tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-374060312024-03-07T20:36:53.767-03:00a casa da nina"Não quero ter a terrível limitação de quem vive apenas do que é passível de fazer sentido. Eu não: quero é uma verdade inventada. Sou um ser concomitante: reúno em mim o tempo passado, o presente e o futuro, o tempo que lateja no tique-taque dos relógios" - Clarice LispectorAna Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.comBlogger97125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-87320532039779345902009-04-29T11:14:00.003-03:002009-04-29T11:19:43.852-03:00le mèlange<p><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#ffffff;">as horas</span></strong></div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center"><a href="http://costurandomaria.blogspot.com/"><span style="color:#ffffff;">http://costurandomaria.blogspot.com/</span> <p><br /><br /><br /></a></p></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">(não gosto mais de escrever com fundo preto)</div><br /><br /><p></p>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-18840446083574005422008-10-05T08:45:00.001-03:002008-10-05T08:46:28.630-03:00das unhas roídas<p align="center"><br /><br />o último verso<br />é sempre<br />o primeiro.<br /><br />o amor também.<br /><br /><br /></p><p></p>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-25682812937547143752008-08-31T09:58:00.007-03:002008-09-28T19:16:35.408-03:00<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhpmDeYSRlI2acjc_bSZz1s9sDhZf_kzjtACjqbZuDtsM-Eo8GjvbWl_FmeEMO4bXQYAYrxvjjqsVUdhhIrs1o-498oLVM7TmyNZ1cD8Mx0ug1kK-j6-yOzPrksaPm8mOoPO2/s1600-h/Rita+Hayworth+2.jpg"><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240666665866398434" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhpmDeYSRlI2acjc_bSZz1s9sDhZf_kzjtACjqbZuDtsM-Eo8GjvbWl_FmeEMO4bXQYAYrxvjjqsVUdhhIrs1o-498oLVM7TmyNZ1cD8Mx0ug1kK-j6-yOzPrksaPm8mOoPO2/s400/Rita+Hayworth+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> Rita</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="left">o amor, às vezes, pode ser mesmo um sofá?</div><div align="left">cholchãozinho velho estendido no chão</div><div align="left">sala emprestada</div><div align="left">corrida de carrinhos </div><div align="left">tela de vidro</div><div align="left">louça suja debaixo da mesa<br />esmaltes arranhados<br />dentes porcelana-da-china.</div><div align="left">uma coisa</div><div align="left">que alguém</div><div align="left">mete no bolso</div><div align="left">calça jeans surrada _ </div><div align="left">um número a mais</div><div align="left">e a bailarina rodo<br />piando tonta.<br />era esse o palco da estação passada?<br />o pano de boca</div><div align="left">velho </div><div align="left">gasto<br />descorado do desejo em prosa<br />o texto não se justifica. </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br />quando nunca se espera<br />o amor se transmutou em pó<br />comprado em pacotinhos selados<br />matematizado por contas de mais_<br />a estimativa de vida-útil,<br />sendo consistentemente<br />adulterado com sal de cozinha e<br />fermento para bolos de parabéns-a-você.<br />são 10 miligramas de sentimento amoroso.<br /><br />eu fumo um minuto dessa fala amontoada<br />e já engasgo na boca do primeiro verso.<br />_ é que são tempos de guerras frias,<br />armazenamento de especiarias importadas. </div><div align="left"><br />ok, então,<br />eu costuro uma estrela no peito.<br /><br />o sonho mofado<br />veio dormido da manhã de ontem.<br />engoli com café requentado<br />mirando os carrinhos correndo na tela.<br />a pole position do amor a granel.<br /><br />e o amargo</div><div align="left">fica</div><div align="left">na ponta da língua<br />le chapms de filles.