Fragments XXVIII

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By AIRTON PASCHOA*

five short pieces

Landfill

What never existed died. What to do with the leftovers, no one knows. Or worse, argue endlessly. Some believe it is possible to revive it, which has never happened. The bulk seems attached to the dunghill that became the waste. There are those who consider, if you can tell by the agitation of their body, silently, noisily, abandoning the wake. A sober solution, to a modest son of the clod being allowed to suggest, a solution that carries the string of extreme extremes, neither burial, nor exile, nor despair, who knows if he would find himself in the landfill –, some will say, controlled, others, uncontrolled … date of vengeance the orphaned conformist withdraws.

EXIT

There is no escape route. There are mistakes, many. The most common thing is work, and the vast majority, if it doesn't satisfy, let's face it, get used to servitude. Yes, there is no hiding the voluntary servitude in which we all hallucinate, even in the coveted constellation of earthly stars, in cinema, TV, sport, in whatever field. But it assumes a certain talent and uncertain luck, ultimately a thing for the chosen ones… Terrorism! Needless to say the obvious: even though all the subways on Earth are blown up, I'm afraid they won't carry the discovered holes very far. Of course, of course, there is always suicide, a path taken every now and then by poets, madmen, lovers and other fanatics. From a logical point of view, however, ontological, analog or digital, how to identify the solution to jumping in the dark? Therefore, if there is something eternal in this dark kingdom, there it is, the red eye blinking mockingly EXIT. This I know, you know, we know. With musicals, at least we sang and danced inside.

007 and the suicide bomber

(or the intellectuals and me)

Intellectuals are strong, they have nerves of steel and bonds. I, too, suffer from them, as the ancients spoke of certain creatures who doubt God, full of fingers and pity. He suffers from nerves... Not intellectuals, nothing shakes them, no blow can deter them from the art that statues them. (I was going to write that it moves and perpetuates them…) Contrary arid. Promontories, think and think and think, Rodinesque. I, alas! I think wounds, and evil. Any little wheel will knock me out. Intellectuals don't, they don't give in, invincible as they are. Who's crazy about arm wrestling them? Twisted and twisted from so much contortion, I no longer even have an arm. Not intellectuals, endowed with an iron arm and a steel spleen, are not afraid of anything, they scrutinize, dismember everything. Or I'm just an arm, you know. Not intellectuals, you know, but they remain silent. When they barely look at us, safe and scared, I think that perhaps they doubt, just for a moment, whether to wave, or act, the elbow.

The fat and the thin

(comedy without act)

To Gigi

Very rare to see a head film. I'm afraid I lost mine with my longing hair. I have been drowning in mind-bogglingly stupid films starring mind-bending mermaids. But what happened to the roliúdi, their urnis and brodes? It's a catwalk of walking corpses, of teeth-picking gambits, when they don't break, of ironing boards and that, taking it away, woe to the aesthetes! they shiver as much as they can't. Either we go back to the bojudinhas, the botticellis, – the boteros of life, whatever, or we all die starving. Porridge does not sustain.

Filmography

To Rita

Movies, movies are sad, well, they are movies. Hour and a half beauties that every now and a half throw in our faces, cut, go. We are not good guys, nor are young girls, a beautiful life is nonsense, we don't live even two hours happily ever after. That's why we spend our lives watching movies playing. Sold, blindfolded. O rare Scarlett, oh beauty of afternoons that are eternally lazy, oh clear object of the obscure flash – whoever didn't want to, cuts, goes. Films no longer catch fire, nor films anymore, I can no longer catch fire, and I no longer heat up, at least until the cremation, and the wind blows away, who knows, with a cheery claque/ THE END.

*Airton Paschoa is a writer. Author, among other books, of Polishing chinelo (e-galáxia) [https://amzn.to/4at8YgM]


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