what it was,
i'm not even sure.
[but i definitely lost]
quarta-feira, 30 de setembro de 2009
like the masters of rock
you can't always get what you want
but if you try sometimes you might [just] find
you get what you need
but if you try sometimes you might [just] find
you get what you need
terça-feira, 29 de setembro de 2009
the nightingale and the rose
'she said that she would dance with me if i brought her red roses,' cried the young student; 'but in all my garden there is no red rose.'
from her nest in the holm-oak tree the nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
'no red rose in all my garden!' he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. 'ah, on what little things does happiness depend! i have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.'
'here at last is a true Lover,' said the nightingale. 'night after night have i sung of him, though i knew him not: night after night have i told his story to the stars, and now i see him. his hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his lace like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.'
'the prince gives a ball tomorrow night,' murmured the young student, 'and my Love will be of the company. if i bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. if i bring her a red rose, i shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. but there is no red rose in my garden, so i shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. she will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.'
'here indeed is the true Lover,' said the nightingale. 'what i sing of he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. surely Love is a wonderful thing. it is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. it may not be purchased of the merchants, 'or can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.'
'the musicians will sit in their gallery,' said the young student, 'and play upon their stringed instruments, and my Love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. she will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. but with me she will not dance, for i have no red rose to give her;' and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
'why is he weeping?' asked a little green lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.
'why, indeed?' said a butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.
'why, indeed?' whispered a daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.
'he is weeping for a red rose,' said the nightingale.
'for a red rose!' they cried; 'how very ridiculous!' and the little lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.
but the nightingale understood the secret of the student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.
suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. she passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.
in the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful rose-tree, and when she saw it, she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.
'give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and i will sing you my sweetest song.'
but the tree shook its head.
'my roses are white,' it answered; 'as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. but go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want.'
so the nightingale flew over to the rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.
'give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and i will sing you my sweetest song.'
but the tree shook its head.
'my roses are yellow,' it answered; 'as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. but go to my brother who grows beneath the student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.'
so the nightingale flew over to the rose-tree that was growing beneath the student's window.
'give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and i will sing you my sweetest song.'
but the tree shook its head.
'my roses are red,' it answered, 'as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. but the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and i shall have no roses at all this year.'
'one red rose is all i want,' cried the nightingale, 'only one red rose! is there no way by which i can get it?'
'there is a way,' answered the tree; 'but it is so terrible that i dare not tell it to you.'
'tell it to me,' said the nightingale, 'i am not afraid.'
'if you want a red rose,' said the tree, 'you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. you must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. all night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.'
'death is a great price to pay for a red rose,' cried the nightingale, 'and life is very dear to all. it is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the sun in his chariot of gold, and the moon in her chariot of pearl. sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. yet Love is better than life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?'
so she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. she swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.
the young student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.
'be happy,' cried the nightingale, 'be happy; you shall have your red rose. i will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. all that i ask of you in return is that you will be a true Lover, for Love is wiser than philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than power, though he is mighty. flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. his lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.'
the student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.
but the oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
'sing me one last song,' he whispered; 'i shall feel very lonely when you are gone.'
so the nightingale sang to the oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.
when she had finished her song the student got lip, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
'she has form,' he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove - 'that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? i am afraid not. in fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. she would not sacrifice herself for others. she thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. what a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.' and he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his Love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.
and when the moon shone in the heavens the nightingale flew to the rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. all night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal moon leaned down and listened. all night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.
she sang first of the birth of Love in the heart of a boy and a girl. and on the topmost spray of the rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. yale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river - pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. as the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the tree.
but the tree cried to the nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'press closer, little nightingale,' cried the tree, 'or the day will come before the rose is finished.'
so the nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.
and a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. but the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.
and the tree cried to the nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'press closer, little nightingale,' cried the tree, 'or the day will come before the rose is finished.'
so the nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.
and the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.
but the nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.
then she gave one last burst of music. the white moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. the red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. it floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.
'look, look!' cried the tree, 'the rose is finished now;' but the nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.
and at noon the student opened his window and looked out.
'why, what a wonderful piece of luck! he cried; 'here is a red rose! i have never seen any rose like it in all my life. it is so beautiful that i am sure it has a long latin name;' and he leaned down and plucked it.
then he put on his hat, and ran up to the professor's house with the rose in his hand.
the daughter of the professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.
'you said that you would dance with me if i brought you a red rose,' cried the student. here is the reddest rose in all the world. you will wear it tonight next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how i Love you.'
but the girl frowned.
'i am afraid it will not go with my dress,' she answered;' and, besides, the chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.'
