Sons da Escrita 188

5 de Setembro de 2008

Primeiro programa do ciclo Luís Filipe Nava

Compasso a compasso, palavra a palavra, alinham-se, rigorosos, os sons da escrita.

Quando um homem interroga a água pura dos sentidos e ousa caminhar, serenamente, os esquecidos atalhos de todas as memórias, acontecem viagens — viagens entre o quase tudo e o quase nada.

Então, da raíz dos nervos da memória surge a planta de uma vida escutada no silêncio dos sons da escrita.

Sons da Escrita – à volta de uma ideia de José-António Moreira.


•••

Sem outro intuito (Luís Miguel Nava)

Atirávamos pedras
à água para o silêncio vir à tona.
O mundo, que os sentidos tonificam,
surgia-nos então todo enterrado
na nossa própria carne, envolto
por vezes em ferozes transparências
que as pedras acirravam
sem outro intuito além do de extraírem
às águas o silêncio que as unia.


A pocketful of stones (David Gilmour)

He's sending stones skimming and flying
Circles spinning out his time
Though the earth is dying his head is in the stars
Chances are this spark's a lifetime

Out of touch he'll live in wonder
Won't lose sleep he'll just pretend
In his world he won't go under
Turns without him until the end

Rivers run dry but there's no line on his brow
Says he doesn't care who's saved
It's just the dice you roll, the here and now
And he's not guilty or afraid

One day he'll slip away
Cool water flowing all around
In the river and on the ground
Leave a pocketful of stones and not believe in other lives

Until then he'll live in wonder
He won't fight or comprehend
In his world he won't go under
Turns without him until the end


Onde à nudez (Luís Miguel Nava)

Escrevo onde à nudez cabe o papel habitualmente atribuído a uma janela. Quando afasto as cores para no lugar delas não deixar senão a luz ou me debruço ao peitoril sobre os meus próprios intestinos, a ficção fica por conta dos relâmpagos. É como se habitasse uma cidade que tivesse um espelho por subúrbios e o mar viesse estilhaçar-se ao fundo da memória, onde se encontra o coração. Abro na página um buraco onde alicerço a casa, as letras vêm às janelas.


Flowers in the window (Travis)

When I first held you I was cold
A melting snowman I was told
But there was no-one there to hold before
I swore that I would be alone for ever more
Wow look at you now
Flowers in the window
It's such a lovely day
And I'm glad you feel the same
Cause to stand up, out in the crowd
You are one in a million And I love you so
Lets watch the flowers grow

There is no reason to feel bad
But there are many seasons to feel glad, sad, mad
It's just a bunch of feelings that we have to hold
But I am here to help you with the load

Wow look at you now Flowers in the window
It's such a lovely day
And I'm glad you feel the same
Cause to stand up, out in the crowd
You are one in a million And I love you so
Lets watch the flowers grow

So now we're here and now is fine
So far away from there and there is time, time, time
To plant new seeds and watch them grow
So there'll be flowers in the window when we go

Wow look at us now Flowers in the window
It's such a lovely day
And I'm glad you feel the same
Cause to stand up, out in the crowd
You are one in a million And I love you so
Lets watch the flowers grow
Wow look at you now Flowers in the window
Its such a lovely day
And I'm glad you feel the same
Cause to stand up, out in the crowd
You are one in a million And I love you so
Let's watch the flowers grow


Os nós da escrita (Luís Miguel Nava)

Escrever é, para mim, tentar desfazer nós, embora o que na realidade acabo sempre por fazer seja embrulhar ainda mais os fios. A própria caligrafia é sufocada.
Há, todavia, um momento em que as palavras são cuspidas, saem em borbotões, e o sangue e a saliva impregnam o sentido. É impossível separá-los.
Por trás talvez não haja mesmo nada. São palavras que não estão ginasticadas, que secam e encarquilham como folhas por que a seiva já não passe.
Oprimem toda a página, através da qual deixa de ser possível respirar. Tapam-lhe os poros. A própria chuva que neles caia não se escoa.


Everyday I write the book (Elvis Costello)

Don't tell me you don't know what love is
When you're old enough to know better
When you find strange hands in your sweater
When your dreamboat turns out to be a footnote
I'm a man with a mission in two or three editions

And I'm giving you a longing look
Everyday, everyday, everyday I write the book

Chapter One we didn't really get along
Chapter Two I think I fell in love with you
You said you'd stand by me in the middle of Chapter Three
But you were up to your old tricks in
Chapters Four, Five and Six

And I'm giving you a longing look
Everyday, everyday, everyday I write the book
The way you walk
The way you talk, and try to kiss me, and laugh
In four or five paragraphs
All your compliments and your cutting remarks
Are captured here in my quotation marks

And I'm giving you a longing look
Everyday, everyday, everyday I write the book
Don't tell me you don't know the difference
Between a lover and a fighter
With my pen and my electric typewriter
Even in a perfect world where everyone was equal
I'd still own the film rights and be working on the sequel

And I'm giving you a longing look
Everyday, everyday, everyday I write the book


Aqui, como se o livro, onde o atingisse o mar, se desfizesse e nele por fim a letra errante, essa insidiosa letra há tantos anos à deriva, achasse o espaço onde coubesse, principio.


Música:

Genérico
Davy Spillane (abertura e fecho), Beatles (Fecho)

Fundos
Michael Dana & Jeff Dana

Ligações
David Gilmour, Travis, Elvis Costello

Textos:
Luís Filipe Castro Mendes

Edição e voz:
José-António Moreira


•••|•••|•••


And in the end

the love you'll take

is equal to the love you make

© José-António Moreira 2012