trevor, the chipmunk
cortando a faixinha, sobre ficar triste e outras coisas, por que não.
digo dessas vezes em que há apenas uns esboços de razão, todos bem fracos, quase impostos. vai-se sem muito propósito à cozinha, um copo d'água é enchido por ser a coisa mais óbvia a se fazer por lá. por um instante se foca meio borrado na sensação do contato da água com os lábios, a boca; olha-se pros azulejos de granito, rascunha-se uma tentativa de formar uns padrões, uns desenhos com as miudezas estampadas. antes de qualquer coisa, ou depois talvez de um rosto, vem a desistência, e a atenção se vira pras linhas que separam os azulejos. aí a resignação é ainda mais rápida, na falta de algo imediato a ser procurado - e, houvesse, não o seria, de toda forma, não de verdade. processos análogos por mais um tempo, em ciclos, ciclos de ciclos etc.
é engraçado, mesmo. há um limite, um ponto onde não se alcança mais nada, mas ainda assim se empurra; é a coisa mais difícil de não se fazer, menos trabalhoso que largar quieto. na falta de motivos, há sempre o passado, intocável, como último recurso; as noites em lugares barulhentos, as pessoas que nunca mais serão vistas. e, ainda que há muito já se percebeu como é ridículo e bobinho, não há ninguém por perto, tem-se você como sua própria referência, daí há espaço pra tudo isso adquirir grandeza e importância livres, arbitráveis ao infinito, e quase sempre acaba em níveis lunáticos. fica-se tão absorto nesse mundinho que, aparecesse alguém do nada, cogitaria-se rapidamente* risadas histéricas** como alguma espécie de defesa. tanto que se ri um pouco, de leve, sozinho mesmo, havendo timidez o bastante.
*rapidamente como em impulso imediato e logo antagonizado e eliminado por, sei lá, senso comum?
**rir histericamente, aliás, nessas situações, considero um recurso melhor que chorar, mas não por muito. nenhum dos dois faz, hm, meu tipo, de toda forma, nunca fez.
---
não é o caso agora, esclareço. agora quero dizer que quase qualquer coisa de certo e duradouro (e do oposto, também, mas) que já escrevi foi nesse estado, mesmo, já que não levo jeito pra espertinhezas. das melhores de verdade, as mais significativas, foram dois de nós assim: quando eu e john - trevor, enfim - escrevíamos. era algo ridiculamente especial. relendo não consigo lembrar por minha vida quase nada do que eu escrevi, o que ele escreveu - genuinamente não importava, acho. chuto que, se contarmos, contabilizamos o exato mesmo número de caracteres, e em cada peça uma razão bonita entre os números.
perdemos contato, nós. peguei o nome pra mim. acho que é má idéia tentar uma reaproximação.
---
when i was little, my parents used to take my sisters and i into the city. we piled into a car with a broken door and no rearview mirror.
every mile was a miracle.
i was the middle child in my family. on account of my misfortune, i had to sit in between my other siblings. i used to hold my head in my hands and think about cloudy days and hurricanes. it helped me cope with the absence of air conditioning.
we drove on a lot of side roads. i always hated it when we didn't take the highway, because i became easily car sick. my favorite part of the trip was when we crossed the steel bridge that stretched over a black river.
it took two hours to get to the city, so there are two paragraphs devoted to this dreaded car trip.
the city always seemed cold to me when we went there. i used to joke with my parents and say, why is it called november? it should be called coldvember. my father used to smile at me and he told me to stop acting silly. what really got me was that even if it was blistering hot outside of the city, it always seemed cold in the maze of buildings.
the city was also very dark. i used to be intimidated by the amount of people wearing black suits. i used to pretend that the city was a sort of "training ground" for the army. i would shoot imaginary bullets at imaginary communists out of my fingertips. i also addressed everyone as "comrade". i blame my grandfather telling me about the red army when i could barely talk.
he made me more paranoid then the russians themselves.
my mother always insisted that i held onto her hand like it was the only thing keeping me in the real world. i wish i had someone to hold onto now. my mother cannot fill that gap any longer.
i miss childhood. i miss being able to devote my life to sunday morning cartoons.
i met my first homeless man in the city. i will never forget it. he called himself emmanuel and he had a beard that would rival father time's. i remember that he was wearing a bright red hat that matched his ears; emmanuel must have also noticed the chill of the city. he told me that it pained him to see such a young and innocent boy such as myself. he said he remembered going to coney island when he was young, and he used to get lost on the beach and strangers would always help him find his parents. he said that if a child like myself got lost on that beach, i would probably be kidnapped and never seen again.
emmanuel told me how the city was slowly becoming "the antithesis of hell but still it contained the demons of sheol". my adolescent eyes just blinked back tears of pity and yearning for awareness.
my memory tells me that this old man was very frail. his legs were like chicken bones and his skin was weathered and loose. his voice was strained and broken, like an old vinyl record crackling through a phonograph.
i talked with emmanuel for probably around 3 minutes. my parents were purchasing hot dogs and my sisters were chasing pigeons on the sidewalk. they never felt the cold chill of the city.
i stood there looking at emmanuel for a short period of time in silence. i stood there in awe of this worn out and insane old man. even to this day, i remain silent as i remember emmanuel and his perfect world of discord.
my family still travels to the city. many things have changed, though. the car is no longer broken and i no longer sit in the middle. i have claimed my male dominance over my sisters and now i sit next to the window, with my eyes firmly set on the horizon.
i can also no longer fight imaginary communists either. the sight of a finger rifle would probably arise an ignorant suspicion from the midnight populace. every year my family travels to the city. every year it gets a little colder.
digo dessas vezes em que há apenas uns esboços de razão, todos bem fracos, quase impostos. vai-se sem muito propósito à cozinha, um copo d'água é enchido por ser a coisa mais óbvia a se fazer por lá. por um instante se foca meio borrado na sensação do contato da água com os lábios, a boca; olha-se pros azulejos de granito, rascunha-se uma tentativa de formar uns padrões, uns desenhos com as miudezas estampadas. antes de qualquer coisa, ou depois talvez de um rosto, vem a desistência, e a atenção se vira pras linhas que separam os azulejos. aí a resignação é ainda mais rápida, na falta de algo imediato a ser procurado - e, houvesse, não o seria, de toda forma, não de verdade. processos análogos por mais um tempo, em ciclos, ciclos de ciclos etc.
