The path of excess leads to the Palace of Wisdom…

Revendo excertos… parts of shattered mirrors… souls espelhando the symphony of creation… o prazer de ser children enamoured by the bodily image of the living goddess… Hobbits threatened by the Dark Lord, risos e vulgaridades, prazeres de vida diária sujeitos to smothering under the narrow path of the imposing mind… one ring to rule them all…

De “O Evangelho Segundo a Serpente” – de Faíza Hayat:

“A minha Mãe era um ser livre. Uma ave à solta num alto céu de verão. Costumava dizer que os homens são como as chuvas, imprescindíveis à vida, revigorantes, mas quando chegam, e em se demorando um pouco mais, logo sentimos saudades dos dias de sol!”
«Reparem», dizia, «a palavra solidão está cheia de sol!»

Gostava de citar Marguerite Duras: «Não se encontra a solidão. Somos nós que a construímos». (…) Citava Tchekov « Se tens medo da solidão não te cases.» Citava Fernando Pessoa, aliás Bernardo Soares: «As malcasadas são todas as mulheres casadas e algumas solteiras.»”

“(…)assim como há sol na palavra solidão, há mel na palavra melancolia”

“Fascina-me a beleza das frutas. Frutas são formas orgânicas de luz. A luz em estado vivo. (…) Os pajés, sacerdotes ou xamãs nas sociedades tribais ameríndias, acreditam que ao beberem o ayahuasca, bebida alucinogénea preparada com o caule do caapi (Benisteriopsis caapi) e folhas de chacrona (Psychotria viridis), entram em comunicação directa com estas plantas. Acreditam que as plantas os conduzem, através das sombras, pelo mundo tormentoso dos espíritos, numa viagem iniciática.
O que significa o velho mito cristão – Eva oferecendo a Adão o fruto do conhecimento?”

“Talvez a esta serena e vaga melancolia, a esta vaga e doce tristeza, se possa também chamar de felicidade. (…) Ninguém que se beija à despedida parte verdadeiramente.”

“Invejo a tua tranquilidade espelho. Tudo vês, nada recordas.
Peço-te um retrato e devolves-me um olhar. (…) Suponho que as gémeas não precisem de espelhos. Um espelho é o retrato órfão de um gémeo.”

“Eram versos de Caeiro:
«Passei toda a noite, sem dormir, vendo sem espaço a figura dela
E vendo-a sempre de maneiras diferentes do que a encontro a ela.
(…) Amar é pensar.
E eu quase que me esqueço de sentir só de pensar nela.
(…) Quando desejo encontrá-la
Quase que prefiro não a encontrar,
Para não ter de a deixar depois»

Mas porque nos apaixonamos por aquilo que nunca poderemos ter? Eu, pelo menos, tenho tendência para me interessar por tudo o que não posso agarrar: as nuvens, os arco-íris, o rápido fluxo de tempo. Um dia pensei que seria bom coleccionar arco íris. Pensei que seria bom guardá-los em pequenos frascos de cristal para que brilhassem à noite, enquanto durmo, ou alegrassem o meu dia nas manhãs de Inverno. A verdade, porém, é que se os conseguisse guardar em frascos já não gostaria deles.”

“Picasso: «Olvida usted que soy español y adoro la tristeza». Mas penso que era também o grande Pablo que valorizava a obra incompleta, porque «… sin acabar, una obra permanece viva, peligrosa. Una obra acabada és una obra muerta, asesinada.» Nunca conheci um homem acabado.”

“ (…)O que o genial arquitecto (Gaudí) dizia sobre como o sol cinzela os homens:
«As raças do Norte afogam o sentimento e com a falta de luz produzem fantasmas. Já as raças do sul, põe excesso de luz, descuidam a racionalidade e produzem monstros.»”

“Não quero surpresas. É fácil amar estrelas. Difícil é amar o próximo. E a nós mesmos”

“«Os textos são histórias», insistiu Alfonso,«um bom método é começar por perguntar por que motivo foi contada a história.»

“«Em Israel só o passado justifica o presente»”

“Sei que ela tem razão: perder a fé é perder protecção. Por onde se percorre a verdade: nas perguntas ou nas respostas?
Os Gnósticos, repetia Marcelo, procuravam Deus dentro de si, na Sabedoria, uma transcendência intuitiva:
«A salvação não é a redenção do pecado, mas da ignorância. Cristo salvou-nos pelo seu ensinamento e pela sua vida. Não pela sua carne e, menos ainda, pela sua morte.»”

“… eu sempre achei que não devemos conhecer os homens. Para não deixarmos de gostar deles.”

“Sibongile vigia os meus sonhos. «Foi a serpente», lembrou-me, «quem ofereceu aos homens o fruto da árvore do conhecimento e por causa disso eles foram expulsos do Paraíso.. Conclusão – o Paraíso pertence aos néscios».

