On a brighten day I went to visit a Smithsonian Museum in Washington D.C. and "by accident" I entered a room where there was a huge platform with a made of stone display showing an enormous text what for me looked like Sanskrit. And just when I scrolled my eyes down through that monument that I was able to see the translation in English. It was nothing more nothing less than the Dead Sea Scrolls. I had also seen the beauty from the 'Tibetan Book of the Dead" and I was astonished by the Universal truths it revealed, yet in a very sensible way, and the so very detailed knowledge it disposed right in front of my eyes. I kept walking through the vitrine, and I left to walk pass another stone and a ceramic bowl with other Sanskrit words encrypted in a structured scripture. I continually tried to decode the messages, and I kept on my "Indiana Jones" disguise trying to figure out the carves and the figures dancing over the stones, so concentrated on my newly adopted deciphering quest, when all of a sudden I felt the text moving...A man wearing a shirt with terrific modern designs caught my vision. His clothing was just like a chameleon, mesmerizing the inscriptions. I "s-wear" you! I was so perplexed and puzzled, and totally petrified by the shimmering feast of the Sanskrit’s flambeaus that I allowed myself to drifted off for a while through the peculiar design of that man's shirt...such a slouch for much of a search!
Now try to decipher the code and decode the T-Shirt finding the "but" and the key (S)cal(^l^)e at:
"A day before the Halloween, the first one I was going to pass after the September Eleven tragedy, I saw a black cat with a white fur underneath it, from his neck to his belly: a very rare character. It looked like a sophisticated fellow wearing a tuxedo, ready to party with a cocky-tail behind. A big and fat cat, wearing a black furry hat at the top of its white head and grass all over its spine, for it just started to roll over and over, making a blanket of green grass on its back like an emerald cap. It looked just like the cats that could easily picture into a Halloween’s card.
I meowed at him, to make a conversation, you know. He looked at me like saying, "Not here to make a pal." And he disappeared. Then I remembered what my great-grandmother used to say to me about black cats, that the ancients thought black cats were reincarnated beings that were able to divine the future. “Cats, they have their own personal way of living. They are quiet and introspective…. you never know what they are thinking.” My granny-grandmamma would ramble. Two days after that, I went out of my apartment and I saw a white cat, so fluffy and happy, that all that I wanted was to make part of that joyful feast. I went back home to grab my camera and film her, when I heard a "Meow" beside me.
"Yeah, yeah! Just let me grab my camera, I want to record this..." I said.
Then I heard another "Meow", I looked below, and what did I see?
"Look what I found: my Hallo-weed friend cat!"
Guess what? The fellow tuxedo cat wearing the now gray-greenish cap behind him, and who didn’t want anything to do with making another friend was back! Yes, indeed! It was that same black and white cat that didn't care at all about my "Meows" the night before. And I just had to film "HER"! It was a she. She came so nicely, and so tender, all to conquer my heart. She passed her whole body through my legs, waiting for me to caress her head. I took a grass or two from her back, and she filled me with a couple of more weeds on my back as well. She wanted to play. Indeed an endearing being!
I asked her if I could look at her eyes. She not only did allow me to penetrate the deepest of her ocean of amazing light, but she also would always look back at me, showing her eyes, so green and crystalline, like two precious stones glimmering against the sunshine. I tried to take her home to give her some food. I was about to carry her, but then she got really crispy, even fierce, and she showed her paws and attacked my tennis shoes. Only then she scared me. I thought, "For Cat’s sake, are you going to scratch me now? Now that we are so close to establish a true relationship and I am about to falling in love with you?”
"A saint I ain't! I am just a wild cat." She responded as she jumped to the side.
"You might as well JUMP!" I replicated.
