Excerpts from “Nostos”

Excerpts from “Nostos” – 265, 268, 309

Excerpts from Nostos

265.

ONEIRONAUTIKÓS #8

I was seating at a round table covered by a silky white cloth. The mood was dimmed with otherwise bright pink and orange lights, moving and glowing and blinking for all the dancers. To my left were my friends, to my right was her, and in front of us were her friends, sitting on the neighboring table, only a little more than an arm's length away. Suddenly, I looked to my left and the seats were empty. My friends had wandered off, mingling, joining with the rest of the party. I glanced at her and looked away. She would only look down at the tablecloth, fiddling with it. After a bored sigh it crossed her mind to end the eternity of that awkward silence.

– Have you met my sister?

Her voice was calm, cool and collected. I glanced at the other table. Four girls, all friends of hers, were sat in a row, throwing a string of teasing smiles at me. The fourth girl was exactly like the girl sitting next to me, indeed, they are twins. I looked at all four girls, devoting the same time to each one, without smiling though they all jokingly smiled at me. I ignored the twin sister and so I smiled and waved at the third girl. They all laughed as I successfully hid my thunderous joy at having made them laugh. The girl sitting next to me laughed as well and then I felt us getting oddly closer. The beginning of something, I thought...

Her red hair was caught in a crown behind her head, as wild threads of it flowed down her lightly blushed cheeks, precisely the kind of hairstyle girls so often wear at weddings. She smiled at my silly joke and tucked one of those red threads behind her ear. I could almost see some pretty freckles hidden by the redness of her cheeks. It was only when she smiled that I noticed her bright red lipstick, and as she looked down I saw her big almond-shaped eyes and noticed they had that line under them that made her seem to always have a sleepy smile on her face, even when her red lips positively pouted... She was beautiful, I was lucky. She spoke up to me first so as to break the silence that I wanted to break if I knew what I wanted. And though the sister was her exact twin, this girl was far more beautiful to me, and were I to go blind, I'd still tell them apart.

I woke up and tried to chase that dream, and all the while I desperately tried to remember where I had seen that face before.

268.

ONEIRONAUTIKÓS #9

I have been writing horror stories for a little while now and I must be doing something right because, just a few nights ago, I think I dreamed about them. It is now impossible for me to remember all of it but I seem to vaguely recall the dream, as it was set in three bizarre stages.

First, I was sitting on a couch in an otherwise empty room, with a large rectangular window that took up almost half the upper part of the wall and from which crept the strong light of an anonymous gray sky. A dark-haired girl sat next to me, and as I tried to talk to her she coiled deeper into herself, like a snake or a mollusk, and then into the couch itself until I could barely see her face, hidden by her pitch-black hair. And before the dream changed, I realized I had a bright and slimy silver ring on my ring finger... Then, in the second stage I was walking through my building's garage late at night, struggling to find the elevator. When I finally did, I casually waited for it to open. But as I waited, I looked to my side and saw four figures, all humanoid but pitch-black as well, that very same overwhelming, light-swallowing hue as that girl's hair. I begged for the door to open so I could escape them and it did. But then, in the third and final stage of the dream, I got out of the elevator after what seemed like a surreal ride, and I tried running through the long hallway towards my house, but one of those dark figures jumped at me from around a corner and grabbed me. And I just shouted – The King, the King! And I kept shouting and shouting until my voice drowned in sleep, and I just repeated in a faint whisper – The King...

309.

ONEIRONAUTIKÓS #15

I found myself in bed, under the cool, silver sheets of a summer night. I was wide awake, staring at the moonlit walls of a strange new room, a decidedly different room, a girl's room... Then I felt her soft shoulders brushing up against mine in what was a somewhat coy gesture, an almost natural tumble of deep sleep, and yet there was a distinct intention to it all. She was seemingly asleep, with her lips closed real softly, her hand resting just under her chin, and her hair, darker than the darkest midnight, so playfully covered the white pillowcase.

I kept looking at her, and then I looked away from her, unable to sleep or to move or to think. She brushed her shoulder up against me yet again, then she turned over to face me and I noticed her sleepy eyes were suddenly wide awake and staring right at me, seeing right through me... She lingered for a while, trying to read me, but possibly seeing nothing in my otherwise oblivious face. She found me utterly and completely lost.

– Are you gonna make the same mistake twice? – she asked.

– No, I won't make the same mistake twice.

And then she kissed me. Her fleshy lips pressed up against mine, making me feel her whole body so warm and so impossibly near, and she gave me the courage to caress her nape, soft and tender and fragile, just under her perfumed hair. Her beautiful hands then pressed upon my chest, and the soothing weight of her whole body sent shivers down my spine... And for once, for a fleeting moment that made me so completely lose track of time, a summer night wasn't so lonely, even if only in dreams.