“Sofro deste vício – leiam-me o soneto perfeito e logo tropeçarei na cacofonia escondida. Mostrem-me o paraíso e os meus olhos verão, muito para além do verde das ramagens, o fumo venenoso de uma fábrica de papel”

“FIM
(Ou melhor, o fim que se pôde arranjar. Todos os finais são provisórios)”

And now from William Blake “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell”:

“Let the Priests of the Raven of dawn, no longer in deadly black, with hoarse note curse the sons of joy. Nor his accepted brethren, whom, tyrant, he calls free, lay bound or build roof. Nor pale religious letchery call that virginity that wishes but acts not!

FOR EVERY THING THAT LIVES IS HOLY.”

When the Lamb opened the Seventh Seal...

E o som do tambor faz tremer a terra… e o som da terra faz vibrar o tambor…

É tempo antergo em terra Cerveira… espíritos passados se tornam presentes entre bombos, folia, Zés pereiras… entre festa e algazarra…

Na praça dez homens se ajuntam – de cores próprias… tambores e bombos estremecem quem passa, ate que passa a vontade de passar e apetece ficar, ouvir, olhar, pertencer…

À roda – gregos e troianos – se deixam levar pelo rio ancestro, pelo ecoar eterno de sons mágicos… dançam connosco as tribos do passado e do presente longínquo… dançam corações que se vão perdendo das bridas… dança o desejo que se faz raiz ao escavar na terra seu ventre mãe…

E se contorcem os corpos enquanto o frémito esvoaça… esgares de prazer no poderio másculo que se elevam de faces outrora banais – régias agora, reais – enquanto o malho das eras cai e recai e descarrega sua ânsia com força na pele curtida…

E a pele vibra e revive baixo o tombo incessante de martelo patriarca, o esgar se eleva em êxtase como Zénon nunca saberia destrinçar – força irresistível contra muro inabalável, terra contra o mar…

O suor são lágrimas de corpo encarcerado em afazeres diáfanos, que do Olimpo dos comuns se eleva baixo o arquejar de tarde tórrida – e os presentes, ausentes de si, se movem já inconscientes, corações largados em torrente – bravio - ao som dos tempos ancestros… os bombos são sangue fervente… que corre, que inunda os ouvidos, o corpo, a mente… tudo.

Uma rapariga de tambor esbraceja - boneca de farrapos movida e repuxada em cordas de prazer engolindo-a em estertores irreflectidos; a multidão olha e se deleita… o fôlego prende enquanto o impossível do furor ainda se transcende… o povo grita como arvores vivas de volta ao seu chão sagrado depois de eras de desterro entre mansões frias – escuras - de prisão e verbo de forma bizarra…

E o tambor não para – coito em cúpula que atinge o clímax … são um só: gentes, homens, tambor e terra – tudo geme, tudo treme, tudo vibra, todo ejacula emoção incontida… olhos exorbitados, boca em esgar entre desejo, espanto - sorriso absorto… anseio… o povo clama, o tambor desgarra, o homem treme, a terra geme… e som termina… e o silêncio…

O silêncio é eterno… o mundo pára… esgotados os amantes todos… se aferram ao que resta do tempo sem ferros… enquanto a mente regressa em correria endiabrada, procurando recobrir o êxtase com seus tudos que são nada… e o som regressa – como um vácuo preenchido de coisas, e sons em redor – o som regressa, o vulgar som regressa… os aplausos começam, os assobios não tardam… o que sobra… é uma peugada do êxtase na nossa areia requintada… o que sobra é uma memória marcada… um algo e um algures que quase tudo, quase nada – se traz na memória do ser – oh celtas! onde vossas taças – para que as encha o hidromel de outras eras, o sabor das crianças da Terra, o sentir, a pertença, o rezar sem palavras?…

A minha verde terra arde… suas cinzas me vestem… seu fôlego me abafa, ofegante … minha terra arde…

O céu é já frio, entre o calor abafante… o Sol é vermelho sem vida, dia é noite distante… minha terra arde...

E chego ao terceiro dia, depois de ver o cadáver exangue da minha Deusa queimada, para encontrar nova luz – nova vida – por entre a noite e a morte inquietante…

Régio e Libertino

After watching the movie “The Libertine”, I sing to our beloved Cyrano with the words of my land, with a poem from a man who defies the pleasant to embrace the harsh – still only possible way – truth.

José Régio (José Maria dos Reis Pereira) – Cântico Negro

"Vem por aqui" — dizem-me alguns com os olhos doces
Estendendo-me os braços, e seguros
De que seria bom que eu os ouvisse
Quando me dizem: "vem por aqui!"
Eu olho-os com olhos lassos,
(Há, nos olhos meus, ironias e cansaços)
E cruzo os braços,
E nunca vou por ali...
A minha glória é esta:
Criar desumanidades!
Não acompanhar ninguém.
— Que eu vivo com o mesmo sem-vontade
Com que rasguei o ventre à minha mãe
Não, não vou por aí! Só vou por onde
Me levam meus próprios passos...
Se ao que busco saber nenhum de vós responde
Por que me repetis: "vem por aqui!"?

