Mercy on the unworthy
You are not from this world
Break apart from what happens so suddenly
How to express the synchronicity of both things
I wish I could
The song and the woman
To say a feeling
To gesture through the utmost simplicity, you.
How can I love you?
I don’t know you,
I don’t see you yet those 4 lines that limit your image are to be damned
Why should you be confined?
It is a sin, a trick played on me by an ill intentioned lord of wrongdoing
Please be mine, come and stroke me with your eyes if ever that is possible
Do what you will, stop the sound, I shall persist and have no difficulty
No effort, just submission to the natural word that fails to ring in my mind
How can it be? How can it be that I ask such questions through genuine doubts?
Forgive me for not rendering all and failing to give justice
A religion should be made, I shan´t be a follower for my devotion is singular
To end, so lacking, to make haste out of what is insultuous in it’s briefness
Have I crossed borders into saharas way away, taken it a step too further on a cliff?
So basic the phrases I put down! But being subjected through the sole path of the arm, the fingers and the pen.
This is it, no more.
You would be best left untouched, unaged, unaltered, unlived.
I do not believe this but I forever yearn to be your shadow and as such to care for perfection.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
A asneirada e "o asno" (e uma fotografia originalmente para aliciar o leitor/mirrone mas que acabou por ser algo que não se faz justiça com palavras)
Forçar um conto, fazer nascer uma ideia de uma frase ao acaso e leva-la a partir daí para o caminho que pareça ao autor o mais ilustrativo da sua linguagem é ao mesmo tempo que absurdo a única forma de um sujeito preguiçoso e de certa forma obstinado na crença de possuir as tais enfatizadas “capacidades para mais” ou até as ditas “tu conseguias se quisesses” (frases que ressoam e apressadamente se fazem esquecer na cabeça que já tanta vez se acomodou a estes comentários e outros que tais, acomodados numa barreira intransponível, um check-point por onde só se passa com passaporte marciano, expondo-se para o mais limitado, não se passa).
Ou seja, estou sempre dependente de surtos de inspiração e do assistente de sinónimos do Word, sim porque na era em que estamos, vergonhosamente a escrita é facilitada para o que não detêm o vocabulário suficientemente preenchido ou não terá a prontidão para aceder ao seu, este segundo sendo o meu caso que me leva na última das hipóteses a ceder. Posso apresentar como desculpa a afirmação de que as palavras já as sei, mas infelizmente a ponta da minha língua está muitas vezes a vários quilómetros da minha boca e percorrê-los é uma árdua viagem que envolve catanas e calções acima do joelho. Apresento também, (quebrando um bocado a musicalidade da frase anterior, havia assim um espécie de “gingar” que tinha antecipado mas abdiquei do movimento de cintura para frisar algumas ideias também importantes) uma vontade de escrever à máquina para não dar tréguas a lei do menor esforço, escrever em papel não é má ideia, a interpretação do que está explícito apenas para o olhar mais experiente ou estudante de medicina é que depois frustra quem a lê, até porque o único leitor que se mostra minimamente interessado é o próprio que benzeu o papel com uma cruz -a cruz do mal-entendimento, e outra -cruzes credo “q’esta” merda!”
Nadar como um sapo num pântano é para um ser humano que procura uma flor sequinha e pronta para se oferecer a quem se dispor a receber o tal fenómeno é a analogia mais disparatada mas coerente para acompanhar a tentativa de dar alguma razão ao que me passa pela cabeça e tenta escapar do viscoso invólucro que é esta, isto é, as conjecturas que abalam, chocalham sem necessidade ou propósito definido que fraquejam sempre na altura de se fazerem ouvir –falta sempre um elemento, uma palavra, uma eloquência. Falar de mim próprio e da minha insatisfação bastante subjectiva perante o mundo é basicamente o que faço e de forma alguma permitirei que caia no erro de o impor como um drama ou um auto de self-importance. Proporcionalmente ao que existe eu não existo, sou brilhante e todos esses adjectivos da mesma categoria que alimentem o meu ego vazio de razão de ser mas tenho a plena noção da merda do caralho que existe por aí, ou melhor, não a tenho.
