The Lighthouse [en]

The Lighthouse [en]

My internship is being quite ok I would say, no stress and relaxed mood so far. I´ve been learning quite interesting things and specially developing my own capacities. Any way, I´m considering, if I manage to, to present an ambitious project, it´s related with a very recent passion that I´ve found (obviously it had to be related with that inner love of mine, the ocean), it´s about Lighthouses …

I don´t know about the project it self but for now I´m just glad that I´ve met this passion, or shall I write, that I´ve met with this passion … the fascination for this silent towers touching the ocean with them calmness and silence, like a love where there´s no need for words …

While investigating I found a very precious written documentary, so precious that automatically I felt that I should keep it as a treasure and share it as poem …

I would also like to write more about Lighthouses, but not today I guess … probably not in English either …

Soundtrack: Mogwai _ Rock Action [ok]

The Lighthouse

The bus left me in the center of Vík, in front of a gas station where the local young people met in the adjoining bar. It was afternoon and it was already cold, at least by Italian standards. I stepped inside and asked immediately how to find the substitute warden of the lighthouse, one Jonas Jonasson.

The owner of the bar looked at me for a long time, exactly like the clerk in Reykjavík. "Are you the new warden?" he asked.

"That's correct." A glacial silence fell in the bar. After a moment the owner gave me some directions, and I set off. The house of Jonas Jonasson was a small wooden cottage at the outskirts of the village; it was covered with sheet-iron but it was very clean, and it had a garden where the last flowers of the season were withering.

Jonas Jonasson was an elderly man, with a kind countenance; he made no silly remarks and took me to the lighthouse at once. To get to there, we followed the Ring Road back toward Reykjavík for five or six kilometers, then turned on a narrow road descending to the beach, then up again to the top of a rocky headland. The lighthouse is on a cliff which falls down vertically to the sea. On the left are rocky headlands and a few small islands inhabited by sea birds; on the right, a great beach tens of kilometers long. Bewitching surroundings, indeed.

The lighthouse has a wide base, with many rooms containing the kitchen, the machine room with the generator, some store rooms and a workshop. The tower has two more floors; on top is the light, and the middle floor has a single large room, were the warden lives. Jonas led me through the entire building, explaining with care how to start the generator, turn on the light, and the other necessary operations and maintenance. The workload could not be lighter; my job was only to turn on the light every evening, then turn it off again every morning.

"Please be careful," he said to me. "This does not look like a critical job, but it is. The reefs in front of Dyrhólaey are very dangerous for the ships. Never forget to turn on the light in the evening. If you need to go away for one day, I can take your place, but you have to let me know ahead of time."

I had the impression that the only problem with this job would be filling the immense leisure time. I soon understood this was precisely the purpose of the room on the second floor. One entire wall of the room was covered with deep bookshelves full of books, some with yellowed pages and somewhat moldy. There were all the classic Icelandic sagas, all the translations of the same sagas done by 19th-century writers, many Icelandic novels going back to the beginning of this century, and some foreign novels translated into Icelandic. I realized at once that improving my understanding of the language was going to be a matter of life or death.

Otherwise, my life at the lighthouse was pleasant enough. Twice a week I walked to the Ring Road, where I was almost always able to get a lift to Vík. There I did my shopping, and spent time at the bar in unsuccessful attempts to make some friends among the local people. Every evening -- that is, about four in the afternoon -- I'd turn on the light and chose a book from the shelves, then go to read in the bed on the opposite side of the big room. I would get up every hour or so to poke the fire in the stove in the middle of the room, and once in a while I'd take the stairs either to go up to check the light or to go down to check the generator. Very seldom were there any problems or any maintenance to perform: everything worked perfectly.

---

The Diary

I had been at the lighthouse three weeks when, searching the bookshelves, I found a book very different from the others: it was hand-written. Thanks to the progress of my Icelandic, I understood at once that it was a diary, written by one Thorstein Thorwaldson, who had been warden of the lighthouse when it was built in 1927. Each evening, I read the daily entries in the diary of my predecessor for the years 1927 to 1932. I found them unbearably monotonous, to the point that I started wondering about my capacity to survive a life such as this. I skipped to the last pages of the diary, and found they dated from 1935, but I could not find any more diaries in the bookshelves, either from Thorstein or his successors. The comment of the clerk in the Maritime Office crossed my mind. Was it possible that nobody else had been here since 1935?

