Estamos todos de passagem, por francisco vaz brasil

estamos todos de passagem

francisco vaz brasil

o

olho

imóvel

inalterável

parece buscar

pedaços de infinito:

no exílio dos silêncios

estamos todos

de passagem

Réquiem d’criança, por francisco vaz brasil

Réquiem d’criança

francisco vaz brasil

D’algum ventre surgiu

está deitada

sobre o papelão

sob a marquise

sob o banco

sob a chuva

y más otras

y otras

agora são muitas

agora são tantas

que choram sobre

o banco da praça;

ainda não tomaram café

ontem, hoje, imemorial;

& agora cheiram a coisa

& e agora fumam baganas

ante o olhar sereno do maior

abandonado:

até que chegue a polícia

tudo pelo social

pelo social, tudo

social pelo todo

até o que morrer primeiro

hasta el que murir primero.

Cancionera, por francisco vaz brasil

Cancionera

francisco vaz brasil

Tua presença

Minha fonte

Tua ausência

Íntima morte

A cidade dorme

E o beijo imagina

Verdade & salvação

Uma criança sangra

Plasmando tierra y flor

A mão que se perdeu

Louvando destino & sorte

Saúda a multidão

De famintos desempregados

Vem ó justiceiro

Parido na foz da carne

Vem salvar esta cidade

& renascer o amanhã

# quadrilha #

francisco vaz brasil

Mayor mandou dinheiro pro paraíso,

Banker fazia lavagem,

Builder prometia condomínios,

mas não entregava.

Judge mandava prender

A TV mostrou a novela

Lawyer recebia seus fees

lavados em Fiscal Paradises.

Depois de muitas laudas

Judge mandou soltar,

Pois as Laws não se aplicavam

Hábeas corpus, sursis, - pouca vergonha!

E Nobody tem nada com isso

OPUS i a iii, por Francisco Vaz Brasil

OPUS i a iii

francisco vaz brasil

Opus i

esta

terra

é minha.

pedaço imerecido

onde planto aipim

ossos outonais

sopa do amanhã

Opus ii

meu país tem

terras roxas

tinta sangue

suor

y

lágrimas

agriculturáveis

opus iii

bloco

político

polido por

trustes y cartéis

cumpre o doloroso

dever de rifar

uma sem uso

c.b. oitenta e oito

verdadeira raridade

On the Road (1957), by Jack Kerouac

On the Road (1957)
Author: Jack Kerouac

The book that launched a thousand trips. For his hyperkinetic, endearing, culture-changing novel, Kerouac admitted whole worlds through his windshield. An account of a few pinwheeling characters in perpetual cross-country motion, it has room to spare for rivers, landscapes, starry skies, Benzedrine addicts, endless marathons of driving, the hipster demiurge Dean Moriarty and lots of other fast-talking madmen. "Because the only people for me are the mad ones," Kerouac's narrator, Sal Paradise, tells us. "The ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved." Capote's famous putdown of the book got it exactly backwards. That's not typing, Truman. That's writing.—R.L.

From the TIME Archive:
"Kerouac has a Wolfelike love of the U.S. and a Whitmanesque weakness for cataloguing nearly every experience"
—TIME Magazine, Sept. 16, 1957

The Ganser Syndrome

Last summer a U.S. writer named Jack Kerouac went to Paris, was unable to find a room or anyone to talk to. and went home after a week. "Paris." he says, "rejected me." Now he spends a lot of time in his mother's house in Orlando, Fla., painting (on cheap paper, with a mixture of house paint and glue) and writing (sometimes in much the same style). Having learned that the Left Bank ''lost generation" era is no more, he writes about the "beat generation"—and "beat," he says, really stands for "beatific."

The post-World War II generation—beat or beatific—has not found symbolic spokesmen with anywhere near the talents of Fitzgerald, Hemingway or Nathanael West. In this novel, talented Author Kerouac, 35, does not join that literary league, either, but at least he suggests that his generation is not silent. With his barbaric yawp of a book. Kerouac commands attention as a kind of literary James Dean.

The story is set in the late 1940s. told in the first person by Sal Paradise, a budding writer given to ecstasies about America, hot jazz, the meaning of life, and marijuana. The book's protagonist is Dean Moriarty ("a sideburned hero of the snowy West"), who has spent a third of his waking time in poolrooms, a third in jail, a third in public libraries, and is always shouting "Yes, yes, yes!" to every experience. Dean and Sal and their other buddies—Carlo Marx, the frenzied poet; Ed Dunkel, an amiable cipher; Remi Boncoeur, who has the second loudest laugh in San Francisco—are forever racing cross-country to meet one another. Their frantic reunions are curiously reminiscent of lodge and business conventions, with the same shouts of fellowship, hard drinking, furtive attempts at sexual dalliance—and, after a few days, the same boredom.

Belly-Bottom Strain. Then Sal's pals are off again, by bus. on foot, by thumb, roaming the continent, feeling the wind of Wyoming nights and the heat of Texas days, looking for Moriarty's never-to-be-found father or anyone's sister, always expecting the ultimate in music or love or understanding around the next bend in the road. Excitement and movement mean everything. Steady jobs and homes in the suburbs are for the "squares."

