zondag 22 augustus 2010

Cuspindo Palavras e Bírgulas e Coisos que tais *(

Tal como na vida, também nestes espaços imaginários
Segregamos
Tolerância são palavras vãs
Somos tolerantes enquanto não nos incomodam
Defendemos a abolição dos muros
Defendemos moldavos e ciganos
Palestinianos e israelitas
Liberdade de expressão e diversidade de opiniões

Mas se o outro
é estranho na escrita, se bírgulas e pontuações variadas num usa
se em falácias, equisetáceas e merdáceas escasseiam suas frases
e ainda por cima não percebemos o que quer

o defensor da liberdade torna-se censor
o libertador vira carcereiro
o vira-lata sofre metamorfoses
de pedinte a milionário
de rebuscador no lixo, a ladrão e quiçá assassino
as vírgulas até podem salvar vidas
mas isolam o desespero, do bombista suicida
isolam as consequências, das causas, isolam a realidade, em pequenos universos


Tolerância por aqueles que estão à nossa volta claro que temos

um pouquinho mais longe de nós

nem por isso...

os blogues são como o mundo

à nossa volta é a fronteira do ego

além dessa está o que não queremos saber

o mundo acaba em nós
fora do universo dos nossos interesses
nada há

As crenças ou a falta delas, assim como o amor ou a sua ausência,separam-se por vírgulas, vírgulas que
são a soma e o produto(sem significado matemático)
de toda a gama de emoções humanas.
Podemos dividir com ódio, perdão, traição, aceitação,negação, .
Podemos somar-lhes ou subtrair-lhes hipocrisia, compaixão, dor, massacre, desespero.
Quando alguém minimamente humano, ou deveria dizer inhumano,se consegue abstrair, dessas pequenas idiossincracias e pensar que os suicidas também são iguais a si próprio, se alguém conseguir ver em si, um suicida em potência, um assassino, um censor, talvez consiga compreender o ateu, o extremista, o ladrão e todos os homens, por virgúlas separados.

woensdag 18 augustus 2010

Perde-se um mundo nas palavras, perdem-se as palavras no mundo plus bizarre

Perde-se um mundo nas palavras, perdem-se as palavras no mundo
la maitrise magnifique de la choregraphie

dië original bizarre

maandag 9 augustus 2010

DOWN THE MINE

BLACK Stuff that arrives mysteriously from nowhere in particular, like manna except that you have to pay for it
You could quite easily drive a car right across the north of England and never once remember that hundreds of feet below the road you are on the miners are hacking at the coal. Yet in a sense it is the miners who are driving your car forward. Their lamp-lit world down there is as necessary to the daylight world above as the root is to the flower.

It is not long since conditions in the mines were worse than they are now. There are still living a few very old women who in their youth have worked underground, with the harness round their waists, and a chain that passed between their legs, crawling on all fours and dragging tubs of coal. They used to go on doing this even when they were pregnant. And even now, if coal could not be produced without pregnant women dragging it to and fro, I fancy we should let them do it rather than deprive ourselves of coal. But—most of the time, of course, we should prefer to forget that they were doing it. It is so with all types of manual work; it keeps us alive, and we are oblivious of its existence. More than anyone else, perhaps, the miner can stand as the type of the manual worker, not only because his work is so exaggeratedly awful, but also because it is so vitally necessary and yet so remote from our experience, so invisible, as it were, that we are capable of forgetting it as we forget the blood in our veins. In a way it is even humiliating to watch coal-miners working. It raises in you a momentary doubt about your own status as an ‘intellectual’ and a superior person generally. For it is brought home to you, at least while you are watching, that it is only because miners sweat their guts out that superior persons can remain superior. You and I and the editor of the Times Lit. Supp., and the poets and the Archbishop of Canterbury and Comrade X, author of Marxism for Infants—all of us really owe the comparative decency of our lives to poor drudges underground, blackened to the eyes, with their throats full of coal dust, driving their shovels forward with arms and belly muscles of steel.

Antrophos Kosmos Flambeau

Even our earliest climate models projected that effects of greenhouse gas loading would be seen first in the Arctic
Zwally Effect



Despite strong imprints of natural variability, a role of greenhouse
greenhouse gas loading now seems clear


Even eight years ago, attribution of observed changes was uncertain


und not everything is rapidly changing (hydrologic cycle).

zondag 8 augustus 2010

THE ETHICS Of Language

De entre os muitos com este título
um começava assi
Com uma inevitabilidade aparente, cada ramo do conhecimento científico desenvolve os seus próprios conceitos científicos específicos
e diria alguém assim isola-se dos outros
criando fendas locais nas realidades
cada uma com a sua estrutura do universo

este da ética da linguagem é de uma outra escala
Os parafusos mantêm as chapas de metal que formam o telhado
As gotas aprisionavam e reflectiam a luz

O ritmo a que os diferentes parafusos segregavam àgua
Can death ever serve as a metaphor? How can a state that exceeds language and cognition reach beyond itself? In fact, death may be the terminal point on metaphor’s chain of associations.
In media-saturated societies, death may seem to function less as a finality and more as a brief interruption of the ceaseless simulacra; yet for all the distance individuals and entire cultures endeavor to put between themselves and death, its power over the imagination never weakens.

This is one reason the success or failure of the war in Iraq is being measured not by how long it takes to establish a democratic government there, nor by how long it took to overthrow and capture Saddam Hussein, but by the number of American soldiers killed. (The fact that the number of Iraqi casualties could never serve as this measure is a sign of how distorted our relationship with death can be.)

Outra Variação
Unlike the penguin or the dodo, the ethical sentence is
neither an unusual nor an extinct species. In fact, the ethical
sentence has something of the same pervasiveness in the
English language that the sparrow has in the English
countryside. The questions one asks oneself, the discussions
one enters into with his acquaintances, the advice one re-
ceives from his friends, the sermon one hears from the
pulpit, the editorial one reads in the paper, all abound with
sentences such as these: Ought I to give up teaching and find a better-paying job?
Euthanasia is wrong.
You really should give up smoking.
Divorce is a wicked rebellion against God's will.
Democracy is better than Communism.

These, and sentences like them, are ethical sentences