1 more videoing + loose notes



Inimitable Reggie Watts // talk at TED


Daniel, Edgar, Karma, Karma II, Lagoa, Paulinho and Sunil


Lenses used
nikkor 80-200 f4.5   •   soligor 70-200 f3.5
vivitar 28-210 f3.5-5.6   •   vivitar 70-210 f2.8-4

Hi there, outside of the voluptuous spreading’s inside.
Lately (depends on jobs) “my” life kind of seems a never-ending intermission, happening between renders, not a bad thing, I write, I go, I play, I eat and so on. Anyway, this is some of the stuff I write, normally out of the intermissions in mini notebooks and loose pieces of paper I carry around. When I read them now it’s funny that it’s all around love, being present, girls, death, spontaneity, loneliness, landscapes, dreams and weather 😛



By realese all means I jump into the abysm of your pussy wet cream, I obviously meant dream but it’s so tender to render a lie out of life that I’m affraid of overdoing… Digg the whole perspiration of things being borned and sensible to the flesh while already dying in our heads. Sharing flag testaments endorfines and the unshameless light of conscious noodles, making genders cry with outmost desert wave thirst for spontaneous clog swipe bubble psychopathic letchuces’ heart breaking infancy while the world of human crumbles gets harcorisized with sweet, inminent fractal pneumonias most mistake for oranges or orgazms or orcas or ortodox relationing… What a screaming of waste funeral arrangements and pay-me now curative rituals baby!

So, let’s fuck!


I love while I’m rotting
it could be no other way
there’s no contradiction
and furthermore it’s the same

And I rote very fast
so sometimes I don’t get to choose
what I love and
the objects of my affection
become very unusual things…
like a potato peel, the unknown corner of a street,
a scent left (to) drifting // cast away

As I keep rotting
I keep loving, that is
somehow a relief,
a redeeming circumstance
for loving while dying

At dusk a burning cloud
folding into dreams,
where would we take shelter, refugee?

The city landscape seems static and defined
when observed from faraway, but
as soon as one starts walking through its streets
and squares it becomes alive and fluid,
all integrating matrix of life,
infinite spontaneity flow of being alive…
and dying at the same time. Beauty!

One cannot stop loving,
well one can but that doesn’t make the rotting stop

There’s nothing to control
which means we are not free
unless we ditch that silly idea

Just breathing is an ongoing miracle,
why don’t we stop breathing?

Same thing extrapolated to all other “things”
Why don’t we just breath?

Good in nature is spontaneous humbleness
taking place even if is no good
But good or bad are just words,
brother-words from the same mom
We are the father of those words
and the outcome
and the mirrored image looking back
where they change costumes
and comb their hair

We are so busy embodiying all these concatenation of ideas
that we pass the present to the past longing for a confy future,
we poison any possible spontaneity of loving
so to have a false sense of belonging between us.

The mistery of the unknowable needs space to breathe
and live through our ever ongoing rotening

And, to me, the saddest is to just have the past to share,
memories cemented too heavy to be lifted, too easy and comfortable
to adventure our souls into new mysteries


It’s rained all week
the streets are full of mud
I feel like puking
but is not ’cause of the mud
it’s ’cause of the coffee
I’ve been drinking way too much coffee.

Hey but someone
has to keep company with solitude
and the ducks seem too busy
rehearsing strange laughs.

The light has turned golden and green
so blondes are more blonde
still and grass
and foliage is way overdubbed

I called a friend
but didn’t answer
so here I am wondering
the streets with nothing
to do and nowhere to go

I’m pretty lucky
by not answering my friend made possible
for me to check the revolution birds do
when they go to sleep.

Wish I had a favourite coffee place or bar
where to go in the lonely afternoons
like this one and call the waiters by their name.

But I am unshamely too unrooted,
maybe loving chaos too much.
Maybe detached,
maybe scared,
probably too lost
to turn back the ship…

…a girl in red has sat nearby,
I wonder what’s her story.

Maybe she’s listening to songs
(I cannot tell) and living her own music video.
I know I’m living mine just
with these crazy birds

WHILE I loose count of my beard’s new white sprouts – descending curve to the left,
next to recycling bin skuba love, lost & found random memory failure department…

A girl in the bus with the hair all wet,
short coverall pants and big ass… so sexy.
A phosphorous hair young fellow’s
sitting and chatting with a wannabe blonde.

Russians enter and she sits next to me,
smells like candy, I smell like a dog, a wet horny dog from hell…
but don’t worry she’s too busy consulting with her mobile phone.

Sexy girl prepares to leave… what the fuck!!!
I’ve been all my life repairing to arrive

A gray hair, thick glasses middle aged cro-magnon woman
tries to make a circle on the window and so – with such a
simple gesture – art was borned

This bus looks and feels more like a sauna
of human humidity, wet hair and slippery motion.

The girl next to me has now the chance
either to stop playing with her hair and
talk to me or to go sit next to her very attractive
russian girlfriend

Now in the tube and a girl sits next to me
— I start to sound like a dirty old man, good!!—
it feels I put my head in a garden
full of blossoming flowers. She’s busy
with her mobile phone and listening to somethin’

Just in time the accordionist arrive with his
micro dog. He must be, what, 19, 20 now?
I remember when he was a very small kid
with a very small dog. He’s playing well today.
Time to leave

Clouds are having fun on top of the mountain.
Plenty rain for cereal crops,
for bone structure not so good.

I wear the clown’s invisible make-up,
pink is a great colour…
I wonder if I’ll have something pink inside.

What a nice spot to witness this awful weather.

Two chicks leave, they bought milk
and condoms.

Fine rain,
thin grain
give a hug,
rig-me with love
or pretend I’m dead.

Very visual burdeos mercedes
driven by a man, a man like I am,
just my pink mercedes’ on the mechanic
right now, this, here,
this old guy driving very very slowly his

The monstrosity of present’s stain…
why even bother to get rid of it?

Embrace the stain,
dress pink in the rain
be those clouds
having fun on top of the mountain,
tall, steady but unsexy,
faraway yet present….
unembraceable grey matter of the universe
take me now though I might not be pink enough,
I’m ready


About m)◘(x

ni! for now
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