Wednesday, 25 March 2015

Perdendo-me contigo

Ao fim da rua, onde desaparecem os sítios do costume, onde ontem e amanhã desaparecem da questão, pergunto-me pela vida outra vez, esperando, como se diz esperança, um recado maior que a memória: antecipo-me novamente, quando consegui ultrapassar-me contigo, despacho-me da sinonímia do tempo, faço deste espaço ideal o espaço do ideal, é uma comunicação distraída, e permaneço antes na geografia do original, e não será esta a rua, acabada, onde entraremos em contacto pela primeira vez, pela segunda vez: a primeria vez que é segunda, e a segunda vez que se faz primeira. A zona (artificial) fechada por dentro. Espera-se algo novo? Repetição da novidade. Ou a recondição do vulgar. Aconteço como sempre e ainda aqui, entre ruas paralelas e perpendiculares do pensamento que se sobrepõe na manifestação de todo o desejo expresso de existência, que se encontra consigo próprio à volta do seu plano inquieto, inacabado. Ruas que, enfim, sabem de si, como sei de mim, geografias complexas, determinadas pela falta singular de terminações. Acabo de pensar assim. Assim, acabei de pensar. Contigo e sem ti.

Monday, 23 March 2015

Mind and body in the consciousness of suspenseful life

Deliberate forms of the misapplication process.
An I and a you. Or an eye and a U.
Complex segments to introduce into the content machinery of thought.
The mind is but a sequence of frames moving ever further away from its last self-capture. And thus the paradoxical feeling that it is moving ever closer into itself, at the same time.
I make sense of unity and harmony. There is a truth in you that affirms and negates the possibilities of a truthful statement, after all.
I can tell of you, but this is a prediction.
I can introduce you to my world, but there is no reality to this.
I can make sense of my own efforts, as I am evermore lost in the spaces I have never been thought to have been.
I make sense of contrast and disaffection. There is a spirit we share in the hardware stores of our mental under-currents: the factory of the heart is still reproductive.
Sources for a desperately optimistic lesson on causality.
I stare at you still. In fact, I dare say I am yet to look away.
And this can mean. This can mean that we are yet to move apart.
Meaning transcends us and we transcend it, in many ways. To say that we are together is to perhaps call out our names by a false consciousness. But to imply that we never left is more lovingly a remark about the situation in its whole being.
We transcend that night, for it has transcended us.
I cannot speak for you. I am your perfect liar.
New values into the process of remaking thought. I want to think of you.
Thought is more about you, I think.
This truth you have pointed me to. This eventful lie I keep preserved in the same rarity of its being able to be told, at all.
This voyage through my mind has brought me to another end. A full stop.
We are not together. But in this contentful space of my fantasy, truth, memory and thinking, we will never leave.
There is no way back. I am still here.
Appointed by truth.
Carrying frames per second. I become your next thought. That much closer, now.

Thursday, 19 March 2015

There is no one like you (in writing)

There is no one like you
Vestiges of a swollen symphony
There is no one like you
Signs of the unusable promises
There is no one like you
The world fails to collapse
To Be
There is no one like you
What you bring together
(You bring the world together)
To Write
There is no one like you
Fresh signals of the disused
(Letters to my heart)
To Speak
There is no one like you
Words echo in loneliness
(You teach me voicelessness)
There is no one like you
Deadened within dreams
(I do not dream
Because I cannot sleep)
To Sleep
There is no one like you
Called from silence instead
(An image profound
That night never ends)

To write: because if there is no situation for the comparable, there is nothing else then.
To speak: because there was nothing else then, there is nothing else now.
To be: because there is nothing else now, you keep me awake.
To sleep: because you promise me this late dream.

