segunda-feira, 25 de agosto de 2014

ZMB & Sanea Vluis - Sms calls to love



'Sms call to love'
faixa 08 do álbum 'IRABCDJOL 8'
2010
ZMB & Sanea Vluis

Ser este álbum uma co-realização é um eufemismo.
Ela foi mais um membro honorário da banda
a quem, com um microfone e dispositivos bluetooth,
lhe saquei sons e vozes
além de utilizar as suas mensagens de texto por telemóvel.

De qualquer modo e apesar de toda a miséria que vivemos
prefiro conservar, mesmo que já sem saudade,
o sucesso dos bons momentos, o amor que passámos:
a primeira audição conjunta deste álbum foi útil
para que na altura fizéssemos mais uma vez as pazes
e, sendo esta a última faixa do cd,
no seu início já estávamos debaixo dos lençóis.

sábado, 23 de agosto de 2014

Peter Gabriel & Kate Bush - Don't give up



In this proud land we grew up strong
We were wanted all along
I was taught to fight, taught to win
I never thought I could fail

No fight left or so it seems
I am a man whose dreams have all deserted
I've changed my face, I've changed my name
But no-one wants you when you lose

Don't give up 'cause you have friends
Don't give up you're not beaten yet
Don't give up I know you can make it good

Though I saw it all around
Never thought that I could be affected
Thought that we'd be last to go
It is so strange the way things turn
Drove the night toward my home
The place that I was born, on the lakeside
As daylight broke, I saw the earth
The trees had burned down to the ground

Don't give up you still have us
Don't give up we don't need much of anything
Don't give up 'cause somewhere there's a place where we belong

Rest your head
You worry too much
It's going to be alright
When times get rough
You can fall back on us
Don't give up
Please don't give up

Got to walk out of here
I can't take anymore
Going to stand on that bridge
Keep my eyes down below
Whatever may come
and whatever may go
That river's flowing
That river's flowing


Moved on to another town
Tried hard to settle down
For every job, so many men
So many men no-one needs

Don't give up 'cause you have friends
Don't give up you're not the only one
Don't give up no reason to be ashamed
Don't give up you still have us
Don't give up now we're proud of who you are
Don't give up you know it's never been easy
Don't give up 'cause I believe there's a place
There's a place 
Where we belong


Don't give up
Don't give up
Don't give up

quarta-feira, 20 de agosto de 2014

Towering Inferno - Kaddish



Kaddish is a 1993 concept album by English experimental music group Towering Inferno. It reflects on The Holocaust and includes East European folk singing, Rabbinical chants, klezmer fiddling, sampled voices (including Hitler's), heavy metal guitar and industrial synthesizer. Brian Eno described it as "the most frightening record I have ever heard".Kaddish was Towering Inferno's debut album. It was released on their own TI Records in 1993, and then globally by Island Records in 1995.