Patético agora que me apercebo que não só desacreditei uma eventual capacidade revelando um segredo que é melhor guardado mas também pelo facto de que me encontro a descrever o padrão e a forma de escrever que o tão conceituado artista adopta. Portanto, vou-me despedir de tentativas vãs do que se reforça vezes sem conta numa introdução ou contextualização ou o que quer que seja e proceder então á “tazer-ada” no cutelo imaginativo que pasta no meu cérebro e muito ocasionalmente vomita cá para fora um belo de um bolo alimentar saboroso e intacto –que se admira, que se contempla no trajecto até à nossa goela insensível e se mastiga com prazer e se mantém até a próxima cagadela que inevitavelmente abra espaço para outra apresentação, (o que se quer, mas raramente se obtém é que o defeco seja dotado de um amendoim, o fruto seco inesperado que raramente se esquece, que persiste na memória e atormenta o sujeito boquiaberto e surpreendido consigo mesmo) bruta e feia imagem que se roga compreendida e ignorada, posta de lado.
Então cá vai disto.
Estou pronto, coragem!
Qual inspiração qual quê?!
Eu consigo, eu quero!
“O asno”:
Ao passear pelo jardim vi uma menina mesmo muito bela, ela olhou pa mim e eu pronto, fiquei logo fisgado, nem me contive, avancei pa mulher como o meu tio me ensinou: “O touro encara-se de frente” dizia ele. Pa sentei-me, conversei cm a gaja e passadas umas frases bem treinadas nos retrovisores dos carros lá na oficina quando o meu tio não espreitava ela tava sobre o meu efeito, sentiu o poder de um Santos. Fomos comer um gelado à baixa que me custou um bocado pagar, deduzi que iria lucrar a longo prazo em confrontar a minha relutância, pois porque eu consigo ser relutante quando quero, na boa. Não falamos muito na gelataria porque depois de ter desperdiçado as minhas frases e a ter perguntado donde era e que idade tinha não havia assim muito mais pa dizer.
-Mas vives cá há 6 anos é?
-Sim
-Fixe
-Sim.
Respondia ela as minhas perguntas em que ficava minutos que mais pareciam horas a pensar mas continuei a tentar.
-Tá bom o gelado?
-Tá, obrigado.
-Ainda bem, já ca tinhas vindo?
-Não
- É giro não é, e os gelados são bons.
-Pois, é engraçado.
-Tens de ver a minha mota
-Tens mota?
-Tenho, uma 125 muita boa, não é de uma marca conhecida mas a minha tia rute disse que não se arranja melhor áquele preço.
E logo me arrependi de ter dito aquilo, engoli um bocado em seco e forcei uma pose relaxada que não tinha nada a ver com o que tava a sentir.
-Ah... Boa. Onde é que ela tá?
-A minha tia Rute?
E espalhei-me outra vez, piorei quando me ri sem sem saber como agir.
-A mota claro, tá em casa, o meu pai não me deixa ao fim de semana pa não me poder afastar muito. Normalmente nem repara depois quando saio mas hoje não quis mesmo sair com ela.
-Começo a achar que essa mota se calhar não existe…
-Podes vir vê-la, juro que é verdade, até posso ir buscá-la. Aliás, se não quiseres não acredites, não tenho de provar nada.
-Ah ta bem. Então até logo. Prazer.
-Prazer.
Deixei-a andar um bocado mas depois para mal dos meus pecados persegui-a e agarrei-a pelo braço.
-Espera. Desculpa. Fui um bocado estúpido
-Não nada, eu é que sou teimosa e não quero acreditar.
-Tens razão, desculpa. Fazemos assim, dizes-me onde vives e amanhã á hora que quiseres eu levo-te onde quiseres, na minha mota. Tá bem?
Ela hesitou.
-Tá bem.
E é assim que se dá por terminado o ensaio menos esforçado e mais idiótico, tanto como chato, que já escrevi mas que no entanto pode talvez contribuir para a minha maturidade como criativo.
Podia transformá-lo a ele em alguém com sérios problemas de sensibilidade no que toca ao que é encarado como normal e podia escrever que ele não tem mota, podia ter amigos que lhe ajudavam a perseguir um objectivo cruel e fundamentalmente mórbido. Podia adoptar um tom mais melancólico e fazer com que a morada dada pela rapariga fosse inventada pela mesma e levar o rapaz a vaguear pela cidade, ou até conduzir pelo campo, uma quantidade de cenários que não levam a nada. A ficção é um mundo melhor deixado inexplorado. Que é que pode surgir de positivo a partir de personagens e locais nunca testemunhas destes acontecimentos? Nada. É uma distracção como qualquer outra, no meu caso, como no de tantas outras pessoas suponho, um pouco mais obsessiva e muito mais inconclusiva, nunca terminada, nunca perfeita, sempre parva aos meus olhos, os dos outros não posso nem quero comentar.
