Dor do Amor

January 4, 2008 by Batman.

Amor! eita sentimento estranho,
alimenta a alma e aquece o coração
tira o sono e dá energia,

quanto mais intenso, mais quente
mais rapido se queima
aquece gostoso, queima sem arder

e vem o fim, que imaginamos nunca vir
vem como um furacão e destroi
queimando tudo a sua volta

a dor no peito, amor e saudades
parece que vai sugando toda a vida, toda a energia
é bom amar e ser amado, é como andar nas nuvens

tenho essa dor no peito, me consome, me irrita, ainda a amo…
como fazer parar de doer? não quero esquecer,
não procuro substituição - não há substituta!

amor é dor, dor do amor é forte, arrasa, destroi
consome internamente, e mesmo sabendo disso ainda amo
ah, como a amo. ela preenche meus sonhos e aquece minha alma

a dor continua, e algum dia há de cessar…
é a vida! nada é eterno
só o amor que tenho por ela!

-Grigori .::. Batman
heartbroken

Grigori.org

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as trilhas

December 19, 2007 by Batman.

estava aqui lembrando das trilhas bate e volta que fazíamos,

Teve uma vez que estavámos na Lapa, Robsinho e Eu, tomando uma brejinha tranquila… isso depois de termos ido pro centro e já ter feito tudo oque tinhamos de fazer… mas lá pelas 4 da tarde já tava a cerveja aberta e sendo consumida!

Ficamos num enrola enrola pra irmos pra Paranapiacaba que foi um drama… assim que terminamos a saideira da última breja, pegamos o trem, baldeação e passamos pelo Ipiranga, e levamos quem encontramos: Alegria! Rapidamente, compramos alguns alimentos (pão, presunto, alface e mostarda), vinho, conhaque e pegamos cada um seu cobertor/saco de dormir. Depois disso já são umas 22 horas, a noite tá escura e estamos levando diesel para tochas, pano velho e algumas velas.

Só pra mostrar o caminho que fazíamos, era um trem que pra vir era uma vida, falamos com o Alfredo e lá pelas 23h pegamos o trem. Chegando em Rio Grande da Serra logo após a meia-noite. Esperamos quase uma hora (bebendo e falando com o Alfredo) pelo onibus que nos deixaria na entrada da trilha.

 

 

Já fazendo amizade no ponto de onibus, conhecemos um artesão de Paranapiacaba.
Ao descer na entrada da trilha, encontramos um grupo com homens e mulheres, nem fiquei esperando, já comecei a trilha! Logo acompanhado do Robson e Alegria… e do grupo…

E vocês sabem que com o vinho na mão a gente vai bebendo que nem percebe, ainda mais papeando e curtindo a noite! e dá-lhe Alfredo…

muita porcaria depois, sei que fiquei bebado antes de chegar na prainha, e nem me importar com a lama toda… ainda bem que tava com meu saco de dormir! acordei com aquela ressaca…

<continua>

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Tale: THEY’RE MADE OUT OF MEAT

June 14, 2006 by Batman.

THEY’RE MADE OUT OF MEAT

by Terry Bisson

“They’re made out of meat.”

“Meat?”

“Meat. They’re made out of meat.”

“Meat?”

“There’s no doubt about it. We picked up several from different parts of the planet, took them aboard our recon vessels, and probed them all the way through. They’re completely meat.”

“That’s impossible. What about the radio signals? The messages to the stars?”

“They use the radio waves to talk, but the signals don’t come from them. The signals come from machines.”

“So who made the machines? That’s who we want to contact.”

“They made the machines. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Meat made the machines.”

“That’s ridiculous. How can meat make a machine? You’re asking me to believe in sentient meat.”

“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. These creatures are the only sentient race in that sector and they’re made out of meat.”

“Maybe they’re like the orfolei. You know, a carbon-based intelligence that goes through a meat stage.”

“Nope. They’re born meat and they die meat. We studied them for several of their life spans, which didn’t take long. Do you have any idea what’s the life span of meat?”

“Spare me. Okay, maybe they’re only part meat. You know, like the weddilei. A meat head with an electron plasma brain inside.”

“Nope. We thought of that, since they do have meat heads, like the weddilei. But I told you, we probed them. They’re meat all the way through.”

“No brain?”

“Oh, there’s a brain all right. It’s just that the brain is made out of meat! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“So … what does the thinking?”

“You’re not understanding, are you? You’re refusing to deal with what I’m telling you. The brain does the thinking. The meat.”

“Thinking meat! You’re asking me to believe in thinking meat!”

“Yes, thinking meat! Conscious meat! Loving meat. Dreaming meat. The meat is the whole deal! Are you beginning to get the picture or do I have to start all over?”

“Omigod. You’re serious then. They’re made out of meat.”

“Thank you. Finally. Yes. They are indeed made out of meat. And they’ve been trying to get in touch with us for almost a hundred of their years.”

“Omigod. So what does this meat have in mind?”

“First it wants to talk to us. Then I imagine it wants to explore the Universe, contact other sentiences, swap ideas and information. The usual.”

“We’re supposed to talk to meat.”

“That’s the idea. That’s the message they’re sending out by radio. ‘Hello. Anyone out there. Anybody home.’ That sort of thing.”

“They actually do talk, then. They use words, ideas, concepts?”
“Oh, yes. Except they do it with meat.”

“I thought you just told me they used radio.”

“They do, but what do you think is on the radio? Meat sounds. You know how when you slap or flap meat, it makes a noise? They talk by flapping their meat at each other. They can even sing by squirting air through their meat.”

“Omigod. Singing meat. This is altogether too much. So what do you advise?”

“Officially or unofficially?”

“Both.”

“Officially, we are required to contact, welcome and log in any and all sentient races or multibeings in this quadrant of the Universe, without prejudice, fear or favor. Unofficially, I advise that we erase the records and forget the whole thing.”

“I was hoping you would say that.”

“It seems harsh, but there is a limit. Do we really want to make contact with meat?”

“I agree one hundred percent. What’s there to say? ‘Hello, meat. How’s it going?’ But will this work? How many planets are we dealing with here?”

“Just one. They can travel to other planets in special meat containers, but they can’t live on them. And being meat, they can only travel through C space. Which limits them to the speed of light and makes the possibility of their ever making contact pretty slim. Infinitesimal, in fact.”

“So we just pretend there’s no one home in the Universe.”

“That’s it.”

“Cruel. But you said it yourself, who wants to meet meat? And the ones who have been aboard our vessels, the ones you probed? You’re sure they won’t remember?”

“They’ll be considered crackpots if they do. We went into their heads and smoothed out their meat so that we’re just a dream to them.”

“A dream to meat! How strangely appropriate, that we should be meat’s dream.”

“And we marked the entire sector unoccupied.”

“Good. Agreed, officially and unofficially. Case closed. Any others? Anyone interesting on that side of the galaxy?”

“Yes, a rather shy but sweet hydrogen core cluster intelligence in a class nine star in G445 zone. Was in contact two galactic rotations ago, wants to be friendly again.”

“They always come around.”

“And why not? Imagine how unbearably, how unutterably cold the Universe would be if one were all alone …”

the end

THEY’RE MADE OUT OF MEAT, by Terry Bisson

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