During one of my trips to Vík, I visited Jonas, and he received me with kindness.

"How long had you been substitute warden of the lighthouse?"

"More than twenty years. Since my uncle died."

"Then your uncle used to live at the lighthouse?"

"No. He went there every day, like myself."

"Why didn't you go and live at the lighthouse?" I pressed. "In winter, the road back and forth is difficult."

"Why?" Jonas looked at me strangely. "I have a lovely house in town. I did not want to live in such an isolated place."

For an Icelander this was really a strange explanation! None of the Icelandic sagas mention Icelanders suffering from loneliness. Was the race getting soft, or was I not being told the whole truth?

The following night, Thorstein's diary become more interesting. The lonesome warden of the lighthouse had set his eyes on a sweet girl named Kolfinna. Day after day, he told the steps of a complex courtship ritual, which seemed never to come to the point. Quite surprising, if you see what happens in the dance halls of Reykjavík today. I looked over the pages describing two years of courtship in infinite detail, eventually leading to a note from 1935: Kolfinna had agreed to visit Thorstein at the lighthouse. Given the meticulous detail of Thorstein's notes, I was set for reading matter that would, at last, be worthy of a solitary night on top of a cliff. But the next page of the diary wasn't at all what I expected.

---

The Ghost of Dyrhólaey

Thorstein's notes on the day after Kolfinna's visit expressed complete despair. Even the handwriting looked changed, as if the character of the warden had been overturned by something terrifying. Reading it over many times, I could not make out what had happened. It was clear Thorstein's despair was not the result of a refusal from Kolfinna; on the contrary -- Icelandic self-restraint notwithstanding -- I understood the two had had a good time that night. But from that point onward, the diary of the lighthouse warden did not contain a single consistent paragraph, only a hodge-podge of incoherent sentences.

Thorstein's state was getting worse and worse. The only thing I could understand clearly was that he was giving himself to remorse and superstition. At night, he believed, he was being awakened by inhuman screams coming from the cliff: a ghost was coming up from the sea, seeking vengeance. When I read that, I went out to the cliff; I was met by frozen wind and the raucous cries of the seagulls and puffins. The birds sometimes sounded almost human, but Thorstein had already lived here eight years. Surely he must have been accustomed to those sounds.

I went back to my reading, trying to understand what had happened. The only significant note was on the last written page of the diary. "Today Kolfinna came to see me. I told her we should not see each other any more, so as to expiate our guilt. She raged, saying I was trying to lay the blame on her. Later she was calm, and she was almost kind with me. She even made me tea." There was nothing more.

This ending left me restless for days, and I decided to find out what the real ending of the story had been. During my next visit to the bar in Vík, I tried to direct the discussion that way.

"Last night, near sunset, I was on the edge of the cliff looking out to sea, and I could swear I heard a scream..."

An old man rose to the bait, looking up from his magazine. "Ahh, you heard the ghost of Dyrhólaey still asking for his revenge!"

"A ghost?" I said, trying to look surprised.

"Yes, it would be poor Sigurdur, the fisherman who died on the reef right in front of Dyrhólaey."

I tried to guess. "He wasn't a good sailor?"

"Of course he was a good sailor! Among the best in Vík! But that was a moonless night and the lighthouse was out."

"Out?" I exclaimed. "Where was the warden?

"Oh, he was right there, but he had other things to do. Sigurdur came back for him a few weeks later, to take his revenge. Maybe he is not satisfied yet, since the gal escaped him."

So I had stumbled across the legend of the lighthouse at Dyrhólaey, and why the position had been vacant so long, waiting for an unwary former tourist. Once the discussion had begun, the local people filled in the details. That evening, Thorstein, betrayed by love, had neglected his duty as warden, and the lighthouse had been left out. In the night a small fishing boat had crashed on a reef right in front of the Dyrhólaey headland, and the fisherman's body was never found. Thorstein never admitted his responsibility, and he stayed on as keeper of the lighthouse. But from that day he was held in contempt by the people of Vík. After that, Thorstein almost never came to town, he refused to see Kolfinna, and he completely withdrew into the lighthouse. Until one night the ghost of Sigurdur came up from the sea and threw him down the cliff.

---

Thorstein's End

I didn't want to believe the ghost story they told me in Vík, so I asked Jonas to substitute me for a couple of days and I took the bus to Reykjavík. The Maritime Office didn't want to talk to me about Thorstein; only after some persistence was I told to check with the Institute of Forensic Medicine at the University of Reykjavík.

