Le regard du narrateur

Aftermaths

Dealing with lost memories may sometimes seem absurd. When you stop and realize that everyone's grown up. Today you're not the girl who used to pass by my room. You'd join my older sister and stay in the afternoon. Dressing dolls with cut out rags that seemed to fit the fashion scene. You claimed that it was your biggest dream.

Everyone had rising hopes on the path eachone would take. Funny how we never hope that someday they will fade. My sister finished college and now she translates Hermann Hesse. Thought you would be married but that's a doll no one dressed. And i think about the days i was never there to see. Do you still think the same about me?

Someone told me yesterday That girl is not okay. Someone told me You should see the lines upon her face. I heard you took an interview wearing a miniskirt. Are you looking for a job or are you looking for a flirt? Washing plates on Saturdays at the local street café. Where the gossip goes you're doing business men.

Black strong tea for table three and a roast of ice cold beer. From the kitchen to the sink, there's a promising career. Your friends they stare and can't compare themselves to what you do. That sweaty shirt and greasy hands won't make much out of you. And you watch them as they laugh when they pass by the door. Your tears they are whipping up the floor.

Last three nights i shut my life and tried to read a book. But inbetween those pages all related to me and you. Afternoons repeat themselves and i wonder where you are. Manhattan lost its glow and Annie Hall lost its heart. Cowardly i done some aftermaths about what i felt. Why are you doing this with yourself?

Someone told me yesterday That girl is not alright. And i tried to tell myself i had more in my mind. But then i stopped to see you from outside the double glaze. Two holes in your eyes and your hair in such a mess. For a moment my life narrowed and i almost walked up to you. Nothing's more betraying than the truth.

Several years have passed, now i bring myself to say. There must be a titled registration you should claim. Something that provides a steady love life and a job. Something that will justify why you're still falling for. The same girl once again though she's right down by your street. Filling cups of coffee every week ...

Le regard du narrateur

Uma banda chegada da cinzenta Glasgow devolveu-nos o sol. A vontade de por momentos voltar a sorrir. As palmas cadenciadas. A urgência de encerar o chão com a sola das sapatilhas. Um pouco da doce melancolia que nos embala nestes momentos, em que todo e qualquer verso parece ter sido escrito sobre aquilo que só nós vivemos ...

Foi tão bom, não foi?

Se por acaso (Me vires por aí)

Este poema do JP deixa pouco mais a dizer ...


Se por acaso (Me vires por aí)
(JP Simões)

Se por acaso me vires por aí
Disfarça ...
Finge não ver
Diz que não pode ser, diz que eu morri
Num acidente qualquer
Conta o quanto quiseste fazer, exalta a tua versão
Depois suspira e diz que esquecer
É a tua profissão

E ouve-se ao fundo uma linda canção
De paz e amor ...

Se por acaso me vires por aí
Vamos tomar um café
Diz qualquer coisa, telefona, enfim ...
Eu ainda moro na Sé
Encaixotei uns papéis e não sei
Se hei-de deitar tudo fora
Tenho uma série de cartas para ti
Todas de uma tal de Dora

E ouve-se ao fundo canções tão banais
De paz e amor ...

Se eu por acaso te vir por aí
Passo sem sequer te ver
Naturalmente que já te esqueci
E tenho mais que fazer
Quero que saibas que cago no amor
Acho que fui sempre assim
Espero que encontres tudo o que quiseres
E vás para longe de mim

E ouve-se ao fundo uma velha canção
De paz e amor ...

Na Sexta-Feira acho que te vi
À frente da Brasileira
Era na certa o teu terno azul
E a pasta em tons de madeira
O Tó talvez queira te conhecer
Nunca falei mal de ti
A vida passa e era bom saber
Que estás em forma e feliz ...

E ouve-se ao fundo uma triste canção
De paz e amor ...


(o fim)

Le regard du narrateur

Um súbito final. O olhar clínico sobre os dias passados. As dúvidas que persistem. Os erros que subsistem e que procuramos explicar. As respostas que damos a nós mesmos. Pura insatisfação. Puro revisionismo. A incapacidade de olhar em frente, que se vai esbatendo a cada manhã. De cada vez que saímos à rua. De cada vez que escrevemos. Mais uma fuga ...

( To Paul Weller for That's entertainement! )

A scrap of life

A scrap of life and soon love was forgotten
A heartless story of clichés and boredom
The twist of disaffection

The cruel sight of a lifeless romance
Beneath the wrecks not even a glance
Of what brought us together

A shade of light set upon a faithless past
The trace of love that we both try to cast
That's our only obsession

Sleepless nights bear vanishing dreams
Sour hangovers of true disbelief
That shape the cold morning

When clouds outside are shading our love
The bitterest coffee in a large kitchen mug
Holds the warmness of life

A scrap of life and soon love was forgotten
Daydreams collapse as we move on forward
From what held us together

Le regard du narrateur

On this dark empty room your eyes facing the wall
The pain on your throat so the tears won't fall
Marx lies by your side, the book you'll never end
Just one of those things you bought so you could spend
The few time that you were
Not thinking of her

On this dark empty room thoughts go through your head
Where is she now? Is she ever coming back?
The Ipod by your side repeating the same song
One of Vincent Delerm you cannot seem to recall
The exact words that she spoke
Before she left you alone

On this dark empty room something slows down the hours
And the hot water running when you are in the shower
A plane crash in Brazil, famine tending to grow
The remote on your hand has no life of it's own
And you feel it could be worst
For a minute the most

On a dark empty room, door number twenty six
Electronic card key, fading green lights are lit
When you just want to sleep as you've done before
Someone has to wait and answer the door
Someone feeling so small
Eyes facing the wall ...

Le baiser Modiano

Escondida em Kensington Square, Le baiser Modiano recorda-nos a efemeridade de um beijo. O anonimato que todos os beijos encerram. Conduz-nos por uma rua imersa nas suas sombras, na qual somente silhuetas se passeiam; por onde uma noite passou Patrick Modiano. A sua escrita confunde-se com aquela rua. As memórias cruzam-se com a ficção.

No final da noite, sob a chuva, beijam-se. Duas personagens anónimas, que procuravam um vulto, numa rua imersa em sombras ... Como registar esse momento? Como recordar esse beijo, resgatando-o ao anonimato?

Um beijo Modiano.

Le baiser Modiano
(Vincent Delerm)

C'est le soir où près du métro
Nous avons croisé Modiano
Le soir où tu voulais pas croire
Que c'était lui sur le trottoir

Le soir où j'avais dit "Tu vois
La fille juste en face du tabac
Tu vois le type derrière de dos
En imper gris c'est Modiano"

C'est le soir où nous avons pris
Des mojitos jusqu'à minuit
Le soir où tu as répété
"Peut-être il habite le quartier"

Le soir où nous sommes revenus
En dévisageant toute la rue
En cherchant derrière les carreaux
L'ombre chinoise de Modiano

C'est le soir où je repensais
A la veille du bac de français
En vous appuyant sur le champ
Lexical de l'enfermement

Vous soulignerez la terreur
Dans le regard du narrateur
Dans les pages cornées d'un Folio
"Voyage de noces" de Modiano

Et le baiser qui a suivi
Sous les réverbères, sous la pluie
Devant les grilles du square Carpeaux

Et le baiser qui a suivi
Sous les réverbères, sous la pluie
Devant les grilles du square Carpeaux

Je l'appelle Patrick Modiano

Le regard du narrateur

Um poema. Uma letra. Um motivo para escrever. Para mais uma fuga. Um motivo para reencontrar os textos com os quais me cruzei. Que decifrei e guardei. Motivos vários ...