sexta-feira, 15 de agosto de 2014

Na sopa dos pobres da comporta

Mano número um, após caminhar doze quilómetros, encontra mano número dois por volta das dez e um quarto à entrada da sopa dos pobres da comporta.
Cumprimentam-se.
Mano número dois escolhe a sua cadeira mas mano número um pergunta se ele não quer esta entretanto. Mano número dois pergunta então se o mano número um não quer ele próprio a cadeira que quer oferecer. Mano número um diz que não.
Depois de marcarem o seu próprio lugar, mano número dois diz:
- Para passar o tempo até às onze, queres ir tomar café?
- Não mas acompanho-te. Prefiro que me dês o dinheiro.
- Está bem. Diz mano número dois.
Sentam-se na esplanada.
Mano número um sangra da orelha enquanto mano número dois toma o seu café, enrola dois cigarros e dá um ao mano número um. A seguir, paga o seu café e dá sessenta e cinco cêntimos ao mano número um.
Levantam-se e caminham para a entrada da sopa. Encostam-se à porta a fumar o seu cigarro. Mano número um acaba de fumar, entra e vai-se sentar no seu lugar.
Mano número dois vê aproximar-se mano número três que diz:
- Ora viva! Não tens cinco cêntimos?
- Não mano. Diz mano número dois, acaba de fumar e entra de seguida e senta-se no seu lugar.
São agora onze. Mano número três entra e fica de pé à espera que chegue a sua vez de ir levantar a sopa. Entretanto chega mano número quatro.
- Atão mai frango!
- Hoje é moelas com massa não tens por acaso quinze cêntimos?, pergunta mano número três ao mano número quatro.
- Tenho. Diz este e vai ao bolso e dá uma moeda de vinte a mano número três. Este recebe a moeda e pergunta:
- Queres os cinco cêntimos de volta?
- Quero.
Mano número um pergunta a mano número dois se ele quer trabalho e mano número dois devolve a pergunta e diz:
- Tu tens trabalho?
- Não porque não quero!
- E de que trabalho falas?
- Vender isqueiros.
- Não, arranja tabalho para ti que eu arranjo para mim!, diz mano número dois.
- Queres ir para o parque da igreja arrumar uns carros? Dá uns trocos...

E assim todos os manos comem a sua sopa, ninguém se chateia e todos querem companhia.
Nenhum destes manos brinca aos pobrezinhos nem se chama espírito santo.
Seria uma ironia escrevê-lo.

segunda-feira, 11 de agosto de 2014

Claudio Mur - A lama cheia de estrelas, parte 1


A lama cheia de estrelas, parte 1

Eu finalmente decidi que

Estava numa guerra não declarada com a maioria das pessoas do mundo que conheci.

Eu finalmente cheguei

A um ponto de escape através do anel púrpura do colapso.

Dado que o mundo neste momento me está a ser apresentado

como uma corporação de diferentes maneiras ou diferentes estradas para seguir

ao fundo do anel púrpura do colapso.

Um: ser retirado deste mundo regular e então considerá-lo como um todo,

uma clara e distinta unidade e seguir em frente para encontrar núcleos mais ajustados à minha mente.

A outra: tentar integrar o meu ser nesta muito mais próxima unidade,

Reconstruir relações com familiares e amigos, outros amigos nem tanto,

Permitindo que velhas injúrias sejam esquecidas e ódios sejam derretidos e novos acordos

Idealmente numa base de aceitação de diferentes opiniões, maneiras de fazer a vida,

Todos os princípios chave entre todos… pelo menos todas as pessoas desta unidade nuclear.

Tendo o meu ser se encontrado desclassificado de uma tentativa com sucesso na segunda via

Eu decidi que o compromisso não era mais possível, o mundo parece um vazio absoluto.

À minha porta lá apenas apareceram chulos, chupa piças, chicos espertos e pequenas meninas assustadas.

Aquelas que não se assustaram mandei-as embora,

As que ficaram eu recebi-as através de som.

Com a música eu inventei um novo conjunto de memórias cheias de brilho

Mais do que espremidas num sentido de perdição e perdido eu estou.

Então parece uma boa solução o apenas cobrir a lama com estrelas.

Quando tu perdes o teu trabalho, o teu amor, a tua fé,

Apenas (a)parece a conclusão natural para todas as coisas ferais:

Subir ao inferno e ficar só finalmente.

Eu penso que a causa de morte foi suicídio.

Eu não quero ser o profeta. Porque não me deixem vocês simplesmente em paz e só?

O mundo não tem tempo para decidir além da aparência.

Um dia eu finalmente estendi numa tela esta pintura

Mostrando carris, um comboio e um corpo na linha: the starlit mire.

No dia seguinte li no jornal que uma mulher e a sua filha já maior de idade…

Elas decidiram caminhar para a linha de comboio depois de uma viagem de táxi

Desde casa para cortar as suas vidas na linha de comboio.