'well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,' said the student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.
'ungrateful!' said the girl. 'i tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? only a student. why, i don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the chamberlain's nephew has;' and she got up from her chair and went into the house.
'what a silly thing Love is,' said the student as he walked away. 'it is not half as useful as logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. in fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, i shall go back to philosophy and study metaphysics.'
so he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.
by Oscar Wilde
from her nest in the holm-oak tree the nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
'no red rose in all my garden!' he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. 'ah, on what little things does happiness depend! i have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.'
'here at last is a true Lover,' said the nightingale. 'night after night have i sung of him, though i knew him not: night after night have i told his story to the stars, and now i see him. his hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his lace like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.'
'the prince gives a ball tomorrow night,' murmured the young student, 'and my Love will be of the company. if i bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. if i bring her a red rose, i shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. but there is no red rose in my garden, so i shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. she will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.'
'here indeed is the true Lover,' said the nightingale. 'what i sing of he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. surely Love is a wonderful thing. it is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. it may not be purchased of the merchants, 'or can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.'
'the musicians will sit in their gallery,' said the young student, 'and play upon their stringed instruments, and my Love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. she will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. but with me she will not dance, for i have no red rose to give her;' and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
'why is he weeping?' asked a little green lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.
'why, indeed?' said a butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.
'why, indeed?' whispered a daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.
'he is weeping for a red rose,' said the nightingale.
'for a red rose!' they cried; 'how very ridiculous!' and the little lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.
but the nightingale understood the secret of the student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.
suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. she passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.
in the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful rose-tree, and when she saw it, she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.
'give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and i will sing you my sweetest song.'
but the tree shook its head.
'my roses are white,' it answered; 'as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. but go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want.'
so the nightingale flew over to the rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.
'give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and i will sing you my sweetest song.'
but the tree shook its head.
'my roses are yellow,' it answered; 'as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. but go to my brother who grows beneath the student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.'
so the nightingale flew over to the rose-tree that was growing beneath the student's window.
'give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and i will sing you my sweetest song.'
but the tree shook its head.
'my roses are red,' it answered, 'as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. but the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and i shall have no roses at all this year.'
'one red rose is all i want,' cried the nightingale, 'only one red rose! is there no way by which i can get it?'
'there is a way,' answered the tree; 'but it is so terrible that i dare not tell it to you.'
'tell it to me,' said the nightingale, 'i am not afraid.'
'if you want a red rose,' said the tree, 'you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. you must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. all night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.'
'death is a great price to pay for a red rose,' cried the nightingale, 'and life is very dear to all. it is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the sun in his chariot of gold, and the moon in her chariot of pearl. sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. yet Love is better than life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?'
so she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. she swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.
the young student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.
'be happy,' cried the nightingale, 'be happy; you shall have your red rose. i will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. all that i ask of you in return is that you will be a true Lover, for Love is wiser than philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than power, though he is mighty. flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. his lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.'
the student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.
but the oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
'sing me one last song,' he whispered; 'i shall feel very lonely when you are gone.'
so the nightingale sang to the oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.
when she had finished her song the student got lip, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
'she has form,' he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove - 'that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? i am afraid not. in fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. she would not sacrifice herself for others. she thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. what a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.' and he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his Love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.
and when the moon shone in the heavens the nightingale flew to the rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. all night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal moon leaned down and listened. all night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.
she sang first of the birth of Love in the heart of a boy and a girl. and on the topmost spray of the rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. yale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river - pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. as the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the tree.
but the tree cried to the nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'press closer, little nightingale,' cried the tree, 'or the day will come before the rose is finished.'
so the nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.
and a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. but the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.
and the tree cried to the nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'press closer, little nightingale,' cried the tree, 'or the day will come before the rose is finished.'
so the nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.
and the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.
but the nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.
then she gave one last burst of music. the white moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. the red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. it floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.
'look, look!' cried the tree, 'the rose is finished now;' but the nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.
and at noon the student opened his window and looked out.
'why, what a wonderful piece of luck! he cried; 'here is a red rose! i have never seen any rose like it in all my life. it is so beautiful that i am sure it has a long latin name;' and he leaned down and plucked it.
then he put on his hat, and ran up to the professor's house with the rose in his hand.
the daughter of the professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.
'you said that you would dance with me if i brought you a red rose,' cried the student. here is the reddest rose in all the world. you will wear it tonight next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how i Love you.'
but the girl frowned.
'i am afraid it will not go with my dress,' she answered;' and, besides, the chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.'
'well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,' said the student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.