Tuesday, 24 February 2015

Doing, making and being

I am an expert in these unconscious decisions
Because this is the case where the more you do
The more you do not know
For which I am known to do as I cannot be done
For life is lived in its foremost apprehension
Not in the slavery of its feral mediocrity
Not in the unattributed nurturing of its culture
Not in many cultures by unintended adversity
For life is the survival through their actual extinction
The extinction of mediocrity, lies and adversity
The extinction of weakness, the unnecessary and death
The extinction of death is the ongoing affirmation of life
But this is not my expertise and insofar as I am an expert
I am the slightly educated individuality of the non-self
Or the self par excellence which is made
Not so much done, through this spectrality
Of things done in the deep senses of there
Wherever they came from, of not being again
I conduct my research on this missing person
Of the person made instead, done where it is.

Tuesday, 3 February 2015

For the sake of things

You cannot move without being seen. This is a metaphysics for her.

You cannot see her without being seen. This is a metaphysics for here.

This may be reduced to a distortion of original meanings. But the origin is quite sufficiently the most meaningful of meanings. A distortion of the most meaningful of meanings.

More text: We are noticed and then we notice. Or we notice and then we are noticed. Or we notice when we are not noticed. Or we do not notice when we are noticed. Or there are many notices for us to be noticed but we are not. Or there is a final notice which gives us complete notice, whether we take enough care to interpolate this and these, or not.

Or all of these things necessitate each other, just as it is out of a necessity that we may look to be looked at. Or we do nothing in the same way as these things happen to us. Just as we happen to be. Or we happened to be, only.

To happen to be

Or have happened to be.

The paradoxality of distinctionalist topology.

Closer than ever before. What is the whole distance between a body and its shadow? And does it matter if we interfere in this calculation with thought and symmetrical opinionism?

Because there is a difference. Or there is always a difference. Topographicalism.


The world is plentifully served with notices. This is like our work. To notice them.

When we happen to be, that we have happened to be. Incomplete notes,

Or external notes on the notice of an incompletion,

Of the unnoticeable, with notices of its complete unnoticeability.

But this is actually a love letter.

Thursday, 29 January 2015

Uma outra razão, ainda

Vamo-nos dar ao esquecimento?
Isso talvez seria mais um processo.
Outra coisa que não temos, nem podemos querer.
Ou podemos querer, mas não creremos que acontecerá disto.
Se acontecer – se acontecêssemos.
Outra vez. Ou esquecimento.
Vamo-nos mais longe, ainda.
Ao desejo, que não é um processo, mas um encontro.
Connosco próprios.
Aquilo que, enfim, nunca se poderá esquecer.

Friday, 23 January 2015

I have ambiguous thinking

Not that I should know, not that I would be, not that I could. Nor that. And certainly not. But there are. Of these times. Things for me to make sense. Any sense is my own. Nothing makes the most, but of many things, most of which. Taken literally, I am. But in a very lateral sense, a pastiche of the globe has reasons, and plenty for me. Not that I should know, not that I would be, even if I could. And with the sincerity of an explanation. A unity. I cannot hold, have, handle, hack, hassle, haze, hand, held, hold. I should not. But for you. I would. If any. Of you.

Could make sense.
I should not.

Monday, 19 January 2015

The state of things

The world was quite flat again, today. I do not believe in progress like the others do. Stasis and platitude - this is what I see.

Friday, 9 January 2015

A writer in love

If I could craft a sentence that would be you; I will have had you, forever. Though I have no necessary idea as to what this has for its purpose, or whether this purpose could become and end at all, through an in itself becoming. And if it is this miss-encounter of words and thoughts that happens now, it must be because I have nothing I can say, and my whole being as this person who writes and writes to be, may have therefore nothing else to be, but to do what he is not, any longer: all that he is, undoing himself in. A sense of life expired through a passion misunderstood in its more serious inexpressions. There is only now everything else to become inspired by: now that this life of mine is the least sincere, the most inauthentic. Whilst you are to be the last thing missing amid the perfect encounters of my words – and that I should consist to make myself absent, in turn – we could then begin to appear in how we are not, as I will have written everything else, instead. And only then perhaps, for the fault of an endless purpose, and for the impassioned mistakes that can mean his better expression, this writer will have found his way home, to you.

