Suja

A uma amiga muito especial

O ar subindo pelas escadas da estacao do metro cheirava a urina e esse cheiro se intensificava a medida que ele descia.
As paredes que o envolviam eram escuras, manchadas de substancias em decomposicao, e delas pendiam tiras de jornais, cartazes, e posters antigos.
As paredes nao eram para ser tocadas.
O corrimao nao estava ai para ser usado. Tinha passado a ser um objecto de outro mundo; tinha deixado de excercer as suas funcoes de apoio para quem quer subir ou descer.
Como a sujidao tem a capacidade de remover roubar a utilidade a algo.
Ao fundo das escadas estava ela, uma alma intacta num corpo em decomposicao, e ele se apaixonou... Dificil sera descrever essa menina sentada directamente nessa sujidao. Como a sujidao tem a capacidade de remover roubar a utilidade a algo.
Ela, sim, provavelmente usava o corrimao, e se encostava a parede. O facto de ambos, ele e ela, pertencerem a mesma especie foi a unica razao que ele a viu... cabelos louros sujos, cara branca suja, labios cheios sujos, olhos azuis-verdes sujos... vestido ligeiro sujo a cobrir-lhe os peito as ancas as pernas os tornozelos os pes... sem duvida sujos.
Descansando nas suas pernas e embrulhado nos seus bracos dormia, prefiro pensar que dormia, um bebe cujas caracteristicas nao consigo identificar mas que se parecia a sua mae pela sua sujidao.

Os olhos dele cruzaram com os dela. Ou seja, ele viu este ser de outro mundo, reparou nela, e ela o viu tambem... ambos arrastrados, por segundos, por uma ligacao que nada tem a ver com a condicao fisica.
Anos mais tarde ele iria aprender que nao e simplesmente coincidencia que leva alguem a realmente notar outra pessoa. Que a maioria dos seus melhores amigos eram fruto de um simples trocar de olhares como este.
Neste momento, ele nao o sabia... simplesmente reconhecia um novo sentimento despertar a medida que caia nos olhos da menina suja.
Anos mais tarde ele ira querer pensar que nessa altura tinha ficado tao impressionado que acabou por dar a menina todo o dinheiro que tinha nesse momento mas a verdade e que o metro chegou e ele, quase sem se demorar na imagem da amada, se deixou levar pela mae e entrou no metro com uma imagem permanentemente gravada na sua memoria.

The Art of Silent Communication

24 January 2005
Yesterday I spent a day without speaking. My first (first of many I hope).
What inspired me was the book Autobiography of a Yogi where ------- meets with Ghandi on a day when Mohandas was not speaking.
As such, Ghandi would write short sentences on a paper and ----- would do all the talking.

Obviously, the main question is why do such a session? Why not talk for a whole day? Why deprive oneself, voluntarily, of the main method of communication (for most people at least)?

The most obvious reason, and the one I will, due to time constraints, limit myself to mentioning is based on how one seems to give more importance to something when he is deprived of it.

People talk everyday, all the time, from a simple, generally automatic, "How`s it going?" to a, hopefully, more conscious: "I love you".
Singing under the shower, answering a phone, ordering a meal, there are so many actions/occasions when words leave your mouth.
Most people have not spent a single day of their lives without talking! 50 years, always talking.

To a certain point the words which one pronounces start to lose their meaning their intention. They lose their strength. One, without even trying to be aware of this, feels the effects. You notice how someone who talks a lot seems to tire you and bore you. You notice how the words that a more quiet person seem to touch you deeper.
This is not unique to verbal communication but extends itself to all other areas.

It is the intention behind each step that makes a well coreografed dance so fixating. The presence of a reason behind each movement.

Music too, sound with intention.

Food, when well made and when not eaten for pure gluttony, has so much intention and appeals so much to our senses!

Each one of our senses is of utmost importance, if one wants it to be, and when one masters not only the capacity to perceive the world through their senses but also to efficiently communicate with them then he/she can really understand, through experience, the Universe.

Sanskrit Poems Part I

She who is the constant object of my thought
is indifferent to me,
is desirous of another man,
who in his turn adores some other woman,
but this woman takes delight in me.
Damn her, damn him, the god of love,
the other woman, and myself!

---

A face to rival the moon,
eyes that make mockery of lotuses,
complexion ecliping gold`s luster,
thick tresses that shame the black bee,
breasts like elephant`s swelling temples,
heavy hips,
a voice enchanting and soft--
the adornment in maidens is natural.

---

there is no ambrosia or poison
except in the love of an ample-hipped woman;
enamored, she is an ambrosial vine,
indifferent, a poisonous creep.


-Bhartrihari