Eu não sei mas este tipo de sincronicidade é frequente na minha vida,

É só estar atento, eu não sei mas desde o dia 1 do desenvolvimento do cérebro,

Talvez desde que o gorila tentou resolver um problema e uma luz se acendeu

E um primeiro começou a pensar,

Talvez desde esse dia deus nasceu como mito.

Eles não podiam ser ateus, apenas o conhecimento deu origem a ateus.

Eu gosto de me preocupar só com os meus assuntos.

O mundo não aceita a minha estupidez, não me dá segundas oportunidades.

Não me vale de nada dizer que fui eu que me pus fora.



---
in the english language this same text 'The mud full of stars, part 1'

Zero Kama and Psychic TV - The starlit mire



Zero Kama "The starlit mire"
from the album "The secret eye of laylah"



Psychic TV "The starlit mire"
from the album "Allegory and self"

There's probably a better audio you tube video
but this contains Pink Floyd's The wall

'In the starlit mire
in the madness of the mud
your eyes go dim
your senses fail'

The starlit mire


'The starlit mire'
óleo sobre madeira
90cm por 90cm
2009
ZMB

Também eu tive uma tentativa falhada de suicídio.
Hoje parece que é um crime. 
No hospital disse ao polícia, que perguntava, disse que queria sair do país.
Deixou-me em paz. A médica na urgência queria internar-me.
Fiz com que a minha mãe, 
na altura ainda por mim oficialmente responsável, assinasse um termo de responsabilidade.
E então fugi para a frente:
acabei um curso,
conheci parte da europa,
trabalhei, desatinei e pintei.
Escrevi metaforicamente sobre uma prisão 
(Claudio Mur é um escritor suicida falhado e por isso preso neste mundo) e 
numa avaliação psiquiátrica informal disseram até que o texto já estava escrito
quase como a dizer: 
'Inteligente'
mas eu, um solipsista da culpa alheia, apenas pareço querer ouvir:
'escreveste o texto, é de facto isso que quizeste,
só tu és o responsável pelo teu colapso mental'
A metáfora tornou-se real e o real é não ter direitos
e os vizinhos dizerem:
'Estudou tanto que queimou e ficou maluco'

sábado, 9 de agosto de 2014

Astor Piazzolla y Quinteto Tango Nuevo Live in Utrecht, 1986






1- Michelangelo 70',
2- Milonga del Angel,
3- Escualo,
4- Adios Nonino,
5- La Muerte del Angel,
6- Resurrección del Angel,
7- Decarisimo,
8- Verano Porteno,
9- Fracanapa


Ástor Piazzolla - bandoneón
Fernando Suarez Páz - violino
Héctor Console - contrabaixo
Oscar Lopez Ruiz - guitarra
Pablo Ziegler - piano

terça-feira, 5 de agosto de 2014

Everyone I know is broken-hearted

Recebi o seguinte texto por email.
Sou da opinião que é de leitura obrigatória.