Tuesday, 6 January 2015

A loveless form of Love

And at some point it will be just the continuation of this feeling until I lose its source and its real meaning. I will be imprisoned by it, without the knowledge of its traces and its lost breaks and breaches. I will learn to identify myself by its spanning intensities, and later realise that I am meaningless without it, but, by itself, it is meaningless, too. It will become everything I can and everything I will, unto nothing and from nothing, nowhere. I will be compelled under the forceful image of its dictating behaviours and appearances, to comply as such with this vast organism of being-as-such, without ever having the comfort of a ground from which to carry this obsequious compulsion through. This is the ultimate fear to be derived from the zeal, the passion, and the paradoxically overwhelming torpor of love: how its warm and keen breath will dampen the pages of memories, signs and experience, unto a humidified smudge of unreadable material, unto a shapeless shape of something just being, being just the something which it is. And to call it love, because it also is.

How I may relate myself, to myself, if there is no one else, at all.

I am... I am. I suppose. I suppose - that - I am. Quite simply - that - I am.
I am a large space of reverberant feeling. I am a combination of echoes, each one of them indistinguishable from the others. I am an unsteady spectacle of hidden beliefs, desires and pure passion, trying to operate itself amid the contradictory circumstances. I am an animal, a good liar, and a bad individual. I am a cage for my will, an incarcerating personality for all the things I want to be. I am life and death, split down the middle, staring profoundly into each other's eyes, perhaps slowly moving to an impassioned affair, of which some bastard child will follow, whom I shall name Fate, for I lack a better vocabulary than the oldest mythologies. And with Fate I pursue a relationship of love, geographically nurtured through the zones of my life I have already had to abandon.
I suppose that I am - as I have always been - somewhere between this all-of-life-at-once and this possibly-death-at-any-moment, feeling unremittingly everything that is remaining, still.
Still-to-be-here. I am.

How can I know there is nothing, instead?

A fatalism without fate.
This time has not been kind to me. But it has been the kindest time.
A kindness without kindness.
A kind of time, and a kind of fate. How similar in kind.
Dizzying experience of the same thing, only again.
How similar it has all since been. Since nothing stayed.
I am where we started, but not here. How unfamiliar.
Time bends, carries and disbands.
No feelings have felt the same since. Only one feeling.
The lack of a metaphor. A fully metaphorical experience.
Then we have been, together, as this fatalism.
A fate, in time, only similar to its more familiar kind.
A dizziness like kindness.

Monday, 5 January 2015

A love in the form of Joana

I have recognised a new sort of loneliness, after you. 
Since we left so soon into the intensity.
This new sort of loneliness tells me how far away I am from you.
Since it was an intensity I had never expected to know,
It is the worst loneliness I could have never expected.
I know now what it is to be lonely:
Lonely in oneself,
Because you have the rest of me.
My only hope is that I have kept some of you, in turn.

Sunday, 4 January 2015

A Madrugada do Novo Ano

À Joana, de Almada

Quando o novo acontece, de onde vem, e o que do velho gera a novidade do seu próximo momento? E se nós nos encontrássemos assim, dentro das novidades, o que antes nos fez encontrar assim?

Falamos de uma possibilidade, porque tanto mais provada a falta de razão.

Começámos pela possibilidade, por não ter havido mais, nem menos, que nós.

Por razão não haver. Nem começo em si.

E as coisas que quisemos entender. As verdades confusas e prévias, sem verdade de previamente estarem. Entendíamos, por enquanto, uma situação.

Entre nós. E as coisas.

Ah, mas que falar de coisas naturais, introduzindo-as, para negá-las seguidamente… dando tudo somente por tirar seu sentido? Feito à nossa imagem. Fazendo à nossa imagem: que coisa sem natureza própria que soubemos ser.

As coisas que depois aconteceram. Entre nós.

E da desnatureza de tudo, ainda outra vez, ou talvez pela primeira – de todos os tempos, igualmente possíveis como possibilidades – estou mediante o processo intrínseco de perder a imagem de ti. Talvez, ainda, e pela primeira vez, outra vez, reencontrá-la-ei num sonho que agora antecipo sem estranheza. Dada, como a verdade tirada do futuro sentido desnecessário do razoável.

Já que fomos, das coisas todas. Só nós.

