quinta-feira, 1 de fevereiro de 2018

ANEMIC CINEMA (MARCEL DUCHAMP) (1926)



Fonte: YouTube.

Cinema Anêmico é um filme experimental do artista Marcel Duchamp, sob o pseudônimo de Rrose Sélavy, feito em 1926, em colaboração com Man Ray. É o único filme dadaísta do diretor.

Devido ao caráter dadaísta do filme, não há trama; somente uma série de imagens hipnóticas, em geral concentricas ou em espiral, alternadas com trocadilhos em francês seguindo o mesmo formato.

As frases que aparecem no filme são:

Bains de gros thé pour grains de beauté sans trop de Bengué.

Banho de chá forte, para grãos de beleza, sem muita Bengué (Bengué ou BenGay era um analgésico inventado pelo médico francês Jules Bengué).

L'enfant qui téte est un souffleur de chair chaude et n'aime pas le chou-fleur de serre chaude.

A criança cuja cabeça é um soprador de cadeiras quente e não ama couve-flor de estufa quente.

Si je te donne un sou me donneras tu une paire de ciseaux?

Se eu te der um centavo, tu me darás um par de tesouras?

On demande des moustiques domestiques (demi-stock) pour la cure d'azote sur la Côte d'Azur.

Exigimos mosquitos domésticos (meia estoque) para cura de azoto, na Côte d'Azur.

Inceste ou passion de famille, à coups trop tirés.

Incesto ou paixão de família, a golpes fortes.

Esquivons les ecchymoses des esquimaux aux mots exquis.

Esquivamo-nos de contusões dos esquimós com requintadas palavras.

Avez vous deja mis la moëlle de l'épée dans le poële de l'aimée?

Você já foi a medula da espada na panela do amado?

Parmi nos articles de quincaillerie paresseuse, nous recommandons le robinet qui s'arrête de couler quand on ne l'écoute pas.

Entre nossas ferramentas preguiçosas, recomendamos a torneira que para de fluir quando não se ouve

L'aspirant habite Javel et moi j'avais l'habite en spirale.

O aspirante vive na água sanitária e eu tive que habitar a espiral.


Fonte: Wikipédia.

RUMAAL

IS SHE SICK?

By Arjun Singh Bhati (Jaisalmer, India)

“Why are you cooking food?” I asked my headmaster.He did not reply. I asked again, but he did not reply. I changed my question this time. “Is she sick?” I asked, pointing to his wife.

She was sitting in a corner of the room, reading a storybook. She was looking well, but I was worried and feeling uncomfortable here. I knew she was sick, and this could be the only reason that she would allow her husband to cook. I was not in the habit of poking my nose into another’s personal matters. But here something was wrong, and I thought I should help them.

Now I got very serious and went up close to him and told him, “It’s better that we think about her rather than our dinner. I ought to go to the village Sarpanch’s home and
call for a taxi.” It was the only home in the village where there was a phone.
“It is better if we take her to hospital without wasting time; soon it is going to be dark, and we would be rather helpless then,” I pleaded. The closest medical facility, a primary health center, was twenty kilometers from there. But to my surprise, my headmaster was busy making chapaties, and his wife was busy reading a book. They were both smiling. Yes, smiling. Why? I did not know.

It was Sunday evening, and I had been invited by my headmaster for dinner. I had been recently appointed as a primary teacher in this village. I had finished my degree in teaching from Jodhpur and was very excited to get this job.
This was a small village of a hundred houses surrounded by sand dunes, about seventy kilometers from the city. Even to reach this village, one had to travel by a mud road more than ten kilometers. There was no electricity or proper water facilities. I had been here for the last couple of weeks.

I stayed in the school building about a kilometer from the village. I cooked my food there, and some students were also there to help me prepare food and fetch water.
There was only one well-built house, the landlord’s house, in the center of the village, surrounded by many mud houses. Most of the people who lived in the mud houses were barbers, potters, cobblers, and other lower castes. All the houses were constructed with their doors facing either east or west. There was not a single house in
the whole village with a door opening to the south or north.

Mostly in this area, the landlords belonged to the Rajput community, but here in this village, the landlord was from the Brahmin community. The house of the landlord
was empty now. The son of the landlord was settled in the city. He came once, when I was in the village during the elections. He was sitting on the charpoy (a bed with a
frame of ropes or tape) in the open yard of his old home under the shadow of the only big tree in the village. All the villagers were listening to him carefully with their hands
folded. Perhaps he had come here to use the influence of his ancestors to get them to vote for and support the candidate he brought with him.