'
All the genuinely smart, talented, funny people I know seem to be miserable these days. You feel it on Twitter more than Facebook, because Facebook is where you go to do your performance art where you pretend to be a hip, urbane person with the most awesomest friends and the best relationships and the very best lunches ever. Facebook is surface; Twitter is subtext, and judging by what I’ve seen, the subtext is aching sadness.
I’m not immune to this. I don’t remember ever feeling this miserable and depressed in my life, this sense of futility that makes you wish you’d simply go numb and not care anymore. I think a lot about killing myself these days. Don’t worry, I’m not going to do it and this isn’t a cry for help. But I wake up and think: fuck, more of this? Really? How much more? And is it really worth it?
In my case, much of it stems from my divorce and the collapse of the next relationship I had. But that’s not really the cause. I think that those relationships were bulwarks, charms against the dark I’ve felt growing in this world for a long time now. When I was in love, the world outside didn’t matter so much. But without it, there is nothing keeping the wolf from the door.
It didn’t used to be like this when I was a kid. I’m not getting nostalgic here, or pretending that my adolescence and my twenties were some kind of soft-focused Golden Age. Life sucked when I was young. I was unhappy then too. But there was always the sense that it was just a temporary thing, that if I stuck it out eventually the world was going to get better — become awesome, in fact.
But the reality is that the three generations who ended the 20th century, the Boomers, their Generation X children, and Generation Y, have architected a Western civilization that’s kind of a shit show. Being born in 1978, I fall at either the tail end of Gen X or the beginning of Gen Y, depending on how you look at it. I became an adolescent at the time Nirvana was ushering in a decade of “slacker” ideology, as the pundits liked to put it. But the reality is that I didn’t know a whole lot of actual slackers in the 1990s. I did know a lot of people who found themselves disillusioned with the materialism of the 1980s and what we saw as the failed rhetoric of the Sixties generation, who were all about peace and love right until the time they put on suits and ties and figured out how to divide up the world. I knew a lot of people who weren’t very interested in that path.
The joke, of course, is that every generation kills the thing they love. The hippies became yuppies; Gen X talked a lot about the revolution, and then went and got themselves some venture capital and started laying into place the oversaturated, paranoid world we live in now. A lot of them tried to tell themselves they were still punk as fuck, but it’s hard to morally reconcile the thing where you listen to Fugazi on the way to your job where you help find new ways to trick people into giving up their data to advertisers. Most people don’t even bother. They just compartmentalize.
And I’m not blaming them. The world came apart at the end of the 90s, when the World Trade Center did. My buddy Brent and I were talking about this one night last year — about how the end of the 90s looked like revolution. Everybody was talking about Naomi Klein and anti-consumerism and people in Seattle were rioting over the WTO. Hell, a major motion picture company put out Fight Club, which is about as unsubtle an attack on consumer corporate capitalism as you can get. We were poised on the brink of something. You could feel it.
And then the World Trade Center went down. And all of a sudden calling yourself an “anticapitalist terrorist” was no longer a cool posture to psych yourself up for protest. It became something you might go to jail for — or worse, to one of the Black Camps on some shithole island somewhere. Corporate capitalism became conflated somehow with patriotism. And the idea that the things you own end up defining you became quaint, as ridiculous spoken aloud as “tune in, turn on, drop out”. In fact, it became a positive: if you bought the right laptop, the right smartphone, the right backpack, exciting strangers would want to have sex with you!
It’s no wonder that Gen X began seeking the largely mythological stability of their forebearers; to stop fucking around and eating mushrooms at the Rage Against The Machine show, and to try and root yourself. Get a decent car — something you can pass off as utilitarian — and a solid career. Put your babies in Black Flag onesies, but make sure their stroller is more high tech than anything mankind ever took to the Moon, because that wolf is always at the door. And buy yourself a house, because property is always valuable. Even if you don’t have the credit, because there’s this thing called a “subprime mortgage” you can get now!