Ou seja, estou sempre dependente de surtos de inspiração e do assistente de sinónimos do Word, sim porque na era em que estamos, vergonhosamente a escrita é facilitada para o que não detêm o vocabulário suficientemente preenchido ou não terá a prontidão para aceder ao seu, este segundo sendo o meu caso que me leva na última das hipóteses a ceder. Posso apresentar como desculpa a afirmação de que as palavras já as sei, mas infelizmente a ponta da minha língua está muitas vezes a vários quilómetros da minha boca e percorrê-los é uma árdua viagem que envolve catanas e calções acima do joelho. Apresento também, (quebrando um bocado a musicalidade da frase anterior, havia assim um espécie de “gingar” que tinha antecipado mas abdiquei do movimento de cintura para frisar algumas ideias também importantes) uma vontade de escrever à máquina para não dar tréguas a lei do menor esforço, escrever em papel não é má ideia, a interpretação do que está explícito apenas para o olhar mais experiente ou estudante de medicina é que depois frustra quem a lê, até porque o único leitor que se mostra minimamente interessado é o próprio que benzeu o papel com uma cruz -a cruz do mal-entendimento, e outra -cruzes credo “q’esta” merda!”
Nadar como um sapo num pântano é para um ser humano que procura uma flor sequinha e pronta para se oferecer a quem se dispor a receber o tal fenómeno é a analogia mais disparatada mas coerente para acompanhar a tentativa de dar alguma razão ao que me passa pela cabeça e tenta escapar do viscoso invólucro que é esta, isto é, as conjecturas que abalam, chocalham sem necessidade ou propósito definido que fraquejam sempre na altura de se fazerem ouvir –falta sempre um elemento, uma palavra, uma eloquência. Falar de mim próprio e da minha insatisfação bastante subjectiva perante o mundo é basicamente o que faço e de forma alguma permitirei que caia no erro de o impor como um drama ou um auto de self-importance. Proporcionalmente ao que existe eu não existo, sou brilhante e todos esses adjectivos da mesma categoria que alimentem o meu ego vazio de razão de ser mas tenho a plena noção da merda do caralho que existe por aí, ou melhor, não a tenho.
Patético agora que me apercebo que não só desacreditei uma eventual capacidade revelando um segredo que é melhor guardado mas também pelo facto de que me encontro a descrever o padrão e a forma de escrever que o tão conceituado artista adopta. Portanto, vou-me despedir de tentativas vãs do que se reforça vezes sem conta numa introdução ou contextualização ou o que quer que seja e proceder então á “tazer-ada” no cutelo imaginativo que pasta no meu cérebro e muito ocasionalmente vomita cá para fora um belo de um bolo alimentar saboroso e intacto –que se admira, que se contempla no trajecto até à nossa goela insensível e se mastiga com prazer e se mantém até a próxima cagadela que inevitavelmente abra espaço para outra apresentação, (o que se quer, mas raramente se obtém é que o defeco seja dotado de um amendoim, o fruto seco inesperado que raramente se esquece, que persiste na memória e atormenta o sujeito boquiaberto e surpreendido consigo mesmo) bruta e feia imagem que se roga compreendida e ignorada, posta de lado.
Então cá vai disto.
Estou pronto, coragem!
Qual inspiração qual quê?!
Eu consigo, eu quero!
“O asno”:
Ao passear pelo jardim vi uma menina mesmo muito bela, ela olhou pa mim e eu pronto, fiquei logo fisgado, nem me contive, avancei pa mulher como o meu tio me ensinou: “O touro encara-se de frente” dizia ele. Pa sentei-me, conversei cm a gaja e passadas umas frases bem treinadas nos retrovisores dos carros lá na oficina quando o meu tio não espreitava ela tava sobre o meu efeito, sentiu o poder de um Santos. Fomos comer um gelado à baixa que me custou um bocado pagar, deduzi que iria lucrar a longo prazo em confrontar a minha relutância, pois porque eu consigo ser relutante quando quero, na boa. Não falamos muito na gelataria porque depois de ter desperdiçado as minhas frases e a ter perguntado donde era e que idade tinha não havia assim muito mais pa dizer.