Lower-caste people had their homes on the outskirts of the village. They were more interested in sending their children to school than the others. One of the educated
young men from a lower-caste family was working as a teacher in the only school of the village where I had been appointed. To my surprise, he did not get the respect due to a teacher. He stood up from his chair when an ill-mannered villager from a higher caste came into the school; he gave him his chair and sat on the ground. The villager was now sitting in the chair with his legs on the table. This action of
the teacher’s disturbed me.
“You are a teacher, and you should feel proud of it,” I
said.
“Arjun, you live in the city, and you have a different way of life, but I live in this village, and I know my place in thiscaste-dominated society,” he replied.
“But it is changing; you should protest,” I argued.
He laughed. Perhaps there was a weakness in his personality or a kind of inferiority complex that would take time to get better. It was something unheard of for all of
my students when they saw me taking tea at his home. I had to set an example for my students, showing that we all are equal, but I was shocked to find out that he was
not very serious toward his work. It looked like he did not want the kids of the higher castes to be educated. Perhaps it was indirect revenge taken for his ancestors who had been tormented by the higher castes.

It was very boring at night; I was alone in the building about a kilometer from the village. The only good thing at night was the sweet songs of a shepherd, near the school boundary, with his sheep. The song that I always loved to hear was about a lady.

During the day I was very busy with my students. It was quite challenging to introduce the new teaching methods, like the child-centered method or enjoyable learning as
opposed to the traditional methods. The students always saw the teacher with a stick. What a day it was when I first recited a rhyme in the class. All the students were enjoying it, while some of the villagers were peeping through the windows, perhaps thinking, “The teacher has gone mad: he is singing.”

I was a complete change for everyone, with new thoughts and new ideas. Teachers were still using outdated methods of teaching. Stress was put on memorizing, not on
understanding. Once I wrote on the blackboard: “A cow has four legs, it has two eyes, it has a nose, and it has a long tail.” I told my students that we would learn to write about
“my teacher” tomorrow. The next day, to my surprise, one of my students showed me his notebook.
“I have written about my teacher, sir. Please check it: ‘My teacher has four legs, my teacher has two eyes, and my teacher has a tail.’”
Well, time was passing, and I was doing my best to promote primary education in the village there.

Even on Sunday it was not possible to go to the city to meet my family, as there was no bus on Saturday evening, so I usually planned to stay at the village on Sunday.
Sometimes I went to the nearby village where I could catch a bus on Saturday at about 4:00 p.m. to go to the city.
Always on Saturday after school, I filled a bottle of water and walked eight kilometers on foot in the afternoon heat of around 107°F.
I was going to my headmaster’s home today for the first time, and I had nothing special to take as a gift. I was feeling uneasy, but the headmaster was a very kind man,
and he asked me to join his family for dinner. I could not say no.

My headmaster lived in the middle of a village with his wife and two daughters. He was from the Brahmin community and was a nice man.

I was regretting my question. Perhaps my headmaster understood. He motioned for me to go outside with him. I quickly went out, followed by him. We were now outside,
sitting on a charpoy under a tree. He laughed awhile. I was surprised and asked him to explain what the matter was.

He said, “You are a fool, or it would be better if I say just very innocent. You know nothing about this world. I think you wasted your time there at university, reading only books and not learning about life.”
But before he said anything else, I said, “I never saw a man cooking food when his wife or mother was at home. It is different that I cook food here, as I am alone here, but
your wife is sitting there in the home, and you are cooking food. I simply do not understand. I never saw my father or my grandfather cooking food if my mother or grandmother was at home, not only at my home, but also at the homes of all my relatives. It is not merely surprising but quite shocking.”

“Well, you belong to the Rajput community, while I belong to another, and we have some different customs and traditions,” he explained. “Do you know what the
menstrual cycle is?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I’ve read about this in books. But how is it related to this matter?” I asked.
“Well, my dear boy, a woman is not supposed to enter the kitchen if she is menstruating,” he said.
I was speechless.
“The lady is not pure, and she is unclean. She is kept free from all the domestic work.”
What a secret had been revealed to me! Unbelievable! I could not believe it, but I was sure my headmaster was not kidding me. I felt ashamed not knowing about it.

My headmaster went back into the house and asked me to follow, but I could not face his wife. What would she think about me? What a fool I must seem to her now! I rushed back to my school. I knew now what a silly question I had asked my headmaster.