<br />gelo em forminhas de coração<br />derretendo no banho-maria<br />descuidosamente</div><div align="left">deixado<br />a meio fogo</div><div align="left">lento do fim.</div></div>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-72969009717477372662008-07-05T11:45:00.000-03:002008-11-13T06:04:01.841-02:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZg_udLF1l38wdwcjIQR3sYJ1ayAAbKr8F-wT0xEFYXrpgWj-teoitqwxR6Z6wPEew0iwcnRjjl7WbxTcDcXq8mzEciQlue93Emti6fu0v2F_xkbyrZrCugURBxF5cqRbnk2RI/s1600-h/a.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5219541468615950482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZg_udLF1l38wdwcjIQR3sYJ1ayAAbKr8F-wT0xEFYXrpgWj-teoitqwxR6Z6wPEew0iwcnRjjl7WbxTcDcXq8mzEciQlue93Emti6fu0v2F_xkbyrZrCugURBxF5cqRbnk2RI/s400/a.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">Ben Vautier</span><br /></div>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-48495418472832863202008-05-16T22:41:00.003-03:002008-09-24T21:05:53.020-03:00la menteuse<div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span></div><br /><br /><div align="justify">em dias assim, inchume-do-peito, até os barulhos dos sacos plásticos amarrotados pelo vento me fazem doer os ossos dos seios. e eu posso ouvir uma faísca saltando da brasa do teu cigarro, desse fumo bêbado que a tua boca suga, a espaços-sem-alma de distâncias de mim.<br /><br />me faz estalar o coração.<br />e dói tanto que eu não sinto mais.<br /><br /><br /></div>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-31895144277830465952008-02-23T22:55:00.002-03:002008-11-13T06:04:02.318-02:00.<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8kjP6-lD9OrcDPAPz_XxTFp68Br3f_Z0-7CAfRNBIJBBllZA_iNkdv5z_aj_FJYN8r_bl_vnxUvAIzYr2IVyoTPmFESri4A1hshiBSkzlrr1t21HtvjDLdBb8TgoecoV_VaPb/s1600-h/brokenflowers.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170359763770950658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8kjP6-lD9OrcDPAPz_XxTFp68Br3f_Z0-7CAfRNBIJBBllZA_iNkdv5z_aj_FJYN8r_bl_vnxUvAIzYr2IVyoTPmFESri4A1hshiBSkzlrr1t21HtvjDLdBb8TgoecoV_VaPb/s400/brokenflowers.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-family:courier new;">"broken flowers"</span><br /><br /></div>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-23534629669334459692008-01-17T11:39:00.001-02:002008-11-13T06:04:02.763-02:00Henfil<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpCGMxTq_FP95NtYKtsCEiQBZ7q-9gtmVEMEyJgPxgfbhqIgezZm0WuxZgqxqCPZsAAVMWZTeDpQNxZ4DbdQ5clbquB0HUF4SM6EfgY4dlUaWVjyORGXU5ad3Fh2abaC9zkIDH/s1600-h/Illusions+to+give+and+sell.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156440242804558882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpCGMxTq_FP95NtYKtsCEiQBZ7q-9gtmVEMEyJgPxgfbhqIgezZm0WuxZgqxqCPZsAAVMWZTeDpQNxZ4DbdQ5clbquB0HUF4SM6EfgY4dlUaWVjyORGXU5ad3Fh2abaC9zkIDH/s400/Illusions+to+give+and+sell.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">Maria Flores</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>"Se não houver frutos</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>Valeu a beleza das flores </strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>Se não houver flores </strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>Valeu a sombra das folhas </strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>Se não houver folhas </strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>Valeu a intenção da semente"<br /></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><div align="right"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">HENFIL, do livro Diretas Já<br /><br /></span></span></div></div>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-40876873235720429882008-01-14T13:18:00.001-02:002008-11-13T06:04:03.224-02:00la literatura<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkPJKtr3qM15tU2TW-ylkqtUwDFqFkaFaBVuSOmUvCMhXXzhAPanl6PRsI_Z1On-ClhoVKNGD49DJpZ53fcjyJDYRiY-s1klIjrDzm0w5iyOBXCrh2x3vAwjcNJSVesLsHa4Y4/s1600-h/DSC00084_WEB.