27.11 - 1:19h

não sei bem. quero não escrever, mas está difícil compreender tudo. - pequenas violências simbólicas. - impotência. - quero entrar, mas como? - medo de estar para sempre sozinha. - de não realizar nada. - sinto falta dos meus amigos. de afeto.

reflexões com a chuva

a academia é uma espécie de prisão voluntária.

da janela do meu quarto

as três marias. um avião que pisca na negritude do céu. luzes vermelhas piscando. três árvores riscadas por três fios de eletricidade. chacoalham ao vento. já não estão mais com as flores amarelas nas pontas. um vento refresca. um samba ao fundo. os ronronares das motos.

sonho #2

foram a um bar com uma vegetação estrondosa. o rapaz que sentou na ponta (o caixa da lanchonete do ifch), saiu com uma moça. todos saíram. fumou um cigarro. dependurou-se no poste de luz, que era flexível como um cipó. alegria em ir para lá e para cá. ao descer, nos pés terra. era uma floresta e nela um parque de diversões sobre ecologia. tentou passar para alcançar o boneco azul que tinha doce e era bonzinho. foi parada por outro boneco que mandou seguir o trajeto do trem do parque, - se perdesse o jogo, seria devorada por ele (onde moram os monstros?). quase seguiu os trilhos sozinha, não havia nenhum operador. uma escola de criança primária apareceu. letícia (file-2011), demorou para aparecer e colocar o trem nos trilhos. disse que eu tinha tido um longo dia, garçonete, bar, cipó. na cadeira do trem, brincadeirinha de um túnel amaldiçoado. desci, o grupo Corpo começou a dançar em uma sala de espelhos muito grande, larga. duas coreografias. me estiquei em um elástico, ensaiei uma dança. saí, voltei para o lugar aonde todos partiram. comi um salgado. não lembro mais o resto.

das coisas que a gente faz para não sentir-se tão sozinha

- verifica o email/facebook de hora em hora. - dorme, fecha os olhos esperando uma outra e melhor realidade.

carta de Bukowski ou os meus dias de garçonete

8-12-86 Hello John: Thanks for the good letter. I don’t think it hurts, sometimes, to remember where you came from. You know the places where I came from. Even the people who try to write about that or make films about it, they don’t get it right. They call it “9 to 5.” It’s never 9 to 5, there’s no free lunch break at those places, in fact, at many of them in order to keep your job you don’t take lunch. Then there’s OVERTIME and the books never seem to get the overtime right and if you complain about that, there’s another sucker to take your place. You know my old saying, “Slavery was never abolished, it was only extended to include all the colors.” And what hurts is the steadily diminishing humanity of those fighting to hold jobs they don’t want but fear the alternative worse. People simply empty out. They are bodies with fearful and obedient minds. The color leaves the eye. The voice becomes ugly. And the body. The hair. The fingernails. The shoes. Everything does. As a young man I could not believe that people could give their lives over to those conditions. As an old man, I still can’t believe it. What do they do it for? Sex? TV? An automobile on monthly payments? Or children? Children who are just going to do the same things that they did? Early on, when I was quite young and going from job to job I was foolish enough to sometimes speak to my fellow workers: “Hey, the boss can come in here at any moment and lay all of us off, just like that, don’t you realize that?” They would just look at me. I was posing something that they didn’t want to enter their minds. Now in industry, there are vast layoffs (steel mills dead, technical changes in other factors of the work place). They are layed off by the hundreds of thousands and their faces are stunned: “I put in 35 years…” “It ain’t right…” “I don’t know what to do…” They never pay the slaves enough so they can get free, just enough so they can stay alive and come back to work. I could see all this. Why couldn’t they? I figured the park bench was just as good or being a barfly was just as good. Why not get there first before they put me there? Why wait? I just wrote in disgust against it all, it was a relief to get the shit out of my system. And now that I’m here, a so-called professional writer, after giving the first 50 years away, I’ve found out that there are other disgusts beyond the system. I remember once, working as a packer in this lighting fixture company, one of the packers suddenly said: “I’ll never be free!” One of the bosses was walking by (his name was Morrie) and he let out this delicious cackle of a laugh, enjoying the fact that this fellow was trapped for life. So, the luck I finally had in getting out of those places, no matter how long it took, has given me a kind of joy, the jolly joy of the miracle. I now write from an old mind and an old body, long beyond the time when most men would ever think of continuing such a thing, but since I started so late I owe it to myself to continue, and when the words begin to falter and I must be helped up stairways and I can no longer tell a bluebird from a paperclip, I still feel that something in me is going to remember (no matter how far I’m gone) how I’ve come through the murder and the mess and the moil, to at least a generous way to die. To not to have entirely wasted one’s life seems to be a worthy accomplishment, if only for myself. yr boy, Hank (+) http://www.lettersofnote.com/2012/10/people-simply-empty-out.html