This has been a sample of three texts from Nostos. The book is a collection of four hundred texts, most of which are written in portuguese, while only twenty-one of which are written in english. As such they will be periodically published here, in full.

You can find out more about the book here.

Comments

A Minha Interpretação Pessoal de “Às Vezes, em Sonho Triste” de Fernando Pessoa

Já há muito tempo que não lia nada que o Fernando Pessoa escreveu, e talvez por esse motivo, mas principalmente porque buscava ideias sobre as quais escrever aqui, decidi folhear um livro de poemas dele. E enquanto o fiz, tomei especial nota das marcas que apontei na margem de algumas páginas, significando alguns poemas que gostei quando os li pela primeira vez, há cerca de sete anos atrás. Poderia ter escolhido um poema mais nostálgico ou até mais famoso, mas ao folhear por todo o livro foi este o poema que me fez mais sentido escolher. Agora leio e releio estes versos e comprometo-me a tecer algo que não me atreverei a chamar de análise, porque não sou poeta nem crítico de poesia. Mas como qualquer outro estudante português, fui leitor de Fernando Pessoa e, ainda que talvez mais a uns Fernandos Pessoas do que a outros, devo a este homem um bom pedaço dos frutos da minha escrita, que até à data são poucos ou nenhuns. Mas enfim, estou a divagar... O que queria dizer a jeito de introduç...

Meditations on The Caretaker's “Everywhere at the End of Time”

I have always been sentimental about memory. Nostalgia was surely one of the first big boy words I learned. And all throughout my life I sort of developed a strong attachment memory, and subsequently to things, which became an obsession almost. I never wanted to see them go, even if they had lost any and all useful purpose, because they still retained a strong emotional attachment to me. I had a memory forever entwined with those old things, so I never wanted to see them go. However, in my late teens I realized I was being stupid, I realized there was no memory within the object itself, it was only in me. So I started to throw a bunch of stuff out, I went from a borderline hoarder to a borderline minimalist, and it was pretty good. I came to the realization that all things were inherently temporary. No matter how long I held on to them, eventually I would lose them one way or another, and if someone or some thing were to forcefully take them from me, I would be heartbroken beyond repai...

10 Atheist Arguments I No Longer Defend

I don't believe in God, I don't follow any religion. And yet, there was a time in my life when I could have said to be more of an atheist than I am now. In some ways I contributed to the new atheism movement, and in fact, for a little while there, Christopher Hitchens was my lord and savior. I greatly admired his extensive literary knowledge, his eloquence, his wit and his bravery. But now I've come to realize his eloquence was his double-edged sword, and because he criticized religion mostly from an ethics standpoint, greatly enhanced by his journalism background, some of the more philosophical questions and their implications were somewhat forgotten, or even dealt with in a little bit of sophistry. And now it's sad that he died... I for one would have loved to know what he would have said in these times when atheism seems to have gained territory, and yet people are deeply craving meaning and direction in their lives. In a nutshell, I think Hitchens versus Peterson wo...

Mármore

Dá-me a mão e vem comigo. Temos tantos lugares para ver. Era assim que escrevia o Bernardo numa página à parte, em pleno contraste com tantas outras páginas soltas e enamoradas de ilustrações coloridas, nas quais eram inteligíveis as suas várias tentativas de idealizar uma rapariga de cabelo castanho-claro, ou talvez vermelho, e com uns olhos grandes que pareciam evocar uma aura de mistério e de aventura, e com os braços estendidos na sua frente, terminando em mãos delicadas que se enlaçavam uma à outra, como se as suas palmas fossem uma concha do mar que guarda uma pérola imperfeita, como se cuidasse de um pássaro caído que tem pena de libertar, como se desafiasse um gesto tímido... Mas tal criação ficava sempre aquém daquilo que o Bernardo visualizava na sua mente. Na verdade não passava sequer de um protótipo mas havia algo ali, uma intenção, uma faísca com tanto potencial para deflagrar no escuro da página branca... se porventura ele fosse melhor artista. E embora a obra carecesse ...

A Synopsis Breakdown of “The Wandering King”

A collection of eight different short stories set in a world where the malignant and omniscient presence of the Wandering King is felt throughout, leading its inhabitants down a spiral of violence, paranoia and madness. That is my book's brief synopsis. And that is just how I like to keep it – brief and vague. I for one find that plot-oriented synopses often ruin the whole reading, or viewing, experience. For example, if you were to describe The Godfather as the story of an aging mafia don who, upon suffering a violent attempt on his life, is forced to transfer control of his crime family to his mild-mannered son, you have already spoiled half the movie. You have given away that Sollozzo is far more dangerous than he appears to be, you have given away that the Don survives the attempt, and you have given away that Michael is the one who will succeed him... Now, it could well be that some stories cannot be, or should not be, captured within a vague description. It could also be t...

