Electric Dreams

The man was dreaming. He dreamed of being an animal, and his dreams were always the same. It started as if he was already asleep, and things were always off. He noticed this strangeness first, and suddenly, an innate fear took hold of him. He could see his legs walking, could feel the grip of a gun in his hands and the weight of a mask in his face, but could not stop himself. He couldn’t even close his eyes. All he could do was feel the Animal he was, and fear what was about to happen.

And it always happened in the same way. He entered a warm room, kept clean and tidy, and, despite the mask, the smell of disinfectant filled his nostrils immediately. But it came with something else… As if the chemicals were trying their best to hide some other, darker smell, but failed to do so. After that, he always looked around to find an old man in a wheelchair. The old man had a telephone in his hands, and spoke loudly, spitting at the plastic machine. Sometimes, he could understand them, and sometimes the words were unintelligible. In the times he could, the old man was ranting: “Where are you? What is going on?”

At this part of the dream, he would feel a most empowering sensation. It was like the control he could never achieve in his daily life finally found its way to his hands, and in his hands was an instrument that signified power better than any other. The old man turned to see who the intruder was, and noticing the mask, looked down – and knew. The smoking gun on his hand told the old man everything he needed to know.

“Are you here simply to kill me? Or do you have questions first?”

The Man did have questions. Millions of them. Who was he? Where was he? What was he doing? Why was he doing it? But the Man was dreaming, and in his dreams he was an Animal. And Animals ask no questions. His expression was hidden by the mask, but had it been visible, it would be the face of a lion. No feelings. Only the kill.

“Do you want to know why we killed your girlfriend? Or is that not what you’re here for?”

It was. They had, indeed, killed the woman that lived with him, even though she was not his girlfriend. He could never do that. Not the Man, nor the Animal. The Animal had rescued her. And the Man had taken care of her. She was living in a place of filth, one of many the Animal had visited in its hunting days. She was there, like a flower in a slaughterhouse. The room was painted red with the blood of the men the Animal had killed, and you know what she had said to it? “Finish it. There’s no point anyway.”

There was a point. Even the Animal saw that. And so, he plucked the flower, and rescued her. With time, in a different place, the flower blossomed again, and lived happily. She had a point again. Other Animals had changed that. Now, the Animal was there to hunt once more.

He took a few steps. Every time he walked in the dream, the entire world rocked back and forth with him. But the Animal didn’t care. It was ready. It had been born ready. Or perhaps it had never been born: It was created, a creation the Man so desperately needed, but refused to accept it. Finally, when he did, he released the Animal, uncaged it, and let it roam free. And, in its wanderings, it had done many terrible things.

The Man knew that, of course. He knew what happened when he went to sleep, and the Animal awakened. He had no illusion of that, nor could he: the Man was the one who had to clean the blood in his clothes and hands, and maintain the gun, the knife… Clean the mask. He knew, and he chose to close his eyes. For he also knew the Animal would not fail.

The Animal was very close to the old man know, perhaps an arm’s length. It noticed the old man’s wheelchair: an expensive thing. Allowed the old man to move it by himself. But he chose not to. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to run, no one to seek for help. The old man understood that, and in his understanding, said this:

“Very well. Finish it. I’ve done some truly terrible things…”

The Animal would finish it. There was no point anymore.

After all, the Animal had done it so many times before. There was nothing new to it. The Animal was good at it, reveled in it. This disgusted the Man. It disgusted him to know he was the one to have uncaged the beast, and that, in some way, all those things it did during the night, during the Man’s dreams, were somehow his own fault. However, perhaps the Man’s disgust was not disgust at all, but envy: he longed to be as free as the Animal was, in its wanderings and roamings. He longed, but could never be free: he was trapped, caged himself, in the real world.

At this point of the dream, something very strange happened. The Animal, in its infinitely better hearing, heard the Man’s thought, and decided to do something unique. The Animal let the Man take control. Suddenly, the gun became heavy, the world became stable, and the old man’s breath became audible. The Man was terrified. Why would the Animal wake him up? He couldn’t do this. He could never do this. But the Animal assured him, in its bizarre language, that he could. That it was his time to be free.

Slowly and hesitantly, the man pointed the gun to the old man’s forehead. It nearly touched him. The old man closed his eyes, as if in a solemn occasion. The Animal whispered something, and the Man pulled the trigger.

The sound was so very real, and so was the recoil, and the smell of gunpowder. The Man looked at the old man, and felt the urge to look away, until the Animal told him there was nothing to fear, for there was nothing to see. It was over.

The Man awoke. He took off his mask, walked to the porch, a very ample and well decorated ambient, and lit a cigarrete. There was something different about that air. It felt real. New.

Experimentos com Haikai

Aqui estão algumas tentativas de produzir um poema Haikai japonês. O Haikai é um tipo de poesia originária no Japão do século XIV, estruturada em três versos de cinco, sete e cinco sílabas respectivamente, cujo tema tenta se aproximar da contemplação zen-budista e de uma revelação espontânea baseada na observação da natureza.

Embora curto, um Haikai deve ser elaborado com paciência para que se consiga o contraste entre o efêmero e o permanente, conceitos que, para o zen-budismo, revolvem em torno da eternidade da natureza em relação à curta duração da vida humana.

"O mundo todo jaz dentro do jardim, para quem se preocupa em vê-lo." – Provérbio Budista

Saiba mais: http://www.insite.com.br/rodrigo/poet/haikai.html

Nuvens coloridas

Caçando a lua brilhante

Raposa acuada.