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155352211624365074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkPJKtr3qM15tU2TW-ylkqtUwDFqFkaFaBVuSOmUvCMhXXzhAPanl6PRsI_Z1On-ClhoVKNGD49DJpZ53fcjyJDYRiY-s1klIjrDzm0w5iyOBXCrh2x3vAwjcNJSVesLsHa4Y4/s400/DSC00084_WEB.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"><strong>no MAC de Niterói - Novembro 2007</strong></span> </div>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-61605810464448725402007-12-24T10:44:00.001-02:002008-11-13T06:04:03.468-02:00a catarse um. ou das efêmeras inspirações.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSKDx0lK-BXvbRC0MSs63cImBFApeBHIsVMcVpqLtXP9mHUM_lmdkEJJrR3vCu0YHxFFBKHOJdPCusJ3lg-9nktw7WnC4qs5JxpTM6wHJYxl1QNoQPGxmA-EbxIxiXJgkE8qdH/s1600-h/ZOPH0077.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5147520484788997122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSKDx0lK-BXvbRC0MSs63cImBFApeBHIsVMcVpqLtXP9mHUM_lmdkEJJrR3vCu0YHxFFBKHOJdPCusJ3lg-9nktw7WnC4qs5JxpTM6wHJYxl1QNoQPGxmA-EbxIxiXJgkE8qdH/s400/ZOPH0077.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong><br /><br />frio nos campos de trigo<br />luva de coração<br /><br />casa dos cinco<br />prematuridade<br />tarde<br /><br />fotocópia do amor<br />sem technicolor.<br />hollywoodsman<br /><br /></strong></span></div>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-40237707534752005372007-11-25T17:10:00.000-02:002008-11-13T06:04:03.983-02:00...<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ByRua53QGg4O6c3sMo_OMF9dyx57hFLlFfDkiHY1OYmoNQWAr_cgBzkvncZzFJkGpJ04DCi6jIUD9ZecbkeWjQQALZCqHlKhEkj5P2Rcb1fUbZg8rpIjkNhnatqeFWiK7kzL/s1600-h/4d7f98623-601a-4418-b83b-c5c3140981db.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136858133093585074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ByRua53QGg4O6c3sMo_OMF9dyx57hFLlFfDkiHY1OYmoNQWAr_cgBzkvncZzFJkGpJ04DCi6jIUD9ZecbkeWjQQALZCqHlKhEkj5P2Rcb1fUbZg8rpIjkNhnatqeFWiK7kzL/s400/4d7f98623-601a-4418-b83b-c5c3140981db.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Katrin Zeidler</span></div><div align="center"></div><div align="justify"><br />pontaria<br /><br /><br />equilibrada sobre o pé direito, mais uma vez, a menina desistiu da brincadeira. nunca. atirada de sua mão, a maldita pedra nunca caía no céu. no pequeno espaço, para poucos, desenhado com giz, no final da amarelinha.<br /></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">Eduardo Baszczyn</div><div align="justify"><a href="http://coisasdagaveta.blogspot.com/">http://coisasdagaveta.blogspot.com/</a><br /><br /><br /></div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="center"></div>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-33152323696216264262007-10-10T09:30:00.000-03:002008-11-13T06:04:04.315-02:00ode to my family<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDbe3KzTL-QMoBe27uKveB368fWl1gW6nyLcZjmGPZS6ErTz4qUXBZPr74uONPpDsxVRna9A8XW5o1FRIGtTkuoS4zeZIHaG8snJ5Gnt9gmA4ItN8ENfETjSLhe23thyphenhyphenVOvekq/s1600-h/Marc-Riboud_pentagon1967.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119685447342757266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDbe3KzTL-QMoBe27uKveB368fWl1gW6nyLcZjmGPZS6ErTz4qUXBZPr74uONPpDsxVRna9A8XW5o1FRIGtTkuoS4zeZIHaG8snJ5Gnt9gmA4ItN8ENfETjSLhe23thyphenhyphenVOvekq/s400/Marc-Riboud_pentagon1967.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"><strong> Marc-Riboud</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><br /><strong></strong></span></div><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>A mãe roubou quatro mil dinheiros da filha pequena<br />para pagar as contas da boutique.