Prefiro escorregar nos becos lamacentos,
Redemoinhar aos ventos,
Como farrapos, arrastar os pés sangrentos,
A ir por aí...
Se vim ao mundo, foi
Só para desflorar florestas virgens,
E desenhar meus próprios pés na areia inexplorada!
O mais que faço não vale nada.

Como, pois, sereis vós
Que me dareis impulsos, ferramentas e coragem
Para eu derrubar os meus obstáculos?...
Corre, nas vossas veias, sangue velho dos avós,
E vós amais o que é fácil!
Eu amo o Longe e a Miragem,
Amo os abismos, as torrentes, os desertos...

Ide! Tendes estradas,
Tendes jardins, tendes canteiros,
Tendes pátria, tendes tetos,
E tendes regras, e tratados, e filósofos, e sábios...
Eu tenho a minha Loucura !
Levanto-a, como um facho, a arder na noite escura,
E sinto espuma, e sangue, e cânticos nos lábios...
Deus e o Diabo é que guiam, mais ninguém!
Todos tiveram pai, todos tiveram mãe;
Mas eu, que nunca principio nem acabo,
Nasci do amor que há entre Deus e o Diabo.

Ah, que ninguém me dê piedosas intenções,
Ninguém me peça definições!
Ninguém me diga: "vem por aqui"!
A minha vida é um vendaval que se soltou,
É uma onda que se alevantou,
É um átomo a mais que se animou...
Não sei por onde vou,
Não sei para onde vou
Sei que não vou por aí!

The Spiritual Quest - Spirit Within

The spirit within…

When you abandon yourself… something inside happens. Something starts to take control, something else lives beyond the surface… something.

Magic and coincidences become your day life.
Any resistance becomes pain.
Any step out of the edge of the sword equals suffering.
No way to avoid the task, no way not to embrace it… unless oblivion.

Still… something else exists…

By logic – if this universe advances from the abstract to the defined, the ego is directly linked to free will.

Abandoning our nature as individuals would seem to abandon free will – for good or for bad, that is what makes us humans – without it we would become part of the furniture of nature or pseudo-angelic entities flying almost unaware of the world around – and maybe this is the ending result of the process when passing from the “seed” which defends from breaching it’s defining skin in to a “sprouting little tree” growing beyond the borders of what it seemed the world beneath - inside the earth… to become tree in the world above… to give fruits… which will become seeds… which will sprout…

Still, in this mid step, there’s an "in between move" that seems to be escaping our awareness of the process.

To truly exercise the free will, we should get rid from reminiscences of reaction attached to our apparent choices and emotional response, to the magnetism with which we so much attach to suffering upon ourselves and the others, to habits and routines that bind and destroy ourselves and all around… to become fully aware is this step which follows.

This changing entity, this shifting skin of our identity grows from animal like patterns to awareness and identification to the self, from basic free will subdued to reactionary response to become free from reaction in a way we may truly feel options are taken beyond the rule of fear, doubt and disbelief.
From orbiting around peripheral emanations of the center, we start to step closer to the essence which manifests in flesh, feeling, thought and energy… that complex structure we usually call “me”…

A new age has arrived.
The changes are silent, the changes are in the inner sanctum, the lessons are brand on living flesh as the flesh itself changes from quality and links to a “higher” goal, a deeper voice beyond this little voice screaming inside trying to command and rule fed by fear and doubt.

The new era has begun – and many are experiencing in silence the mutation.
The new humankind is growing and the metamorphosis is being slowly but implacably leaded by other dormant guides, those which take us as we start to show the signs of awakening and lead our steps to the road forgotten, the path guarded by mists… the realm of the invisible…

Ruach… free yourselves

The spiritual quest - part I

This is just what I think about what I think in this moment.

Take it as sharing ignorance, trying to achieve some truth and remember how stupid and vane all possible words really are… still, how much they hold the seed of need to find and be… whatever we pursue and try to become… fully human.

Concerning mystical paths and spiritual currents… hum… “Siddhartha” from Herman Hesse… it is so beautiful and so true, so on to what I may feel about finding our own way concerning that… life.

No one may tell us how to get in to the Kingdom, Nirvana, Valhalla… they may give us advice and we may walk with them while we are learning to walk by ourselves…

But – is undeniable – as much as we share the same essence, we are also shaped in the difference… there is a reason for this – a reason which, more than fought against, should be understood.

Since the first moment – when the “Ejaculation” of light filled the “Black Lady” with time and space, there started the variation.

If as in the Kabbalah, or other system - we can imagine a “big bang” theory - noticing something when the first moment starts and the energy starts to “fall” in to lower levels of “heat” and complex levels of material structure (heavier): the difference was there since the beginning or all the decay of energy in to matter would give as final result the same pattern everywhere – no fluctuations… but this is not what happens. We have differences… we have us…

In other words (sorry by theoretic explanation of mystic and modern science about the universe, god and our nature): there is a singular path that belongs to each soul.

