quinta-feira, 14 de setembro de 2017

Infância em São Paulo nos anos 1990



- Marie! Marie Claire!
A voz saltitava pelo corredor, quase atingindo o teto, e voltava a tocar o solo, resvalando levemente nas paredes. Na tinta branca, pessoas e lugares fabulosos se reservavam para serem olhados por quem passasse, resguardados por belas molduras. A estreiteza do corredor era desafiada pela potência da voz retumbante que desviava toda e qualquer atenção para a atividade do momento: o jogo do tapete.
Se uma perna tocasse o losango acarpetado e a outra tocasse o piso de taco, seria o fim. Cada jogadora deveria posicionar com sabedoria seu pé de maneira a evitar a perda de pontos, a perda da vez, ou mesmo a entrega da vez para a adversária. Quem atingisse o outro lado da sala primeiro, pisando apenas nos losangos dos tapetes, venceria.
As pernas das cadeiras tentavam fazer a sua parte para se preparar para o confronto entre as pernas e os losangos, mas acabavam atrapalhando de qualquer forma. Uma meia de bolinhas brancas e vermelhas se aproximava de um losango, sabendo que tinha a vantagem. A melhor amiga, aquela para todos os momentos e todas as confidências, tentava saltar direto de um losango para outro, a três losangos de distância, um feito arriscadíssimo, segundo os comentaristas do jogo da semana passada. Um pé ameaçou cair fora do losango, mas o equilíbrio venceu. A melhor amiga não decepciona, pensou a dona das bolinhas algodoadas.
Mas ainda havia dois percursos traiçoeiros a conquistar. Em outra tentativa, os cabelos de uma resvalaram no piso, mas logo se apressaram a se posicionar em uma distância segura do solo. Em outro, uma cadeira se adiantava no meio do caminho, e dificultava a manobra, que teve que ser feita na diagonal, mas a melhor amiga conseguiu pisar apenas nos losangos alaranjados.
Era a última tentativa da primeira jogadora. Ela se adiantou, planejou a rota e preparou o salto, calculando possíveis erros de percurso. O ar entrou e rapidamente preencheu a caixa torácica, demorando-se a sair. Houve um arroubo de movimento e, numa lufada veloz de ar, a menina se foi. Por meio losango, a menina perdeu. A melhor amiga de quatro patas miou em comemoração. Um dia ela será humana, pensou a menina, e entenderá a minha dificuldade. Um dia.


*Texto por Fernanda Marques Granato. Texto protegido pela lei de direitos autorais.

**As opiniões expressas nesse post são de total responsabilidade do seu autor.**

sexta-feira, 18 de novembro de 2016

Synecdoche



“I have never met anyone as long-reaching as him, and I’m not talking about his height”, whispered the student, glancing upon the newfound teacher. Mr. McFellows, 47 years old, 30 in the past and 17 in the future, was able to reach his past – as well as everyone’s – with a slight reach from his mind. Having the most powerful mind of the century, muscles straight from the Greek Gods, and eyes that could be easily mistaken for arctic pools, he was unmatched. No one could believe it, and yet there he stood, calm as a broken sea, sturdy as a tree and welcoming as an apple pie. If you really dove into his eyes, some said, you could go crazy. The waves that built his line of reasoning, the foam that encompassed its structure and the breeze that made everything fall into place questioned any validity. He made you question everything you knew, would like to know or know at this very instant. He had a way of focusing all the different parts of something that never really led you to make a picture on your mind of the whole image. These lists of never ending parts kept floating on the sea and risked drowning daily. But his eyes, as cold, solid, lonely and forgotten as the south pole, his eyes were powerless to connect and to merge this images to cast a body of strength that would eventually coat all things known by men. His eyes, like arctic pools, were able to lie to no one.

**As opiniões expressas nesse post são de total responsabilidade do seu autor.**
**Texto por Fernanda Marques Granato

I didn’t know he was one of us

            As the wind approached the window, everything around the curtains trembled. The shiver could be felt by every pinch of salt that had ever inhabited these surroundings, and it had no intention of leaving.  It was long overdue. Fifty years, some papers acknowledged. Five years, some on-lookers guessed freely, unencumbered by the responsibility of supporting their claims with harvested data. It was no walk in the park, for sure. But the people needed answers, and somebody had to provide it for them, even if the investigation was lacking in the evidence-finding front. Either way, this mild shaking was foreshadowing feelings that later would sprout on the city, being felt later on a global scale. A cat emerged from behind the curtain, being caught mid-sleep by the quake. Even though he didn’t seem to mind, he was somewhat taken by the event, having started to walk in a slightly different pace, and backwards. All the same, no one noticed. Not even the furniture that had changed places considerably to make room for the entrancing madness that usually follows earthquakes. Not even the little girl that was hiding behind the open door, hoping to go unnoticed. Not even the vase with a flower, which was sweeping the floor with the water that had started to multiply by a hundred right after the quake. Not even the dog that, not having noticed the cat, the quake, the flood caused by the flower pot, the changing furniture or the girl, kept on chewing the same shoe string for decades. But the scientist, oh, the scientist, after glancing from the broken window, confirmed his suspicions and pretended to be a shadow, as so not to be blamed for the miserable outcome. I didn’t know he was one of us, and, like one of us, would prefer to go about unnoticed as hell broke loose outside. He must have been one of us, after all.


*Texto por Fernanda Marques Granato.
**As opiniões expressas nesse post são de total responsabilidade do seu autor.**

sexta-feira, 14 de outubro de 2016

When I grow old


When I grow old, I won’t be buying beef stroganoff for storing in my fridge.
I won’t be worried if I don’t get the joke’s punch line.
I won’t be seen wearing uncomfortable clothing.
I won’t be caught dead doing mandatory things – except growing old.

When I grow old, I won’t be needing my alarm clock.
I won’t be dealing with annoying delivery men.
I won’t be hoping for the best.
I won’t be worried if I fail.

When I grow old, I won’t expect too much of anything.
I won’t lay plans out for others.
I won’t be sorry they didn’t lay any for me.

When I grow old,
I will be at ease with myself, and

I won’t be denied the privilege.


* Texto por Fernanda Marques Granato.
**Protegido pela lei de direitos autorais.
**As opiniões expressas nesse post são de total responsabilidade do seu autor.