From ALYSSA ROGERS – such touching poetry !

Alyssa Rogers, the author, the poet

August 26 2018

You think you know the order of how things will go

I will be in my 30s or 40s when my grandmother passes

Away and I will have kids that she will watch grow up and say

“I love you more” to, they will be young when she passes and they will miss her

The day to day routine convinces us I can plan this out and know exactly what to expect

Sometimes it is all gone before you can even think to plan it

You wake up

Feeling in the day that it will be one of loss

 that you are just waiting for

You will make a cup of tea and stare at it until it turns darker

You have to make a new one

The cup is grey

Or was it blue

You think and you think

You forget

At your grandmother’s funeral you are only 21

It is February, it is torrential downpouring. Your family is late, because well they are always late and your heels are too big and hurting your feet.

 The priest quotes Shakespeare during his sermon “It is better to have lost than to have never loved at all”

And he tells an analogy that a little girl once told him, “Dragonflies are born under water. Once they break the surface and spread their wings they can no longer return to the life they once knew”. Grams had a small angel tattoo on her right shoulder. She always wore an angel pin.

With your grandmother’s ashes before you in a blue urn surround by fake flowers which seem to be wilting you snap out of it and realize

Maybe this is all chance

Maybe this is all coincidence

Maybe there is some larger power

You are never going to know

Not for a while

Maybe never

 

You know what else is going to happen?

You are going to jump up

And down to music in a well lit room

That is Alive

And smile across the room

At people you love,

Laughing

You will be comforted

You will comfort

You will swim in the ocean at night

By yourself

And feel the distance between

The sky and sea

You will feel joy

 

No matter how hard you stare

Things will only get brighter

Was it blue, or was it everything?

August 26th 2018

The day Neil Simon passed away

I texted my friend the news and he answered

“Yea I heard that.

Six days does not a week make”

 

Strong and Giving

The sea changes as the night goes on

from bright pink and orange

to a calmer darker blue

 

Climbing the stairs

up to Carolyn and Donica’s house

time passes before you

Endlessly changing colors,

what a view

 

August 26th 2018

The fruit flies land on the brim of my paper coffee cup

They fly around my face

They are too quick to squash with a clap

They are too clever to land long enough to be slapped

They are annoying

And they make me feel gross
Plus my coffee is empty

August 26 2018

How can someone begin with

Going to get milkshakes

Talking for hours

I will make you breakfast in bed

Constant engaging conversation

Sweetness

A few weeks later not even asking how your day was?

I notice the shift like a gust of wind that messies your hair

Just like my hair is messied after I stupidly fall into bed

Again and again

And expect to be filled

 

August 26th 2018

One more for the road

We are like suckling pigs

 or worse we are like the lowest leeches

Sucking each other off on your 5,000 dollar leather coach

That another woman bought for you

And then putting on masks that hide any inkling of feelings switching off

Disgusting

Yet it’s beautiful

 

That last time you wanted to hear me so you did your most

With your hands and with your mouth and you groaned

I stretched my neck back and you said my head almost hit the floor

You laughed that smug laugh

Why do I keep coming back for more

 

August 27th 2018

Turn back one last time to

 glance the moon

shining over the ocean water

Shining like the light through

the crack in a window

If the crack kept growing

It kind of looks like a sonogram

Except it is larger than life

And it is right in front of you

 

Something that cannot be contained

Within the human body

But it lives for a time

on the surface of the sea

 

Turn back, just one more time,

One more time to

glance at the moon

shining onto the ocean water

Shining like the light through

the crack in a window

Offering warmth to an otherwise dark room

It resembles a sonogram

Except it is larger than life

And it is right in front of you

 

Witnessing a feeling that

cannot be contained

Within the human body

It lives for a time

on the surface of the sea

———

In a dark world
You could find me through my sighs
Which surprises my lovers
And makes my family laugh
I often gasp

Night swim, on my back in the water
Diving through the black pool
A blood moon arrived
I wanted to swim out to her all the way
A curtain that disappeared
Rises again
I looked for her my entire swim
Only to have her revealed to me once
I sat alone on the sand

 

Alyssa Rogers

NJ – Aug 2018

Alyssa at a poetry reading

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

R.I.P. LINDSAY KEMP – one of the GREATEST EVER!!!!