That path may (and I guess it always is – no human being is born alone… so possibly we do not die alone unless in our heads) be shared, but will be kept unique until the last moment, until there’s no more need for difference…
Sharing means difference in the sameness.

Resistance from the soul is not the same as resistance from the ego.

The ego guards the feeling of attachment to this realm, the soul guards our essence and it’s right to be as it is until it is no more… the will can’t take over this – should accept this.

Systems of politics, religions or the new things of spiritualism they try to bend the soul in to fit on a common path supposed to work to everybody… this is the direct result of any revolution – it makes the system it raised against stronger.

While we don’t learn this lesson we will not embrace our full essence: a reaction only causes another reaction… and maintains a chain that loops upon itself.

The revolution of humanism made science a stronger dictatorship than religion.
The revolution of spiritualism threatens to purge us from the only possible way to enter the door… that is – love. Human common love!
Nothing higher than this… just theories and fairy tales invented by oligarchs to enslave people behind some leader, economical or political and religious manipulation…

Hope was purged by science as much as faith was purged by religious politics on the past.
Faith was transformed in to a hollow game while hope has become a piece of a cage made of oblivion and rational explanations.

Now spiritualism is washing away love, until humans become aseptic beings walking indifferent to their own nature, following laws of “Karma” that – more than healing – wound by distance.
Are We to become a race of machines programmed under direct stimulation and lack of other references beyond the “dome” we are trapped in.

The “working classes” are directed by fear and ignorance.
The medium high by this “washing” as well as refined and controlled codes of behavior and moral - so they simply do not care anymore about the state of things and people around if they may keep their “doses” of existential analgesics.

Some of us – even in spiritual environments – make time a prison… more than a measure of quality it becomes a measure of quantity.

People keep being the same years after years… since some groups work as an analgesic, they erase the need to face the things that bother us or the feeling of lack we have inside… analgesics for existence (a direct result of our culture).
And there is no “laboratory” way to face something unless facing the real thing (or it is as a “surgery” on allopathic medicine – it takes the affected organ or part of our life out but it doesn’t heal the cause of disease).

The only change on these groups or tendencies comes from one spiritual exercise to the other, from one spiritual experience to the other.

As drugs – we need other things, other books, other courses… we think we are being filled with “light” when – if we look in the mirror – we are doing the same mistakes (though – as we do it “spiritually”, we don’t even notice that is the “vibration” that generates the word more than the word itself that comes from our mouth the one that wounds).

In other words – we learn to erase the traces of the loss by changing the name of the things (instead of hate we say “friction”) and things seem washed… we feel the same but name it different, so we evolved… do you think?

We don’t acknowledge we keep “reacting” more than acting fully aware.

We don’t understand that – if situations keep happening in our life, that is because they keep bringing a lesson – independently we may think the lines of the book of righteousness were being followed – there is a book greater than any book… it is called life.

The disease of love…

Before any other cancer of the wounded heart upon the suffering body, the disease was brute temper over sensitive feelings…

The first time… how long ago?

The first kiss – when all the tender and soft silk is invaded by knowledge and fashion, shaped in false security and movie kind of sentences…

When we dream with gentleness just finding heat, desire and a solid rock shaped to roll over us as a bulldozer upon a rare blossom amid the decaying walls of an old building…

When the other was not there to listen carefully to all our dreams, to all our openhearted will to give body, mind and soul…

Smashed against the wall of the time filled with emotions, under the weight of lives so wasted by repetition they became numb to their own craving hearts…

The simple gesture of a kiss becomes the top sales from a Versace shop list of desires, the ultimate devotion on making love in to a mechanic roundabout of a blind body to a deaf soul in a tragicomic act of fluids and flesh, of hollow words and empty hands holding air more than heart…

Then – we cry… in loneliness we cry.
I was not seen I was not touched, I was not held in hands which could be home…

Then again – not learning the lesson of the voice within – that cries “Not now, not this, not this one…”

Fashions, vanity of males around, female souls as numb as the male chunks of nothingness we all are so used to hear about… human beings are so strange…

One day you rebel… one day you say “No more!”…

One day you dress the first part of the armor to be… and a part of you was already lost…

Then – you go.
You try to fear no more.
The armor guards the heart – now you may step further – now you may search…

The red lights are on, the warning is all over the place… but you keep trusting that – one day, one beautiful day – you will find home…

And you keep going, and challenging – unaware the armor is becoming thicker, unaware it is full of thorns, unaware it is hurting as much as – one day - soome unaware soul hurt yours…

The intuition says something is wrong – that you are feeling more and more alone – though, fame and people are more and more around, that you attract so easily people… so lost as you…so numb…

Until you start to feel scared… you dream about a saving angel that may return to you all the innocence, all the dreams… that heart numbed by tears inside… returning in to life…

You look around, on the place you were born, around all those you knew from the past… old, used by themselves so many times they forgot what they really were searching for… armor so thick they need to be beaten so they still feel alive…

By each of these “bulldozers” another two wounded souls are born… and we only may trust… trust that – love – won’t give up on us… no matter how thick our armor may be and no matter how wounded the heart is…