But the world changed again. And kept changing. So now you’ve got this degree that’s worth fuck-all, a house that’s worth more as scrap lumber than as a substantial investment, and you’re either going to lose your job or have to do the work of two people, because there’s a recession on. Except they keep saying the recession ended, so why are you still working twice as hard for the same amount of money?
We started two wars, only one of them even marginally justifiable, and thousands and thousands of people died. Some of them were Americans, most of them weren’t. The world hated us again. It’s psychically oppressive to realize you’re the bad guy.
Of course, for a lot of the world, America had always been the bad guy…but we didn’t really know that before, because we didn’t have the Internet in our pocket, to be pulled out at every lunch break and before the meal came and when the episode of Scrubs on TV dragged a little, and before bed. We were encouraged to immerse ourselves in the endless flow of information, to become better informed, because knowing more about the world made us better people.
And maybe it did, but it also made us haunted people.
Yesterday morning, when I woke up, I clicked on a video in my Twitter feed that showed mutilated children being dragged from the streets of Gaza. And I started sobbing — just sobbing, sitting there in my bed with the covers around my waist, saying “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” over and over to the empty room. Dead children, torn to bits. And then it was time for…what? Get up, eat my cereal, go about my day? Every day?
So you’re haunted, and you’re outraged, and you go on Twitter and you go on Facebook and you change your avatar or your profile picture to a slogan somebody thoughtfully made for you, so that you can show the world that you’re watching, that you care, that it matters. But if you’re at all observant, you begin to realize after a while that it doesn’t matter; that your opinion matters for very little in the world. You voted for Obama, because Obama was about hope and change; except he seems to be mostly about hope and change for rich people, and not about hope at all for the people who are killed by American drones or who are locked away without trial in American internment camps or who are prosecuted because they stand up and tell the truth about their employers. There does seem to be a lot of hope and change in Fort Meade and Langley, though, where the NSA and CIA are given more and more leeway to spy on everyone in the world, including American citizens, not for what they’ve done but what they might do.
And the rest of the world? They keep making more dead children. They slaughter each other in the streets of Baghdad and Libya and Gaza and Tel Aviv; they slaughter each other in the hills of Syria; and, increasingly, they slaughter each other in American schools and movie theaters and college campuses.
And when you speak up about that — when you write to your Congressperson to say that you believe in, say, stricter control on the purchase of assault weapons, or limiting the rights of corporations to do astonishing environmental damage, or not sending billions of dollars to the kind of people who think it’s funny to launch missiles filled with flechette rounds into the middle of schools where children huddle together — you’re told that, no, you’re the fascist: that people have the right to defend themselves and make money, and that those rights trump your right to not be killed by some fucking lunatic when you’re waiting in line at Chipotle to grab a chicken burrito, and your right to not be able to light your tapwater on fire with a Zippo because of the chemicals in it, or not to end up in a grainy YouTube video while some demented religious fanatic hacks your head off with a rusty bayonet because your country — not you, but who’s counting — is the Great Satan.
And the music sucks. Dear God, the music sucks. Witless, vapid bullshit that makes the worst airheaded wannabe profundities of the grunge era look like the collected works of Thomas Locke. Half the songs on the radio aren’t anything more than a looped 808 beat and some dude grunting and occasionally talking about how he likes to fuck bitches in the ass. The other half are grown-ass adults singing about their stunted, adolescent romantic ideals and playing a goddamn washtub while dressed like extras from The Waltons.
The music sucks. The movies suck — I mean, they didn’t suck the first time they came out, in the 1980s, but the remakes and gritty reboots and decades-past-their-sell-by-date sequels suck. Indiana Jones is awesome, but nobody needs to see a geriatric Harrison Ford, lured out of retirement by the promise of building another mansion onto his mansion, running around with fucking Shia LeBeouf in the jungle. And besides, we’re all media experts now; we can spot the merchandising nods from the trailer all the way to the final credits. There’s no magic left. It’s just another company figuring out a way to suck the very last molecules of profit out of the things we cherish, because that’s what corporations do.