-Mas vives cá há 6 anos é?
-Sim
-Fixe
-Sim.
Respondia ela as minhas perguntas em que ficava minutos que mais pareciam horas a pensar mas continuei a tentar.
-Tá bom o gelado?
-Tá, obrigado.
-Ainda bem, já ca tinhas vindo?
-Não
- É giro não é, e os gelados são bons.
-Pois, é engraçado.
-Tens de ver a minha mota
-Tens mota?
-Tenho, uma 125 muita boa, não é de uma marca conhecida mas a minha tia rute disse que não se arranja melhor áquele preço.
E logo me arrependi de ter dito aquilo, engoli um bocado em seco e forcei uma pose relaxada que não tinha nada a ver com o que tava a sentir.
-Ah... Boa. Onde é que ela tá?
-A minha tia Rute?
E espalhei-me outra vez, piorei quando me ri sem sem saber como agir.
-A mota claro, tá em casa, o meu pai não me deixa ao fim de semana pa não me poder afastar muito. Normalmente nem repara depois quando saio mas hoje não quis mesmo sair com ela.
-Começo a achar que essa mota se calhar não existe…
-Podes vir vê-la, juro que é verdade, até posso ir buscá-la. Aliás, se não quiseres não acredites, não tenho de provar nada.
-Ah ta bem. Então até logo. Prazer.
-Prazer.
Deixei-a andar um bocado mas depois para mal dos meus pecados persegui-a e agarrei-a pelo braço.
-Espera. Desculpa. Fui um bocado estúpido
-Não nada, eu é que sou teimosa e não quero acreditar.
-Tens razão, desculpa. Fazemos assim, dizes-me onde vives e amanhã á hora que quiseres eu levo-te onde quiseres, na minha mota. Tá bem?
Ela hesitou.
-Tá bem.
E é assim que se dá por terminado o ensaio menos esforçado e mais idiótico, tanto como chato, que já escrevi mas que no entanto pode talvez contribuir para a minha maturidade como criativo.
Podia transformá-lo a ele em alguém com sérios problemas de sensibilidade no que toca ao que é encarado como normal e podia escrever que ele não tem mota, podia ter amigos que lhe ajudavam a perseguir um objectivo cruel e fundamentalmente mórbido. Podia adoptar um tom mais melancólico e fazer com que a morada dada pela rapariga fosse inventada pela mesma e levar o rapaz a vaguear pela cidade, ou até conduzir pelo campo, uma quantidade de cenários que não levam a nada. A ficção é um mundo melhor deixado inexplorado. Que é que pode surgir de positivo a partir de personagens e locais nunca testemunhas destes acontecimentos? Nada. É uma distracção como qualquer outra, no meu caso, como no de tantas outras pessoas suponho, um pouco mais obsessiva e muito mais inconclusiva, nunca terminada, nunca perfeita, sempre parva aos meus olhos, os dos outros não posso nem quero comentar.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Elbert, Lord Emille and Lira.
Arriving in the end of time there is surely no escape from the past, i mean, what else is there? For the simpleton that drove his truck every single day of the week up and down the hill, getting up at hours unacceptable to some, the latter being the tean-beat generation that in it's renewed wisdom and fresh approach towards the infinite possibilities of the opening of the world. He was unhappy but relatively pleased with the simple sums he could bring home to feed the single daughter and light of his life. A wife long gone, succumbed into the spirit of the treacherous kitchen enslaver, work that monetarily amounts to nothing but feeds the dying certainty that tradition and loving dedication is permeable to happiness.
The more complex the human subjects himself to being or in turn is drawn into or dreadfully conditioned from the start the more it becomes easy for the mind to deliver itself to ambition, yearning or yet another element that when truly considered is improbable to satisfy. The cycle is a parasite, a disease unto those who meditate beyond religious or spiritual beliefs, quests for meaning. Eggs, bread, company and the occasional predicament of where my patch ends and yours begins should be the civilization in the vision of thinkers and the likes of these. Discussion, debate, revolving around themes and insisting on the ideals of one another, based on adequate citations. All is background, feedback, the right environment, every once in a while there comes along the man who escapes his empty, from this standing point, life and manages to succeed in whatever area he sets his most tireless mind to. But it is this my point, areas and sections of cultivation have no place in the utopia of my eyes. Of course I am not stupid to the point of overlooking matters that can only benefit from persistence through empirical, theoretical and any other -cal that has discovered preventions to sickness and aids to development. Why must things have a cost, if they ever do? Must progress towards the safeguard of life lead ultimately to death, skipping a whole lot of shenanigans and comically referred matters that are all but this. I got carried away, making an objective out of vagueness and pointless generalizing.