Then I noticed that she was actually playing with me when she pounded against my jeans. She surely was a wild cat. No doubts about that. I was frightened by her reaction. I realized then that she was just so used to chase squirrels for lunch and rats for dessert and that actually made her a little more vibrant than the other cats that I happened to know. I was lucky enough to witness a kind side of hers too. I was a testimony that although her life might have been quite rough from the surface, she was a very delicate soul and her diamond soul brightened joyfully inside of her. She just wanted me to stay there and see her bouncing with her back all over the ground. I once again tried to take her inside. But as I opened the door she became scared. She was very careful about making new acquaintances. Maybe her mother also taught her to be aware of stranger. She didn't dare to come inside.
“Good-bye, then!” I waved to her. She looked at me like saying, "Are you going to leave me here?"
The other day, I saw another cat. This one was smaller and had a luxurious orange fur. It was friendly right at first. So I called it to follow me at home. But this one was quite indecisive. It kept following me and looking around. Then, it went under the bushes, started to walk very carefully like a leopard chasing zebras, while preparing its body to attack...a squirrel, as it ran faster as it could. But the squirrel was smart enough not to get caught as it jumped up very quickly climbing a tree. I could its sighing so relieved!
"Almost!" I said to the little cat. "You almost had your lunch. But you are quite too small yet."
And I could see its tail bouncing joyously at me, and then it ran away throughout the field. I waved a friendly "good-bye" to the vivid colorful cat full of joy, and I went back home.
I learned a lot with cats. There are all types of cats: some risky, some frisky, some furry, some fiery, but all with their own ways. And this colored one surely liked to live in the wilderness, although it was not as wild as the black and white cat.
I see that many people are just like the wild cats. Some are really mean, and mean harm. Others are very friendly but they can also be wild. But most of them, they just look rough in the surface, but if you try one amicable eye contact once, next time they see us, they will surrender with all their charm, and they will even try a smile. Cats surely do have their personal ways, and so do most of the human beings. All creatures from this Earth Planet have their specialties, their uniqueness and personalities. But that one in particular started to trust me. I left out some food for her the next morning..."
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It is a wURLd All About Wi(^t^)shes N-ways!
Dancing On Wor(^l^)ds-Flying Birds
Created to play as an advisor this book is based on sequence numbers and other divinatory principles as Tarot, I Ching Oracle, koans and the Tao Te Ching. Pick the cards from the placards and make a pack through the deck.
Fiction by Ana Antunes
Chapter One:
No more a Ballerina
A Princess falls in love with a Witch. That is a contemporary Ballet, mixture of the composition by Swan Lake and the Black Swan. There is an audition for that role today at the Washington Ballet.
After the fiasco that was a lavished “Carmen” with a zest of a "zen-bee" represented by a girl from the Dominican Republic, who had as much hot blood as a cold icy day at the winter wonderland, Cathy really thought it was a good idea to give it a shot.
After being rejected by the Cuballet, where Alicia Alonzo was still dancing like a plume, she prepared herself for contemporary roles since that first attempt to be part of a Ballet company was doomed for a blind sense of guilty.
She could still feel the look blasé from which the prima ballerina of Cuba embarrassed Cathy when she stepped in her feet on stage, being blinder than the deceased director of the company who could still dance as a sixteen year-old character, “Giselle”, in spite of her wrinkled face being disguised by several plastic surgeries.
Well, her face was more stretched than her rubber and slender body, even after her sixty-five year-old birthdays, and already completely blind of one eye she could dance “Coppelia” and she was now dead. Would she be the next “Alicia Alonzo”? She surely prayed for that, to continue to dance for the rest of her days, just not like Margot Fonteyn, another famous ballerina who died with her students paying her hospital’s bills, because she spent all her money with her husband’s disease and she became poor. And Catherine was the one who saw everything in a blurry disposition.
She no longer expected to be part of a Ballet, not as a role of a “mushroom” that is how she called the girls from the back scenes. At the Royal Academy she tried to engage into a trip through which she knew was drifting her apart. She almost had anorexia; she was always weak and tired. The circles under her eyes were getting bigger than a basketball. Her null two attempts to join the Opera Ballet of Paris, and her seventeen audition to the Kirov Ballet, and fourteen at the ABT-American Ballet Theater.