<br />A família toda gritou em silêncio. E ninguém disse palavra.<br />Virou segredo confinado.<br />No dia seguinte todos tomavam café juntos.<br />E se riam alegres.<br />A família estava doente.<br />E o único parente lúcido tomava antidepressivos. </strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong><br /><br /><br /></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong><div align="center">.<br /></div></strong></span>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-65697548297490868692007-10-03T10:03:00.001-03:002008-11-13T06:04:04.881-02:00em laboratório<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT3fr31WF4mpXV-7RzjnlhEoGmF-000BJ2O-WvZEXbJdLgIm7kKsqh-Ej5sSGGZWXztZxbLDIQW5Lr4MPdDwlSvSfi7sagB7rE2Ph4NL4YEEvsS-RbuHfDXJDLj-yYydeDkmzo/s1600-h/kalua+k+krynska+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5117096449646663026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT3fr31WF4mpXV-7RzjnlhEoGmF-000BJ2O-WvZEXbJdLgIm7kKsqh-Ej5sSGGZWXztZxbLDIQW5Lr4MPdDwlSvSfi7sagB7rE2Ph4NL4YEEvsS-RbuHfDXJDLj-yYydeDkmzo/s400/kalua+k+krynska+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"><strong>Kalua K Krynska </strong></span></div><p align="left"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong><br /><br />do décimo segundo andar<br />confortável sala de veludo e vidro café da manhã<br />avistamos as vassouras agitadas<br />do edifício ao lado.<br />é domingo.<br />e<br />de repente<br />o amargo do café preto<br />escurece o laranja do suco de frutas colhidas<br />no interior do país<br />tropical.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </strong></span></p><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Courier New;">.</span></strong></p>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-32756864804990739382007-09-26T10:05:00.000-03:002008-11-13T06:04:05.048-02:00Sóis<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO4XAt0RLe5L3ZTVLp18lyMgJzDJe-xik4fW98wN_TC8Si-hINOOcyI-69plscqTbHa69y3C_iWq9-IuRdO4aXTsTafxGsvRJBghSvwgNHaS-PoU65n45iVET9xwzRWXSMIkpz/s1600-h/UntitledFilmStill33.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114498479763887458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO4XAt0RLe5L3ZTVLp18lyMgJzDJe-xik4fW98wN_TC8Si-hINOOcyI-69plscqTbHa69y3C_iWq9-IuRdO4aXTsTafxGsvRJBghSvwgNHaS-PoU65n45iVET9xwzRWXSMIkpz/s400/UntitledFilmStill33.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"><strong>Cindy Sherman</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong><br /><br />Somos sóis.</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>E a solidão costura,<br />com fios plenos de vazio,</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>os entre nós. <br /><br /><br /></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>Angela Schnoor<br /><br /><br /></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>.</div></strong></span><div align="center"></div>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-35785371655914170172007-09-11T09:39:00.000-03:002008-11-13T06:04:05.325-02:00sweetheart<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5V_MeuyvtQk0H_MtKWgWsaLdMPQKb8h3fatb8FbPaDoUqVPpFwHWaZuqmrOn2hnPJKq8ZO8b-HqQZw7YVrHA-eIubSZPQAL-rD7Bi3PwZKwKhXM2y8m5A7JNSey7Y9Fqnoxg6/s1600-h/Don't+Ever+Love+Me.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108925679073361858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5V_MeuyvtQk0H_MtKWgWsaLdMPQKb8h3fatb8FbPaDoUqVPpFwHWaZuqmrOn2hnPJKq8ZO8b-HqQZw7YVrHA-eIubSZPQAL-rD7Bi3PwZKwKhXM2y8m5A7JNSey7Y9Fqnoxg6/s400/Don't+Ever+Love+Me.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong><br /><br /><br />por hora eu me contento<br />em te alfinetar nas encruzilhadas,<br />as cartas marcadas,<br />e em jogar granizo<br />no teu telhado de vidro fosco,<br />enquanto raspo as pontas dos meus esmaltes<br />e descasco um abacaxi-rei<br />para te servir no jantar com ovos.