Monthly Archives: November 2019

GT- BUTT NAKED – November 2019

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Carta de Lula a Glenn Greenwald a respeito da agressão de Augusto Nunes: LINDO lindo.

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November 8, 2019 · 9:40 pm

LINDO email, carta, de Fátima Vale a Fernando Lemos

meu amor abremundos a palavracorpo acintada de lágrimas volumptuosas
é o meu desespero a tentar vestir-se
eu sei que tu irás e que eu cairei ao chão
a ciência diz que me levantarei e vou obedecer 
nem que para isso tenha de amputar a coroa do desespero
meu amor as tuas mãos fazem-me falta
o teu olhar a derramar imagens para dentro do meu 
queria voar sem pássaros dentro para o teu alado 
meu amor as tuas mãos fazem-me falta
queria de ti os dedos cheios de anéis como planetas
na órbita árdua da música dos mundos
meu amor não vás meu amor
eu tenho lágrimas que ainda não decifrei e portas que não sei abrir
meu amor não vás agora eu quero olhar-te
o caminho é tão grande e infinita a hora
meu amor fiz o espectáculo – saudade do homem – inspirado no teu oxiGénio
onde a sala é forrada de jornais no palco uma instalação de fotografias de antepassados 
e vivos outros menos mortos de várias famílias
a centro do palco um monte enorme de roupas sem gente dentro
o espectáculo é ao nível do público e a partir do outro fundo da sala
e tem um muro feito de jornais. uma realidade construída
um escadote de madeira a centro – carregado de objectos alienados do quotidiano
à esquerda uma dobadeira – ao seu lado um artesão de bengalas
que faz a cantoria 
começa com os dez rostos rompendo um a um o muro – a dita mói – a dita rói – a dita dura
vão rompendo as cabeças
o artesão canta a sua versão blues do poema em riste
e o povo vem para o outro lado e o texto acontece 
tem homens de árvores às costas ou na cervical diria
tem saudades de ti 
é difícil tanto mar
queria tanto ver a retratação de mãos dadas a ti à bea
to bea or not to bea
meu amor dá-me a mão vamos descansar
vou ler-te uma sombra no deserto
uma caneca de água fresca
bea tanto abraço rodrigo paola somos o amor que temos e Lemos
(envio uma gravação no e-mail seguinte)
vossa fátima vale)
FV – Portugal, Nov 2019

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GT – Amnesty International Man – “Jornal Brasil – 1978” “Thomas, 24 anos, pintor, veio para ver e ouvir”

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November 5, 2019 · 11:23 pm

BUTTERFLIES in my stomach and …all over: nervous !

GT- BUTTERFLIES (photo by Adriane Gomes)

All photos by Adriane Gomes

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NEW BOOK (all my plays) “A CIRCUS OF KIDNEYS AND LIVERS” – MANIFESTO November 2019

MANIFESTO NOVEMBER 2019

New Book – “A CIRCUS OF KIDNEYS AND LIVERS” – 600 pages of just my plays.

MORATORIUM

Yet still bugged by eyes looking for flying saucers in the sky, here I am,  this break of day breaking, spring of a new incoming feeling broken. Crossed eyed at the symbiotic and intrinsic link between all manifestations of life, of all those breaks, I face the new day by denying it and by proclaiming an eternal dusk since, well, since it is has always been dark in here. Always dark in here. “Duskness” .

 My dawn is dark, my Spring seems to be occulted by the dead leaves left deft from some personal  and more than just personal stains in brine kept alive so that I could, one day, one damn day,  pose such questions to the universe ….. yes, eyes and the intrinsic link between all manifestations of writing, of storytelling and those who bother to read me.

Too many memories. Far too many memories.

Now I’m being presented with a book, an enormous 600 page book containing ALL my plays.

 So…somehow I have linked those flickering wondering sparkling lights in the sky to those who’ve allowed me to exist on  this strange plane of self affirmation and desire; the desire to accept, inhale and REJECT all those flickering lights almost like those anti-heroes -Gods in Wagner’s Twilight, his Götterdämmerung.

Memories and sounds of language, memories of being and not existing, memories of a broad

Broad, broad , broadening mind and yet still bugged by eyes looking for flying saucers in the sky, no, not the sky but the ceiling looking down at me while I cry. I cry and I cry.

And this crying of mine is just, it’s fair, it’s an atonal note, a rash of a feeling, a rancid taste of a note, a twilight of an existence which prays: “ here I am in this break of day, spring of a new incoming feeling” and, thus, this storytelling enables my links to a community and that enables my links to art, between art and science, between art and technology and yet …

And yet?

They all say to you in a less than loud voice: “you’re a broken record and it is the economy”…. the economy…the economy the economy…the economy….the economy…the economy…

 “No, not just the economy”, I reply hesitating. “Our values are…..” (and I pause for a glass of water)…” Our values were given  to us, almost forced upon us, by ancient aliens: those…Gods”.

“AND WITH THOSE VALUES WE WERE GIVEN, the main one was an actual value: the economy”, I heard – as if shouted at me from the skies- a tremor or a voice. A tremor. I cried.

 But this crying of mine is just, it’s fair, it’s an atonal note, a rash of a feeling, a rancid taste of a note whispers in my wondering mind noises to the extent of complete denial, noises which, at closer inspection one could, one should regard as THE TRUTH because? Because? Why ?

Well…. Simply because the system is a self defeating one, a killer of the self, a self

deploring object of death, a treaty of death, of how it all ENDS, of how termination is

…well, terminal, the finality, I guess.

 I guess.

 Six hundred pages that are a somewhat coherent reflection of who I am, who I was but to

recapture it? HOW ? it happened so fast. It all goes by so fast !!!!

I am, as a being, shortsighted, cruel and unusual. “Unusual indeed” says the voice.

I live in constriction, in a state of constriction and one wherein the sole extent of a confounding emotion is, shall I say, manipulated, yes, manipulated, for a better and larger good.

The deed of the Gods. I know they exist.

If those pyramids exist, if those sphinxes, if those tunnels exist – that link all links and provoke a splendid dawn into the dusk and vice versa since it is my dawn, only mine, it is dark, my Spring seems to be occulted by the dead leaves left deft daft of some personal and more than just personal stains in brine kept alive so that I could, one day, one damn day, pose such questions to the universe ….. yes, eyes and the intrinsic link between all manifestations of writing, of storytelling and those who bother to read me.

Too many memories. Far too many memories.

Now I’m being presented with a book, an enormous 600 page book containing ALL my plays.

Pose such questions to the universe?

Pose such questions to the universe?

Pose such questions to the universe?

THANK YOU for this brief encounter. Thank you.

 Pose such questions as, for instance, with tears in my eyes and a deeply stained soul,

And still wandering at large, no id card, no identity though so many, no language though so many, I ask…

 I look through the dusk and the fog at the skies and I ask, I shout, I scream into

The godly heaven….

 WHO WAS I ? WHAT WAS I ?

WHO WAS HE? WHAT WAS HE?

 Astounded as I am,

I remain,

Sincerely,

 

Gerald Thomas

NYC , Nov 3, 2019

 

 

 

 

 

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