the last, I turn my eyes up to the sky, my chin still facing down.

The words then become rhyming, meaningless sounds. The frantic repetition gains the shape of a smooth calling, a recitation, a momentary song without fear.

Nothing says "i'm sorry" like...

... flowers, i guess. I mean, has to be, right?

And the Oscar goes to...

Hope.

The Footballer Who Shagged Me

Last night, Cristiano Ronaldo was reportedly hit by a "laser".

My God, man! Do they want tea?

I was going through the blogs of a few friends of mine as I made my usual stop at João Maurício's good'n old History Spot.

(in all honesty, it used to be "usual". now that blog seems to have gone into hibernation.)

In his last installment of tales of the heroes of the skies in both World Wars, Maurício tells us the story of Hasso von Wedel, a German aviator and officer.

(for those who cannot follow the grace with which the author masters the Portuguese language, I will translate to the best of my scarce abilities the riviting tale of Oberstleutnant von Wedel in England.)

In fact, as the famous battle for the control over the skies of Britain was reaching its peak, von Wedel was shot down and, as he tried and emergency landing, he incidentelly destroy a house, unawaringly killing a woman and her two children in the crash that followed.
Although he was himself unharmed, he felt so distressed by the demise of those innocent people that he readily turned himself over to the local police who, in grand British style, offered him tea.

His feet dipped in water, still, Adam looks on. Memories of a land, of a garden, fade in between two shades of blue.
He stands there, patience his first long lesson.

A rumour of a whisper, curly, calling, becomes unwavering. Adam, adam, adam...
As a tear falls in the wet sand, he lets himself, feeling his first short lesson.

It is not so much the rumour of a whisper as it is the shaddow of a dream. It not so much the beginning as it is the end.

Ich bin ein Tripeiro

My wet dream for tonight's game:

Schröder 04 - null
FC Porto - vier

Viva o Porto!
Fuck Gazprom.

Poison

There is something tragically human in poisoning oneself. There's something quite tragically human in tragedy too.

A dark place

The further I go, the darker dark gets.

Sure as I am that this is but a partial clue, Sunday evening Berlin, in January, is a dark place. The broad street and the low range
It is a dark place, this, which is not to say it is inhabited by dark people. Instead, they walk with their heads up, the people here look in the eye of darkness and whatever dreams and nightmares it has or is to create.

live messenger

Now, under the slot called "amore", there is only an italic, light grey sentence:
"Drag a contact to this group".

Well, that's an awfully nice way to put it.

Epiphany

I followed my Star and it brought me to Köln, again, to the golden address of the 3WiseMen. I'm quite sure this was not the way the story went, but you know what they say: Epithanies are written straight through crooked lines (posso traduzir assim?).

Heading back

Not always, not even frequently, but sometimes, in the middle of noise and all the foolish screaming and shouting, there is still a shy boy that eats in silence the food prepared by his mother.
There is still someone that is reminded that the language of his parents sounds more like the sighing whispers of the sea.

So

This blog is to turn into a collection of moments; brief, unrelated and boringly autobiographical moments.
To make it both accessible and ormai truthful, they will be handed out in the most spoken language in the world: broken English.

ad Maia

Pessoas com o meu nome sentir-se-ão, sempre e em qualquer lugar, compelidas a agir da mesma maneira.