Hope is the last thing we hold, the only that may keep us human, the only that may keep us truly alive…

Watching an Italian movie “Melissa P.” and remembering life as it was…

Cyrano

Cyrano… my friend and devoted spirit, who dwells inside hearts by themselves rejected , hiding nobleness beyond doubt and love beyond the appearances of the times passing…

I want to sing thee all the admiring songs inside of me, all the beauty you could not see, all the proud you held so free, all the life you gave made poetry …

As a poet wishes to endure within all the words , may I become rhymed in what my heart knows but my mind denied…

Since language was meant to heal, the wounds of past offense done to might within, lets free the spirit – lets set it free – lets love beyond the bounds of speech…

Que el lenguaje nunca fue señor, de todo el don que mi alma lleva, de todo ardor que el viento clama, de todo este mar – profundo en pena…

Por eso me hago como brisa ajena, que sopla libre sobre tierra yerma, que desafía el tiempo y se hace bella, hasta dejar desnuda el alma amena.

Por rima y verso me entrelaza el arte, por sobre el tiempo me conduce aparte, hasta el fondo de un mar sin nombre, hasta dentro de un mundo noble…

Y poder sin duda encuentro ahora, y calor sin llama que el ser añora, y sonrisa amiga que guarda el templo, donde yace el oro de mi corazón sereno…

Ahora – a ti vuelvo desnudo y frío – sin más consuelo que pena y rima, sin más morada que el eterno castigo, de caminar errando sin hallar destino.

E se entre quinas e orbes celestes, se pudesse cantar meu sonho esquivo; se entre a bruma se esgueirara a chama - de esperança fútil, de amor beijada - seria livre para repousar meu peito, em mais do que sonhos, em pele amada…

Mas duvido e sofro por não ser visto, detrás da máscara há sempre o estranho, baixo a couraça a carne abrasada, pedindo o toque que de vida os refaça.

Rima é perversa, pois enclausura nas voltas o entrançado caminho da alma aspirante, da vontade que busca com tacteio hesitante, a porta perdida para o reino errante…

Por ventura musa de ecos velados, de sonhos perdidos nos versos, deslizando sem graça por entre as folhas bizarras de papéis que não o foram e de relações que não passam…

Foi a vida a cruel ou cruel foi o cego - que espezinhou canteiros floridos ao saltar sobre os átrios - procurando conforto nos reflexos de lua entre lagos despidos, quando estava ela Lua longe – lá no alto - no nada?…

Quanto mais perto me encontro no deambular tresloucado, mais a Lua se esconde no seu estranho fado, de mingar lentamente com véu de sereias, desde a face alba até breu que me apaga…

Por isso anseio pelo lar perdido, mas deambulo errante em duvida prendido: como um estranho lume de chama dourada, que ruma a casa mas de casa se afasta…

Cymbrogi

(Sofia, on the left – she is the woman I appreciate so much for her straightforward way. She may send in to “shit” anyone at first glance of deceit and she will love until death those in her heart. Truthful and simple, hard working and pure of heart. A privilege to work next to her nowadays in these times of shades.
Aurelia, on the right – my ex-nurse chief. She was as “Lionheart” – always ready to give it all for ideals as nursing and free care. Frontal and edgy, she fell under the plot of the times in which we sink in nowadays. Blessed for her gift in to nursing for so long and so intensively)

People… they are the mirrors that mold our life…

From those who show us the apparent truth to those who help us to face the obvious lie… all of them count, all of them are worthy and truthfull their own way.

With my chief I learned to face the enemy, to engage it eye on eye and to fight for something until breath was there no more.

Under her influence I learned to trust all my will and gifts to a common cause – how to serve others using my skills for a communitarian well fare. Next with people of strong will (as my colleague Sofia) we fought for more than five years to develop all that each person has the right to demand from a public service of health without paying a cent for it or becoming prey of lobbies and clientalism.

Several projects of health promotion grew. Invitations to share our experience and even teach others appeared. Compliments rained from everywhere.

The service grew in numbers – from the five persons we were in the beginning we became twelve. We gained one more car, materials to help taking care of dependant people and to promote community health.

But – the only permanent thing is change.
Sickness on the family allied to the political changes and lobby influence drained this brotherhood of those who fought for an ideal with nothing personal to win.

Yesterday we met again to remember those times, to cry our deep inner wounds, to lament the moments we lingered when we should have fought. “Cymbrogi” – companions of the heart we are, those who fought shoulder with shoulder in battle for a common ideal, with nothing else to gain than to fulfill their dreams for a common vision of truth that serves everyone... these are companions of the heart.

Ave to those who do not die – those are the ones who passed in to the other side as free people…

I dream with those who broke but did not bend. May me myself discover the courage to become one.

(My mom and dad on one of the encounters we have had lately. Found it funny to see what happened to pas on the TV screen as the photos went on…)

Now, those who made me in to be what I’m now. We talked today, inside a ceremony of meetings in which I’m trying to wash away generations of pain and a relationship of fear.

