HOVERING

 Text by Alceu Natali, copyright protected by Law 9610/98

I always halt, I ask myself what satisfaction I can get, Not grounded in reality that fades into oblivion in the shell mound on the other side of the North Star and I remain unresolved, I still try to get the best of both worlds, But I linger, Drifting between Africa and India, Between coming from the northern hemisphere to nest in my homeland, In holes, In ravines, In hollow logs, And only making flowers, Trinkets and even nests, In all human dwellings, Wherever they may be, The sun's slowness below the horizon makes me impatient, And I hurriedly go to call the moons of Jupiter, Of ​​Saturn and other lands that still don't see me, Throughout this universe, And when darkness envelops me, I let go of your arms, I jump in freefall through the vortex of a dream that belongs to somebody else, Until I reach the chasm that closes around my aura, Along my traveled roads of life, And from above you emerge like the great mirror reflecting your lost image, With this woman in long dress, Embraced in a dance for forgotten hours, This woman suspended in the air, As if you had invisible hands holding me above the ground, And my most immense efforts, With eyes and ears, Barely manage the slightest movement, The slowest camera, Everything hovers, Like a subtle mist above the swamps, In its mysterious time that seems to stop the night, In its silence of indefinite extension that seems to hold the soul of all dead generations, Thus, Indifferent to happiness, And resigned to the indeterminism of its existence, I feel the approach of inexorable vultures, Slowly circling over me, Sniffing my body of a color, Fading my consciousness to black and white.

BETTER WITH THE NINE OF YOU

 

Text by Alceu Natali, copyright protected by Law 9610/98

Nobody, but two women who live with me, knows what I’ve been going through, under pressure and mentally attacked high and low, from the four cardinal points. What the hell of a decade it’s been. I keep on bluffing, but I just can't win. I bet the devil would never walk in my shoes. Jung said loneliness is dangerous and addictive. When you realize the peace that exists within it, you no longer want to deal with people. I do like that and I've become a junkie as I’ve lost all my relatives and friends. None of them are left. And today I’m on my own, a complete unknown, but not like a rolling stone, I still have direction home. But if Lilian was alive and heard me complaining about one of my problems at home she would say that any man in my place would have his head in the bottle, his heart in a case, at a bar confessing his sins and drowning his sorrows which can swim. Living a life like this is like a walking dead's life. My long lonely nights without sleeping a wink is worse than lucid nightmares, if they weren’t for you, my nine sweet ladies, Deirdre Clancy, my soulmate, my everything, Fiona Byrne, spokesperson for my soul, Nessa Lynch, the guardian of all of us, Siobhan Rafferty, the convergence inspiration in a cancer hospital, Maire Tiernen, a tenacious magician who can turn my life into a handmade paradise, Grainne Lyons, the fearless warrior who commands armies of billion soldiers, Ciara Sweeney, our emeritus translator of the alien ad infinitum language, Aisling Healy, my angel of the morning who lifts my spirits, alive and kicking. I still have high hopes that there is still time for us all to be together in the Bachir’s Circle, in the Mulberry Valley, in What To Do When The Sun Is Too Cold, and at the Convergence.