Bummer! Barishnikov, who actually saw her dancing before and she considered indeed her friend, had to give his place at the American Ballet Company to Fernando Bujones that same year, who was just looking for tall, long legged bimbos, just like Balanchine did come decades earlier. At the New York City Ballet, with two definitely not worth to mention rather nonsense infatuated step at the Joffrey’s Ballet, and consequent failure to make part of the grand scene made her loose her confidence in her Ballet shoes.
And now she was near forty and she couldn’t stand more refusals to join another Classical Ballet group. There was this opening, only tonight. A chance of a lifetime! She just had to do that. To follow her dream and stop her pain from years of pure sacrifice which her boyfriend prefer to conceive as pure fanatic, a drug called “the realm of dreams,” to use his own words she would have to run a long way, much more painful and unbearable that she would ever imagine in her worst nightmares.
A ballerina in her early teens fell in love with a bad boy, a prince that later proved to be the witch. “The Swan Lake and the Witch”; that was the Ballet she didn’t know yet she was perfect for the role. That was a choreography written especially for her, only that she was not prepared for that, as she was not prepared for any other role, except to be deviated and suffer the obvious obstacles her career was plenty of.
He, the Prince Charming in a veil of a Romantic Lover who stars as a Witch, tries to manipulate her in every possible way, from taking her out of her dream, to disestablish her emotionally and financially (as if she was not indeed in too much trouble yet.)
Her career and her success and inevitable fame were almost a motif of shame. She didn’t need that as much as she didn’t need the air to breath. But she needed that force that pulled her down. Why that? Only she would know why, perhaps in an even fatal discover. From making herself miserable to turning her life into an unbearable nightmare from night to day, like a spell, the witch, disguised as the Prince Charming.
Finally he let her succumb through his intentional manners of attracting her to the worst nightmare possible in her life. But was all that in vain? Will she survive all his possessive attributes? Will she succumb to his spells? Was he really an attractive yuppie from the twenty-one century, more like a witch disguised as a lover, or her own shadow, from which she tried in vain to be oblivious?"
All things have their own zest
Even if in the outside they crack.
Don't get so hard on your cask!
And if someone tells you are wrong, think again....They might be right!
So just Drop the Mask and Face the Task!!
“Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted from desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.”
Frost
When talking about the "Whether"
It's worse or better,
Take a piece of advice
And device this twice:
Before entering into a vice
Choose to suffice
Between fire and ice!
When ta(^l^)king vis-a-vis:
All that has a price will free-ze
So please,
Miss Frances,
don't strike on my dear sis...
I beg you to do just this:
When you come closer to her piece
Just become a small breeze
saying, "Peace!"
If it's too hot just take a look at the watercolor'd wor(^l^)d
And if the winter is coming sooner than you thought, immerse into the immense mercy Inn(^t^)er wor(^l^)d of Shangri-la
As Bruxas de Avignon parodia sobre “As Brumas de Avalon” apesar de basear-se em fatos ocorridos durante o percurso da historia da civilização.
“Um dia, saindo de Avignon e voltando pela estrada que leva a Grenoble, uma cidade próxima à Aix-en-Provence, encontrei um capataz que passava pelo caminho de volta a sua aldeia. Passei quase rasteira e segurei um pouco a velocidade do meu cavalo, para não levantar poeira e engolir de pó o pobre rapaz. Mas eis que este indaga, conservando sua cabeça erguida para frente, sem ao menos olhar para mim:
"Conheceu, afinal, as bruxas de Avignon?" declarou, insolente, e com certo tom de ironia.
Como pensei se tratar de mais um descrente e atrevido rapaz, respondi-lhe com uma pergunta, fazendo-me de desentendida e ingênua:
“Pois elas existem de fato?"
"Ah", respondeu o mancebo, "pois que se elas não existissem eu não estaria aqui agora, neste exato momento tendo esta conversa contigo. Pois que elas existem, sim. Todas as mulheres são bruxas. Pois que elas nos enfeitiçam, a nós, pobres homens indefesos, e nos dominam completamente, controlando nossas vidas e nossas ações. E eu sou casado com uma delas... Eu as conheço muito bem!"