The medical school is in a big building on Sudhurgata, but the Institute of Forensic Medicine is just one office, that of the only practitioner on the subject in Iceland. Professor Jón Einarsson was not only available to talk, he was actually enthusiastic to discuss Dyrhólaey.

"In the last 60 years," he said, "there have been three murders in Iceland, so there are few local cases to study. However, I do remember the lectures of my teacher, Halldor Sigurdursson, on Thorwaldson's death. His body was found on the beach, right below the lighthouse, and there wasn't a lot of work to do..."

"Was there a post-mortem?" I asked.

"Are you joking? It's a 120-meter vertical fall -- the cause of death wasn't a mystery."

"Then, was it a suicide?"

"If you believe the local legend, the ghost of the mariner who died due to Thorwaldson's irresponsibility came up from the sea and took his revenge. The inquiry concluded Thorwaldson committed suicide." Professor Einarsson shrugged. "Possibly he was stricken by remorse."

The investigation was long-since officially closed. I had nothing left to do but get on the bus and go back to Vík. But I wasn't satisfied; while I was waiting at the bus station, out of curiosity I went to a phone booth. I opened the telephone book (a single volume for all Iceland!), and began searching. The Iceland phone book is sorted by first name, not by surname.

Kolfinna Sturludottir, 23 Öldugata, Reykjavík, (91)23871

That was the only listing: Kolfinna is a name from an ancient saga, but she is an ambiguous character, and not popular. I decided to take a different bus back to Vík.

---

Kolfinna

The door was opened by a tall woman with a head of white hair; old but by no means frail. Night was falling; she looked at me dubiously in the light spilling from her doorway. "Who are you?"

"I am the keeper of the lighthouse at Dyrhólaey," I answered.

"Dyrhólaey... I once knew that place very well. But why are you here?

I paused. "I have read Thorstein's diary. It was in the bookshelves at the lighthouse."

Kolfinna was silent for a moment, looking past my shoulders. "Please come in."

We sat for a moment in her front room. "I didn't know Thorstein kept a diary," she finally said. "I don't like to think about those times. I was happy with Thorstein. We were engaged, and then I lost him."

"What happened to him?"

Kolfinna sighed. "He went mad. He wouldn't even see me, and he ended up throwing himself down the cliff."

"But you visited him at the lighthouse -- it's the only coherent note in the last part of the diary, and it is right in the last page."

Kolfinna seemed shaken, and was silent for a moment. "Yes," she said. "He had gone out of his head. He raved about ghosts coming to torment him."

"According to the stories they tell me in Vík, the ghost was looking for you as well. In fact, the ghost is still looking for you, screaming from the cliff, because you were also responsible for his death."

Kolfinna looked at me with contempt. "Are you afraid of ghosts?"

"Ghosts are less dangerous than men... and women."

"How dare you? To come here after sixty years and disturb my peace? Leave everyone alone with their ghosts!"

I knew I had gone too far; I had no evidence against this poor old woman. In a moment, Kolfinna calmed down and we spoke again peacefully, avoiding the subject entirely. She offered me some tea, and she slowly told me her memories of Thorstein, and what her life since then had been like. Everybody in the village blamed her and Thorstein for the shipwreck. Kolfinna was a woman abandoned and disgraced by her man; there was no place for her in the village. After Thorstein's death, she went north to Akureyri. In 1941 the Americans arrived and she married a pilot; after the war, she went to America. Twenty years later, she came back alone and settled in Reykjavík. I fell asleep listening to her story.

I woke up in the Poisoning Ward of the Reykjavík University Hospital. That day, I was visited by my friend Jón, the professor of forensic medicine.

"Well, professor," I said weakly. "Maybe there is some work for you here after all."

"I would be glad!" he said, smiling. "But they tell me it was poisoning from rotten fish."

"Not even in Iceland have I ever seen cod served in tea. And rotten fish is rare here because there are so few germs in the air." Professor Einarsson looked at me skeptically. "At least, according to the tourist guidebooks," I added.

"Many things happen in Iceland that aren't mentioned in the guidebooks."

I was convinced of that myself. But Thorstein's diary had disappeared from my bag, and I had no way to prove there had been four murders in Iceland in the last 60 years, not three. And now, that was four and a half, in a way.

