Malcolm. First instalment. He shall be revisited

try my other place, maybe i'm there.
can´t really be sure but if you get there not a doubt invades me that you'll find a way.
persisting through the left, be it to the right. confidence dear, confidence.
oh and by the way, your car...it isn't working too great. you might want to give a look into that.

- why the fuck you do you have to be so confusing?! I can't understand a thought you give, thats just it. you dont give it!

you can find me, i'm positive. as i said, and always as a matter of fact, it's just a question of persistence.


- malcolm, listen. and carefully, cause i'll say it once. you know signs? the aids of traffic to one who'd like to know there way, if they'd best go through one way or other to sooner reach the end of their route, the destination? well, these things are helpful, give a chap or a doll a way to a way, a path to their path. but you see, when you talk; you do the fucking opposite!

well, thats one way to look at it...

-no, it's the only way!

ok. well then, let me tell you a story. you remember my mother? that beautiful woman that used to give us a glass of water if we were thirsty, a sandwich if we were hungry, a hug if we were needy? she's gone to help someone, i'm all grown up. i have my own life, she got a big van and filled it with perpetual undying groceries, and bread that never goes hard, and a fountain of water. she's gone to a place were some are poor, and the others are poor-er. to do some good. but thats got nothing to do with the story.

-malcolm!

ok, forget it. i will meet you, wherever you are. we can go for a drive. just that, nothing other than. just the joy of a drive without the stress of an hour, an appointment, a place.

-i'd rather walk.

whereto?

trutas

a margem deste rio é sedosa
bem como o seu fundo é arenoso
aquilo que eu em ti toco parece que não é
aquilo que eu ti vejo deixa-me cansado

a marca tá presente, de uma vontade
da tua presença
permanente

o que eu caio se te vejo e não és minha
o que eu quero, o que eu não tenho, ansiedade
vou nadar, ao largo da margem, talvez te encontre
vou mergulhar até essa cama fluvial, talvez te toque

e fecho os olhos e não os quero abrir
e depois chamas-me
e depois contas-me
agora retrais
agora negas

não há amor, nem sequer despeito
não há ouro, não há plenitude
em vez o sol vejo-o de frente e sou contente
em vez esta água, ela envolve-me, sou um crente

de que tudo pode ficar bem,
de que tudo pode ficar bem
agora fecho-me, agora caio
adormeço, não estou mais na margem, não estou mais no fundo
agora boio, agora flutuo
plena, permanentemente de este mundo

para o outro

o derrame do meu antigo amor

do erro que se fez obrigado
da demência que se torna em torno deste fado
Ele que não canta o belo, mas o desencanto e o desordeiro
ele que não se arrepende, que não se prende

são como escritos incomparáveis,
como nobre, como rascos
de bom augurio, como nefastos
deixa-se o testamento
resta um típico agravamento pois nada fica para filhos
nada resta para família, nem se quer para amigos
tudo cai em cacos, as confianças feitas em pedaços

desejariam-no morto, mas depois o que se colheu não foi feliz
nem tão pouco a saudade
em vez restou uma maior vontade de nem se quer celebrar um funeral
simplesmente restava, a que não sabiam, a verdade

Quando encontrou o barco, entrou nele. Não sabia nadar, não conhecia estas marés, estes caminhos e o nevoeiro caía que nem a cinza de um incêndio de agosto. Entrou e remou, haviam duas longas extensões de timbre aos braços e simplesmente foi. A ilha tinha lá a sua família aut|entica, a que o havia visto nascer e com quem tinha crescido. Enterrados no topo da colina, os pais, o irmão. Todos estes outros eram facínoras, eram pegajosas e desnonradas pessoas que queriam saquea-lo. Deixou tudo para a empregada dos pais, aquela que o havia educado e tomado conta deles até á sua última respiração. Morreu ele no regresso da ilha, morreu ela quando soube da notícia. Mas tinha um filho, um rapazinho muito simpático, já com uma família de pessoas estimadas.



Tenho saudades de ser querido, sinto falta de ter alguma importância. Bem sei que na verdade nunca a tive, mas era-me iludida essa condição de forma tão impecavel que chegava a ser feliz.

(Non sequitur)

From the books that made him academic, from a course that gave him credibility, from a house a name that gave him fame and comfort, from a town that knew his knowledge- still, he was unhappy.
I´d been keeping an eye on him for years now, coming to the café religiously at four every other day. Arriving with brown leather satchel and the paper he hadn't been able to read due to his other daily commitments that i assume, or rather know, we're many. The white hair, a small portion of it that grew even though he was still young i believe came from the worry. His mind, he had a worried mind. He was a dashing fellow, tall and master to an air of confidence at the steps he took, and the words he said. But he couldn't fool me. I knew he was distressed and unproud. There had been a turning point, there had been a sin and i knew by the way his eyes sort of rolled down in shame when he bid his farewell and left. At 5, always. There had been once he'd stayed a minute or two over the hour, having got distracted with a conversation taking place on the table beside his concerning the pregnancy of a teenage girl and upon noticing his double indiscretion he got most disenchanted by my saying "You're late!". He left a big fat note on the table and flustered himself out the door.
Today i decided i would, in an amicable way, confront him. It was a little past the half hour and he had gone through 3 cups of coffee and his paper seemed read over more than once, it was just pretend now.
-Hello Mr. Swift. How are you feeling today?
He was a little nudged by this question, i could smell his discomfort at having me ask his such a thing.
-Quite alright thank you. And you?
-Well, you know me. My mood's always right up there with the clouds and the light blue sky. I'm happy.
-I'm glad to hear that.
He was a little surprised that i kept there, that I stood where i was by his table and didn't just leave.
-Is there anything wrong?
-Nope. Nothing at all. Not an ounce of a worry in the world. Do you want another coffee?
-Not just yet no. I do think I've had quite a few as a matter of fact.
-You have. Everyone has there portion isn't it?
-Indeed.
-I've been meaning to ask you Mr.Swift, why don't you ever do anything during these afternoons? I mean, a cup or two of coffee is as legitimate a passtime as any other but i'd think a young man like you would be out having some fun with some ladies or meeting some friends at a club, i don't know...
-I see.
He wasn't keen on my curiosity.
-Well. Mr. Jones. It just so happens i've got appointments to uphold during my mornings, and up until a little before the moment of my arrival and am tired consequently when i do. I couldn't possibly meet anyone, i'd be a bore.
-I don't think so, i actually think you sell yourself short. You ought to have some energy in you still.

Mr. Swift then got up, smiled at me, left some money at the counter and left. I haven't seen him since.