Kate Bush issued a heartfelt statement about the late Lindsay Kemp, referring to the British dancer and choreographer – with whom she once studied and collaborated – as “truly original” and a “great artist of the stage.”

“To call him a mime artist is like calling Mozart a pianist,” she said in a note on her website. “He was very brave, very funny and above all, astonishingly inspirational. There was no-one quite like Lindsay. I was incredibly lucky to study with him, work with him and spend time with him. I loved him very much and will miss him dearly. Thank you, dear Lindsay.”

Kemp, also a close and influential collaborator of David Bowie’s, died Saturday in Tuscany, Italy at the age of 80. Bush enrolled in Kemp’s interpretive dance courses with the advance from her original EMI record contract; she later recruited the choreographer to appear in her 1993 short film, The Line, The Cross and the Curse, and wrote “Moving,” the opening song from her debut LP, 1978’s The Kick Inside, as a tribute to the dancer.

This is THE ART OF LINDSAY KEMP – (Pina Bausch and Kazuo Ohno grew out of this)

Poema lindo de Jardel Dias Cavalcanti: DESERTO

DESERTO

O deserto que você atravessa

não oferece uma escada para o céu azul

nem um submarino para as profundezas frias da terra.

Pernas são seus únicos apoios.

O brilho seco de quilômetros de areia

te faz andar sob sol tórrido.

Se uma fonte límpida te acena

é o delírio que te consome.

Você quer acordar,

mas sabe que é melhor se refugiar

nas penumbras da mente.

E assim, quanto ao objetivo final,

não há pernas para tanto.

Morrer frente a um pote de areia

ardendo sob uma tempestade de calor,

faz você acreditar que encontrou a saída:

o quê pode ser melhor do que livrar-se desse inferno?

History recovered: Gerald, Haroldo de Campos and Caetano Veloso reading Oswald de Andrade in 1990 at MAM, Rio.

Entrevista de 2003 com Sérgio Groisman e Camila Morgado (muito boa) Palco do Theatro Municipal !

R.I.P. OTAVIO FRIAS FILHO

“Eu gostaria de ter tido o talento incomensurável para ele criar o melhor projeto de jornalismo que a imprensa brasileira jamais conheceu. Essa ideia de jornalismo crítico, independente, pluralista e apartidário. É o que todo jornal deveria ser para poder levar ao público as informações corretas e um senso correto de realidade”, disse Rossi.

A declaração de Rossi foi seguida de uma salva de palmas de três minutos dos presentes em homenagem ao jornalista, ao som de “Losing My Religion” e “Man on the Moon”, da banda americana R.E.M.

Mentor do Projeto Folha, que modernizou o jornalismo brasileiro na década de 1980, Otavio foi vítima de um câncer originado no pâncreas. À frente do jornal por 34 anos, foi diagnosticado com a doença em setembro de 2017 e morreu às 3h20 desta terça-feira no hospital Sírio-Libanês, em São Paulo.

Otavio deixa Fernanda Diamant, editora da revista literária Quatro Cinco Um, com quem teve as filhas Miranda e Emilia, e os irmãos Maria Helena, médica, Luiz, presidente do Grupo Folha, e Maria Cristina, editora da coluna Mercado Aberto.

Sob a direção de Otavio, a Folha se tornou o maior e mais influente jornal do Brasil, líder em circulação e em audiência, posições que veio mantendo desde então. O veículo consolidou-se como uma referência no jornalismo apartidário, pluralista, crítico e independente.

Esses princípios foram recentemente atualizados na versão de 2018 do “Manual da Redação”, cuja confecção Otavio liderou. Também nortearam as iniciativas de autocontrole de sua produção jornalística: em 1989 a Folha se tornou o primeiro jornal da América Latina a ter um ombudsman, e em 1991 foi pioneiro no país em reunir correções na seção fixa Erramos.