<br />fritos. dois.<br /><br /><br /><br /> </strong></span></div>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-37684419100927022202007-08-23T09:21:00.000-03:002008-11-13T06:04:05.862-02:00descoberta<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_WKAn3dnb1f9vSA2kjfro3pTuxWgx7ogJweWjKyLPnDjqSJKzKQhDTFx6jb1q7VvWkK3KFsyPAEdC3W7xBVDU_CR2nozBt6SDMUeX47UJHsXVKRtOvlkmDzTbERhCUtMqzUs/s1600-h/4899b809c-fb04-4249-bdbf-48fd3339b37f.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5101870112502905970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_WKAn3dnb1f9vSA2kjfro3pTuxWgx7ogJweWjKyLPnDjqSJKzKQhDTFx6jb1q7VvWkK3KFsyPAEdC3W7xBVDU_CR2nozBt6SDMUeX47UJHsXVKRtOvlkmDzTbERhCUtMqzUs/s400/4899b809c-fb04-4249-bdbf-48fd3339b37f.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:85%;">Sophie Thouvenin</span></div><p><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></p><p align="justify"><br /><br />Puberdade. Pela primeira vez ouve, na rua, um elogio masculino.<br />Sozinha no quarto, ela se despe. Passa e mão pelos cabelos, pelo rosto.<br />Se detém em cada detalhe e, assim, desvenda seu corpo até os pés. Sons de prazer, contrariedade, espanto, satisfação, mapeiam seus caminhos, orientando a memória.<br />O tato é seu espelho. Satisfeita, veste a roupa e o casaco. Pega a bengala, chama o cão. Sai.<br /><br /></p><p align="justify"></p><p align="justify"><br /></p><div align="right">Angela Schnoor<br /><a href="http://www.idealiapolaris.blogspot.com/">http://www.idealiapolaris.blogspot.com/</a><br /><br /></div><div align="right"></div><div align="right"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div align="center">.</div>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-32007966745301530242007-08-17T08:43:00.000-03:002008-11-13T06:04:05.881-02:00maria, a moça dos cabelos que sobraram<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCXeQvR6BYaKhlldqdHBNqv-PPz3Xa3nOxae2vSezyU8HZqiKo-POgWe3D0H5iclM09Aamn3BWxBl7WmahzDHp-FAvNzFUDY5ALygYJikg8d-Xhl0gj3lZ-FEvisNJikaf1Ysy/s1600-h/2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099635535508077666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCXeQvR6BYaKhlldqdHBNqv-PPz3Xa3nOxae2vSezyU8HZqiKo-POgWe3D0H5iclM09Aamn3BWxBl7WmahzDHp-FAvNzFUDY5ALygYJikg8d-Xhl0gj3lZ-FEvisNJikaf1Ysy/s400/2.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong> <span style="font-size:85%;">Dorotka Ewentualnie</span></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="left"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>por que sempre o último cigarro da carteira?<br />carta na manga dos valetes furiosos?<br />Ah, cansa-me ser, assim, tão gratuitamente susto.<br /><br />o moço correu pela praia, pulou das pedras.<br />o outro bebeu-me com gelo seco,<br />ficou em estado de insanidade.<br />aquele que meteu-me narinas adentro, hoje é abstêmio,<br />virou funcionário público.<br />E o único acautelado,<br />meu primeiro,<br />passeia feliz pelas ruas com seu conversível novo,<br />apenas dez anos mais velho que eu.<br /><br /><br /></strong></span></div><p><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span></p><p><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span></p><p align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>.</p><div align="left"><br /></div></strong></span><div align="left"></div>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-60414623944079729992007-07-29T17:10:00.000-03:002008-11-13T06:04:06.751-02:00Encruzilhada<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXHDZ-xINDOcTSM2sdFvZOLr4qqjVB3YezoY2HEqiwiexR2eZYJlFLdmqaRijZaGofYC8lYXRFmlE8TvE9yILtlT_b6qxo1kCFXFl5zi2euz64_zY4D1zd8MUy9_vt3fBN4eJ5/s1600-h/Bassman2.jpg"></a><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong><br /><br /></strong></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong><br />algo me aflige e não sei o que é.