'ungrateful!' said the girl. 'i tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? only a student. why, i don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the chamberlain's nephew has;' and she got up from her chair and went into the house.
'what a silly thing Love is,' said the student as he walked away. 'it is not half as useful as logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. in fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, i shall go back to philosophy and study metaphysics.'
so he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.
by Oscar Wilde
segunda-feira, 28 de setembro de 2009
the man and the sea
homme libre, toujours tu chériras la mer!
la mer est ton miroir; tu contemples ton âme
dans le déroulement infini de sa lame,
et ton esprit n'est pas un gouffre moins amer.
tu te plais à plonger au sein de ton image;
tu l'embrasses des yeux et des bras, et ton coeur
se distrait quelquefois de sa propre rumeur
au bruit de cette plainte indomptable et sauvage.
vous êtes tous les deux ténébreux et discrets:
homme, nul n'a sondé le fond de tes abîmes;
ô mer, nul ne connaît tes richesses intimes,
tant vous êtes jaloux de garder vos secrets!
et cependant voilà des siècles innombrables
que vous vous combattez sans pitié ni remords,
tellement vous aimez le carnage et la mort,
ô lutteurs éternels, ô frères implacables!
Charles Baudelaire
la mer est ton miroir; tu contemples ton âme
dans le déroulement infini de sa lame,
et ton esprit n'est pas un gouffre moins amer.
tu te plais à plonger au sein de ton image;
tu l'embrasses des yeux et des bras, et ton coeur
se distrait quelquefois de sa propre rumeur
au bruit de cette plainte indomptable et sauvage.
vous êtes tous les deux ténébreux et discrets:
homme, nul n'a sondé le fond de tes abîmes;
ô mer, nul ne connaît tes richesses intimes,
tant vous êtes jaloux de garder vos secrets!
et cependant voilà des siècles innombrables
que vous vous combattez sans pitié ni remords,
tellement vous aimez le carnage et la mort,
ô lutteurs éternels, ô frères implacables!
Charles Baudelaire
domingo, 27 de setembro de 2009
side by side
este é o paradoxo do amor entre o homem e a mulher: dois infinitos encontram-se com dois limites. dois infinitamente necessitados de ser amados, encontram-se com duas frágeis e limitadas capacidades de amar. e é só no horizonte de um amor maior que não se devoram em pretensão, nem se resignam, antes caminham juntos até uma plenitude da qual o outro é sinal.
Rainer Maria Rilke
(obrigado Lisboa)
Rainer Maria Rilke
(obrigado Lisboa)
i'm not that boy
don't dream too far,
don't lose sight of who you are
don't remember that rush of joy
don't wish, don't start
wishing only wounds the heart
i wasn't born for the rose and the pearl
there's a [boy] i know
[she] loves [him] so
i'm not that [boy]…
don't lose sight of who you are
don't remember that rush of joy
don't wish, don't start
wishing only wounds the heart
i wasn't born for the rose and the pearl
there's a [boy] i know
[she] loves [him] so
i'm not that [boy]…
epilogue
after all is said and done, i.e. when all loose ends are tied up, the story must end, unless of course, the end of the story is used as the seed of a sequel, teasing the reader to jump into a completely new story, where only the characters and the lessons learned are the same.
if these rules are not met, the author may risk babbling into pointless directions, leaving the reader with a sensation of frustration and wasted time, and what could have been a great story gets a very bitter taste ...
[...but then again, that may be exactly what the author intended in the first place.]
if these rules are not met, the author may risk babbling into pointless directions, leaving the reader with a sensation of frustration and wasted time, and what could have been a great story gets a very bitter taste ...
[...but then again, that may be exactly what the author intended in the first place.]
sexta-feira, 25 de setembro de 2009
the good fight
i know you try to carry the world at your shoulders. dealing with the problems the best possible way, keeping everyone around from worrying and knowing what's going on.
that's noble.
but even with your heart and skills, you're not invulnerable.
you can't deal with everything alone.
there are actually some us, that actually care, and will be there to help you through the good fight.
after all, sometimes, even heroes must be saved
that's noble.
but even with your heart and skills, you're not invulnerable.
you can't deal with everything alone.
there are actually some us, that actually care, and will be there to help you through the good fight.
after all, sometimes, even heroes must be saved
quinta-feira, 24 de setembro de 2009
human (II)
it matters not how far you reached,
nor how wealthy you got.
the cars, houses and money you owned,
the things that you saw
the problems that you solved
and the land and places that you changed
holds no value at all
the only thing that really matters
are the lifes that you touched
the people that you loved
and the truth in your heart
nor how wealthy you got.