Em texto de 25 de fevereiro último, intitulado “Jornalismo, um mal necessário”, na coluna mensal que mantinha na Ilustríssima, escreveu: “O jornalismo, apesar de suas severas limitações, é uma forma legítima de conhecimento sobre o nível mais imediato da realidade. Para afirmar sua autonomia, precisa cultivar valores, métodos e regras próprios”.

Antes mesmo de assumir o principal cargo do jornal, o que aconteceria em maio de 1984, Otavio participou de momentos cruciais no processo que desaguaria no Projeto Editorial da Folha.

Em sua última versão, de 2017, o texto preconiza o jornalismo profissional como antídoto para a notícia falsa e a intolerância. “Caberá ao conjunto dos veículos semelhantes à Folha enfatizar sua condição de praça pública, em que se contrapõem os pontos de vista mais variados e onde o diálogo em torno das diferenças é permanente.”

Em 1974, aos 17 anos, sob a gestão de seu pai, Octavio Frias de Oliveira (1912-2007), depois publisher da Folha, participou da decisão de abrir as páginas do jornal para diferentes correntes de opinião, incluindo os opositores da ditadura militar.

Essa vocação para a abertura viria a se cristalizar na campanha pelas Diretas Já, em 1983, da qual o jornal foi protagonista na imprensa brasileira. Em artigo do último dia 17 de junho para a mesma coluna da Ilustríssima, reafirmou seu otimismo em relação à democracia no Brasil.

“Foi na trabalhosa maturação dessa ‘abertura’ que se consolidou, nas camadas politizadas, a profunda consciência democrática, expressa num pacto não escrito de não violência, hoje posta sob desafio”, escreveu então, a propósito de clamores, da parte de grupos radicais, por uma nova intervenção militar.

“Há um momento em que a trama das relações econômicas e sociais se torna complexa demais para caber na lógica simplória da caserna, há um ponto em que a democracia passa a ser o único sistema capaz de regular uma sociedade atravessada por incontáveis interesses contraditórios.”

Nascido em São Paulo em 7 de junho de 1957, primogênito do casal Octavio e Dagmar Frias de Oliveira (1925-2008), Otavio Frias Filho bacharelou-se em direito na USP, onde também cursou pós-graduação em ciências sociais. Lançou os livros de ensaio “De Ponta Cabeça” (2000), “Queda Livre” (2003) e “Seleção Natural” (2009), entre outros.

Como dramaturgo, teve peças encenadas em São Paulo, entre elas “Típico Romântico”, “Rancor” e “Don Juan”. Uma versão teatral de “O Terceiro Sinal”, texto em que narra sua experiência como ator, esteve em cartaz no Teatro Oficina até maio, com a atriz Bete Coelho.

Nos últimos 11 meses, Otavio reduziu sua rotina de pautar e aprovar os editoriais diariamente e de participar de reuniões semanais com o comando da Redação, onde tomava as principais decisões.

Otavio deixa pronto um livro infantil, “A Vida é Sonho e Outras Histórias para Pensar”, e uma coletânea de artigos publicados nos últimos anos. Otavio deixa inacabado um livro em que pretendia traçar um quadro, entre ensaístico e autobiográfico, dos tempos e da vida de seu pai, entremeando-os com suas próprias experiências atuais.

“Flash and Crash” – by Hans Aschenbach.

