Monthly Archives: April 2015

Inezita Morreu

O que me move mesmo é desentender, sabia (o teclado em português… cade o ponto de interrogação) Entender é muito bom, mas desfazer as coisas que eu construo pelo pensamento com as coisa que eu sinto daquele outro jeito diferente… É assim que eu prefiro.

Artista com mania de sabichona.

Mas pera ai que voce está falando comigo.

The Room of No Reason

It’s not the kind of room where you go to hide. It’s also not the kind of room where you go to plan a rebellion. It’s a room that hums. Your skin is as sensitive as the walls. Having a body feels like no other feeling of having a body. That’s because your body is not limited to itself. It can taste and touch things without waiting for them to be still and without owning or holding them.

The vibration can start on your womb, or on your chest, or on your arms. It goes everywhere in seconds.

Words to those Airborne

Terra Firme bullshit
words to those airborne
for those who swim
I bring my treasure on a wavelength.

We both have tasted time as land that gallops on a wave
For the time we seek
We touch a memory that vibrates.

Home on a wavelength is always
a prophecy.
I listen as I talk to the meter, it said
Come rest on my shoulder
Come in the best sigh

Feeling like things I do again while things that have never happened happen to me beyond my control… The waiting with my weird

To take a break from thinking about it, I want to write this. I was listening to a really interesting song about presenting art to your mother. Zeca Baleiro and Ze Ramalho. It reminded me of a story that happened in Madrid at the museum. I as at the Reina Sofia. I knew I went in to see Guernica, but I didn’t want to bypass all the other art just to beeline for it. I wanted to savor the workup to seeing it. Bear in mind this is me a couple of days before presenting a conference paper on art and war. I was beyond hyped for it. The foreplay was essential, though.

The museum is large, but it’s not enormous. I realized I could see every single room. I had a good 5 hours or more. I started going into every single one of them. I was staring intently, seeing, absorbing, opening myself up to every single one of the works. Full of shit or not, I was feeling it. I was making love to the space. Kissing its toes.

It became a rhythm. Stepping one step to the side. Adjusting my squint according to the size of the next piece and leaning in more or less depending on the distance the piece called for. Then it happened: this one…. step, look, think,ponder, step, this one… hmmmm…. this one……

It took me a good 5 seconds to realize I was starting at the message hanging over the fire alarm.

Do I need to explain anything here? I mean… Laugh. C’mon. Laugh with me. Laugh at the critic. I chuckle every single time I remember it.

The dangers and the delights of thinking too hard and opening yourself up for whatever.

I’m glad to stare at messages over fire alarms and feel things.

I love things, things. It’s okay if you are fire alarm messages sometimes. Take advantage of my liking things, things. Because sometimes I don’t.  And nope. Not a cryptic message here. Just a shoutout to things when I notice them.