… how much
longer until we end this flight, touch down until i can tell someone about this
poem or this essay like the one ismar told me about on the praça são salvador,
drinking soft drinks, not beer and sitting by the playground, not the ground
where the drums are practising for carnival or just providing backing beat for
the latões and latinhas, the periguetes as they say in salvador da bahia, the
place i’ve left behind, of the good young folk of laranjeiras, catete and
flamengo, the good young folk of orange trees and catete and fleming or
flamingo, who perhaps in some guide book or a 36 hours in piece in the new york
times or guardian, although there the reader is granted a leisured 48 because
she flew on friday to a city where there is or could be a square of revellers
revelling in the drumbeat practice and the small or large cans of beer bought
from the vendors who’ve brought the isopors of ice and beer estupidamente
gelada, not because it does freeze sometimes, but because only through
stupidity will it not reach the temperature at which all beer must be tipped
away, like edu did the first night that i spent in this city, staying in the
sahara, a mattress on the floor before i even knew that portuguese would be the
language i would speak for years, but not the version that i always guessed i
would, the one from my side of the atlantic, whose nasal diphthongs there like
here i practised since i went to rome and had a phrasebook that claimed to
represent all the languages of europe, except the newly opened parts and whose
cities’ names i researched for that round of civilization 2 when the portuguese
conquered the peoples of the world, ending with the zulus and whose cityscapes
i never managed to design, sketching on a piece of a4 held up to a window,
which held the perfect metro system of simple interchange and a station every
kilometre i think although i never got the scale quite right, as envious as i
was of all who had the luck to live in paris where within 500 metres you can
find a mouth of the metropolitain, whose shortening to metrô is the end stress
that’s adopted here, where the stern announcer tells you where to put your
rucksack and always to stay aware as if the instructions she has just given
were only an indication of the theoretical possibilities of getting through or
not to somewhere in the zona norte without elbowing you way onto the chinese
train estupidamente gelado from estácio, which i’ve never figured out is really
eustace or a reference through estácio de sá to the beatific poet who goes with
dante on the final cantos of the purgatorio and who watched beatrice and her
rebuke, for why was dante thinking about other women just as why had i been
seeking sex with other men, when i had one, who had unlike the vita nuova, not
been taken away and was not offering up a heart to eat, even there in
florianópolis and who like beatrice showed me the infinite grace he would be
mortified for me to put in any way in line with god, who as the overstuffed
überzeugten say was indeed the only one who could have made a city with such
beauty, if you subtract the parts that now we’re flying over and the sickened
bay and the tarmac of the landing here at galeão,
__________
incluo esse voo do rob packer
aqui na série poemas-que-conversam-com-um-teste-de-resistores
o poema chegou há pouco tempo
e veio acompanhado da foto que abre o post
tirada pelo rob no sul da frança
"um trem pode esconder outro" é o título e mote de um poema do kenneth koch (este aqui)
que peguei como ponto de partida para escrever o engano geográfico.
o rob packer é inglês e mora no rio de janeiro
o rob packer escreve no blog nomadic permanence
onde já postou um lindo texto sobre o engano geográfico
https://robpacker.wordpress.com/2014/04/09/one-map-can-hide-another-marilia-garcias-engano-geografico/
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