Everything is branded. Even people. People are “personal brands”, despite the fact that, by and large, you can’t figure out what most of them are actually even good for. They just exist to be snarky and post selfies and demand that you buy something, anything, with their picture on it.
You actually know who Kim Kardashian is. In an ideal world, you’d be as unaware of her existence as you are of the names of the Chinese kids who made the futurephone or featherweight laptop you’re almost certainly reading this on. In an ideal world, Kim Kardashian would have spent her life getting sport-fucked anonymously by hip-hop stars in some Bel Air mansion, ran a salon, and either died of a coke overdose or Botox poisoning. There is no reason that her face and her life and her tits and her deathless thoughts needed to be foisted upon the world outside of the 90210 ZIP code. Except that somebody figured out that you could make money off showing people the car accident in slow motion, that people would watch that. Sure they will. People love to watch stupid people do stupid things. It makes them feel less stupid.
And the Internet.
We built this thing — I include myself in that because I started doing HTML in 1994 and was part of the generation who took to the new medium like water and have made the majority of our adult lives creating it, to a greater or lesser degree — because we believed it would make things better for everyone. We believed it would give voice to the voiceless, hope to the hopeless, bring us all together, help us to understand and empathize and share with one another. We believed it could tear down the walls.
And in a lot of ways it has. But in just as many ways, it has driven us all insane. There’s an old story — I have no idea if it’s true — about monkeys who had the pleasure centers of their brains wired up to a button. Push it, Mr. Monkey, and you have an orgasm. And the monkeys did. They pushed the button and they pushed the button, until they forgot about eating and they forgot about drinking and sleeping and simply fell down and died.
What do you do when you first wake up? What do you do as soon as you get into work? After work? Before bed? Hell, some of us wake up in the night and check our feeds, terrified that we’ve missed out on something.
We do it because we are given that reward, that stimulus that tells us oooh, a new shiny! It’s the fourteenth Guardians Of The Galaxy trailer, with 200% more Rocket Raccoon! Some fucking null node in Portland made a portrait of every single character from Adventure Time out of bacon and Legos! And, maybe most poisonous, maybe most soul-crushing: somebody said something I don’t like that makes me feel frightened and threatened! It’s time to put on my superhero costume and forward unto battle!
Except it doesn’t matter. Because you’re not really changing anybody’s mind. How often does that little skirmish end with anybody changing their mind at all, even a little bit? Or does it just end with one of you invariably either blocking the other or saying something like “You know what, I’m going to stop now, because this is getting out of hand.”
Getting out of hand?
Everything they told you about how to live in the world when you were a kid is a lie. Education doesn’t matter, not even on paper. Being ethical doesn’t matter. Being a good person doesn’t matter. What matters now is that you’re endlessly capable of the hustle, of bringing in that long green, of being entertaining to enough people that somebody will want to give you money or fuck you or fund your startup. We’re all sharks now; if we stop swimming for just a little too long, we die. We lose followers. We’re lame. We’re not worth funding, or fucking. Because all that matters is the endless churn, the endless parade, the endless cycle of buying and trying to sell and being bought and sold by people who tell you that they’re your friends, man, not like those others. Microsoft is evil and Google is not evil, except when they are, but that’s not really important, and if you decide that maybe you’re tired of being reduced to nothing more than a potential lead for a sales pitch, like something out of a fucking David Mamet play, then you’re a hater and irrelevant and a Luddite. And besides, what would you do with yourself if you weren’t checking Facebook or playing Candy Crush Saga or watching some teenage dumbass smash his genitals on the side of a pool on YouTube? What the fuck would you even do, bro?
The comedian Bill Hicks used to do a bit where he invited the advertisers and marketers in his audience to kill themselves. He imagined them turning it into an ad campaign: “Oh, the righteous indignation dollar, that’s a good dollar, Bill’s smart to do that.” He laid out the futility of trying to escape: “I’m just caught in a fucking web,” he’d say.
