Fragments II


three short pieces

By Airton Paschoa*

Master Moa

Romualdo Rosário da Costa died in the ambush of Brazil, which remained in the shadows for centuries, just waiting for the occasion, and this time the occasion shone in the treacherous stab, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten , eleven, twelve — one for each month of the year that hasn't ended. It was almost like mincing meat, the killer could have said. He was not a butcher, however, he was a barber and a Bolsonarist.

I only learned of the existence of Mestre Moa do Katendê (the Atlantic between SP and Bahia) when he ceased to exist. “Composer, percussionist, craftsman, educator and master of capoeira”, stamps Wikipedia on a tombstone, pride of the Brazil-that-we-love-outside, symbol of Afro-Brazilian culture, turned into a sad statistic of yet another trap Brazil, which the people don't seem to want to see it, but it's still there, on the corner, alert and alert, in our faces, in our beards, always ready to trim the pomp of the populace, the pride of the rest.

I don't know if Brazil exists or not, if it's pure fiction, good or bad, if it's fiction that doesn't become popular, it's so high, or low, or that never ends, in its endless reenactment, with its 1.001 coturnal nights, whether only fastening, do not know. What I know, what I feel is that I have never been so sorry to be from São Paulo and not from Palestine. He well deserved an intifada.


In memory of the Tattoo

His body was all tattooed, he didn't want to look like a man, he knew that men don't get along with each other, and badly with animals and plants, which he loved and hid in a high hole in the Center, where he hid with them. Armadillo? It had to be a little, but armadillo tattooed, armadillo artist, artist tattooed, artist acting on skates, how else would he survive, loading and unloading trucks? He even unloaded four children from the burning building, with whom he fussed in passing, fussing lovingly, and who called him “Tattoo”, like everyone else. The name was Ricardo and the last name, Oliveira Galvão Pinheiro, — long, with such noble trunks, perhaps the only disdain of the poor, it naturally explained his taste for photographing landscapes, as someone who photographed himself, and the taste for photographing himself, like someone photographing landscape.

In time: one or another mischievous called him Lionheart... He smiled, misunderstanding, but we understand, and feel, the heart still burning in the wreckage of the accident.


In memory of Cade

I didn't know you student, activist, teacher, bibliography et al. I've seen you bohemian and mouthy, getting drunk until you drop and falling, id. ibid., like me, passim em apoud. But, if we weren't senile, we were also far from being children and, you know, the mature ones wait for the fruit to fall, they aren't crazy enough to get up on their feet. Diving — don't even mention it! Not because the waters are invariably icy, turbid they will always be, some are lukewarm, even hot, it's just that embracing a new name, what is called knowing, at this curved height of life, you know, is something for the bold, not for bald or khan people in dog times. That's why people end up passing by us... What I can tell you, now that you've run downstairs, is that every now and then your voice rings me, the timbre difficult to define, somewhere between litany and resentment, insistent appeal, urgent call, that few responded, yes, but what has life been like beyond that? Hugs, old man.

*Airton Paschoa is a writer, author, among other books, of the life of penguins (Nankin)

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