from the perverse mind of paulo brito
from the perverse mind of paulo brito
I usually read accompanied by the sound of good music. I almost always choose between a touch of jazz by the master Chet Baker or I lazily listen to the Stabat Mater of Dvořák. After all they are the CDs that are almost stapled to my old CD player. These musical choices did not work with Blue Sparkles by Sissy Pantelis. So, I read the book without sound and then in the second passage through the final lap – kaaapooooom, I chose Wrath of the Lich King (OST) for a new reading – magic!
… odd thoughts …
Blue Sparkles is a musical book. Mysterious. A kaleidoscope of text, image and sound. Venetian masks, apple, shoe, Hansel, snow, red hood, crows – explosion. TAM. TAM. TAM.
If I already loved Sissy, the inclusion of crows was a tasty “Nevermooorrre” that made me smile with my mouth open. Dear Poe.
TAM. TAM. TAM. And the drums come to life and set the pace. TAM. TAM. TAM, in the background. Here I go to the end of a love story … Will a good story have an unfortunate end? End. Beginning. Perfidia. Mistake. Con. End of the nightmare, perhaps? Intermezzo and opening of a new chapter with a rainbow that reminds me of the Bifrost bridge, but without the presence of the mighty Heimdall.
TAM. TAM. TAM. Books inside a book and we have a wonderful library, naturally full with books, but equally filled with the tree of knowledge and a cat and a rabbit, too – Alice where are you?
A book that I read quickly, but that should be slowly tasted as a dream of a summer night, right brother Oberon?
Here are my loose and incoherent thoughts. I can do much more with a story full of changes, turns, with the introduction of details and more details and more characters around the corner.
Blue Sparkles with texts by Sissy Pantelis and drawings by Vurore is a mesmerizing book. As hypnotizing as that brown butterfly that flies through the book spying the unfolding of the story
“Are beauty and love not the most powerful magic?” – yes and also good books.
Wearing a turban, his body covered with sandalwood ashes and painted with dye, his face decorated with an outline of a black beard, precariously wrapped in a ragged saffron robe, fastened on a piece of rope is a loincloth that pretends to hide his nakedness, with sacred beads and sequins around his neck, a gold chain looped on his right ankle, which makes him appear to be a young sadhu although he does not have any tilaka on his forehead, he walks through Rishikesh towards Haridwar.
A smile of pure satisfaction radiates from his face as his senses embrace the colors, smells and flavors of the spice stands that surround him.
Sitting near the bank of the Ganges River, wearing the shade of a tree, after having crossed the Laxman Jhula Bridge, he realizes how magnificent the smells of Rishikesh are and is proud to have chosen this pilgrimage route to the Maha Kumbha Mela. ‘It is incredible how in a crowd one can better perceive healthy solitude’ is the thought that arises before the undulating mystique of the Ganges River. It is this refuge that he needed and also the absorption of millennial energies.
It is almost sunset. The young sadhu rises and as he leaves behind the Ganges the aquatic magic is diluted harmoniously in the bustle of the metropolis and he feels like the link that unites the two landscapes. His readings taught him that there may be no chaos in chaos, as there may be no order in order, but these maxims begin to be broken when he is surrounded by a group of tourists who had hitherto been photographing the exterior of Trayambakeshwar.
‘A HOLY MAN!’ they shouted.
‘Holy? Where?’ he questions himself, but as he is pointed out by cell phones, he suspects that they think he is the saint, ‘crazy people!’
[… an excerpt …]
Armand Sillègue and Henri d’Aramitz left behind the Hotel Chez le Pacha. They walked unhurriedly towards the Draa River. In each step they felt the throbbing desert presence and even the M’Hamid Mosque displayed a unique melancholy silence. The atmosphere of M’Hamid El Ghizlane was impregnated with an indescribable glow – poetry. This night promised to be even more special. The day before they had heard the aromatic music of Génération Taragalte; they had been enraptured, lying on the sand of the desert, idyllically stargazing, but they had felt, above all, how it is exhilarating to listen to the legends of the Sahara told around the campfire – a paradise on earth.
They stopped near a tree that guarded at its feet an Al Khayma. They led themselves in through the south entrance and sat next to the host, Isaac de Porthau, a Frenchman, captivated by the charms of the desert, who had invited them to a ‘night of magical discoveries!’
Sitting on a carpet composed of symmetrical geometric patterns, they inhaled, from a hookah, the aromatic tobacco smoke. The peach smell deodorized the environment. The eyes scrutinized the only object that dazzled, with an illogical gold inside the Al Khayma, a lamp.
The magical silence that could be felt was broken by Isaac de Porthau.
‘It is said that the tale of Aladdin was placed in One Thousand and One Nights by Antoine Galland to outwit the curious. Aladdin’s story is true and his magic lamp is this one that our eyes see.’
‘If that is so, why did you invite us?’ asked Henri d’Aramitz.
[… an excerpt …]
nails and face. smile and teeth.
um rosto. um sorriso.