<br />Sinto relampejos de minha existência<br />se não sei o que fazer nem para onde ir.<br /><br />Vivo a buscar o signo que me presentifique,<br />que, uma vez enunciado, seja por si.<br />Estou exausto de ser uma representação,<br /><br />Tem um bicho dentro de mim que quer<br />pular para fora de tudo e ser a aurora,<br /><br />Ah se eu fosse o sol não arderia tanto!<br /><br /><br /></strong></span><br /><div align="right"><br /><strong><span style="font-family:courier new;">José Inácio Vieira de Melo</span></strong></div><div align="right"><strong><span style="font-family:Courier New;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">"A infância do centauro", Escrituras<br /></span><br /><br /><br /></span></strong></div>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-74940746268028360342007-07-13T08:44:00.000-03:002008-11-13T06:04:07.037-02:00são dois miligramas de sal<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRKps979IV3O2jzHNg1QJX_Qb6tL-eFVluJpthNNVUoBTEQyhkerD-g_z4KDNo7dIvfBoSoDOipo7iM7dUF8OEBSUj9rh4LzZXsE7VvbbHFU9Iw63r3Qd6F3pj3E880ITdbADM/s1600-h/499d6c5fb-eff1-487f-a6d0-d85f20fe53e6.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086646361999064754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRKps979IV3O2jzHNg1QJX_Qb6tL-eFVluJpthNNVUoBTEQyhkerD-g_z4KDNo7dIvfBoSoDOipo7iM7dUF8OEBSUj9rh4LzZXsE7VvbbHFU9Iw63r3Qd6F3pj3E880ITdbADM/s400/499d6c5fb-eff1-487f-a6d0-d85f20fe53e6.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:courier new;"> <span style="font-size:85%;">Sophie Thouvenin</span></span><br /><br /><br /><div align="left">.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">.</div></div>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-85273368155412608272007-07-12T11:37:00.000-03:002008-11-13T06:04:07.196-02:00"que horas serão para lá desta fotografia?"<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRs7Vk_Won-7W8XTTD8SbATd1IluB9JeTLF-q1-0RcUIBw1UEJfnAM-VRoK29NvOMeDQQxOlvTRQx4AG3a-FUWnnwrg5PP6xaeBbiJqwRafxvOD0VJ2vpXZvPH_An5mHef9La9/s1600-h/Sem+t%C3%ADtulo+2_WEB.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086648290439380674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRs7Vk_Won-7W8XTTD8SbATd1IluB9JeTLF-q1-0RcUIBw1UEJfnAM-VRoK29NvOMeDQQxOlvTRQx4AG3a-FUWnnwrg5PP6xaeBbiJqwRafxvOD0VJ2vpXZvPH_An5mHef9La9/s400/Sem+t%C3%ADtulo+2_WEB.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUSdkDhdEoaCprjSt3dg5ECgmWTNjf3emYejkTSqrczcJTYGWBZflKPl8aYgLMrwcrWO6sgL5M2qRs8vEl_PBdbxoUrduDtRkT4K9a-kN9kEb8X8Chx9dJYOAQvpsdCgqe9b5/s1600-h/Sem+t%C3%ADtulo+2_WEB.jpg"></a><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Cambridge, 2003</span> </strong></span></div><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong><br />esta memória lâmina incansável </strong></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>um cigarro</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>outro cigarro vai certamente acalmar-me</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>que sei eu sobre tempestades do sangues? e de água?</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>no fundo, só amo o lado escondido das ilhas</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>amanheço dolorosamente, escrevo aquilo que posso</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>estou imóvel, a luz atravessa-me como um sismo</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>hoje, vou correr à velocidade da minha solidão<br /><br /></strong></span><br /><br /><div align="right"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>Al Berto<br /></strong></span></div><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>.