In Defense of Ang Lee's “Hulk”

This movie isn't particularly well-liked, that much is no secret. People seem to dislike how odd and bizarrely subdued it is, especially considering the explosive nature of its titular superhero. In a nutshell, people find this movie boring. The criticism I most often hear is that it is essentially a very pretentious take on the Incredible Hulk, an ego-driven attempt to come up with some deep psychological meaning behind a green giant who smashes things. And it's tempting to agree, in a sense it's tempting to brush it off as pretentious and conclude that a film about the Hulk that fails to deliver two action-packed hours is an automatic failure. But of course, I disagree. Even when I was a kid and went into the cinema with my limited knowledge, but great appreciation, of the comics, I never saw the Hulk as a jolly green giant. At one point, the character was seen as a mere physical manifestation of Bruce Banner's repressed anger awakened by gamma radiation, but eventual...

Meditações sobre “Em Busca do Tempo Perdido I – Do Lado de Swann”

Estou a ler Marcel Proust pela segunda vez... Há quem diga que é comum da parte dos seus leitores iniciarem uma segunda leitura logo após a tortura que é a primeira. Quanto a mim posso dizer que seja esse o caso. Quando li este primeiro volume pela primeira vez decidi que não tinha interesse em ler os outros seis, mas depois mudei de ideias e li-os. Mas li quase como que só para poder dizer ter lido. Então o objetivo seria não mais pensar no livro mas isso afigurou-se estranhamente impossível. Surgia uma crescente curiosidade em ler sínteses ou resumos e ficava-me sempre aquela surpresa depois de ler sobre um acontecimento do qual já não tinha memória. Por isso é que me proponho agora a uma segunda e muito, muito mais demorada leitura, para que possa compreender o livro pelo menos o suficiente para dizer qualquer coisa interessante sobre ele. Em relação ao título deste artigo, do qual planeio fazer uma série, decidi usar o termo que usei porque nenhum outro me pareceu mais correto. Nã...

The Gospel According to Dragline

Yeah, well... sometimes the Gospel can be a real cool book. I'm of course referencing the 1967 classic Cool Hand Luke, one of my favorite films of all time. And, as it is often the case with me, this is a film I didn't really care for upon first viewing. Now I obviously think differently. In many ways, this is a movie made beautiful by it's simplicity. It is made visually striking by its backdrop of natural southern beauty in the US – the everlasting summer, the seemingly abandoned train tracks and the long dirt roads, almost fully deserted were it not for the prisoners working by the fields... It almost gives off the impression that there is no world beyond that road. And maybe as part of that isolation, the story doesn't shy away from grit. It is dirty, grimy and hence, it is real. Some modern movies seem to have an obsession with polishing every pixel of every frame, thus giving off a distinct sense of falsehood. The movie then becomes too colorful, too vibrant, it...

A Minha Interpretação Pessoal de “Sou um Guardador de Rebanhos” de Alberto Caeiro

Em continuação com o meu artigo anterior, comprometo-me agora a uma interpretação de um outro poema do mesmo poeta... mais ou menos. Porque os vários heterónimos pessoanos são todos iguais e diferentes, e diferentes e iguais. Qualquer leitor encontra temas recorrentes nos vários poemas porque de certa forma todos estes poetas se propuseram a resolver as mesmas questões que tanto atormentavam o poeta original. Mas a solução encontrada por Alberto Caeiro é algo diferente na medida em que é quase invejável ao próprio Fernando Pessoa, ainda que talvez não seja invejável aos outros heterónimos. Por outro lado, talvez eu esteja a projetar porque em tempos esta poesia foi deveras invejável para mim. Ao contrário do poema anterior, do qual nem sequer tinha memória de ter lido e apenas sei que o li porque anotei marcas e sublinhados na margem da página, este poema é um que li, que gostei e que apresentei numa aula qualquer num dia que me vem agora à memória como idílico. Mas em típico estilo d...

Martha, You've Been on My Mind

Perhaps it is the color of this gray rainy sky at the end of spring, this cold but soothing day I hoped would be warm, bright and the end of something I gotta carry on. Or maybe it's that I'm thinking of old days to while away the time until new days come along. Perhaps it's all that or it's nothing at all, but Martha, you've been on my mind. I wouldn't dare to try and find you or even write to you, so instead I write about you, about who I think you are, because in truth I don't really know you. To me you're just a memory, a good memory though, and more importantly, you're the very first crossroads in my life. I had no free will before I saw you and chose what I chose... Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, you would have led me down one, and yet I chose the other. But I never stopped looking down your chosen path for as long as I could, and for a fleeting moment I could have sworn I saw you standing there, and then you just faded, almost as if you ...

Paulo Seabra

Search This Blog