Coisas que trocámos. Por falta de natureza própria. Sei ambos divergir e não cometer – absolutamente nada. Fico comigo próprio, intrinsecamente, dentro das palavras que, de facto, e por troca universal, imaginam a vontade que não sei expressar.

Tenho de fazer. Terei de ser. Ser-me. Por isto tudo. Sei que, só agora, talvez saberei.

Outras coisas.

De ti, por não te saber de qualquer maneira. Dentro desta outra troca toda, tornaste-te em palavras que farão novos sentidos, outros sentidos, todos os sentidos que aproximar-me-ão, de ti – porque jamais a ti vou poder ter, intrinsecamente.

Terei que ser. Talvez.

Comecemos de novo, e desta vez com a razão toda de recomeçar.

Wednesday, 31 December 2014

The Next Post

The conceptual explorations most communal throughout my writing, for your understanding of the greater intent:
Eliminative Absurdism |
Elemental Experimentalism |
Jocular Motorism |
Elemental Constitutionalism |
Deconstructualism |
Stylistic Autism |
Subjectivist Hedonism |
Mitigated Nihilism |
Bohemic Gratification |
Constructive Debauchery |
Compulsive Personification |
Ebrious Obfuscation |
Literary Charlatanism |
Insulated Confraternization |
Impregnated Solipsism |
Imaginative Foundationalism (_(|)_)
The empire of the irrational - if you are incapable of understanding irrationality, the insane, are too speculative on the margins intersecting the order and the disorder, then I suggest reading me as some form of logical parasitism. (_(|)_)
Articulation - the office of contracting stipulations without revealing the stitch-work. But the humoured are always left. (_(|)_)
Fact and Theory - result from the same operative faculty: observation. I write my own facts, to observe new differences. (_)

Friday, 29 March 2013


We achieve prominence in the reduction of the spirit of the temporal, and thus pursue it as the collective temporally confined to exceed the other in favour of a heightened self, timed.

Is the image an imagination of the object internalised, or might it consist of the object inconsistent with the apparatus of extraction?

I am the humanism of intelligence, a methodical engager in the augmented attention to reality, the full engagement, the sole attention of the real in, the occupant of the intraducible concept of intelligent.

The object that has failed to engage the engaged is not a failed object. The only point of the object is to be pointed, nothing more.

Balance and symmetry are solely encountered through the procurement of the organicity they propose, by the belief in their existence, somewhere in the visible moment of their slight happening, then again vanished.



I – The aspect of the conquered which was, except conquered, acquired in the effort of the conquest; purchased element of the victory.

II – The feature of the acquired that supposes to the purchaser the element of conquest, whereupon victory is particular to the exchange on the behalf of he who has purchased.

Replying to Contradicting

The polymorphous extension of my self-generative speculations, applied to a plethora of instances to cogitate, insofar as such generated cogitation would be speculative, must not be resumed to an unstable equilibrium of imminent contradictions. I contend, instead, that the apparentness of any contradiction is but the item of a performance inhabiting the indefinable multitude of the instance, in itself and repeated around the successive appearance of its apparentness. Fundamentally, the contradictory is a symbol of the possible without the possibility of ever being, continued within the possibility of ever being: a symbolic performance organised through the fertility of an insecurable logos.

Action as Acting

The action talks of itself as the methodical move towards itself; in the act, there is not simply action, yet altogether the coordination it assumes proposed from the priority of its chosen exchange. More so, there is an unattainable coincidence with the intention as active, the one that does not happen and the other that is all for itself avoided in the choice of the action that therefore becomes phenomenal.

For the writer, as artist

Writing has, for itself, an acquitting volatility which is perennial in surmising an unadulterated growth, beneath the suspenseful desire of the writer, through his writings as recognition of himself. However, this growth is interrupted, ceased indefinitely, whence the written can no longer be instructed as a peremptory self-image of he who has written. It is not happiness through an achievement; it is, rather, the consequence of self as through the endeavour to write. Expression is absent, exploration is final. And never promptly a will to self-explore; exportation would be more conscious than this.