The ambulance pulled up in front of the entrance to Keflavík airport, and the nurses unloaded the my stretcher and pushed it through the air terminal. We passed right by the Icelandair desk and the same clerk I had discussed my ticket with, such a long time ago. I would have said hello, but I couldn't. On the runway, the air ambulance was waiting for me. My insurance, with full coverage for illness and accident, was valid longer than my notorious air ticket.

Before closing the airplane door, the airport hostess smiled at me. "I hope you have a quick recovery, and see you in Iceland!"

Full version on: http://www.intertext.com/magazine/v5n5/lighthouse.html

volupia

God may have created man before woman,
but there is always a rough draft before the masterpiece

drop [en]

July the 26^th

Clouds bring some rain, drops bringing the shine of life to Earth, wakening sensations and soft nice odours. There´s some autumn mood in the air: sky is grey, mood is melancholic, even thought autumn is still somehow quite far away. I like autumn, I love nature and the changeable sprout of seasons … I like summer as well, not even mentioning spring or winter time.

There´s some melancholic mood in the shapes and the shadows, perhaps no need for words now, or very the opposite. There´s some silent melancholia undressed of time or space, that same melancholia where I find my self deeply in peace.

City is grey as ever, but perhaps even more today. I´ve been feeling incredibly sleepy, maybe low atmosphere pressure, maybe some intense weather changes.

I miss all my friends that are far away, and think of them guided by my love for the terrific human nature that they showed to me, that they teach to me everyday.

I miss the people I love, in particular today. And my spirit touches Arnhem, Hamburg, Olomouc, Lodz, Tampere, Geneve, Rio, and so on, and so on, perhaps the entire universe as well.

Still raining and still sleepy I guess, it won´t change that much today.

I don´t feel like having something really relevant to say or write down, even if I do …

City is silent and grey, and fortunately wet.

Sound track: Lamb – Lullaby

fuga

Uma ténue cortina de nevoeiro cobre o céu e o horizonte em redor. O dia despertou plúmbeo, uma aura própria de outras latitudes e paragens: Estocolmo, Hamburgo, Antuérpia ou Amesterdão. Longe, talvez quisesse estar longe, não por uma qualquer fuga premente mas pelos impulsos vagabundos intrínsecos em mim.

Memórias, vultos soltos e desprovidos de exactidão vogando à deriva como garrafa no mar (sei desse oceano imenso que nos nutre subtilmente mas não o posso nomear).

Podia olhar-te por horas e ainda assim, provavelmente, sentir cada segundo como escasso e eternamente teu.

O dia ergueu-se entorpecido, propício a todas as fugas sem sentido ou propósito. Fugas que buscam mais do que deixam para trás, se tudo para trás é já extinção, se todas as precisões se dissolvem como areia face ao mar …

Existe algo de irresistível na melancolia que se insinua assim …

Godspeed [en]

Godspeed [en]

If there was something similar to perfection, and it was about to be expressed in melodic way, perfection would sound like Godspeed instrumental poetry … I´m really happy for the day that Pedro offered me some CD with them music, at its scale it changed my life, for better for sure, although addiction can be always regarded in a somehow negative way ;O)

http://www.brainwashed.com/godspeed/

VIDA VERDE - Encontro de Práticas para uma Vida Simples,

I really must go there!!!

VIDA VERDE

Encontro de Práticas para uma Vida Simples,
Natural e Sustentável.

26,27 e 28 de Agosto 2005

Portas do Transval
Boavista dos Pinheiros
ODEMIRA

www.vidaverde.pt.vu


INTRODUÇÃO:
Vida Verde é um Encontro exclusivamente dedicado à partilha de práticas ecológicas cuja finalidade é proporcionar a todos os participantes os conhecimentos e a sabedoria para viver de uma vida Simples, Natural e Sustentável.
A crescente instabilidade social e económica cujas repercussões agravam severamente o ambiente levam a que cada vez mais indivíduos e famílias comecem a procurar alternativas de vida que não sejam destrutivas e que acima de tudo sejam mais equilibradas e justas.

Face às irreversíveis alterações climáticas e consequentes necessidades de adaptação, urge criar novos paradigmas de vida que minimizem ao máximo o impacte no ambiente natural e social. Para que isto seja possível é necessário reduzir o consumo, reaproveitar recursos recicláveis evitando todos os desperdícios, reflorestar e adoptar métodos de agricultura ecológica, utilizar energia de fontes renováveis retendo-a ao máximo, implementar economias locais auto-reguladas e independentes dos macro-sistemas económicos, entre muitas outras abordagens mais sustentáveis.

