Blue

Zaz Turned Blue - Polly Jean Harvey & Eric Drew Feldman

habitar

habitar

Favela, Rio de Janeiro

da casa

MSF

habitar

habitar

Charles Corrêa , kanchanjunga apartment.

o disfarce era de Pin Up palhaça, mas chamaram-me de Amália. Coitada da senhora, que de palhaça não tinha nada.

Aranjuez Mon Amour - Amalia Rodrigues

um dia

Confesso - Amalia Rodrigues

Wash wash wash, clean it

Wash The Day - TV On The Radio

put it on

not fair

follow the white rabbit

Into The White - Pixies

yeah

subbacultcha - pixies

Mistaken For Strangers

Mistaken For Strangers - The National
You have to do it running but you do everything that they ask you to
cause you don’t mind seeing yourself in a picture
as long as you look faraway, as long as you look removed
showered and blue-blazered, fill yourself with quarters
showered and blue-blazered, fill yourself with quarters

You get mistaken for strangers by your own friends
when you pass them at night under the silvery, silvery citibank lights
arm in arm in arm and eyes and eyes glazing under
oh you wouldn’t want an angel watching over
surprise, surprise they wouldn’t wannna watch
another uninnocent, elegant fall into the unmagnificent lives of adults

Make up something to believe in your heart of hearts
so you have something to wear on your sleeve of sleeves
so you swear you just saw a feathery woman
carry a blindfolded man through the trees
showered and blue-blazered, fill yourself with quarters
showered and blue-blazered, fill yourself with quarters

You get mistaken for strangers by your own friends
when you pass them at night under the silvery, silvery citibank lights
arm in arm in arm and eyes and eyes glazing under
oh you wouldn’t want an angel watching over
surprise, surprise they wouldn’t wannna watch
another uninnocent, elegant fall into the unmagnificent lives of adults

You get mistaken for strangers by your own friends
when you pass them at night under the silvery, silvery citibank lights
arm in arm in arm and eyes and eyes glazing under
oh you wouldn’t want an angel watching over
surprise, surprise they wouldn’t wannna watch
another uninnocent, elegant fall into the unmagnificent lives of adults

The National

Abel

Abel - The National

My mind's not right
My mind's not right
My mind's not right
[repeat]

Abel, come on, give me the keys, man
Everything has all gone down wrong
Abel, come on, give me the keys, man
Everything has all gone down wrong

I see water on the bridge
Well, you better hold my hand through this
Turn around, turn around, take me back
I can't calm down
Turn around, turn around, take me back
I can't calm down

My mind's not right
My mind's not right
My mind's not right
[repeat]

Abel, come on, give me a reason
I am not as bright as I could be
Abel, come on, take me with you
Everything has all gone down wrong

You turn me good and god-fearing
Well, tell me what am I supposed to do with that
I'm missing something
Yeah, I'm missing something
My mind's gone loose inside its shell
My mind's gone loose inside the shell
Well, I'm missing something
Yeah, I'm missing something
Abel, my mind's gone loose inside the shell

My mind's not right
My mind's not right
My mind's not right
[repeat]

The National

Indecisão Carnavalesca

da genialidade

De facto, muito simples.

Tormento da Noite

O fim sempre eminente, a ausência de transição entre ser e não ser, a volta para o cadinho, o escorregamento possível a todos os minutos, eis o precipício que é a Criação.
Mais um instante, e criança e morto, a vida esboçada e a vida em ruína, confundir-se-iam no mesmo apagamento.

in O Homem que Ri, Vítor Hugo

Das Casas

Uma casa não é um armário mas um armário poderia ser desenhado para ser uma casa.

O mundo a seus pés

Coisa ignóbil o fato sujo desprendido da cruzeta que se embala vazia dentro dos armários de vidro. Toca a música de elevador no i-pod ligado e esquecido no bolso descosido do vestido que se encontra por debaixo do fato. Está sujo e lamacento, tem buracos de traça comilona, que não se intimida com qualquer bola branca de naftalina. São muitos anos a snifar naftalina, muita experiência em cheiros estranhos, sem nunca perder a altitude de voo. E a luz não a baralha nasceu numa rua Nova Iorquina cheia de néons, que brilhavam sobre os passeios oleosos e escuros. Vive só, avaliando os armários por onde passa. Conhece os cantos de todas as gavetas das gavetas a que todos chamam apartamentos. Vê o bicho Homem chegar comer, ver coisas num caixote luminoso, falar com gente que não lá está (mais parecem loucos a falar sozinhos) e enfiar-se num compartimento da gaveta, para no dia seguinte abandonar a gaveta e depois voltar à mesma rotina. São felizes mas constantes o dia da traça que se reinventa em cada armário, escuro.

Marta Sousa Freitas (nas horas vagas a olhar para as paredes brancas)