so ago about five years, bah, five years exactly, I started a notebook. Irrelevant data, sure, but in the realm of purely personal, it means a lot. Pleased with the fact start keeping a journal to be polished form, the problem of how constant, needless to say- to exercise the task of a writer, what not to have it, to free or conjure ghosts creating new ones, I began this journal, a hardcover Rivadavia 98 lined sheets, which ended two days ago.
Two jumps, then, my life, five years ago at this time:
-----
Saturday, September 24
I'll start this day with a completely true statement: I am an idiot.
-----
Five years later, a poem on the last page:
----
A horse
loose in the middle of a field of Belo Horizonte
in
long avenue that ends at the lake contaminated
- people sometimes drops low as
how artificial lake, "
a horse in the open
where
stole flowers and bats make their home;
a horse still brown
invariable
a horse turns his head
in the middle of the street to the lake
horse trotting
like bats burned
an avenue of people going as lakes
background to the horse
and smells like shit and flower
stolen from a bat,
a horse
reminds me more of the dead.
-----
The final grade notebook, located on the back cover:
"I finished this book several years away from my home in Belo Horizonte on Wednesday, September 22, 2010, in through a class where they speak of a river up. "
Chau, notebook, cuidate.
0 comments:
Post a Comment