After an hour my headmaster knocked at my door. I opened the door, and he gave me a box. He said, “I am not a good cook, but I hope you enjoy the taste.” Yes, the food was tasty and quite different from what we ate at home. Perhaps Brahmins were more concerned about nutrition, while we Kshatriya were more concerned about taste and used ingredients that were supposed to be aggressive, like garlic, onion, meat, etc. Brahmins are vegetarian, while my community is nonvegetarian.

It was five years later, and I was sitting at my friend’s home in Jaisalmer city. He offered me tea, which I accepted. His wife was watching television in the same room where we were sitting. My friend stood up and went into the kitchen to prepare tea.
A quick question arose in my mind, and before I could stop myself, my friend heard me asking, “Why are you making tea? Is your wife sick?” Oh my God, the same
mistake again, for a second time.
She looked at me, smiled, and turned her face away, before my friend came out of the kitchen. I was out of his home, kick-started my motorbike, and rode away.
That same day I asked my wife to explain all about this tradition of ladies not being allowed to enter the kitchen.
She said, “I heard that some people say that a lady is kept free from all domestic work because she needs rest, but at the same time, there are some other stories also. In some families, a girl or a lady is not treated well if she has the menstrual cycle. She is treated as if she is unclean. She is not allowed to worship, to drink the water from the same water pot used for other family members, to share a bed, and to
touch the cooking utensils.”

Well, it is a matter related to tradition, quite complicated to understand for many people, but the fact is that it is so.


I hope I will not ask for the third time, “Is she sick?”

RECORDANDO O PASSADO… EM BRAGANÇA


Por Humberto Pinho da Silva (Porto, Portugal)



Fecho os olhos, e vejo. – Como vejo, Deus meu! – Vejo, o passado, que passou; vejo, sonhos bons, que não pude ou não soube realizar. Vejo: injustiças, ingratidões, aleivosias, dos que julgava serem amigos… mas não eram.

Vejo melhor quando cerro os olhos, e caio em sonolência, que é um dormir acordado.

A velhice, também, tem encantos, e momentos de alegrias e de amarguras: umas vezes, o passado surge pintado a cores garridas, cheio de risos e sol; outras vezes, tudo fica negro, negro como a noite negra; e a alma constrangida, entristece e chora.

No turbilhão da vida, encontrei enganos e desenganos; e, também, grandes ingratidões: que enlutaram a alma, enchendo-a de amarguras e tristezas desinquietantes.

Em Bragança – que saudosas recordações tenho dessa cidade! – encontrei  almas simples, boas e amigas, que nunca as pude esquecer. Pensei serem amizades para sempre… mas a vida separou-nos.

Em derradeira tentativa, ainda procurei reatar o ténue fio que restava; não consegui: vaidades, desprezos, orgulhos, indiferenças – sei lá! – quebraram o barbante que julgava unir o passado ao presente. Por certo não sabiam, nem sabem, que a amizade, é o maior bem, se for sincera e desinteressada.

Nunca foi tão fácil, como agora, comunicar, mesmo quando extensas distâncias separam: o telefone, a Internet, aproxima. Todavia nunca houve tanta solidão! … Tanta falta de humanidade! … Tanta ingratidão! …

Egoísmo? Talvez. Pensam: “ Se não necessito do auxilio monetário; da influência que teve na coletividade; para quê telefonar-lhe? Para quê enviar-lhe e-mail amigo, se ele, agora, é velho, doente, insignificante?! …

Nas horas de solidão – e são tantas! … – penso, no que: ouço, vejo e leio. Penso, também, nos que já partiram; e nos que ainda não partiram…mas é como tivessem partido…

Penso, nas alegrias que passei (recordando o tempo de outrora) e na angustia, que senti, ao ver-me injustiçado no BC3, que estava em construção, e tudo por falta de carácter, por mentira, de quem tinha medo da verdade…

Penso, também, na vida pacata e rotineira, que levava nessa amorosa cidade transmontana: Nas tardes aconchegantes, no Café “ Lisboa”; mais tarde, no velho e elegante “ Chave d’Douro”.

E, igualmente, nas quentes noites de Verão, passadas no jardim, à beira do tranquilo Fervença, onde os jovens namoravam e deambulavam, placidamente, embalados por românticas canções, quase sempre, de Roberto Carlos.

Penso, com o coração apertado de saudade, na casa acolhedora – meu refugio predileto, – onde Senhora e Mãe, recebia-me sempre com afetuoso e singelo sorriso, nos lábios, e palavras maternais, que acalentavam o coração entristecido.