The unsaciable thirst for intellectual supremacy, a super computer fully equipped with all weighed against the oblivion of those who know not beyond their ride up the hill... To me, there is no competition. He carried a sack of potatoes from the market and the occasional personal assortment of vegetables from his own reserve, a way to repay the kindness of the wealthy eremit who rarely escaped the top of the hill and his villa of this demand left unperceived by the driver, Elbert was his name and the luck of falling into the graces of said bat was something he never overlooked and thanked humbly on the also rare contact with Lord Emille. Although to this man's ever thankful eyes this was a one in a lifetime break the truth is he was payed miserably, barely covered the gas to fill up his truck, but all he needed was that unconditional smile and reassuring words uttered by his emerald eyed Lira. Lira was, since an eager suggestion from a a bewildered Emille, tutored up on the hill amongst the valleys of books and rainfalls of papers signed by her own personal, hardly concealed admirer. Skeptical at first Elbert had allowed Lira to follow a life which he himself found fit for another sort, he had come to this conclusion on realizing the facilities in transportation(the local school was of a distance worrying to any parent, blindly trusting as he may be) and the possibility of spending more time with his "lovely Lira," a name never worn out by use.
It had befallen upon him from very early in her life that he was to be outsmarted and would let no one get in the way of this fact, specially himself. "I have no interest in making my remaining family into a prosperous society for the delivery of goods" he had concluded on an exclusive episode of consideration. So it was that Lira was dropped off to 4 sufficient hours of learning, walking back down to her home keen on telling her father of yet another story too involving
for him to understand, he had sacrificed selflessly simple conversation but in overwhelming happiness observed the talent his offspring had to never make him feel dumb or in need of something more. Emille, partly intrigued by the sponge that was this girls brain and mostly delighted by the firmness of her young bosom, him not being that old himself, gave more and more of his person every time, reaching the advertised desire of passing the thirst onto the kindred spirit. There was little expectation of a riot in the skies, in the elements, in all that was grand enough to determine not one but a monstruosity of destinies calmly minding their own business on a yet to erupt earth. Nevertheless it came, at an hour of slumber somewhere, an hour of leisure elsewhere, hours of work, meditation, tramping, ranting, loving, desperation, breaking apart or driving from point a to point b, the last being the occupation of the fewest possible generation ladder that were at present moment discussing in a restrained manner Lira's recent tendency to arrive home later than expected, beyond even a tolerance supposed by Elbert to consist of a normal offer of Emille's, such as a cup of tea or a display of his own patch of vegetables.
The sky turned a shade of dark purple, apocalyptic and bizarre yet the mystery it induced and the fear it caused was accompanied to the eye of the vegetable and family oriented beholder as beautiful. To the full intellect and culture of the objective hilltop monk all sorts of theories, prophecies, damnations spun to mind, and to this the inevitable cold sweats adjoined propulsing the genuine physical feeling into the unfaithful task of terrifying the receiver of it's sensations. Lira, still in an early stage towards enlightenment saw only what was to displayed: unlikely colors crying over each other and prohibiting the slightest feeling of hope that such phenomenon was similar to that of a sunset of impossible description, this was no green ray, the end was nigh. Had she been in control of the wheel the instinct would have been to step hard into full throttle and foolishly let one area of the sky behind her and the rest above and ahead, the same. Elbert dazzled still by a real image that hadn't even been seen in similarity fictionalized or illustrated into documents out of his interest and area of expertise, kept on committing to his delivery that would not be kept for once due to a pretty picture. By the time he was arriving at the gates of the presently somber mannor deaf from the sycophantic panting of Lira and the meanwhile downfall of Emille's sanity he was long gone into an inexplicable trance of organic LSD proportions. It was then that the patches of cosmic flora dropped violently into the planet's core, such was the massiveness of these brute colisions that a wandering look would lose track of theses blocks of "worldacide", an implosion was to gradually take place and most of the earth's inhabitants would be deprived of such spectacle. Lira began to manically shout and run into the house where she found Emille under a table counting the strips of wood under an oak desk, victim to his many cerebral rages, emphatic punishments laid from dusk till dawn until