O Encontro Vida Verde tem como objectivo proporcionar oportunidades de aprendizagem e ensinamento para que se espalhe o "bicho ecológico prático". Como fim, pretende-se que todos os participantes se possam conhecer e unir para criarem Eco-Aldeias ou Eco-Cidades, sabendo fazer bem para recuperar a Natureza e a dignidade Humana.


DATA:
26,27 e 28 de Agosto 2005
(Dias 25 e 29 recomendados para montagem e desmontagem de tendas.)

O LOCAL:

O Encontro Vida Verde irá realizar-se numa Eco-quinta em recuperação pertencente à Associação Arco-Íris, em Portas do Transval, Freguesia de São Salvador, concelho de Odemira (a 5 kms de Odemira).
Nesta Eco-quinta está a desenvolver-se uma Eco-Aldeia, com base nos princípios da Permacultura, procurando aliar as técnicas tradicionais de subsistência local com modernas abordagens tecnológicas. Para mais informações, por favor visite: www.rainbowcommunities.org

a mais bela Utopia

Hoje terminei de ler o Nº19/2005 da Revista Utopia … verdadeiramente fundamental, um hino ao livre pensamento, uma lufada de ar fresco no luso-marasmo intelectual e social, não é por acaso que a sua tiragem é limitada.

O tema deste número é “ o trabalho”, dá que pensar, dá que pensar pela vida fora e existência dentro. O trabalho, a mais primordial ferramenta de sedatização das massas, o trabalho que se pode revestir de dinâmicas de alienação tão complexas quanto o próprio desemprego … e talvez sobretudo o desemprego ...

http://www.utopia.pt/

Ao definir-se como de intervenção, UTOPIA pretende-se como um espaço de análise e debate dos fenómenos sociais e políticos das sociedades contemporâneas, procurando contribuir para a emancipação e a liberdade dos indivíduos e dos grupos sujeitos a quaisquer situações de opressão, repressão e intolerância, assim como procurará opor-se aos sistemas e mecanismos conducentes a manter situações de constrangimento e desvantagem social e económica de indivíduos e grupos em relação a outros, e ao Estado, entendido como um poder a que todos os homens devem obedecer mesmo que em desacordo com ele. Nesta intervenção, UTOPIA será a expressão de lucidez e de revolta, assumindo plenamente o carácter utópico das tarefas a que se propõe.

ser

Hmm, hoje apetecia-me escrever sobre nada, mas nada como? Talvez sobre esse nada feito de todas as tangentes a todas essas palavras plenas de laconismos e, quantas vezes, silêncios e omissões.

Vi imenso sobre mim próprio, hoje, logo sinto-me essencialmente introspectivo, mas até aí nada de novo suponho.

Suponho ainda que é uma fase de diversas transições, passagens mais ou menos profundas feitas de ®evoluções e catarses, nada de muito violento, pelo contrário, algo de muito natural, independentemente de toda a profundidade que possa estar em questão.

Terminei de ler um livro, o “Se isto é um homem” do Primo Levi, e posso afirmar em absoluto que não é a mesma coisa não o ter lido ou ter.

Hoje tive também a oportunidade de aprender sobre o meu mapa astral … é incrível como a astrologia consegue ser tão precisa e apurada … surpreendente no mínimo, e por agora sinto-me bastante cansado. Sentir, foi essa a palavra mais importante que aprendi hoje, ou talvez a segunda mais importante logo a seguir a “amar”.

Bons sonhos, pelo menos espero tê-los.

Ah! Liberdade, não me podia esquecer de “Liberdade” … antes de qualquer outra condição. Talvez liberdade, igualdade e fraternidade, sim, liberdade, igualdade e fraternidade, agora e sempre. Já.

along the coast [en]

Image of Vila do Conte riverside

Yesterday I was visiting Vila do Conde. I used to pass there many times when I was a child, when I was a teenager too (so it was about visiting memories as well I would say), and actually I think that I haven´t noticed before the peculiarities of this cute town, I don´t know exactly why, just didn´t happen I guess. I went on bicycle trying to take the way along the coast. Well, several times there was no way, there were some roads for sure not meant to be used by bicycles (my site totally massacred me), and a road not for bikes shouldn´t be allowed to exist ;O)

I´ve seen some amazing still very typical and preserved fisherman spots, small villages still not vanished in the fury of globalization and European Union policies to exterminate traditional and familiar scale fishing. There´s something of very touching in those images, still deeply connected with some roots and identity that is getting harder and harder to find, still they were there, and the colours, the boats, the religious sentences wrote on the boats, all traces of a Portugal that I´m afraid someday not be able to find except in memories and perhaps old pictures. Of a Portugal that someday I might not be able to share with those I love, to show to my kids (if such catastrophe – poor kids – happens ;O)

There should be some road for cycling along the coast, because it´s really worthy to see, or shall I say: really worthy to sea. And sea is the verb present in every sentences and thoughts.

