January 30, 2009 § Leave a comment
Era 1 hora da manha e fazia frio. Nada inaceitavel, um friozinho que lembrava o porque dela ter colocado blusao aquele dia.
Enquanto ela caminhava pela rua semi-vazia passando por casais e pessoas tao bebadas que sabe-se lah se vao conseguir chegar em casa, ela comecou a pensar na noite anterior.
E como aquela noite foi bizarra.
Comecei a tentar escrever algo, mas meus olhos tao fechando sozinhos e eu nao consigo me concentrar.
Eu desisti do Project 365, porque fazer isso sem um pc meu eh praticamente impossivel. E tambem, porque eu SEMPRE desisto de tudo.
As vezes eu queria ser uma pessoa menos eu.
“She has a path to walk
She has a place to go
She will quietly watch you burn”
Sad Woman Blues – Bobby Long
I’ve been thinking about you. More than I should. More than I expected to. Actually, it’s pretty stupid to think about you.
Actually, it’s pretty stupid to spend my hours thinking about someone I won’t have.
I don’t even know what to do with myself, how am I suppose to know what to do something with ourselves?
As if it wasn’t stupid to think things like that. As if it made any sense at all. As if I wasn’t just too sleepy to actually say things that can be worth something.
January 10, 2009 § Leave a comment
Ida pra França. Quero morar lá e aprender francês. Agora. Now.
Amei mesmo. To podre e a Sah quer usar o Mac, então histórias ficam pra amanhã. A cidade era Boulogne, na costa norte e tem uma arte da cidade que ˆé totalmente medieval, com uma lugar com fosso e tudo o mais. A catedral tem uma cripta MUITO assustadora, a ponto de eu não ter coragem de entrar em algumas salas (que frescura). E a comida? Genial.
Ah, Project 365 dia 4 (4? nao me lembro)
January 9, 2009 § Leave a comment
Project 365: Dia 3
Caminhadinha em Covent Garden na tarde de hoje. Amanha foi pra Boulogne entonces. Sozinha! <o>
Tomara que nao tirem proveito de mim por ser turista mulher sozinha. (certo que eu vou me fuder)
January 8, 2009 § Leave a comment
Project 365 – Dia 2
Lazy Julia. Esqueci de tirar foto e acabei tirando do pc mesmo.
14 de janeiro: showzinho tridis.
Achei isso no http://lovebot.tumblr.com/
Lindo pra caralho (o texto, nao a foto)
“A man stood inside a Metro station in Washington, D.C. and started to play the violin; it was a cold January morning. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, thousands of people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.
Many minutes went by and a middle aged man noticed there was musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up to meet his schedule.
A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the bucket and without stopping continued to walk.
A few minutes later, someone leaned against the wall to listen to him, but the man looked at his watch and started to walk again. Clearly he was late for work.
The one who paid the most attention was a 3 year old boy. His mother tagged him along, hurried but the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on.
In the 45 minutes the musician played, only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32 mostly in coins. When he finished playing and silence took over, no one noticed it. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.
The violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the most celebrated musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written on a violin worth 3.5 million dollars.
Two days before his playing in the D.C. Metro, Joshua Bell sold out at a theater in Boston and with tickets averaging $100.
This is a real story. Joshua Bell incognito concert in the D.C. Metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of an social experiment about perception, taste and priorities of people. The outlines were: in a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour: Do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize the talent in an unexpected context?
One of the lessons from this experience is:
If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the most accomplished musicians in the world playing the best music ever written, how many other things are we missing?”
January 7, 2009 § 1 Comment
Primeiro dia do Project 365 (postado no post de ontem), primeira foto do dia, ficou improvisada porque as baterias da camera ficaram carregando em casa.
Fotos dos livros e dvds adquiridos nesse primeiro mes em londres. O Wuthering Heights e Lord of the Flies foram emprestados da biblioteca da Malvern House. Watchmen eh do meu colega de casa, Pedro.
Nao paguei mais de 7 libras por nenhum deles.
First day of the Project 365 (commented on yesterday post). First photo, all the books and dvds bought here in London, except those borrowed from the library (Wuthering Heights and Lord of the Flies) and from my friend (Watchmen). I didn’t pay more than 7 pounds for any of these items.
January 6, 2009 § 1 Comment
E textinho legal achado no http://lovebot.tumblr.com (Looooove this)
“A question we’ve been asked before in tones that vary from “you’ll never get anywhere that way” to “what is the purpose of all life?” Why write? A hard question to answer, but we’ll try and break the surface…
We write because of laughing devils and gracefully falling angels.
Because if we didn’t, things would end up broken.
Because two words on a paper can change entirely how a person views life.
Because all our thoughts are one million different stories put together.
We write because sometimes, seeing isn’t enough.
Because the first draft isn’t enough.
Because paper is our canvas, the pen our paintbrush.
Together, we create something amazing.
We write because we love finding the rules of English then breaking them with the flick of the wrists.
Because we love words, their spellings, even the shapes they make on the paper or in your mind.
Because we love to fold the metaphors on top of one annother until we’re not sure what we’re talking about.
Because we control ink, plots, lives—or try to.
WE write because spilled ink means something but words mean nothing at all.
Because there’s a message hidden between the lines.
Because when you grasp a pen you can be anywhere.
Because the imprint of your body on the lawn won’t be there for long.
We write because when we were younger some of us were told we wouldn’t be able to speak
Because three pages and four deaths into our first stories, our second grade teacher said “You can’t read something like that in elementary school.”
Because writing is the only thing we have complete control of, while at the same time, no control.
Because writing keeps us grounded, keeps us sane, even when driving us insane.
Because writing is something we can call out own when worry flows through our veins like life juice.
WE write because it is the only time we can be ourselves.
Because we life the feel of typing keys, because our fingers itch.
Because the blaze of ideas burns our finger tips.
Because the way his fingers fondle the piano keys makes us jealous.
Because when we write, we don’t have to be ourselves.
We write because Barnes ‘n’ Noble is our second home and we want to give back
Because we don’t want to be famous, we will be famous.
We write to get through the winding, repetitive days.
Because we see familiar faces every day and through our eyes they are characters in a book.
Because we want to create characters we could only hope to encounter in reality.
We write when we have questions, when we know answers.
And we write about darkness when the light get too bright.
We write from different beginnings and moments:
From since we can remember
From the events of September 11th, after hearing powerful messages of hope and courage
From a time of abuse and destruction when all we could do was write.
From a time of stories read to us by parents, teachers
From the summer we were twelve in NEw Jersey when we picked up the groove and recorded our thoughts.
From the time we wrote post-it pad flip book movies we sold for 50 cents
From the time we started imagining the character going down another way on the crossroad—if she didn’t learn the lesson the first time, then what happened?
We’ve written since we can remember, but not for the reasons we do now.
Then if was for things we wanted, felt, needed
Now it’s more complex, deeper; not it’s out in public,
Criticized by our own inner demons, up for the kill,
Expectations, revisions; more complex; deeper
Because anything less is unacceptable.
And now when we write we sit by the river in our secret spot
Everything we see is in a new perspective
Our fingers ache with ideas
Our minds implore every thought
To tell people we’ve been there
To evaporate the warm desperation sitting on our chests
To smear lipstick across the mirror, to press our lips against paper airplanes
We write because we feel the urge of our pen wanting to touch paper
Because how else to touch someone’s heart?
Because language is a gift.
Because writing is freedom.
This was complied from the writings of me and my classmates in my Creative Nonfiction class in 2005. We were all between the ages of 15 and 17.”