hand and wooden surface became one in harsh matter, exhaustive studies and ramblings. There lay locks of hair beside him on the floor covering a number of piled up books opened in specific pages, on sighting this obsessive dedication to a logic, rational explanation to everything and all she made her way back to the arms of her father. Elbert, though in a state of ultra-self-conscience through incomprehension was unloading the sack of potatoes into the service door, left open by a few dedicated yet reasonable servants when confronted with the definite precognition of a sudden final installment to their suddenly realized short lives. Embraced by his lovely Lira a smile brought to his face the eventuality of return but it was not to be. He held her hand and passed through the gate, this time on foot, cut through the green and found a privileged spot from where to absently witness with the prized company of his daughter the fall of civilization, the one that crept into comfort only to go back in a false evolution. Under the shade of a cypress tree he gazed into what seemed almost an expectation, Lira, frightened by so many things she had not the maturity or the foolishness to decipher delivered in part her gaze into her fathers. She set her head on his shoulder, crying silently and assimilating all that had been left to do, remembering her mother and that one specific time when she was taught to peel an onion under the supervision of her entertained mother, laughing and weeping, mixing these ingredients leaving but a breathless taste for being, simply taking in what was to be offered. Elbert had no thoughts, just a detachment from all that he had known prior to this event, to say the least. The chunks of matter seemed to pace themselves slower through an invisible atmosphere and recollect themselves before the plunge into their individual contribution to the world's demise. The ground began to shake, this did not change anything, father and daughter trembling back and forth from each other, the purple sky fell. A last cry over the surface of what they had held dear escaped Lira embracing her father in fear and a warm response marked what ceased forever to be.
The more complex the human subjects himself to being or in turn is drawn into or dreadfully conditioned from the start the more it becomes easy for the mind to deliver itself to ambition, yearning or yet another element that when truly considered is improbable to satisfy. The cycle is a parasite, a disease unto those who meditate beyond religious or spiritual beliefs, quests for meaning. Eggs, bread, company and the occasional predicament of where my patch ends and yours begins should be the civilization in the vision of thinkers and the likes of these. Discussion, debate, revolving around themes and insisting on the ideals of one another, based on adequate citations. All is background, feedback, the right environment, every once in a while there comes along the man who escapes his empty, from this standing point, life and manages to succeed in whatever area he sets his most tireless mind to. But it is this my point, areas and sections of cultivation have no place in the utopia of my eyes. Of course I am not stupid to the point of overlooking matters that can only benefit from persistence through empirical, theoretical and any other -cal that has discovered preventions to sickness and aids to development. Why must things have a cost, if they ever do? Must progress towards the safeguard of life lead ultimately to death, skipping a whole lot of shenanigans and comically referred matters that are all but this. I got carried away, making an objective out of vagueness and pointless generalizing.
The unsaciable thirst for intellectual supremacy, a super computer fully equipped with all weighed against the oblivion of those who know not beyond their ride up the hill... To me, there is no competition. He carried a sack of potatoes from the market and the occasional personal assortment of vegetables from his own reserve, a way to repay the kindness of the wealthy eremit who rarely escaped the top of the hill and his villa of this demand left unperceived by the driver, Elbert was his name and the luck of falling into the graces of said bat was something he never overlooked and thanked humbly on the also rare contact with Lord Emille. Although to this man's ever thankful eyes this was a one in a lifetime break the truth is he was payed miserably, barely covered the gas to fill up his truck, but all he needed was that unconditional smile and reassuring words uttered by his emerald eyed Lira. Lira was, since an eager suggestion from a a bewildered Emille, tutored up on the hill amongst the valleys of books and rainfalls of papers signed by her own personal, hardly concealed admirer. Skeptical at first Elbert had allowed Lira to follow a life which he himself found fit for another sort, he had come to this conclusion on realizing the facilities in transportation(the local school was of a distance worrying to any parent, blindly trusting as he may be) and the possibility of spending more time with his "lovely Lira," a name never worn out by use.
