terça-feira, 12 de junho de 2007

Wear sunscreen

Em forma de discurso numa cerimónia de graduação, transformado em canção, é um (longo!) conselho que vale a pena ler...


Everybody’s free (to wear sunscreen)
by Quindon Tarver



Ladies and gentlemen of the class of 97, WEAR SUNSCREEN.
If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it.
The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience.
I will dispense this advice.



Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth;
oh never mind, you will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they’ve faded.
But trust me, in 20 years you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now
how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked.
You are not as fat as you imagine!

Don’t worry about the future;
or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum.
The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind;
the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing everyday that scares you.
Sing.
Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts,
don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours.
Floss.

Don’t waste your time on jealousy;
sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind.
The race is long, and in the end, it’s only to yourself.

Remember compliments you receive, forget the insults.
If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters, throw away your old bank statements.
Stretch.

Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life.
The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives;
some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t.

Get plenty of calcium.
Be kind to your knees, you’ll miss them when they’re gone.
Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll have children, maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll divorce at 40, maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary.
Whatever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself either;
your choices are half chance, so are everybody else’s.

Enjoy your body.
Use it every way you can; don’t be afraid of it, or what other people think of it.
It’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own...

Dance.
Even if you have nowhere to do it but in your own living room.

Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them.
Do not read beauty magazines, they will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents; you never know when they’ll be gone for good.
Be nice to your siblings; they are the best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.
Understand that friends come and go, but for the precious few you should hold on.

Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and in lifestyle,
because the older you get,
the more you need the people you knew when you were young.

Live in New York city once, but leave before it makes you hard;
Live in northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.
Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths: prices will rise, politicians will philander, you too will get old.
And when you do you’ll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.
Respect your elders.
Don’t expect anyone else to support you.

Maybe you have a trust fund; maybe you have a wealthy spouse;
but you never know when either one might run out.

Don’t mess too much with your hair, or by the time you’re 40, it will look 85.
Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it.
Advice is a form of nostalgia; dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it’s worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen.

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY

The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower would be forgiven
If it didnain'd its brother:

And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea -
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)

O amor rodeia-nos e a todos inspira. Se te sentes inspirado, publica aqui o teu hino ao amor.

Uma vida pobre


Por vezes, o dia-a-dia empobrece a nossa vida e não apreciamos o que é realmente importante.

LEISURE

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

William Henry Davies (1871-1940)

Palavras para quê?

segunda-feira, 11 de junho de 2007

An ode to Love

Feelings are hard to express... we know WHAT we want to say but seldom do we know HOW to say it or WHAT words to use... Words blow in the wind and sometimes they don't seem to be enough...In a world where images rule there are still people who convey meaningful messages with meaningful words...

GOSTO

Gosto do teu ar, do teu olhar, da tua forma de andar, das tuas mãos guardadas nas minhas, gosto de te cheirar, de te sentir, de me calar para te ouvir, de me deitar ao teu lado para dormir e depois acordar, e depois espreguiçar-me e levantar-me, e rir e dançar e cantar e cada dia, outra vez, começar um novo dia a sonhar.
Gosto da tua boca certa e do teu cabelo farto, da tua voz cantada e aconchegante, dos teus beijos longos, dos teus abraços infinitos, das tuas piadas e risadas, dos teus braços à volta dos meus, as duas cabeças encostadas, os ombros em paralelo, as penas dobradas e os pés juntos. Gosto do seu sorriso aberto, da tua cabeça arejada e do teu olhar mais secreto, gosto de te ver junto ao meu peito a contar as batidas do meu coração, de sentir que estás sempre perto e sempre estarás, que vives cá dentro e mesmo na ausência, quando só te vejo com os olhos fechados, sei que és perfeito, sei que voltarás, sei que estás quase a chegar, que cada minuto que passa é só mais uma etapa na minha espera, por isso espero calada e feliz e, nas letras que transformo em palavras, imagino a cor e o sabor deste amor…
Gosto de te ver a rir e a brincar, gosto do teu cheiro e do teu olhar, gosto de te ter sempre perto e saber que tudo está certo, que um dia a paz acaba sempre por chegar, que não há esperas vãs nem dias perdidos, que todas as noites são de lua cheia e todas as manhãs estão cheias de ti, meu amor, quero-te, quero-te, quero-te…
Por isso, abre as mãos e o peito, deixa-me ficar para sempre lá dentro, guarda-me em i e espera, sem esperar, a cada dia que passar, que este meu amor imenso, imenso, doce e intemporal resista ao tempo, resista ao medo, resista ao mundo, resista a tudo e não precise de mais nada a não ser de Ti, tu que és princípio e fim, que estás no meio de tudo, que atravessas a vida de mão dada comigo, tu de quem eu gosto, gosto, gosto…
MARGARIDA REBELO PINTO