As an artist it has become very evident that somehow, I have stored jarring memories of my art, of my education, of personalities, of highs and lows in order to justify my artistic relevance in the winter of my own life. It is truly a panorama and flash crashing vivid in color, feel, in exuberance and sorrow. I am not really sure of what I have attained or absorbed. Obviously that which makes me smile and that which makes me grimace takes a toll on going through the memories like old photographic slides in an antique projector. Yes, some of my ideals, some of my ways may be antique in relation to what is present, but not necessarily unusable. I loved to create, I loved the work of making whatever talent I found on that day…noticeable. Strangely enough I didn’t really get a thrill from performing because all of my thrill moments were taken from the learning, the learning by doing, the sweat and scratching which were rehearsals or discoveries of what I had in myself in ways of boundaries. Looking back on the 80’s and 90’s I am still amazed that I lived through those many hours. It, that era of total immersion, was a celebration of floundering and making up for what I still did not know. I can make an analysis of it (for myself only) and come up with a memory of what it felt like to be fearless. I was too naïve to sponge a barrier for what was fake bravado. I guess I was actually amused that I had become proficient at something without having all of the tools, or more precise, the knowledge necessary to know what fear meant as well as how honest it is to fear. That is what natural talent is, part hero and part idiot. Having started late in the business I attacked rather than embraced. I embraced only when I realized I was having an easier time thwarting away any demons waiting to jump on my shoulder, because of an inner strength. It was strength without resolve however. It was based on that hidden depression of failure, and in all actuality, that ghoul was as present as the air I was breathing. I just refused to look him in the eyes, probably because I would assume I didn’t belong where I was going. When a supposed hobby becomes an occupation, you are left only with your balls and the hope that no one sees your inadequacy, especially yourself. That is present today, this moment, the very second that I look into that mirror. When I walked away for the first time in 2010 I was convinced it was the right time, probably because I wanted to be a great father and didn’t have the strength to be a great artist anymore. The word “great” isn’t correct either so we will use efficient. Had I wanted great, back at thirty, I would have become fearful and probably not taken the chances that I did. Now in hindsight, it ain’t such a bad thing to have been able to block out some of those demons with that fake bravado. The painful shyness that was in me would have overtaken any aspiration and left me on an even plane with no ups and downs, just status quo. I had to be a smart ass or make people laugh so as to drain out the scream that was always bubbling up. Would I have been happier had I screamed? Possibly…but I would not have seen the world, not met the personalities that helped shape my character into the old philosopher I have become. My best friend told me philosophy is dead, but it is, outside of my daughter’s existence, that which keeps me searching yet not making me determined to find. You only need to find two things that can keep you going for eternity.

Flash and Crash is a borrowed vivid picture from one of the most prolific personalities that I was so very blessed to have met and call a friend. Gerald Thomas is not only a playwright, author, artist and director, but a rare species of multi-talent. “Flash and Crash Days”,( https://vimeo.com/11676770) one of his highly successful and brilliant theatrical journeys is like a mirror where one sees all of the edges and of your own likeness influenced by cubism and futurism of a Picasso masterpiece. Yes, Gerald was like my own personal Picasso because he, through his direction, gave me an insight into what would keep me from crashing and being just a flash in a colorless business. He saw my fear and capitalized on it without me knowing why it worked. Faced with singing a “Tristan” for the first time was definitely a step into the unknown, and I secretly hoped it would be my undoing and show me unworthy so that I had an excuse for not excelling. I must have come to a tired place, still not old, but tired of a rushed life. Here was this long-haired, bean-stalk slender, soft-spoken spectacle, looking inquisitively through round rimless glass and seeing an insignificant rock that was to be his lead actor. The most profound thing is that he remained uncompromised and poised even through my mistakes and thrashing. He knew something I didn’t know, I would not crash. Even that week before the premiere, me being ill, struggling, fighting for existence there was no doubts behind those droopy eyes of his (he seemed to work 24 hours a day) belief that he had a part in my creation. In that Tristan, after thousands of performances previously, I was born and spat out onto a playing field, naked of feeling or strife…just resolve. The birth of my daughter Eva-Sophie and that ecstatic opening of Tristan and Isolde are the virtual aortas of my heart. The brilliance of this director, his appetite for expression page after page, is a relevant and profound catalyst which sticks in my side like a double-bladed switch-blade reminding me to create, to strive, to fight. It makes the winter of my life all the less chilly. It’s funny, it is hilarious and almost hysterical, but crashing holds no water for me anymore, it is not a part of that background fear. I have already lived through many crashes, had many flashes and have yet to meet my stride. Thank you Eva-Sophie, thank you Gerald.

Hans Aschenbach

August 2, 2018

Link to his blog: https://hansiwerks.wordpress.com/2018/08/02/flash-and-crash/