Dean Moriarty. a real gone kid in whom Sal sees traces of a "W. C. Fields saintliness," is the only authentic proletarian in a basically timorous band of bourgeois rebels. Dean steals cars where the others are scarcely capable of filching a loaf of bread from an untended grocery. He takes women and abandons them, wrecks Cadillacs for the hell of it. deserts his friends. He talks a blue streak in a syntax-free jumble of metaphysics, hipster jargon, quotations from comic strips and animal gruntings. Describing the skills of a hot saxophonist. Dean cries: "Here's a guy and everybody's there, right? Up to him to put down what's on everybody's mind. He starts the first chorus, then lines up his ideas, people, yeah, yeah, but get it. and then he rises to his fate and has to blow equal to it. All of a sudden, somewhere in the middle of the chorus he gets it . . . Time stops. He's filling empty space with the substance of our lives, confessions of his belly bottom strain, remembrance of ideas, rehashes of old blowing."

Fevered Roman Candles Novelist Kerouac writes somewhat better than his hero speaks. Currently a member of the

San Francisco poets' group (whose disciples do not necessarily stay put in San Francisco), Kerouac has a Wolfelike love of the U.S. and a Whitmanesque weakness for cataloguing nearly every experience. His novel is partly an ingenuous travel book, partly a collection of journalistic jottings about adventures that are known to everyone who has ever hitchhiked more than a hundred miles in the U.S. The book's importance lies in Author Kerouac's attempt to create a rationale for the fevered young who twitch around the nation's jukeboxes and brawl pointlessly in the midnight streets. He sees his characters as "the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles." They are hedonists of the kind whose highest goal is "a fast car, a coast to reach, and a woman at the end of the road."

In literature, swaggering Dean Moriarty is perhaps closest in his amorality to a character created by Petronius Arbiter in the ist century A.D.—the rascally Encolpius, who lived by his wits in Nero's fat and frightened time. In contemporary terms, Moriarty seems even closer to a prison psychosis that is a variety of the Ganser Syndrome.* Its symptoms, as described by one psychiatrist, sound like a playback from Kerouac's novel: "The patient exaggerates his mood and his feelings: he 'lets himself go' and gets himself into a highly emotional state. He is uncooperative, refuses to answer questions or obey orders . . . At other times he will thrash about wildly. His talk may be disjointed and difficult to follow.''

The significant thing about sufferers from the Ganser Syndrome is that they are not really mad—they only seem to be.

^{* For Sigbert Joseph Maria Ganser, a Dresden psychiatrist (1853-1931).}

http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,840332-3,00.html

1984, by George Orwell

1984 (1948)
Author: George Orwell

The time is 13 o'clock; the date doesn't matter; the year goes without saying. Winston Smith, a bureaucrat at the Ministry of Truth, toils day and night in the service of Big Brother, the remote, faux-benign ruler of this eerily familiar dystopia. Orwell's novel is a study of every possible way a nation can be beaten down by its government: spiritually, physically, intellectually, by the media, torture, surveillance, and censorship, to the point where the state can manipulate reality at will. When Smith is tempted by a beautiful resistance fighter into an act of rebellion, 1984 becomes something more: a strange, tragic, deeply sad love story. It is Orwell's triumph, and the century's misfortune, that 1984 is as prescient as it is pessimistic.—L.G.

From the TIME Archive:
In 1984 there is not a smile or a jest that does not add bitterness to Orwell's utterly depressing vision of what the world may be in 35 years' time

Where the Rainbow Ends

In Britain 1984 A.D., no one would have suspected that Winston and Julia were capable of crimethink (dangerous thoughts) or a secret desire for ownlife (individualism). After all, Party-Member Winston Smith was one of the Ministry of Truth's most trusted forgers; he had always flung himself heart & soul into the falsification of government statistics. And Party-Member Julia was outwardly so goodthinkful (naturally orthodox) that, after a brilliant girlhood in the Spies, she became active in the Junior Anti-Sex League and was snapped up by Pornosec, a subsection of the government Fiction Department that ground out happy-making pornography for the masses. In short, the grim, grey London Times could not have been referring to Winston and Julia when it snorted contemptuously: "Old-thinkers unbellyfeel Ingsoc," i.e., "Those whose ideas were formed before the Revolution cannot have a full emotional understanding of the principles of English Socialism."

How Winston and Julia rebelled, fell in love and paid the penalty in the terroristic world of tomorrow is the thread on which Britain's George Orwell has spun his latest and finest work of fiction. In Animal Farm (TIME, Feb. 4, 1946,) Orwell parodied the Communist system in terms of barnyard satire; but in 1984 (which, along with John Gunther's Behind the Curtain —see below—is the Book-of-the-Month Club's selection for July), there is not a smile or a jest that does not add bitterness to Orwell's utterly depressing vision of what the world may be in 35 years' time.

Absolutely Super. In Orwell's 1984, Britain is no longer Britain. It is merely part of the superstate Oceania (the British Isles and Atlantic Islands, North and South America, southern Africa, Australasia). From 1960 on, Oceania has been ceaselessly at war, sometimes as ally and sometimes as foe, with Eurasia or Eastasia, the only other existing powers. All three of these monolithic superstates have the atom bomb; none ever uses it because continuous, wasteful, indecisive warfare has become economically essential—"to use up the products of the machine without raising the general standard of living."

Ideologically, Oceania, Eastasia and Eurasia have no quarrel; they are alike as three blackjacks. But war has turned out to be the simplest way of convincing the masses that their countries and their lives are in a state of emergency, which can only be met if all thought, as well as all government, is subject to absolute dictatorship. Hence the three great slogans that Oceania's wretched citizens read and hear every hour of their lives:

WAR is PEACE

FREEDOM IS SLAVERY

IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,997927,00.html?internalid=atb100