</strong></span></div><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>.</strong></span></div><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>.</div></strong></span>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-86765632772264559872007-07-10T16:19:00.001-03:002008-11-13T06:04:07.396-02:00onde é o começo da dor?<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-fzA89KLWX8DCVt4v0xSAvCPV5wBfQkwQ1rkSVa-0rNNBSNLQuYlC6i1uC-7VtIToqPHL1Mkm_0zbgldDeTsPfjeA4EHqm9XwbytkCQ9oXl7R0Iyry50VDuaTZ8kgG_x9uI8x/s1600-h/4db48b558-9b25-4de8-b8e2-310fa5dd6d23.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5085650277036328434" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-fzA89KLWX8DCVt4v0xSAvCPV5wBfQkwQ1rkSVa-0rNNBSNLQuYlC6i1uC-7VtIToqPHL1Mkm_0zbgldDeTsPfjeA4EHqm9XwbytkCQ9oXl7R0Iyry50VDuaTZ8kgG_x9uI8x/s400/4db48b558-9b25-4de8-b8e2-310fa5dd6d23.jpg" border="0" /></a> <strong><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">Jola Bakoniuk</span></strong></div><p><strong><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span></strong> </p><p><strong><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span></strong> </p><p><strong><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">.</span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">.</span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">.</span></strong></p><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"></div>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-59113787268380437612007-07-02T15:21:00.000-03:002008-11-13T06:04:07.547-02:00rascunho.no quarto andar<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHEi5shws7DN8muOA3FE5BrUtBNzqp0VqzmRwT3stkpvIb0TEUvQXGd-G2MFuT4M7_VYDSCnIl-YaZ-xPvYmQ38aKCKcywPdDD_cudkzlP6-EbL5chATSK3rUHHSsePVxhCoh8/s1600-h/floating.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082672769483539938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHEi5shws7DN8muOA3FE5BrUtBNzqp0VqzmRwT3stkpvIb0TEUvQXGd-G2MFuT4M7_VYDSCnIl-YaZ-xPvYmQ38aKCKcywPdDD_cudkzlP6-EbL5chATSK3rUHHSsePVxhCoh8/s400/floating.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>Laura Burlton</strong></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNtduKC-IOBIhS869oHFNRxbyQ3AHU60LOX4uJpTa0iDRN4FpMZCq9EDIlMF8WRO_sQqsI-DMMUo7w4483fUA7FLAPMFuM-7btpJLRv-US8Xl_IB_r2uSBi8OWJZQ3lT3ILcoS/s1600-h/in+the+grass.jpg"></a><br /><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong><br />se estou feliz? não, não sei o que é isso, meu senhor. meus amigos correm todos. apenas um se senta e me lê uma poesia. fala coisas desconexas e fuma cinco cigarros de uma vez. um para cada sentido seu.<br />eu tenho um amigo que sente.<br />e grita. e canta. consome tudo. até o fim. engasga cospe vomita. e começa tudo mais uma vez.<br />não usa sapatos. tem pés descalços, à mostra.<br />desenha nos corpos, pinta cores no céu. e enfeita os cabelos das flores da primavera anoitecida. essa pessoa, ela, tem olhos de mares de beira de serra, coração de cumeeira. corre pra pegar a estrela que caiu do ceú... tropeça no sonho de ontem. e abre as grades das palavras esquecidas.<br />policromia de alma nova, de, há tanto tempo, gasta, colhe os planetas do azul, enquanto cobalto, paira,<br />indecifravelmente,<br />pelas paredes do apartamento enfumaçado.<br /><br /><br />é a pessoa mais bonita que eu vi.<br /><br /><br /><br /></div></strong></span><br /></div>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-67574041212238307892007-06-25T11:07:00.000-03:002008-11-13T06:04:07.775-02:00a contrapartida<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2rLpp8YNvJZhPbjtdr7dl0bgwgVckaIsk9Pr3efa_gyVJQzkm7Nw_aM4v5BsFSSR0LrZPk9_GO2OS7tXaTryu1JzEt-bwws2SKda2Qob-NAfphtfkmJtvehx4_oSP1aP31DJ3/s1600-h/Catherine,+Poitiers,+France,+April+5,+1991_WEB.