actoúnico

Se nas palavras vou um pouco sempre
adiantado, como uma quimera
daquelas bem reais que têm bico
e corpo de lagarto? e rosto humano?
é que também não vivo neste instante
mas noutro, inteiramente coincidente.
Jamais aceitarei que o mundo seja
vago manto enrugado de montanhas,
alguns bichos na àgua, outros em terra,
outros voando em fútil incerteza.
Se me prendo ao teu rumor ausente
não é que me consuma numa imagem
ou deseje real o imaginado;
é por outro real em ti presente.

António Franco Alexandre em Duende

 Kathleen Conklin in Addiction, by Abel Ferrara

i will always love you for sure.
in some measure of a way.
for now that i know you - because
before i didn’t - which begs
the question, who did i love then?

who did you love? but then, it doesn’t really
matter does it? (a hand opens inside me)

who we are, right now, can never be loved,
for noone knows us, not even us, among our
small and non-trivial lies, not right now that
we’ve changed yet again. into what?

will what i have changed into
still be lovable by the one i used to love?

we love the one that passed and are
loved that same way back - those rare moments,
when love is, hold us for dear time: the debt
is claimed when all is quiet yet again.

it is to those moments we come back
so they may warm us through the night.
then we know: such rare moments hearts
must claim.

anna s. buckley

“I understand, all right. The hopeless dream of being - not seeming, but being. At every waking moment, alert. The gulf between what you are with others and what you are alone. The vertigo and the constant hunger to be exposed, to be seen through, perhaps even wiped out.
Every inflection and every gesture a lie, every smile a grimace. Suicide? No, too vulgar. But you can refuse to move, refuse to talk, so that you don’t have to lie. You can shut yourself in. Then you needn’t play any parts or make wrong gestures. Or so you thought. But reality is diabolical. Your hiding place isn’t watertight. Life trickles in from the outside, and you’re forced to react. No one asks if it is true or false, if you’re genuine or just a sham.
Such things matter only in the theatre, and hardly there either. I understand why you don’t speak, why you don’t move, why you’ve created a part for yourself out of apathy. I understand. I admire. You should go on with this part until it is played out, until it loses interest for you. Then you can leave it, just as you’ve left your other parts one by one”

in Persona, 1966, Ingmar Bergman