the cars, houses and money you owned,
the things that you saw
the problems that you solved
and the land and places that you changed
holds no value at all
the only thing that really matters
are the lifes that you touched
the people that you loved
and the truth in your heart
value investor
in the [pseudo] complex world of high finance, there is the common knowledge that in order to invest, you need to “enter” (i.e. buy) a position (i.e. investment) when it’s low (i.e. cheap), and “exit” when it’s high (i.e. expensive). investors call this phenomenon ‘riding the waive’.
the real talent in order to do so is to find those precise moments when to take a position [or when to leave], when there is a firm belief that whatever you’ll be doing will turn out to be good, to yield a good return.
some investors believe in gut feeling, entering an investment just because they like it, they “feel” it is going to be the next best thing close to winning the lottery [some go even further, saying that it better than…]. others believe that there are some strange and mystic forces that drive everything in the universe, including investments, and they dedicate their life in trying to predict the movements of a tick in a computer screen, based on the exact same pattern they saw in the year 1967, and that must mean something. some others don’t have a clue, and they choose whatever the flavour of the month is: “if everyone is doing it, i surely won’t be the last in line …”
and finally we have the value investor. these are the most cunning and thorough of them. they respect the market and their players. they choose pretty well their targets, devoting time, patience and all available resources to decide their move: get in, get out or do nothing. the basic principle behind this strategy is only to be part of investments that have perceivable [and understandable] future value: that have significant upside potential. keeping an ever vigilante spirit, and humbleness [they know that there are always people smarter, stronger and more informed] they reassess their options and actions continuously.
although they look at everything with a cold eye and mind, they have an enormous passion for it, and are extremely disciplined.
they get in and get out, only when they perceive true value add [or the absence of it].
[the most important thing is that] it matters not if they are winning or loosing, value is something that is quite perceptible [and tangible] to them. they’ll enter and exit a party at their own timing. not a minute sooner, nor a minute later. even when everyone thinks it is only getting good, even when it blows up in their face.
the real talent in order to do so is to find those precise moments when to take a position [or when to leave], when there is a firm belief that whatever you’ll be doing will turn out to be good, to yield a good return.
some investors believe in gut feeling, entering an investment just because they like it, they “feel” it is going to be the next best thing close to winning the lottery [some go even further, saying that it better than…]. others believe that there are some strange and mystic forces that drive everything in the universe, including investments, and they dedicate their life in trying to predict the movements of a tick in a computer screen, based on the exact same pattern they saw in the year 1967, and that must mean something. some others don’t have a clue, and they choose whatever the flavour of the month is: “if everyone is doing it, i surely won’t be the last in line …”
and finally we have the value investor. these are the most cunning and thorough of them. they respect the market and their players. they choose pretty well their targets, devoting time, patience and all available resources to decide their move: get in, get out or do nothing. the basic principle behind this strategy is only to be part of investments that have perceivable [and understandable] future value: that have significant upside potential. keeping an ever vigilante spirit, and humbleness [they know that there are always people smarter, stronger and more informed] they reassess their options and actions continuously.
although they look at everything with a cold eye and mind, they have an enormous passion for it, and are extremely disciplined.
they get in and get out, only when they perceive true value add [or the absence of it].
[the most important thing is that] it matters not if they are winning or loosing, value is something that is quite perceptible [and tangible] to them. they’ll enter and exit a party at their own timing. not a minute sooner, nor a minute later. even when everyone thinks it is only getting good, even when it blows up in their face.
quarta-feira, 23 de setembro de 2009
terça-feira, 22 de setembro de 2009
segunda-feira, 21 de setembro de 2009
counting
thinking in terms of one
is easily done—
one room, one bed, one chair,
one person there,
makes perfect sense; one set
of wishes can be met,
one coffin filled.
but counting up to two
is harder to do;
for one must be denied
before it's [even] tried
Philip Larkin
is easily done—
one room, one bed, one chair,
one person there,
makes perfect sense; one set
of wishes can be met,
one coffin filled.
but counting up to two
is harder to do;
for one must be denied
before it's [even] tried
Philip Larkin
trailing-stop
knowing is better than wondering,
waking is better than sleeping,
and even the biggest failure,
even the worst,
beats the hell out of never trying.
[and] whoever said that
"what you don't know can't hurt you"
was a complete and total moron.
because for the most [people] I know,
[myself included]
not knowing is the worst feeling in the world.
waking is better than sleeping,
and even the biggest failure,
even the worst,
beats the hell out of never trying.