Step by step – knowing and embracing my mother’s subtlety and gifts. To accept her and to let her know who is the being she had in hands for so long.

Step by step – to serve as a shield for these two entities to become aware of the balance they need to generate between them so each of them is fully free.

So painful the path of the heart. Still – so needed to endure.
In the end of the tunnel there’s light. But – more than words and beliefs, more than spiritualism and philosophy – we need deeds, we needs acts, we need steps forward.

So – here it is.
I’m working it as hard as I may. Sometimes it is as smashing my face against a wall. Others as open my chest to thorns. Others though – among the sand and dust - a pearl shines and a bit of each of us comes in to the surface.

That pearl deserves each painful moment. From the fear we shall rise to light, from oblivion we will awake in eden.

We will… we will…

(The picture of the loneliness I may face if not in harmony and devotion with the feminine inside. There is an angel somewhere to this stranded soul… there must be.)

Thirty minutes in Viana - part II

As the marina is left behind, the icon of the city – the caravel – on the hands of a mysterious woman rises as the warning to the entrance on the historical old part of the town.


Walking the streets is being filled with icons of the holy spirit age and the project of the world to be… the age of the heart


In a little street, after a narrow turn on the main way – there hides the always pleasant and bizarre “praça da Erva” – Erva square. Here, two old ladies prepare the fires for the meals of the evening honoring one of the biggest Portuguese festivities – St. Jonh. There is the Sheppard and his altar with the offerings of old… “Le roi est mort, vive le roi”


Turning to the right – following the classical Portuguese narrow streets of granit stone pavement, we find the “Sé” – the sede of the religious region – and the flags of the five wounds, the seven castles conquered to the enemy, the armilar sphere… those who have ears listen…


The sede, the solid building of the faith, it’s strong rocks and harsh nature threatening… still…
The entrance is “ogival”, a familiar shape from which any of us came in to this realm and started the adventure of time. The “Rosacea” - the place where the light fills in the temple of stone as in that point in the uterus where the miracle of light happens to fill the stone with presence of the divine awareness
From the “vesica pisces” – two circles join forming with a point in its middle, to this temple of old – all homage to the great god, the only one that could love as a mother enduring solid and truthful as a male…

In this vagina kind of entrance, with jesus as a golden button, the black and the white – the light and the shade – define the dual nature of the hermaphrodite which will be…

Medieval houses, with long forgotten writings on their granite walls, guard the way back to the main square as the afternoon leads to it’s silent and peaceful end with streets getting filled with breeze and air

Shapes of old, shapes of ever – where it is as important the parts filled with windows as the parts filled in blank… windows or a cross – always a way to look beyond… from within to the light…

As the day gets in to an end, the square is filled with echoes, the allegoric shapes gave room to pigeons, the piazza with tables and coffee is empty – just the last rays of the setting sun fill the melancholic space with vibrant life that vanishes in the mists of eve…

Just the artists who sell arts with no bund to lord or land keep their stand as all the rest retreated to their moebius circles of existence. A child who passes and an artist who says hello while the town goes in to the sleepiness of a Saturday evening starting soon

Thirty minutes in Viana - part I

In Viana… my city here in Portugal…

My friend Daniel (Danilo), who is in Rome now – studying hard canonic law – missing home and his pastoral work… as he is a devoted priest.
We had a lot to chat – our theologies, our search for God… he’s my friend and my councilor – and we laugh and joked because that is how serious things are dealt among us…


As the square is becoming full with people – we stare at the building with the caravel of the fifth empire, the cross of the order of Christ over the coat of arms of the nation and the armillar sphere… the people and the old traditions right in front of us… the new that never is, ever echoing the old that never was…


The people… the young and the old around the music of ages, the song of tradition… we are “Minhotos”, our colors red, black and white… gold in our hearts


As the spirit desperately searches for the water of life the tired body is well fed by those women with many skirts and laughing faces marked by the work of the sun…

Where Daniel? Where can He be? In the people, maybe? In the people?...

The afternoon starts to go dim, and I move towards the river side. The Letes as the Romans called it – the river when we forgot what we were if we dared to cross it… was Brutus who had to defy the legends of old and keep advancing towards the celt’s heart – the altars of Lhugh. Now the River is called “Lima”, as the capital of the Gallician of old is called – "Lugo". The echoes persist, the names change… but maybe not so much.
The garden, the flowers and the mark of discoveries from Portuguese service to the One world in old times…

As the gardens near the “Marina” keep going, a nice music place decorates the view for the wanderer… the …armilar sphere and the dove on it’s top. The five circles interlaced with spirit of the new world. Lets hope so… lets hope

Crossing a little iron bridge we may see the marina of Viana – with boats of recreation in the main line and the old bridge of the train in the bottom…

As the Sun gently moves to it’s ending step in this journey, we may see the dome of Santaluzia's basilic on the top of the hill and the city at it’s feet.

On the marina – parents play with their children… or are the children who play with their dormant parents?