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5080004663622900194" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2rLpp8YNvJZhPbjtdr7dl0bgwgVckaIsk9Pr3efa_gyVJQzkm7Nw_aM4v5BsFSSR0LrZPk9_GO2OS7tXaTryu1JzEt-bwws2SKda2Qob-NAfphtfkmJtvehx4_oSP1aP31DJ3/s320/Catherine,+Poitiers,+France,+April+5,+1991_WEB.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"> Denis Olivier</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong><br />“não sei de que material seco são feitas</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>as perdas”<br /><br /><br />anéis, Bruna Beber<br /></strong></span><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwi7UbKvTTmTITM7tWH5lAfAVmvQMOx2iIelBbi59t4tbQDxvYVkUFdOPRGfHZduU3-2GfBiIeiPasyUosp2B23w5tEnUNzkzFY_cGXjOdzg9tGSj2_Qx2FFYlJL1_QPVSoHuj/s1600-h/Catherine,+Poitiers,+France,+April+5,+1991_WEB.jpg"></a><br /><br /></div>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-68116566149380986862007-06-17T13:41:00.000-03:002008-11-13T06:04:08.319-02:00<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbH4GNWHMw8__yrydGTXw1Y4J6U2XL_dooj2zahNCXF5WUL3S_HY32cPbDPR9ixAhMoUOvzazgFC3yI4xME4obGMxfXwL6qKyjo2YbZsD_eDUvf3y8BQRAtplxR20K9sxT0VSK/s1600-h/La+moindre+des+choses,+de+Nicolas+Philibert.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5077079696405043442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbH4GNWHMw8__yrydGTXw1Y4J6U2XL_dooj2zahNCXF5WUL3S_HY32cPbDPR9ixAhMoUOvzazgFC3yI4xME4obGMxfXwL6qKyjo2YbZsD_eDUvf3y8BQRAtplxR20K9sxT0VSK/s400/La+moindre+des+choses,+de+Nicolas+Philibert.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">La moindre des choses, Nicolas Philibert</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><br /><br /><strong><br />todas as minhas beiras viriam, sempre, daqueles que não vêm a ser.</strong></span><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-66873429183512334812007-06-08T17:05:00.000-03:002008-11-13T06:04:08.826-02:00<div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5073787406404163586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiN4QFmRXwEZfd0SnOexWeNR98JEAR5-qhTiY8Lr5Fmmpqpt3qqoHBa7hNgS3gjtNXWosEnSYwxKkwRJ2b6Y23I6qMy1prCKm8ePhPC5gWC7kZRAjWHY5jvBQoMQ8Uzt6sn_mC/s400/Jour+Tranquille.bmp" border="0" /> <span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>Ian Sanderson</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Courier New;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>"What did I leave untouched on the doorstep---"</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="right"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong><br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></strong></span></div>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37406031.post-90714398381281772772007-06-08T11:41:00.000-03:002007-06-08T11:50:49.348-03:00<div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong><br />“Se você me perguntar como são as pessoas daqui, eu responderei: como em todo lugar! A</strong></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong> espécie humana é absolutamente uniforme. A maior parte trabalha quase todo o tempo para viver, e o pouco que lhes resta de liberdade amendronta-os de tal modo que procuram todos os meios para se livrarem dela. Ó, destino do homem!”<br /></div></strong></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong><div align="right"><br /><br />J. W. Goethe,</div><div align="right">em “Os sofrimentos do jovem Werther”<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </div></strong></span>Ana Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09256832029884220697noreply@blogger.com0