[and] whoever said that
"what you don't know can't hurt you"
was a complete and total moron.
because for the most [people] I know,
[myself included]
not knowing is the worst feeling in the world.
arid land
even the most beautiful and wildest of roses needs sun, water and roots to grow [the thorns are a completely different story]
domingo, 20 de setembro de 2009
italian passion
molti mari e fiumi
attraversero
dentro la tua terra
mi ritroverai
turbini e tempeste
io cavalchero
volero tra il fulmini
per averti
luce dei miei occhi
brilla su di me
voglio mille lune
per accarezzarti
pendo dai tuoi sogni
veglio su di te
non svegliarti....ancora
meravigliosa creatura
sei sola al mondo
meravigliosa paura d'averti accanto
occhi di sole mi tremano le parole
amore e vita meravigliosa
meravigliosa creatura un bacio lento
meravigliosa paura d'averti accanto
all'improvviso tu scendi nel paradiso
muoio d'amore meraviglioso
attraversero
dentro la tua terra
mi ritroverai
turbini e tempeste
io cavalchero
volero tra il fulmini
per averti
luce dei miei occhi
brilla su di me
voglio mille lune
per accarezzarti
pendo dai tuoi sogni
veglio su di te
non svegliarti....ancora
meravigliosa creatura
sei sola al mondo
meravigliosa paura d'averti accanto
occhi di sole mi tremano le parole
amore e vita meravigliosa
meravigliosa creatura un bacio lento
meravigliosa paura d'averti accanto
all'improvviso tu scendi nel paradiso
muoio d'amore meraviglioso
sábado, 19 de setembro de 2009
o fortuna
há um tempo em que é preciso abandonar as roupas usadas,
as que já têm a forma do nosso corpo;
e esquecer os nossos caminhos
que nos levam sempre aos mesmos lugares
é o tempo da travessia,
e se não ousarmos fazê-la,
teremos ficado
para sempre
à margem de nós mesmos...
Fernando Pessoa
as que já têm a forma do nosso corpo;
e esquecer os nossos caminhos
que nos levam sempre aos mesmos lugares
é o tempo da travessia,
e se não ousarmos fazê-la,
teremos ficado
para sempre
à margem de nós mesmos...
Fernando Pessoa
quinta-feira, 17 de setembro de 2009
peter pan
i’m but a child,
with no past, no future
just the excitement of the moment,
waiting for the next surprise.
i gaze the world in awe,
amazed by all its beautiful things
i believe in power and magic,
an unexpected meeting,
the discovery of something new
dreams, and even fairytales
i believe in friendship and in love,
and that there is always someone
to take your hand, and clean your tears
i believe in heroes and in villains,
that there is always someone to look up to,
and someone who tries to bring you down
i fight for what i believe even if it scares or hurts me,
and when i feel beaten from a battle unknown or lost
i get comfort in knowing that my soul can fly,
in the warmth of a happy thought
with no past, no future
just the excitement of the moment,
waiting for the next surprise.
i gaze the world in awe,
amazed by all its beautiful things
i believe in power and magic,
an unexpected meeting,
the discovery of something new
dreams, and even fairytales
i believe in friendship and in love,
and that there is always someone
to take your hand, and clean your tears
i believe in heroes and in villains,
that there is always someone to look up to,
and someone who tries to bring you down
i fight for what i believe even if it scares or hurts me,
and when i feel beaten from a battle unknown or lost
i get comfort in knowing that my soul can fly,
in the warmth of a happy thought
minimum inflection point
aqueles que me têm muito amor
não sabem o que sinto e o que sou...
não sabem que passou, um dia, a dor
à minha porta e, nesse dia, entrou.
e é desde então que eu sinto este pavor,
este frio que anda em mim, e que gelou
o que de bom me deu nosso senhor!
se eu nem sei por onde ando e onde vou!!
sinto os passos de dor, essa cadência
que é já tortura infinda, que é demência!
que é já vontade doida de gritar!
e é sempre a mesma mágoa, o mesmo tédio,
a mesma angústia funda, sem remédio,
andando atrás de mim, sem me largar!
Florbela Espanca
não sabem o que sinto e o que sou...
não sabem que passou, um dia, a dor
à minha porta e, nesse dia, entrou.
e é desde então que eu sinto este pavor,
este frio que anda em mim, e que gelou
o que de bom me deu nosso senhor!
se eu nem sei por onde ando e onde vou!!
sinto os passos de dor, essa cadência
que é já tortura infinda, que é demência!
que é já vontade doida de gritar!
e é sempre a mesma mágoa, o mesmo tédio,
a mesma angústia funda, sem remédio,
andando atrás de mim, sem me largar!