domingo, 10 de junho de 2007

What did you say?


Everyone appreciates a good listener. And our friends, above all, deserve our attention. When we are feeling frazzled and exhausted, what's some of the best medicine ever? To have someone listen to how we feel. We don't need that person to respond or offer solutions to our problems. We simply want to voice our troubles and have them received by a caring, thoughtful, attentive listener.

sexta-feira, 8 de junho de 2007

Viver


"Posso ter defeitos, viver ansioso e ficar irritado algumas vezes, mas não esqueço de que a minha vida é a maior empresa do mundo. E que posso evitar que ela vá à falência. Ser feliz e reconhecer que vale a pena viver, apesar de todos os desafios, incompreensões e períodos de crise. Ser feliz é deixar de ser vítima dos problemas e se tornar um autor da própria história. É atravessar desertos fora de si, mas ser capaz de encontrar um oásis no recôndito da sua alma. É agradecer a Deus a cada manhã pelo milagre da vida. Ser feliz é não ter medo dos próprios sentimentos. É saber falar de si mesmo. É ter coragem para ouvir um “não”. É ter segurança para receber uma crítica, mesmo que injusta. Pedras no caminho? Guardo todas, um dia vou construir um castelo..."
Fernando Pessoa

quinta-feira, 7 de junho de 2007

Obrigado Mãe

Mama
Il Divo

Mama, thank you for who I am
Thank you for all the things I'm not
Forgive me for the words unsaid
For the times I forgot
Mama remember all my life
You showed me love, you sacrificed
Think of those young and early days
How I've changed along the way [ along the way ]
And I know you believed
And I know you had dreams
And I'm sorry it took all this time to see
That I am where I am because of your truth
And I miss you, yeah I miss you
Mama forgive the times you cried
Forgive me for not making right
All of the storms I may have caused
And I've been wrong, Dry your eyes [ dry your eyes ]
And I know you believed
And I know you had dreams
And I'm sorry it took all this time to see
That I am where I am because of your truth
And I miss you, yeah I miss you
Mi mancherai
Mama I hope this makes you smile
I hope you're happy with my life
At peace with every choice I made
How I've changed along the way [ along the way ]
And I know you believed in all of my dreams
And I owe it all to you, Mama
Il Divo
Quantas vezes dizemos às nossas mães que as amamos?

Os Filhos Crescem

Father & Son

It's not time to make a change,
Just relax, take it easy
You're still young, that's your fault,
There's so much you have to know
Find a girl, settle down, if you want you can marry
Look at me, I am old but I'm happy

I was once like you are now
And I know that it's not easy
To be calm when you've found
Something going on
But take your time, think a lot, why think of everything you've got
For you will still be here tomorrow but you dreams may not

Ref.: How can I try to explain, 'cos when I do he turns away again
It's always been the same, same old story
From the moment I could talk, I was ordered to listen
Now there's a way and I know that I have to go away
I know, I have to go