"Pobre homem!" Retruquei.
"Mas, considere-se feliz, pois, talvez não saibas, tens um tesouro dentro de tua própria casa." Depois de lhe dizer isso, simplesmente, segui em frente, sem ao menos olhar para trás, pois ria-me pelos cotovelos de tal declaração insólita.”
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Aparecem imagens como as de um longo sonho; imagens que surgem em sua memória como um filme surrealista de Salvador Dali, desordenado, sem começo nem fim.
Martin está sentado em sua escrivaninha escrevendo um artigo para o jornal. Está bastante preocupado, e tem o cenho carregado; suas rugas parecem bem marcadas, mas não tão delineadas e profundas como anteriormente. Ele parece ter uns dez anos menos.
Escuta-se a voz de uma mulher, doce e amorosa, e bastante despreocupada, como se estivesse em longas e repousantes ferias, bem disposta, e apenas se relaxando um pouco:
"Você que escreve sobre a educação, você crê que eu não me atenho a educação de minha filha? Meu trabalho no jornal, e agora, você; isso me faz ter pouco tempo com ela. De fato, onde está ela?
Como uma fã sempre fiel ela lê o ultimo livro de Martin: "L'arret du Coeur" escrito em francês, e que ela segue traduzindo para ele, anotando célere com um lápis as palavras quase que simultaneamente e de olhos fechados, como se houvera ela mesma escrito a obra.
"A sua filha...onde estará?", pergunta ele. "Ela está no seu quarto, recitando poesias enquanto ouve musica no seu walkman. Esta tarde ela me disse que ela quer fazer teatro."
"Ela é muito reservada para isso. O teatro é coisa para paranóicos e loucos"
"Você está exagerando, não é bem assim... Há de tudo, em qualquer meio."
"Não! Outro dia, depois daquela peça ridícula..."
"Como se chamava aquela peça mesmo?? Nus sobre o campo de trigo..."
"...eu digo a você o mesmo que disse ao Eduardo, nosso grande diretor: Dá de tudo mesmo! Ele riu bastante, mas depois, concordou comigo."
"Sem mais: sua filha quer fazer teatro, e ela vai ser uma atriz, e ponto final. 'Tá na cara que ela fará tudo para te contrariar. O que você insistir que ela não faca, é exatamente o que ela fará."
"Não, é você que adora me contrariar. (Um silencio). Eu sei que a gente cria os filhos, para que eles nos deixem um dia. E como os homens que não tem raiz, a gente os ama, sabendo que eles vão nos deixar"
"Você realmente acredita que eu quero te deixar?"
"Eu não disse isso."
M: "E mesmo que isso fosse verdade, seu pessimismo é absurdo; não é o tempo que conta, mas é a qualidade que vale mais que a quantidade."
F: "Não, isso eu não concordo: a felicidade está em saber que o tempo dura. Sei que você não entende isso. Para mim, a qualidade do tempo está em saber que eu vou envelhecer junto a você. Eu adoraria te ver a cada dia tornando-se um homem mais velho, como um avo, ver nascer e se aprofundar as suas rugas, observar seus cabelos que embranquecerão, e acompanhar todo o processo, dia após dia, após dia...Isso e uma coisa que eu amo muito na Europa: observar as estações do ano bem demarcadas. Aqui, no Brasil, a gente não se dá conta do tempo que passa, não há uma estação definida..."
M: "E é precisamente isso o que eu mais amo do Brasil, além das mulheres, todas sempre lindas, perfumadas e bem cuidadas...(Ele ri da cara entortada de Fanny, que comprimi seus lábios para o lado, contrariada.) O que eu gosto no Brasil, é isso: essa impressão de que o tempo não passa, que seremos eternamente jovens."
.......................................................... Voce podera ler mais sobre essa historia real no link Ana "Do" Don Juan na pagina principal.
Books and Articles based upon play-on-words, image-in-action, article-^l^-action and "divin-actions" exercises for your mind, body and soul!