Florbela Espanca
quarta-feira, 16 de setembro de 2009
sweet endings come and go
la noche buena se viene,
la noche buena se va,
y nosotros nos iremos
y no volveremos mas
la noche buena se va,
y nosotros nos iremos
y no volveremos mas
segunda-feira, 14 de setembro de 2009
inner conflict
it’s not that she doesn’t think things through...
it’s just that...
if in her,
love and mind would arm-wrestle together,
love would probably break mind’s arm
[and probably the table too...]
it’s just that...
if in her,
love and mind would arm-wrestle together,
love would probably break mind’s arm
[and probably the table too...]
halfway
tudo o que faço ou medito
fica sempre na metade.
querendo, quero o infinito.
fazendo, nada é verdade
fica sempre na metade.
querendo, quero o infinito.
fazendo, nada é verdade
domingo, 13 de setembro de 2009
the lost city
- why are you unhappy?
- i’m not unhappy, i’m just Sad
- why are you Sad?
- it is in my nature
- your nature is beautiful, not sadness
- but can’t Sad be beautiful?
- Sad yes, but not sadness…
- i’m not unhappy, i’m just Sad
- why are you Sad?
- it is in my nature
- your nature is beautiful, not sadness
- but can’t Sad be beautiful?
- Sad yes, but not sadness…
goodbye Madrid III [el canto del loco]
solamente oír tu voz
ver tu foto en blanco y negro
recorrer esa ciudad
yo ya me muero de amor
ver la vida sin reloj
y contarte mis secretos
no saber ya si besarte
o esperar que salga solo
y vivir así, yo quiero vivir así
y ni siquiera sé si sientes tú lo mismo
me desperté soñando
que estaba a tu lado
y me quedé pensando
qué tienen esas manos
sé que no es el momento
para que pase algo
quiero volverte a ver
y me siento como un niño
imaginándome contigo
como si hubiéramos ganado
por habernos conocido
esta sensación extraña
hoy se adueña de mi casa
juega con esa sonrisa
dibujándola a sus anchas
ver tu foto en blanco y negro
recorrer esa ciudad
yo ya me muero de amor
ver la vida sin reloj
y contarte mis secretos
no saber ya si besarte
o esperar que salga solo
y vivir así, yo quiero vivir así
y ni siquiera sé si sientes tú lo mismo
me desperté soñando
que estaba a tu lado
y me quedé pensando
qué tienen esas manos
sé que no es el momento
para que pase algo
quiero volverte a ver
y me siento como un niño
imaginándome contigo
como si hubiéramos ganado
por habernos conocido
esta sensación extraña
hoy se adueña de mi casa
juega con esa sonrisa
dibujándola a sus anchas
sábado, 12 de setembro de 2009
...in a nutshell
13 billion years ago, an unimaginable amount of energy was required to start a great explosion. soon afterwards, amid a shower of light and heat, the first atoms started to appear, and in a slow, yet amazingly fast process, spanning from the incredibly small to the incredibly huge, energy started to decay into matter forming stars, planets and galaxies.
the milky way appeared, and in the outskirts of one of its thousands “legs”, a solar system inhabited by a single star called “sun”, became home of a tiny blue planet among giants: earth, the third planet closest to the sun.
it was a quiet and silent planet, filled with water until when, 4 billion years ago, coming from the dark depths of the universe, a small planet collided with it, creating the moon and the tides: the conditions of life were set in place.
as in all amazingly beautiful things in the universe, and just 500 million years after, small micro organisms that lived in the water, started to evolve into more complex life forms. fish appeared and monstrous beasts dominated the waters. with the continuous evolution of the atmosphere, this earth started to cool down, and masses of land erupted from the waters.
life is always changing and, challenging the conditions and borders of its limitations, the beasts started to get out of the water searching for food, and in an amazing and complex evolution, huge birds and animals, started their reign in a whole and foreign new world.
but old universe, is both beautiful and treacherous, and for the second time since its birth, a dark asteroid hit the earth, killing most of its life and engulfing it in a dark and cold cloud for ages. however, some species endured, and in the wake of a new challenging era, where most of the giants have disappeared, life brought a new element: man. this frail, and seemingly weaker creature, the first [known] intelligent life form, started to look around, and made earth its home.
man’s curiosity, eagerness, and feelings were insatiable. he learned to control its surrounding, learned to live together and work together as one. roaming small tribes and gatherings started to grow, and as they discovered fire and the wheel, they managed to get healthier, to hunt and to grow food, get more nurtured, to think strategically and settling in.
its challenging, inquisitiveness spirit and restless soul, lead him to explore, to rationalize, to explain and even to try to imitate the natural events around him, fostering the evolution of science and religion. paintings and music followed short as man sough ways to express himself, to show and enjoy [or even hate] all the feelings and beauty he held in his own private universe to the likes of him.
from small scattered villages, to full empires, rich in culture, arts and science. millions of generations, passed on their legacy, trying to fit in, to find their own place and to evolve in a never ending search for godliness and perfection.
but universe and life, are always changing and surprising, and so, in a not so particular point of time, a little more than 30 years ago, either by chance or by a twist of fate, something that had been happening for thousands of years occurred: two people fell in love. and from their love a girl was born.