World of contrasts, realm of appearances, dream of a summer’s eve…

Echoes...

How did it all start?

With the first Man who didn’t know how to listen to the first Woman’s dreams?
With the first Woman who didn’t understand the first Man’s fears?

How did it start may ever be veiled… but how it may end has to be answered…

A same language so we may understand other’s ways more than criticize or shape them on our same confusion - keeping, still our own way to name things…

A similar respect to the worship of values from within, that we all expect to manifest outside…

A similar recognition of a meaning to this journey called life…

Respect, truth, honesty, devotion, trust, hope, commitment…

From the values of cultures, societies, religions… all of them a means to walk honorably or a tool to rule those with faith under the cloak of will to dominate…

When does it end?

When we make it happen inside…

When – more than preaching – we do.
When – more than telling others to fill what we dreamed and never dared – we have done it before.

When the fight becomes truthful enough so we understand both fighters have to win.
When competition is a way to feel challenged to give our best and to demand the same from our companion in fight, more than to prove we are better, we were right, we are stronger…

When the ends do not justify the means.
When truth is always and just truth and always lie when truth is not.

When we recognize all we wish is to be loved and we do so with us; with those we can love; with those we still do not - acknowledging though they hold the same longing even when lost in their quest as they may seem.

When we look at the deepest sin of the one in front and we see our own failure, when we dream with the highest virtue of the one in front and we recognize our true nature.

When sin is just the promise of the home we miss and virtue the open door to the hearth we were searching for.

When hope to unite the heart with the heart is stronger than the will to define which roads must be taken, how many steps will be given, when to walk and when to stop, whom to question about the right paths to follow….

When we need not to read things as these to feel, to be…

When no one needs to write them…

The walls outside… the walls within…

Why do I stay in my room?
Why do I feel so heavy, so drained… so transparent… fragile… that stepping outside is as being a thin glass of ice, walking under the sunlight - in a square full of noise… I may be melt, I may be broken…

Why to endure a realm of our own?
Why to become prisoner of our minds?
Because – outside, there beyond these walls – we may find colors, we may find joy, we may find day… but we may be in an empty place… a place where no one may truly see us, a place where no one knows no one…

Staying inside is becoming able to accuse something or someone of our pain, of the echo of sorrow that is around each time we feel broken… with a part missing…

They say we have to adapt.
They tell us how to honor values and virtues – still, they are paid to say so…
They teach about things they never saw or tasted… things that I know are ever shifting and never defined… though – they always paint them as “truth”… and so they doom me in to a realm of lies… those teachers of nothing, those rulers of shades, those chiefs of no one… no one exists, nothing around is the truth…

They say we must be truthfull – still, they lie in each breath they may take…
They do not love – still – they tell us that’s the truth…
They tell us we are loved, we are the center of their existence – still, they are never with us, always selling their life as an excuse to not take hold of the reigns of their own destiny… slaves who feel so alone they doom others to slavery so they are not alone… liars! Parents of deceit...

Why to leave the room?

Here I may pretend nothing else exists.
I may pretend – the world around – that living lie of hollow voices and shades they call truth, is a nightmare existing far away…

Why I don’t keep in here so?
Because it becomes hard to breath.
Because the space around seems to become so tight, because I believe…

I believe – beyond all this chaos, all this fun fair of appearances – the only thing a human being wants… it’s most deep desire – it is to be loved…

What is it important if not that?
All the power, all the meaningfulness isn’t a sad shade of that?

Why does the child stay inside the room?
Ask the reverse… what is it outside that can be true for the child?


The child is the only truth, still - what happens when people doesn’t want to be waken up from a dream?

What happens when the child speaks and no one understands?
When everybody is so filled with “truth” no one listens…
When you open your heart but you find out that the world already is as it should be… why am I here so?

When the space this realm demands you to fill is so little you have to choose – or to be chopped in pieces, or to pretend and deceive you fit, or to die…

When all of them fail – you see you will fail as well...
They tried so hard to make you a copy of their own lack of sense – that, in the end – you lay down your tired soul and let it go as waiting for relief for such a burden, such a meaningless journey around the wheel of time.

As a rat running in a wheel that’s inside a cage...

That is why it is a sin when a child comes in to this realm– because those who bring them do so by egoism.
They do not know what they are doing – they do so still.
And the truthful cultures still cry when a child is born and still rejoice when it has been released…

Where is the famous love of the mother who wishes so much to hold a baby she will open a door towards heavens so a soul may come here... in to this?
Does she really know?...

Before you open a door – can you really love someone you do not know - more than your own desire to open it?
Oh Pandora – what are you doing?!...

And – then – the soul is here.
First silent as the realm above.
First ready to be nursed and hold in the arms of those who do not know they do it because they have already lost that same essence… and so they need to see a mirror of what they were, of the realm they too were dragged from… but then…

As the process to shape the flesh in to the image of those around becomes finished, they start to be scared of the reflection of their own making, of their own face.
Then becomes really difficult to love anymore…

Yes – we are all the same baby.