And that’s where we are. You, me, we’re trapped, between being nothing more than consumers, every aspect of our lives quantified and turned into demographic data, or being fucking Amish cavemen drifting into increasing irrelevancy. Because it really does feel like there’s no middle ground anymore, doesn’t it? There’s no way to stay an active, informed citizen of the world without some motherfucker figuring out a way to squirm into your life to try and get a dollar out of you. Only fools expect something for free, and only bigger fools believe they’re anything other than a consumable or a consumer.
We didn’t get the William Gibson future where you can live like a stainless steel rat in the walls between the corporate enclaves, tearing at the system from within with your anarchy and your superior knowledge of Unix command lines. Now it’s just pissed off teenagers who blame you because their lives are going to suck a cock and billionaire thugs trying to sell you headphones and handbags, all to a soundtrack of some waterhead muttering “Bubble butt, bubble bubble bubble butt” over and over while a shite beat thumps in the background.
I know a lot of people who privately long for an apocalypse of some kind, a breakdown of the ancient Western code, because then they’d either be dead or free. How fucking horrifying is that?
But nobody pulls that trigger, because now we’ve all seen what apocalypses look like. We saw Manhattan in 2001 and New Orleans in 2005 and Thailand in 2004 and the Middle East pretty much any given day. Nobody wants to hate, because we’re pummeled with hate every day, by people who are too fucking stupid to understand that the world has passed them by as much as it’s passed by the dude in the Soundgarden t-shirt who still drives around singing along to “Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!” on his way to his dead-end job. The best lack all conviction, and the people who are full of passionate intensity? Fuck them. We’re all sick of their shit anyway.
And that’s where we are, and is it any goddamn wonder at all that the most profitable drugs sold in America for like a decade running have been antipsychotics? The world seems psychotic.
I feel like I need to figure this out, like figuring all of this out and finding new ways to live has become the most important thing I could possibly do, not just for myself and the people I love but for the entire human race. I don’t mean me alone — I’m far too self-loathing to have a messiah complex — but I feel like, for me, this is the best use of my time. Because the world is making me crazy and sad and wanting to just put a gun in my mouth, and it’s doing the same thing to a lot of people who shouldn’t have to feel this way.
I don’t believe anymore that the answer lies in more or better tech, or even awareness. I think the only thing that can save us is us. I think we need to find ways to tribe up again, to find each other and put our arms around each other and make that charm against the dark. I don’t mean in any hateful or exclusionary way, of course. But I think like minds need to pull together and pool our resources and rage against the dying of the light. And I do think rage is a component that’s necessary here: a final fundamental fed-up-ness with the bullshit and an unwillingness to give any more ground to the things that are doing us in. To stop being reasonable. To stop being well-behaved. Not to hate those who are hurting us with their greed and psychopathic self-interest, but to simply stop letting them do it. The best way to defeat an enemy is not to destroy them, but to make them irrelevant.
I don’t have the answers. I don’t know some truth that I can reveal to everyone. All I can do is hurt, and try to stop hurting, and try to help other people stop hurting. Maybe that’s all any of us can do. But isn’t that something worth devoting yourself to, more than building another retarded app that just puts more nonsense and bullshit into the world? Just finding people to love, and healing each other? I think it is.
Until I know more, I’ll just keep holding on. I won’t put the gun in my mouth. Because all of this sadness is worth it if there’s still hope. And I want to still have hope so badly. I still want to believe, in myself, and in you.

- See more at: http://zenarchery.com/2014/08/everyone-i-know-is-brokenhearted/

'

segunda-feira, 4 de agosto de 2014

A fascist nightmare


'A fascist nightmare'
óleo sobre madeira
50cm por 50cm
2009
ZMB

Um ajuste de contas com o passado.

Da Weasel



Vi os Da Weasel ao vivo em 1999
no Hard Club quando este ainda era em Gaia.

Nesta música, eu acho que ouvi eles rapparem 'ressaca' em vez de 'respeito'
Verdade verdadinha:
O fim do mundo já foi e até o espírito santo anda pelo purgatório.

Esta música pertence ao álbum
'Iniciação a uma vida banal - o manual' de 1999

sexta-feira, 1 de agosto de 2014

Memory of HCF


'Memory of HCF'
lápis e pastel de óleo sobre papel colado em cartão
65cm por 25cm
2009
ZMB

Dois desenhos realizados em 2000 tornaram-se símbolos colados na parede do quarto.
Em 2009 tornaram-se uma obra só e solitária.
Às vezes, ainda me importo com o facto de me sentir desajustado
do mundo das conveniências.

HCF é o conhecido Hospital Conde Ferreira.