Hmm, I would love to write a bit more but for now I must go …

Vila do Conde it self is also very worthy to visit, very pleasant town, nicer than Póvoa for sure, this one invaded by skyscrapers and the awful bullfight ring, where time to time they dedicate them selves to torture innocent animals … really a tremendous shame … a terrible dirty spot in the image and culture of my country.

No matter what, bullfights must be abolished, I hope that one day this society will became developed enough to give that step, unfortunately that´s not the most evident tendency. I guess that´s what makes this places, elements, ethnography even more precious.

O tempo

“O tempo é a insônia da eternidade”

Mario Quintana

trip [en]

trip [en]

Yesterday I’ve been in Esposende. Hmm, it’s a quite nice little town I would say, no huge ugly towers (except those 3 big monster on the other bank of the river, in Ofir) and the Ocean, and the river, inevitably present in every corner, in every street, in every single parcel of the horizon. There’s a very modern swimming complex just in front of the river, where it naturally belongs. It’s sort of comfortable to feel that there are still some places like Esposende in my country, places that the mad greed of cement and asphalt didn’t deeply changed yet (and such places are getting more and more exceptional), places able to keep them identity and authenticity.

Transportation to get there, and specially to get back to Porto again, was a sort of massacre, only some quite old bus, no precious train over there, and that´s a quite terrible mistake, I missed some train so much.

Half of the trip, Porto –Esposende, apart from paying something like 4 euros for such distance (not that big) I had to listen to some “fado”, a key part in the massacre.

I should finish writing saying that I really enjoyed Esposende, specially that I also visited the head office of the natural reserve, that likely will be a quite remarkable natural park soon (coast, dunes and wet lands, fantastic with all the Atlantic), but I prefer to mention that if to be a “real” portuguese I must listen to “fado” then please take me to China.

By the way, the last issue of Carbusters Magazine sort of saved me from a total massacre in the bus.

greed

"Earth provides enough to satisfy every man's need, but not every man's greed." - Mahatma Gandhi

“Paris, Texas”

“Paris, Texas” (Alemanha\França) 1984 150m – Wim Wenders. Harry Dean Stanton, Dean Stockwell, Hunter Carson, NAstassja Kinski

O Pintar o 7 passou o "Paris, Texas", sessão que decorreu ao Ar Livre no C.O.C.P (tenho quase a certeza de esta não ser a designação correcta, pelo menos na sua totalidade), o local onde por ironia das circunstâncias tive a oportunidade de praticamente começar a aprender Capoeira ... logo possuidor, por si só, de uma considerável componente afectiva e emocional.
Não se tratava só de ver um filme mas uma série de outras questões num âmbito talvez mais sociológico, o espírito colectivo das pessoas se encontrarem, de exercerem, mesmo sem verdadeira consciência disso mesmo, formas activas e integrantes de socialização, o espaço público, a cultura pública, no acepção mais positiva que "público" pode ter … Por outro lado o Porto, o Porto autêntico, pleno de história e um forte carácter … ali mesmo, aquelas paredes repletas de história e marcas imperscrutáveis de outros tempos, de memórias.

Em relação ao filme propriamente dito … translúcido, exprime a competência cinematográfica do realizador, o talento e incontornável precisão fotográfica … exprime a elevada sensibilidade sensual de NAstassja … NAstassja, e melhor palavra para terminar uma reflexão, NAstassja …

all can be said ...

Na sociedade capitalista tudo pode ser dito, excepto o que for importante

In capitalist society all can be said, except what is really important [en]
free style translation

http://pimentanegra.blogspot.com/

felicidade

“ A Felicidade existe sim,
mas nós não a encontramos,
porque está sempre apenas onde a pomos,
e nunca a pomos onde nós estamos.”

(Vicente de Carvalho)

sky