Ref.:It's not time to make ...
Ref.: All the times that I've cried keeping all the things I knew inside
It's hard, but it's harder to ignore it
If they were right I'd agree, but it's them they know, not me
Now there's a way and I know that I have to go away
Cat Stevens

quarta-feira, 6 de junho de 2007

A crueldade não tem limites


A vida de uma mãe acaba no momento em que o seu filho desaparece.
Quando levado pela morte já é cruel o suficiente, mas pelo menos faz-se o luto...
Aprende-se a viver com a ausência, aprende-se a viver com o consolo de que o sofrimento daquela criança acabou. Está em paz...
Mas quando levado por alguém monstruoso, o luto nunca é feito e a cada dia que passa é mais um pedaço da mãe que morre. Morre na esperança do reencontro. Morre na solidão do seu sofrimento. Morre porque algures neste mundo o seu filho sofre e ela não está lá para o proteger.
Isto é brutal!
Será possível traduzir em palavras aquilo que estas mulheres sentem?

terça-feira, 5 de junho de 2007

As intermitências da adolescência

Lisboa, 21 de Setembro

Querida Marta,

Amanhã é o dia de anos do meu pai. Tenho andado a pensar no que hei-de oferecer-lhe, mas não cheguei a nenhuma conclusão. Esta tarde, estive quase uma hora sentada na minha lua, a baloiçar e a dar voltas à cabeça para ver se tinha alguma ideia original. Ele pediu à minha mãe para não convidar ninguém, pois logo a seguir ao jantar tem de voltar para o hospital. Ela ficou chateadíssima e disse que já tinha tudo programado. “Então, desprograma, Bé. Não devias ter feito convites sem me consultares…”, foi tudo o que ele disse. Pela primeira vez há muito tempo, senti uma certa pena da minha mãe e, como quem tem pena é galinha, considero que tive um sentimento galináceo, o que me irrita um bocado.
Voltando ao assunto da prenda, a melhor ideia que me ocorreu foi oferecer-lhe uma moldura com uma fotografia que a avó Ju me tirou o ano passado na praia. É a única fotografia decente que tenho, isto é, não estou com cara de débil mental, como nas outras. Pode ser que ele goste e se lembre um pouco de mim quando olhar para a mesa que tem no consultório… De qualquer maneira, resolvi escrever-lhe um cartão de parabéns e, sem eu saber como nem porquê, saiu-me uma coisa que nem sei se se pode chamar poema. É assim:





Às vezes cruzamo-nos no corredor
E eu acendo a luz para te ver melhor.
Jantamos juntos na noite de Natal
Porque senão até parecia mal.
Deito-me sempre sem te ver chegar
E quando acordo já foste trabalhar.
Mudei de penteado e nem reparaste
Chamei-te muitas vezes e nem para trás olhaste.
Apesar de tudo, não quero mais nenhum
És um pai fantasma, mas pai há só um…






Será que é duro demais? Fui sincera e pronto. Amanhã, quando a mesa estiver pronta para o jantar, ponho-lhe o cartão debaixo do guardanapo. Não quero que ele tenha uma indigestão, mas, se ficar um bocado maldisposto, só lhe faz bem. Para aprender!
Vou ao centro comercial comprar uma moldura. Tem de ser verde para condizer com o consultório.
Um beijo da
Joana




Maria Teresa Maia Gonzalez, A Lua de Joana, Verbo

Viver no paraíso


Another Day In Paradise


She calls out to the man on the street, sir, can you help me?
It's cold and I've nowhere to sleep, is there somewhere you can tell me
He walks on, doesn't look back, he pretends he can't hear her
He starts to whistle as he crosses the street, seems embarassed to be there

Oh, think twice, it's just another day for you and me in paradise
Oh, think twice,it's just another day for you, you and me in paradise
Just think about it