*

A montanha toca

O mar; o céu, em resposta,

Se derrama em cor.

*

Névoa no vale

O vento cruza a varanda

Folhas acompanham.

*

Minha mente ouve;

Vejo sons de uma batalha

E uma espada erguida.

*

Tamborila a chuva

A vida que é trazida

Traz junto paz.

*

A paisagem única

Esvai-se. Na minha mente

Para sempre fica.

*

As cordas da cítara

Vibram através do ar.

Começo a sonhar.

*

A extensão do rio

Serpenteia em minha frente

Solitária lágrima.

Céu Estrelado

Deitado sobre a relva, o garoto assistia as estrelas. Eram uma imensidão, tantas que contar era irrelevante, mas ele fazia isso mesmo assim, e se maravilhava sempre que uma riscava o céu iluminado, fazendo-o perder a conta e permitindo que começasse tudo de novo. Estava sozinho, embora desejasse não estar, mas isso não importava agora. O que importava eram as estrelas e seu jogo de brilhar, piscar e cair. Ele se perguntava por que os adultos se preocupavam tanto durante suas vidas se havia um céu estrelado daquele jeito esperando por eles à noite. Não haviam filas, números ou ingressos: o show de estrelas estava aberto a todos, começava quando queria, terminava quando bem entendia, e deixava o garoto maravilhado durante todo o espetáculo.

Durante o dia, o garoto se esforçava ao máximo para convencer os adultos ao seu redor a se juntar a ele em observar as estrelas, mas eles nunca prestavam atenção. Sempre precisavam dormir cedo, pois estavam cansados por ter de trabalhar o dia todo e precisavam acordar cedo para trabalhar de novo. O garoto não entendia, mas não dizia nada. Então ele tentava descrever as estrelas e sua imensidão, mas não podia, acabando pedindo novamente que o acompanhassem e era novamente ignorado.

Por isso ele pensava, contemplando tudo aquilo, sentido a grama nas suas costas, o vento frio da madrugada no seu rosto, que tudo o que ele queria era compartilhar tudo aquilo com alguém. Queria que os adultos vissem o que ele via, mas não exatamente o que ele via: Queria que eles tivessem suas próprias visões, que gostassem ou desgostassem, mas sobretudo que vissem. Não havia nada mais importante.

Queria discutir com elas se aquela constelação realmente parecia um caçador; se aquela outra não era igualzinha a um cavalo, ou um homem metade cavalo; se aquelas estrelas não estavam perfeitamente alinhadas, ou se essa brilhava mais intensamente do que as outras. E os adultos concordariam, ou discordariam, ou discutiriam com outros adultos, e todos aproveitariam o espetáculo. Mas ao invés disso, ele estava sozinho, e felizmente as estrelas não pareciam se importar com o tamanho da plateia, se apresentando mesmo assim.

E esse pensamento angustiava o garoto: como fazer com que os adultos se importassem com as estrelas? Era uma angústia que atrapalhava o espetáculo, e o garoto desejava que ela não existisse, mas não podia afastá-la completamente de seus pensamentos. Se ao menos eles compreendessem...

Então, no dia seguinte, o garoto levou um caderno e um lápis para o show das estrelas, esperando que elas não se importassem, e começou a escrever o que via. Escreveu sobre a imensidão delas, escreveu sobre como eram impossivelmente belas, sobre seu brilho distante, sobre como algumas delas, se juntas com outras, formavam imagens. E escreveu sobre as imagens, e as histórias que elas contavam, e que histórias elas poderiam contar, se apenas mais pessoas as vissem. Escreveu até que o show terminasse, e então mostrou o que escrevera a todos os adultos que pôde encontrar.

Muitos o ignoraram como sempre fizeram, e continuaram imersos em suas preocupações.

Outros agradeciam, assentiam, e devolviam o caderno sem sequer ler o que havia nele.

Mas alguns... Alguns leram o que aquelas palavras diziam, e fitaram o papel longamente, lendo e relendo... Eles pareciam ponderar, sacudiam a cabeça subitamente, mas não tiravam os olhos das palavras; Em seguida, esses poucos adultos olhariam fundo nos olhos do garoto, como se procurassem alguma coisa, e o garoto simplesmente olhava de volta, pois não havia mais nada a ser feito.

Esses adultos então se enfureceriam; gritavam, se afastavam, reclamavam do tempo perdido. Mas havia alguma coisa nessa raiva que era diferente, percebeu o garoto. Então ele continuou mostrando seu caderno para quem quisesse ver, e no fim do dia, foi observar o espetáculo novamente.

Ele estava sozinho, como sempre. Deitou-se na grama, como sempre, e esperou que as estrelas começassem sua dança. E a medida que elas se mostravam, devagar, mas graciosamente, o garoto percebeu que havia alguém ao seu lado. Não um, mas vários: todas as pessoas que foram cativadas pelo caderno estavam ali, apesar de sua raiva. Elas olhavam para o alto, tão maravilhadas quanto o garoto quis que elas estivessem. Elas soltavam exclamações, apontavam, cutucavam umas às outras e contemplavam tudo aquilo que o garoto sempre quis mostrá-las. Nenhum dos adultos ali saberia dizer porque veio, mas sabiam que era lindo, e se perguntavam silenciosamente por que não haviam feito isso antes.

E ao garoto, elas não disseram nada, pois não havia mais nada a ser dito.