Recently in surreal Category
(A quick piece I sketched out a couple weeks ago. Polished it up under the influence of painkillers and listening to Beirut. I hope it's coherent enough. Enjoy!)
A saudade é arrumar o quarto
Do filho que já morreu.
- Chico Buarque, "Pedaço de mim"
"Saudade" is to arrange the bedroom
Of a son who has died.
-Chico Buarque, "Piece of me"
There was a woman whose hand would cease to be her hand when she heard music from the pampas. Songs from a gaúcho with nothing but horse, cattle, campfire. Sometimes a row of palm trees would interrupt the endless green. It was beautiful, wild land, but who to share it with? He longed for citrus-scented hair, lace skirts swishing around honey-dripping legs, but had only guitars to fondle like old lovers who try to keep warm when there's no feeling left. Saudade. His music poured through Rita's ears like liquid gold and she'd shiver, reminded of the feeling she had leftover from the one who'd left her.
Poof. A breath, an explosion inside her, to golden tingling dust. It filled Rita with a smile that spilled across her face, like cool spring dawn drawn across the sky. The tingling always settled in her left hand. She'd look down at it and it would be thicker, heavier somehow. She'd blink and her knuckles would have hair creeping over the back of her hand, poking up out of her pores, curious new sprouts over the wider wrist. Fingers thickened and lengthened, the nails much shorter now and with the familiar cracked cuticles she now realized she'd forgotten. Resting on her knee. It was Renato's hand. He reached for her skin through dark Levi's.
"No," she'd think. "Don't do that, it isn't possible." Her right hand would move to shove it away and the left hand, Renato's hand, would clasp onto hers. Warm, like being wrapped up in his tangy green sheets and watching the tension coiled in between his shoulders as he jumped from cyberspace to cyberspace, searching for meaning in the virtual threads connecting Rita to comics about robots to flying spaghetti monsters to Renato to articles on the evolution of digital surveilance to that old gaúcho and his namorada, long gone. She'd rise and kiss him right there, in between his shoulder blades, and know they'd never feel the isolation of the pampas because they'd always have wifi.
Looking down at the hand now fondly stroking her right arm, Rita wonders if that gaúcho who'd sung about saudade to his cattle so he could sleep at night would ever look down at his hands and wonder if he brought her to life again by missing her so.
A saudade é arrumar o quarto
Do filho que já morreu.
- Chico Buarque, "Pedaço de mim"
"Saudade" is to arrange the bedroom
Of a son who has died.
-Chico Buarque, "Piece of me"
There was a woman whose hand would cease to be her hand when she heard music from the pampas. Songs from a gaúcho with nothing but horse, cattle, campfire. Sometimes a row of palm trees would interrupt the endless green. It was beautiful, wild land, but who to share it with? He longed for citrus-scented hair, lace skirts swishing around honey-dripping legs, but had only guitars to fondle like old lovers who try to keep warm when there's no feeling left. Saudade. His music poured through Rita's ears like liquid gold and she'd shiver, reminded of the feeling she had leftover from the one who'd left her.
Poof. A breath, an explosion inside her, to golden tingling dust. It filled Rita with a smile that spilled across her face, like cool spring dawn drawn across the sky. The tingling always settled in her left hand. She'd look down at it and it would be thicker, heavier somehow. She'd blink and her knuckles would have hair creeping over the back of her hand, poking up out of her pores, curious new sprouts over the wider wrist. Fingers thickened and lengthened, the nails much shorter now and with the familiar cracked cuticles she now realized she'd forgotten. Resting on her knee. It was Renato's hand. He reached for her skin through dark Levi's.
"No," she'd think. "Don't do that, it isn't possible." Her right hand would move to shove it away and the left hand, Renato's hand, would clasp onto hers. Warm, like being wrapped up in his tangy green sheets and watching the tension coiled in between his shoulders as he jumped from cyberspace to cyberspace, searching for meaning in the virtual threads connecting Rita to comics about robots to flying spaghetti monsters to Renato to articles on the evolution of digital surveilance to that old gaúcho and his namorada, long gone. She'd rise and kiss him right there, in between his shoulder blades, and know they'd never feel the isolation of the pampas because they'd always have wifi.
Looking down at the hand now fondly stroking her right arm, Rita wonders if that gaúcho who'd sung about saudade to his cattle so he could sleep at night would ever look down at his hands and wonder if he brought her to life again by missing her so.
Er, does anyone else see the subliminal message here? Perhaps it's me running on a few hours' sleep, or the lingering effects of staring at pre-calc formulas for too long. All I can tell you is that I glanced down at my mom's bills on the table this morning, and this one was upside-down and telling me, "Shop & Feel."Whoaaaa, my mind-grapes are totally blown!
I know, I know, I know. I just posted a music video. But this was just too bizarre not to post about. I reccommend fullscreen even though it's bad quality.
And I shall say no more other than glub blub blub...blub blub!
via [fabulist]
