six short pieces

By Airton Paschoa*

[of pocket]

I make it known, to anyone who may be interested, that in two years we will celebrate the XNUMXnd anniversary of independence and the centenary of Modernism. In times of fat cows, meanwhile, and olive-green Amazonian pastures, times of thin dreams and olive-yellow ogres, I'm afraid it won't be, nor do I say wild parties, (recalling the explosive expression of our times of closed Jovem Guarda) but an honorable celebration, at the very least, with cheers and composite toasts, one and the other unaltered speech, customary decorum and decoration, as of rigor in praising such a distinguished and venerable lady and gentleman. I'm afraid the festivities are a little stale... pocket feast, to put it mildly, — gun salute for independence, weak; Bengal fire for Modernism, cold, and the rocket for us.

[100% off]

I make it known, to as many as it may concern, that here, whatever happens, nothing happens. And the incessant non-event triggers extreme, strange reactions, with a lot of expectation and little hope, of high anxiety and low intensity. It's more or less as if people were torn between carbonari and commerce, knowing in advance that what's going to catch fire is the next sale.

[dead souls]

I make it known, to whom it may concern, that, who knows why Masoch's haunting, I started to count how many acquaintances I lost in this last block and - I stopped, appalled! almost making the sign of the cross in front of the pocket of crosses. Many fell ill in 16 and two years later, obviously, they couldn't resist, they died, as the doctors euphemistically say, and also sick, most strangling, in a terminal state. So, having no one else to take care of life, we are left, lost souls, evoking in loving memory, let's confess, one or two sisters... with longing.

[human bulletin]

I make it known, to as many as it may interest, that we are nothing more than time, and it is not historical time, no, philosophical time. Mere meteorological time, bulletin time. Otherwise, let's see: there are people who fill up, there are people who dry, there are people who desert, there are people who suffocate, there are people who freeze, there are people who carry, there are people who improve, there are people who freeze, there are people who cover up, who cloud , foggy people, there are people who fog, there are people who evaporate, there are people who heat up and people who cool down, there are people who thunder, who torment, and people who clear, people who rain in the wet, people who firm, people who fog, even old people have to drizzle and umbrella... People who open and people who close, in time. There are people who are everything at the same time and send the devil to carry them - so much instability!

[exceptionalism]

I make it known, to as many as it may interest, that they don't even think about imitating the brothers from the North. There's Paulo Freire who can save us… Don't you watch roliúdi rolls?! The children there are all, without exception, gifted. Since the age of two, they have been thinking, asking, questioning, arguing, discussing, discoursing, convincing, advising, arranging, American-ué-af-laifam like adults, — and American adults! who are not like us, right? We are overadopted! That's why the business is to disengage, it's impossible to emulate them more. It's taking the horse out of the rain and grazing with it.

[How are adults!]

I make it known, to whom it may concern, that what I wanted really was to be an American. How are adults! I see it on the tapes. There everything is negotiated, discussed, clarified and clarified, said in all letters, from A to Z, loud and clear, course, the relationships all considered, judged, husband and wife, father and son, boss and employee, dog and postman… God bless! Not here, here it's all a hodgepodge, faces and mouths and pouts, madness of everything that is order and disorder. They turned their faces to you for nothing. You turn too and you know very well why. All childish people in our Brazil!

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