Ausência sempre

’eli ’eli lama sabachtani?

ausencia-sempre-1024

In memoriam
Geraldo Ribeiro Bustamante {08.09.1916 – 09.12.1991}

Ausência sempre… a eternidade… presença sempre
do que foi e que sempre será: princípio, luz e força,
suor e sangue, risos e lágrimas, amor e obras, coração
na mão feito presença mesmo quando ausente no tempo…
e muitas vezes, muitas, dias, meses, anos, tantos,
nas aleatórias e peculiares circunstâncias de nossas vidas,
também no espaço em que nos foi dado viver.

J. R. Bustamante – 8.9.2016
Cangas, Galicia, España
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H. Miller… revisited!

Real life begins when we are alone, face to face with our unknown self. What happens when we come together is determined by our inner soliloquies. The crucial and truly pivotal events which mark our way are the fruits of silence and solitude.
[…]
Until we accept the fact that life itself is founded in mystery we shall learn nothing.
[…]
Every moment is a golden one fro him who has the vision to recognize it as such. Life is now, every moment, no matter if the world be full of death. Death triumphs only in the service of life.
[…]
The facts and events which form the chain of one’s life are but starting points along the paths of self-discovery.
[…]
The man telling the story is no longer the one who experienced the events recorded. Distortion and deformation are unavoidable in the re-living of one’s life.
[…]
The most tremendous voyages are sometimes taken without moving from the spot.
[…]
No man can possibly relate the whole story, no matter how limited a fragment of his life he may choose to dwell on.
[…]
The waters of the earth! … Next to light, the most mysterious element of creation. Everything passes away in time. The waters abide.

(Henry MILLER: “The World of Sex”, A Star Book, published in 1977 by Wyndham Publications Ltd., London)

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Leb wohl!… ¡Adios!

»Wenn man plötzlich 30 wird,
kann man eines Abends
zu dem Schluss kommen,
dass es sich nicht lohnt,
es weiter zu treiben.«

Uno de mis pocos amigos, un americano
en Heidelberg, andábamos por el cuarto
o quinto scotch, creo, fines de un verano
casi tropical, en las vísperas de irse…
del tiempo, lo garabateó en el blanco
de la servilleta con su boli azul…
eso que se lee arriba, en alemán,
y aquí se transcribe en castellano,
mi tributo al recuerdo de una amistad
de poco más que meses, en verdad
menos de un año…

“Si uno llega a los 30, puede
una tarde darse cuenta
de que no vale la pena
pasar de los 30.”

¡Que las estrellas le sigan
iluminando las tinieblas!

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