It had befallen upon him from very early in her life that he was to be outsmarted and would let no one get in the way of this fact, specially himself. "I have no interest in making my remaining family into a prosperous society for the delivery of goods" he had concluded on an exclusive episode of consideration. So it was that Lira was dropped off to 4 sufficient hours of learning, walking back down to her home keen on telling her father of yet another story too involving
for him to understand, he had sacrificed selflessly simple conversation but in overwhelming happiness observed the talent his offspring had to never make him feel dumb or in need of something more. Emille, partly intrigued by the sponge that was this girls brain and mostly delighted by the firmness of her young bosom, him not being that old himself, gave more and more of his person every time, reaching the advertised desire of passing the thirst onto the kindred spirit. There was little expectation of a riot in the skies, in the elements, in all that was grand enough to determine not one but a monstruosity of destinies calmly minding their own business on a yet to erupt earth. Nevertheless it came, at an hour of slumber somewhere, an hour of leisure elsewhere, hours of work, meditation, tramping, ranting, loving, desperation, breaking apart or driving from point a to point b, the last being the occupation of the fewest possible generation ladder that were at present moment discussing in a restrained manner Lira's recent tendency to arrive home later than expected, beyond even a tolerance supposed by Elbert to consist of a normal offer of Emille's, such as a cup of tea or a display of his own patch of vegetables.
The sky turned a shade of dark purple, apocalyptic and bizarre yet the mystery it induced and the fear it caused was accompanied to the eye of the vegetable and family oriented beholder as beautiful. To the full intellect and culture of the objective hilltop monk all sorts of theories, prophecies, damnations spun to mind, and to this the inevitable cold sweats adjoined propulsing the genuine physical feeling into the unfaithful task of terrifying the receiver of it's sensations. Lira, still in an early stage towards enlightenment saw only what was to displayed: unlikely colors crying over each other and prohibiting the slightest feeling of hope that such phenomenon was similar to that of a sunset of impossible description, this was no green ray, the end was nigh. Had she been in control of the wheel the instinct would have been to step hard into full throttle and foolishly let one area of the sky behind her and the rest above and ahead, the same. Elbert dazzled still by a real image that hadn't even been seen in similarity fictionalized or illustrated into documents out of his interest and area of expertise, kept on committing to his delivery that would not be kept for once due to a pretty picture. By the time he was arriving at the gates of the presently somber mannor deaf from the sycophantic panting of Lira and the meanwhile downfall of Emille's sanity he was long gone into an inexplicable trance of organic LSD proportions. It was then that the patches of cosmic flora dropped violently into the planet's core, such was the massiveness of these brute colisions that a wandering look would lose track of theses blocks of "worldacide", an implosion was to gradually take place and most of the earth's inhabitants would be deprived of such spectacle. Lira began to manically shout and run into the house where she found Emille under a table counting the strips of wood under an oak desk, victim to his many cerebral rages, emphatic punishments laid from dusk till dawn until hand and wooden surface became one in harsh matter, exhaustive studies and ramblings. There lay locks of hair beside him on the floor covering a number of piled up books opened in specific pages, on sighting this obsessive dedication to a logic, rational explanation to everything and all she made her way back to the arms of her father. Elbert, though in a state of ultra-self-conscience through incomprehension was unloading the sack of potatoes into the service door, left open by a few dedicated yet reasonable servants when confronted with the definite precognition of a sudden final installment to their suddenly realized short lives. Embraced by his lovely Lira a smile brought to his face the eventuality of return but it was not to be. He held her hand and passed through the gate, this time on foot, cut through the green and found a privileged spot from where to absently witness with the prized company of his daughter the fall of civilization, the one that crept into comfort only to go back in a false evolution. Under the shade of a cypress tree he gazed into what seemed almost an expectation, Lira, frightened by so many things she had not the maturity or the foolishness to decipher delivered in part her gaze into her fathers. She set her head on his shoulder, crying silently and assimilating all that had been left to do, remembering her mother and that one specific time when she was taught to peel an onion under the supervision of her entertained mother, laughing and weeping, mixing these ingredients leaving but a breathless taste for being, simply taking in what was to be offered. Elbert had no thoughts, just a detachment from all that he had known prior to this event, to say the least. The chunks of matter seemed to pace themselves slower through an invisible atmosphere and recollect themselves before the plunge into their individual contribution to the world's demise. The ground began to shake, this did not change anything, father and daughter trembling back and forth from each other, the purple sky fell. A last cry over the surface of what they had held dear escaped Lira embracing her father in fear and a warm response marked what ceased forever to be.
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