You were born.
…and the universe started to make sense
the milky way appeared, and in the outskirts of one of its thousands “legs”, a solar system inhabited by a single star called “sun”, became home of a tiny blue planet among giants: earth, the third planet closest to the sun.
it was a quiet and silent planet, filled with water until when, 4 billion years ago, coming from the dark depths of the universe, a small planet collided with it, creating the moon and the tides: the conditions of life were set in place.
as in all amazingly beautiful things in the universe, and just 500 million years after, small micro organisms that lived in the water, started to evolve into more complex life forms. fish appeared and monstrous beasts dominated the waters. with the continuous evolution of the atmosphere, this earth started to cool down, and masses of land erupted from the waters.
life is always changing and, challenging the conditions and borders of its limitations, the beasts started to get out of the water searching for food, and in an amazing and complex evolution, huge birds and animals, started their reign in a whole and foreign new world.
but old universe, is both beautiful and treacherous, and for the second time since its birth, a dark asteroid hit the earth, killing most of its life and engulfing it in a dark and cold cloud for ages. however, some species endured, and in the wake of a new challenging era, where most of the giants have disappeared, life brought a new element: man. this frail, and seemingly weaker creature, the first [known] intelligent life form, started to look around, and made earth its home.
man’s curiosity, eagerness, and feelings were insatiable. he learned to control its surrounding, learned to live together and work together as one. roaming small tribes and gatherings started to grow, and as they discovered fire and the wheel, they managed to get healthier, to hunt and to grow food, get more nurtured, to think strategically and settling in.
its challenging, inquisitiveness spirit and restless soul, lead him to explore, to rationalize, to explain and even to try to imitate the natural events around him, fostering the evolution of science and religion. paintings and music followed short as man sough ways to express himself, to show and enjoy [or even hate] all the feelings and beauty he held in his own private universe to the likes of him.
from small scattered villages, to full empires, rich in culture, arts and science. millions of generations, passed on their legacy, trying to fit in, to find their own place and to evolve in a never ending search for godliness and perfection.
but universe and life, are always changing and surprising, and so, in a not so particular point of time, a little more than 30 years ago, either by chance or by a twist of fate, something that had been happening for thousands of years occurred: two people fell in love. and from their love a girl was born.
You were born.
…and the universe started to make sense
quinta-feira, 10 de setembro de 2009
memories
nostalgia is a treacherous thing: it may fool us to think that things weren’t that bad [nor either that great]
terça-feira, 8 de setembro de 2009
the period
it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only
Charles Dickens in "A Tale of Two Cities"
Charles Dickens in "A Tale of Two Cities"
segunda-feira, 7 de setembro de 2009
veleiro
respira fundo. e outra vez: lê os sinais. se estiveres atento e receptivo, muitas bençãos virão. hoje. [e] todos os dias (...) saibas tu identificá-las
by MIA
by MIA
sábado, 5 de setembro de 2009
impressão digital
i am all the strangers i’ve met, all those who shared a moment, not to be remembered nor recalled for life, the tellers, the waiters, the doctors, and the million faces parade that march everyday in my life
i am all the women that i loved, all the smiles that lit a day, and all the tears that went away. i am all the friends that i cherished, and even those that i lost, the lifes that i borrowed, and watched, the feelings that i nurtured and those left to fade
i am my father, my mother, my brothers and sisters, and even my pets
the parties, the laughs, the pains, the lazy days, the sports, and the music
the sleep that i had, and the nights i stayed awake.
the dreams that i shared and the fears that don’t fade
i am all the experiences i lived, the paintings that touched me, the books that i read, and even the movies that inspired or bored me. the trips that fascinated me, and those that lead to nowhere.
the sights, colours, the scents and flavours, the kisses, hugs, the talks, and the walks,
the silences and the notes, the sound of a piano or a string of a guitar, the warmth of the wind or a sight of a star
i am the clothes that i wear, and even the way i comb my hair. the houses where i lived, and the cities that were there
i am no one, but i am all.