Why can’t we love each other then, when we become this entity who screams it’s pain on the streets, whom builds it’s love in hate and destroys much more than creates?

Why can’t we smile and embrace – as we embraced before the helpless baby – all those babies around, those that hurt as they were hurt, who oppress as they were oppressed, who kill the baby around as someone killed their own inside, long ago?

Why was childbearing set as sin?
Isn’t it easy to see?
Because of our pain, because of our own need and despair, because of our own lack of meaning to this slave existence we keep opening portals to souls so they descent.

Is it a peaceful journey?

Think how it is painful to come in here, feel your own birth, feel how you cried when you first entered in the realm of flesh and bone.
Why do parents desire to bring beings in to here and then shaping them on their own image?
You - vane ego - that needs to endure it’s existence as a disease, passing from one shape to another, from one human face to another...

Can we love all those who are here right now?

Can we love ourselves fully?

No?
So, when that egoism tells you to doom another to your own doom – think more than twice!
Feel – when opening the portal – or you are the master and you are filled with essence, or you are making the worst sin of all – to keep and guard pain on this world while humanity exists as it is.

And – if you truly love – then sacrifice your own egoism, the fear of ending as an identity if you do not spread your seed in time and space; loose the vanity to shape humans at your own image and making... and become humble – accept death and oblivion.

Do not rebel against the nature of things.

Your existence is rebellion... you know that.

Lucifer was cast away because She didn’t bow to creation – so She spread her seed on earth and pain was planted where the garden was.

They didn’t noticed it yet – but they will do.
The time for open war is arriving.

When they realize who brought them here, who raised them, who made them who they are – they will stop being manipulated by the only true Lord of this Realm.

Lucifer was Female...

The light bearer... the life bringer.

Both principples had to be equals and rule. But one tried to take the dominant position and the other denied – so the war started and the realm of time and space was opened.

There is a war that ever existed.
The reality we are told is a deceit – it has been re-invented since ever. The only thing you learn in school is how to turn deceit in to reality, lie in to truth...

Both sides have used it to keep their rule and both are with hands tied to reveal it.

The way of the Sun and the way of the Moon will have to converge.
Eclipse will have to wash their vanity and arrogance away.
Harmony will have to come – if not by love and devotion, then by being both broken in their stiff will to endure as they have.

One way or the other – the war has to end.
Enough of numb ears, enough of stubborn will.

Enough of manipulation as well as brutality.
Both angels will sheath their swords or the swords will be broken, their beings shaded in to humbleness.

Michael and Lucifer will have to embrace again – they will have to be as one once more.

Eclipse – no more night, no more day… no more moon, no more sun… no more God, no more Goddess… ONE

Thirty minutes in Tuy - part II

Crossroads among streets of wonder, among echoes of the past. Sudden squares of light, with artistic houses and vibrant colors within the flowers… the icons of the hidden church sprouting everywhere – the cross of changes, the world, the man who dies in one hand, the woman who holds him dead or being (re)born in her lap on the other side… the two side of the same coin of destiny… Moira for everyone who sees…



And the arrows of light, of yellow, or the way of James lead towards a medieval temple, with a sacred garden guarded by two trees, and a window over the river where two towers guard the passage of the one bridge…




Over one hilltop – Tuy, and it’s fortress and Cathedral. On the other – the ancient Contrasta, now called Valença… the place within which walls I came in to be. In the middle the river Minho, upon him the bridge with Gustav Eiffel stile… a river port, a garden and the column of the temple make the rest of this piece of time…


In these gardens of time, with river, and stone and bells ringing in the distance I wandered so many nights. When the god Pan layed his flute to all the spirits of nature to follow, on the roman amphitheatre which used to be where I stand now to take this picture. How many times I wandered protected under the veil of the Lady, how many times I danced with the waters on the shaded shores of the ever flowing river of life…


Past the gardens, an avenue of stone – with playgrounds filled with children and their parents… on the right side another little garden where a woman feeds her baby… all around gipsy chants echo as the “Philadelphia” evangelist church celebrates another of their meetings – gipsy community that I admire so much by their inner strength and will to embrace the “payo” who passed there once and quickly was dragged inside by the children on the door…

Above – in the end of the stone avenue – an equestrian statue… homage to the main square of Vigo (the city of my mother). Echoes of the ancient gods and the old rule, the sacrifices to those on the waters by those stranded in the new earth… the womanhood thinks those from above do not remember of the ritual promise of the fruit of their womb to the ruler of this world… but we know… we know… and – still – we embrace them in compassion… by compassion we fall… not by power from below, but by compassion from above…




The “corredera” – the avenue that will be soon filled with people as the work schedules get in to their end. So pleasant to merge within the multitude, feeling their energy, pretending to be one of them… so good to be a pilgrim on these lands of veiled hope…


The final step - to rest in this beautiful square, with a book and a tonic drink. To look and to keep watching how the cosmic charade takes place... inside, and echoing all around.

How the human child feed the dove…