é engraçado, mesmo. há um limite, um ponto onde não se alcança mais nada, mas ainda assim se empurra; é a coisa mais difícil de não se fazer, menos trabalhoso que largar quieto. na falta de motivos, há sempre o passado, intocável, como último recurso; as noites em lugares barulhentos, as pessoas que nunca mais serão vistas. e, ainda que há muito já se percebeu como é ridículo e bobinho, não há ninguém por perto, tem-se você como sua própria referência, daí há espaço pra tudo isso adquirir grandeza e importância livres, arbitráveis ao infinito, e quase sempre acaba em níveis lunáticos. fica-se tão absorto nesse mundinho que, aparecesse alguém do nada, cogitaria-se rapidamente* risadas histéricas** como alguma espécie de defesa. tanto que se ri um pouco, de leve, sozinho mesmo, havendo timidez o bastante.
*rapidamente como em impulso imediato e logo antagonizado e eliminado por, sei lá, senso comum?
**rir histericamente, aliás, nessas situações, considero um recurso melhor que chorar, mas não por muito. nenhum dos dois faz, hm, meu tipo, de toda forma, nunca fez.
---
não é o caso agora, esclareço. agora quero dizer que quase qualquer coisa de certo e duradouro (e do oposto, também, mas) que já escrevi foi nesse estado, mesmo, já que não levo jeito pra espertinhezas. das melhores de verdade, as mais significativas, foram dois de nós assim: quando eu e john - trevor, enfim - escrevíamos. era algo ridiculamente especial. relendo não consigo lembrar por minha vida quase nada do que eu escrevi, o que ele escreveu - genuinamente não importava, acho. chuto que, se contarmos, contabilizamos o exato mesmo número de caracteres, e em cada peça uma razão bonita entre os números.
perdemos contato, nós. peguei o nome pra mim. acho que é má idéia tentar uma reaproximação.
---
when i was little, my parents used to take my sisters and i into the city. we piled into a car with a broken door and no rearview mirror.
every mile was a miracle.
i was the middle child in my family. on account of my misfortune, i had to sit in between my other siblings. i used to hold my head in my hands and think about cloudy days and hurricanes. it helped me cope with the absence of air conditioning.
we drove on a lot of side roads. i always hated it when we didn't take the highway, because i became easily car sick. my favorite part of the trip was when we crossed the steel bridge that stretched over a black river.
it took two hours to get to the city, so there are two paragraphs devoted to this dreaded car trip.
the city always seemed cold to me when we went there. i used to joke with my parents and say, why is it called november? it should be called coldvember. my father used to smile at me and he told me to stop acting silly. what really got me was that even if it was blistering hot outside of the city, it always seemed cold in the maze of buildings.
the city was also very dark. i used to be intimidated by the amount of people wearing black suits. i used to pretend that the city was a sort of "training ground" for the army. i would shoot imaginary bullets at imaginary communists out of my fingertips. i also addressed everyone as "comrade". i blame my grandfather telling me about the red army when i could barely talk.
he made me more paranoid then the russians themselves.
my mother always insisted that i held onto her hand like it was the only thing keeping me in the real world. i wish i had someone to hold onto now. my mother cannot fill that gap any longer.
i miss childhood. i miss being able to devote my life to sunday morning cartoons.
i met my first homeless man in the city. i will never forget it. he called himself emmanuel and he had a beard that would rival father time's. i remember that he was wearing a bright red hat that matched his ears; emmanuel must have also noticed the chill of the city. he told me that it pained him to see such a young and innocent boy such as myself. he said he remembered going to coney island when he was young, and he used to get lost on the beach and strangers would always help him find his parents. he said that if a child like myself got lost on that beach, i would probably be kidnapped and never seen again.
emmanuel told me how the city was slowly becoming "the antithesis of hell but still it contained the demons of sheol". my adolescent eyes just blinked back tears of pity and yearning for awareness.
my memory tells me that this old man was very frail. his legs were like chicken bones and his skin was weathered and loose. his voice was strained and broken, like an old vinyl record crackling through a phonograph.
i talked with emmanuel for probably around 3 minutes. my parents were purchasing hot dogs and my sisters were chasing pigeons on the sidewalk. they never felt the cold chill of the city.
i stood there looking at emmanuel for a short period of time in silence. i stood there in awe of this worn out and insane old man. even to this day, i remain silent as i remember emmanuel and his perfect world of discord.
my family still travels to the city. many things have changed, though. the car is no longer broken and i no longer sit in the middle. i have claimed my male dominance over my sisters and now i sit next to the window, with my eyes firmly set on the horizon.
i can also no longer fight imaginary communists either. the sight of a finger rifle would probably arise an ignorant suspicion from the midnight populace. every year my family travels to the city. every year it gets a little colder.