and in the figure of a boy, lost in a world full of magic to see,
look into my eyes, and you’ll just see me
i am all the women that i loved, all the smiles that lit a day, and all the tears that went away. i am all the friends that i cherished, and even those that i lost, the lifes that i borrowed, and watched, the feelings that i nurtured and those left to fade
i am my father, my mother, my brothers and sisters, and even my pets
the parties, the laughs, the pains, the lazy days, the sports, and the music
the sleep that i had, and the nights i stayed awake.
the dreams that i shared and the fears that don’t fade
i am all the experiences i lived, the paintings that touched me, the books that i read, and even the movies that inspired or bored me. the trips that fascinated me, and those that lead to nowhere.
the sights, colours, the scents and flavours, the kisses, hugs, the talks, and the walks,
the silences and the notes, the sound of a piano or a string of a guitar, the warmth of the wind or a sight of a star
i am the clothes that i wear, and even the way i comb my hair. the houses where i lived, and the cities that were there
i am no one, but i am all.
and in the figure of a boy, lost in a world full of magic to see,
look into my eyes, and you’ll just see me
sexta-feira, 4 de setembro de 2009
tell me
aunque te veo otra vez
que hay en tus ojos, no sé
la oscuridad los ha atravesado.
pareces alguien a quien la vida no trata bien
y poco a poco su alma ha abandonado.
el dolor no se supera,
si tu corazón se cierra.
pero hay algo que has olvidado
yo estoy contigo aquí.
dímelo a mí
háblame de ti.
yo te escucharé
porque quisiera entender esa pena que sientes crecer.
dímelo a mí
qué es lo que no va bien
yo no te juzgaré.
si hay una culpa, lo sé. toda tuya no puede ser
dímelo a mí.
tu futuro lo ves
como una nave entre tormentas.
que te da miedo lo sé
pero no puedo creer
que no te queden sueños si no intentas.
lloras lágrimas amargas
todo dentro te lo guardas
pero hay algo que has olvidado
yo estoy contigo aquí.
que hay en tus ojos, no sé
la oscuridad los ha atravesado.
pareces alguien a quien la vida no trata bien
y poco a poco su alma ha abandonado.
el dolor no se supera,
si tu corazón se cierra.
pero hay algo que has olvidado
yo estoy contigo aquí.
dímelo a mí
háblame de ti.
yo te escucharé
porque quisiera entender esa pena que sientes crecer.
dímelo a mí
qué es lo que no va bien
yo no te juzgaré.
si hay una culpa, lo sé. toda tuya no puede ser
dímelo a mí.
tu futuro lo ves
como una nave entre tormentas.
que te da miedo lo sé
pero no puedo creer
que no te queden sueños si no intentas.
lloras lágrimas amargas
todo dentro te lo guardas
pero hay algo que has olvidado
yo estoy contigo aquí.
quinta-feira, 3 de setembro de 2009
becoming free
a dependência é uma besta,
que dá cabo do desejo
e a liberdade, uma maluca,
que sabe quanto vale um beijo
que dá cabo do desejo
e a liberdade, uma maluca,
que sabe quanto vale um beijo
quarta-feira, 2 de setembro de 2009
ready, aim, go
always aim for the moon.
if you miss it, you might land on the stars
William Clement Stone
if you miss it, you might land on the stars
William Clement Stone
waking up
ao acordar, a solidão sulcara
um vale nos cobertores e o meu corpo era de novo
um trilho abandonado na paisagem. sentei-me na cama
repeti devagar o teu nome, o nome dos meus sonhos,
mas as sílabas caíam no fim das palavras, a dor esgota
as forças, são frios os batentes nas portas da manhã
Maria do Rosário Pedreira
um vale nos cobertores e o meu corpo era de novo
um trilho abandonado na paisagem. sentei-me na cama
repeti devagar o teu nome, o nome dos meus sonhos,
mas as sílabas caíam no fim das palavras, a dor esgota
as forças, são frios os batentes nas portas da manhã
Maria do Rosário Pedreira
terça-feira, 1 de setembro de 2009
paths to nowhere
no matter which course you take, which path you choose to follow, in the end the only thing that is of any worth and that will fulfill you, are the lifes you touched and the people you loved
great expectations (II)
estella: let's say there was a little girl, and from the time she could understand, she was taught to fear... let's say she was taught to fear daylight. she was taught that it was her enemy, that it would hurt her. and then one sunny day, you ask her to go outside and play and she won't. you can't be angry at her can you?
finn: i knew that little girl and i saw the light in her eyes, and no matter what you say or do, that's still what i see
finn: i knew that little girl and i saw the light in her eyes, and no matter what you say or do, that's still what i see
Subscrever:
Mensagens (Atom)