She calls out to the man on the street, he can see she's been crying
She's got blisters on the soles of her feet, she can't walk, but she's trying
Oh, just think twice, it's just another day for you and me in paradise
Oh yes, think twice, it's just another day for you, you and me in paradise
Just think about it, aha, just think about it
Oh Lord, is there nothing more anybody can do
Oh Lord, there must be something you can say

You can tell by the lines on her face, you can see that she's been there
Probably they moved on from everyplace, 'cos she didn't fit in there

Oh yes, think twice, it's just another day for you and me in paradise
Oh yes, think twice, it's just another day for you, you and me in paradise
Just think about it, aha, just think about it

It's just another day for you and me in paradise
It's just another day for you and me in paradise
It's just another day for you and me in paradise
It's just another day for you and me in paradise
It's just another day for you, it's another day for you and me
It's another day for you and me in paradise
In paradise, oho, oho, oh yeah

Phil Collins

Uma mão aberta para a esperança


«The beggar girl was still huddled up in the corner of the step. She looked frightful in her wet and dirty rags. She was staring straight before her with a stupid look of suffering, and Sara saw her suddenly draw the back of her roughened black hand across her eyes to rub away the tears which seemed to have surprised her by forcing their way from under the lids. She was muttering to herself.
Sara opened the paper bag and took out one of the hot buns, which had already warmed her own cold hands a little.
“See”, she said, putting the bun in the ragged lap, “this is nice and hot. Eat it, and you will not feel so hungry.”
The child started and stared up at her, as if such sudden, amazing good luck almost frightened her; then she snatched up the bun and begun to cram it into her mouth with great wolfish bites.
“Oh, my! Oh, my!” Sara heard her say hoarsely, in wild delight. “Oh, my!”
Sara took out three more buns and put them down.
The sound in the hoarse, ravenous voice was awful.
“She is hungrier than I am,” she said to herself. “She’s starving.” But her hand trembled when she put down the fourth bun. “I’m not starving,” she said – and put down the fifth.
The little ravening London savage was still snatching and devouring when she turned away. She was too ravenous to give thanks, even if she had ever been taught politeness – which she had not. She was only a poor little wild animal.
“Good-bye,” said Sara.
When she reached the other side of the street she looked back. The child had a bun in each hand, and had stopped in the middle of a bite to watch her. Sara gave a little nod, and the child, after another stare a curious lingering stare – jerked her shaggy head in response, and until Sara was out of sight she did not take another bite or even finish the one she had begun.
At the moment the backer-woman looked out of her shop window.
“Well, I never!” She exclaimed. “If that young ‘un hasn’t given her buns to a beggar child! It wasn’t because she didn’t want them, either. Well, well, she looked hungry enough. I’d give something to know what she did it for.”»


Burnett, Frances Hodgson, A Little Princess, Penguin Popular Classics

Frances Hodgson Burnett (1849-1924) was born in Manchester, England, on November 24, 1849 as Francis Eliza Hodgson. Her first widely known work was a dialect story "Surly Tim's Trouble" which appeared in Scribner's Magazine in 1872.

Nos Braços do Amor


Luis de Camões- Amor é Fogo que Arde Sem se Ver

Amor é fogo que arde sem se ver,
é ferida que dói, e não se sente;

é um contentamento descontente,
é dor que desatina sem doer.

É um não querer mais que bem querer;
é um andar solitário entre a gente;
é nunca contentar-se de contente
é um cuidar que ganha em se perder.

É querer estar preso por vontade;
é servir a quem vence, o vencedor;
é ter com quem nos mata, lealdade.

Mas como causar pode seu favor
nos corações humanos amizade
se tão contrário a si é o mesmo Amor?


Do not stand at my grave and weep

Steven Cummins, um soldado morto em serviço na Irlanda do Norte, deixou esta mensagem para os seus pais.A autoria do poema permanece um mistério.

Triste e belo ao mesmo tempo, é uma mensagem de esperança capaz de nos tocar bem fundo na alma.


DO NOT STAND AT MY GRAVE AND WEEP

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.