Tudo desapareceu. Primeiro: as pessoas, que conheci e cavaqueei, nas longas e frias noites de Inverno, ao redor das brasas rubras, da fuliginosa pedra do lar, quando a neve caia, em rolão, e o frigidíssimo vento da Sanábria, parecia fazer talhos na epiderme enregelada…

Depois: a cidade…

Pouco restou do passado: alguns edifícios; algumas ruas alindadas; e a velhíssima e vetusta cidadela, com o castelo imponente e a senhorial Domus Municipalis.

Numa tépida noite de Verão – recordo, como se fosse hoje! - assisti, encantado, no castelo, à exibição do grupo de dança: “ Verde Gaio”, que deveras impressionou-me.

Certa ocasião – como me lembro! … - chegou a Bragança, famoso ilusionista, que possuía dons especiais: dirigia, de olhos vendados, uma viatura; e mostrou ser extraordinário hipnotizador, no Cine-Teatro, perante a admiração do público.

Nessa recuada época – e já lá vai meio século! … –  as novidades eram poucas. As conversas versavam, em regra: mexericos: falava-se de namoros, das meninas do Magistério, e dos militares. Os mais velhos, e mais sisudos, comentavam programas da RTP, e falavam de negócios.

Em 1969, assisti, com o Sr. Manuel do “Café Lisboa”, à chegada do ApoloII, a solo lunar; e recordo ter visto (a preto e branco,) a imagem esfumada, de Neil Amstrong, a cravar, na superfície rugosa da Lua, a vistosa bandeira Americana.

Em horas de descanso, enquanto o sono não me domina: penso, medito, recordo, o tempo que foi, e já não é…

Imensa tristeza abate-se, então, na alma, ao lembrar-me, que tudo, que presenciei: cenas, episódios, conversas, que animaram a velha cidade, desapareceram, como se nunca tivessem acontecido…

Jamais voltarão as amenas e saudosas tardes de domingo no “ Floresta”; os aprazíveis passeios à pousada; as cavaqueiras “eruditas”, como encarregado da Biblioteca Itinerante, em modesta tasquinha, bebericando vinho com gasosa.

Tudo pertence ao passado. Passado que se esfumou, diluindo-se em saudade, e morrerá, para sempre, quando eu partir – ai de mim! – para a eternidade.


E um tumulto de pensamentos e imagens, de saudosas nostalgias, em ondas de tristeza e ternura, invade-me a alma, constrangida… como forasteira, na própria Pátria.

A GIORDANO BRUNO...

Por Gustavo Dourado (Taguatinga, DF)

Muitos(as) morreram queimados(as) nas fogueiras:
Em nome da fé, da ciência, da vida e da consciência...
Seus sonhos foram trucidados, desejos profanados:
Perseguidos, martirizados, proibidos, mui ultrajados...

Sobrevivem em cada um de nós que luta pela verdade:
Contra os sistemas da mentira que impõem o degredo..
Germinam nas pessoas que querem um mundo melhor:
Em todos que não se intimidam com o horror do medo...

Fica o exemplo de Giordano Bruno que resistiu:
Ao terror inquisitorial da abominável tortura...
É hora de abolir o códex do estado e do poder:
E fazer nascer um sistema de paz, amor, ternura...


NAVE

Por Gustavo Dourado (Taguatinga, DF)

Olhos rebrilham negros-loiros-azuis
Lábios fluem pássaros de neontem

Verdejo-te só ridente
Pri ma vera atômica
Navego-te oceânica
Cabala incógnita...

Quem é você?!
Onde habita teu ser?!


(11/11/1980)

EVAPORAR-SE

Por Samuel da Costa (Itajaí, SC)

O que será de mim?
Quando a hirta realidade...
Por fim chegar...
E não sobrar mais nada!
De nós dois!
***
O que será de mim?
Quando o místico vergel.
Dissipar-se no arrebol…
Em meio a bruma encantada,
Bem diante...
Dos meus doridos olhos em chamas!
E o ignoto eflúvio da Halfeti...
Deixar-me entorpecido...
Por completo!
***
O que ficará de mim?
Quando a negra Valquíria...
Esvaecer em definitivo...
Partir para todo o sempre!
Dos meus vaporosos sonhos...
Mais que sagrados.
E me sobrar...
Somente a realidade liquefeita!
O que será de mim?
Quando tudo acabar!