tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16085548132005680222024-03-13T15:15:31.895-07:00Chronicles of the onion flavourTTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.comBlogger59125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-55182370610986055682010-04-27T04:02:00.000-07:002010-04-27T04:18:12.562-07:00supermodernism can be fun<div style="text-align: justify;">Lately, I have been working a lot. That is the reason why it seems this blog got stuck. But apparently, among the endless working hours, I find interesting things.<br /><br />I found this comic when I was writing a small paper on the legacy of Supermodernism in Urbanism. Sterile? Do not tell me about it. But, surprisingly enough, there are people who can change almost surreal theoretical subjects into interesting and accessible information.<br /><br />By the way, I cannot find its author. If anyone knows, please let me know!<br /></div><div face="verdana" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" ><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S9bCdXPTQGI/AAAAAAAAEf0/PVvAyt5agN8/s800/4008897054_9779954979_o.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 516px; height: 800px;" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S9bCdXPTQGI/AAAAAAAAEf0/PVvAyt5agN8/s800/4008897054_9779954979_o.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-14682566530755560132010-03-18T11:07:00.000-07:002010-03-22T08:41:02.043-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6ePZrc4BVI/AAAAAAAAEe4/tIYSGNMcaDQ/they_2_c.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 800px; height: 514px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6ePZrc4BVI/AAAAAAAAEe4/tIYSGNMcaDQ/they_2_c.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6JsK4hnJiI/AAAAAAAAEeI/HiFCFsnTwBE/they_2_b.jpg"><br /></a>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-26808749318729816122010-03-18T06:14:00.000-07:002010-03-18T06:20:12.976-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6Im3mQHipI/AAAAAAAAEds/_phszrKYkNg/s1600/these%20are.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 634px; height: 97px;" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6Im3mQHipI/AAAAAAAAEds/_phszrKYkNg/s1600/these%20are.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://365blanc.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:85%;">Via 365blanc</span></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6ImxipK5zI/AAAAAAAAEdU/DWL6NZgqexc/1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 700px;" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6ImxipK5zI/AAAAAAAAEdU/DWL6NZgqexc/1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6Imx82zyDI/AAAAAAAAEdY/2CG88P2Va-k/2.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 700px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6Imx82zyDI/AAAAAAAAEdY/2CG88P2Va-k/2.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6ImyOwz1vI/AAAAAAAAEdc/dJmSOj_oL-8/3.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 700px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6ImyOwz1vI/AAAAAAAAEdc/dJmSOj_oL-8/3.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6Imyc9lZsI/AAAAAAAAEdg/Ayr1WSnbmq0/4.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 700px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6Imyc9lZsI/AAAAAAAAEdg/Ayr1WSnbmq0/4.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6ImypewcXI/AAAAAAAAEdk/1wUEzh35wFs/5.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 700px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6ImypewcXI/AAAAAAAAEdk/1wUEzh35wFs/5.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-62047301908488215882010-03-17T08:19:00.000-07:002010-03-18T06:19:15.169-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6DbDJxx1iI/AAAAAAAAEcM/-qve7fyCaPM/you%20got%20my%20love.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 460px; height: 57px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6DbDJxx1iI/AAAAAAAAEcM/-qve7fyCaPM/you%20got%20my%20love.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br /><br />Your recently acquired fame precedes you. You are young and full of energy, more than you usually need. You appear on stage all dressed in silky white, wearing neither shoes, nor underwear. When you sing, you place yourself against the warm stage lights and your silhouette is redesigned under your clothes. Wind machines gradually loosen your hair, to the point it looks like dancing fire.<br /><br />You brought your friends with you, whose names I cannot recall, except for Isabella, with her high heels, and Tom, with his magic harp. Together you slightly enchant the audience. We pounce on your loud and slurred rock, and cradle with your melancholic and absent ballads. You request our claps frequently and smile when we scream for your name. You like to be spoiled.<br /><br />After a while you realize you are not acquainted with the scenario, so you gently ask us to come closer to the stage, in a warm embrace. But you do not allow us to touch you; music is the only connection available.<br /><br />You smile, once again, as we sigh with your smell of fresh roses. You sing, you scream, you cry, you play, you run, and you dance. And then you go, after a sheepishly thank. You are the ultimate beauty, and that destroys me.<br /></div>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-78819503138901727812010-03-17T06:41:00.000-07:002010-03-22T08:13:10.858-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6DbDWIzoTI/AAAAAAAAEcQ/4cLMhLWopag/magic%20kingdom.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 368px; height: 57px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6DbDWIzoTI/AAAAAAAAEcQ/4cLMhLWopag/magic%20kingdom.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Cabedelo Beach</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Photos taken by TTC</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/tiagotcampos/ChroniclesOfTheOnionFlavour02?authkey=Gv1sRgCPOTt5LlkqS6eg#"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 394px;" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6DbShGsprI/AAAAAAAAEck/AAHW7QS2jk8/P1040430_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/tiagotcampos/ChroniclesOfTheOnionFlavour02?authkey=Gv1sRgCPOTt5LlkqS6eg#"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; height: 394px;" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6DbSReJkPI/AAAAAAAAEcg/v_7VlYe1FfQ/P1040428_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/tiagotcampos/ChroniclesOfTheOnionFlavour02?authkey=Gv1sRgCPOTt5LlkqS6eg#"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; height: 394px;" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6DbEuHlUaI/AAAAAAAAEcc/nmhSaxfjcBU/P1040419_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/tiagotcampos/ChroniclesOfTheOnionFlavour02?authkey=Gv1sRgCPOTt5LlkqS6eg#"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 394px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S6DbESxX3JI/AAAAAAAAEcY/lYdtbCRUEiM/P1040418_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-48983341895305925492010-03-17T06:11:00.000-07:002010-03-17T06:13:36.057-07:00<object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" codebase="http://fpdownload.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=8,0,0,0" width="335" height="28" id="divplaylist"><param name="movie" value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=10794662-4f8"><embed src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=10794662-4f8" width="335" height="28" name="divplaylist" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Florence and the Machine - Lungs<br /><br />Cosmic Love</span>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-75119632688883454082010-03-12T08:58:00.000-08:002010-03-13T07:42:07.264-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S5pu-RkH8VI/AAAAAAAAEac/gx32HcFCpPo/postponed%20lovers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 548px; height: 68px;" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S5pu-RkH8VI/AAAAAAAAEac/gx32HcFCpPo/postponed%20lovers.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br /><br /><br />There she was, nervous like when she just a little girl. Of course she was nervous; she hadn’t seen him in fifty years. His family had moved to her neighborhood when they were about fifteen years old and, from the moment she saw him, with his blond curly hair and his dark blue eyes, she knew what love was. At first he didn’t seem to notice her; in fact it was like if she was invisible. All he cared about was hanging out with the boys. Not until she turned eighteen, and her body developed turning her into a beautiful young woman, did he look at her. Yes, she had been beautiful once. But now she was old, with wrinkles all over her face, hiding her dark brown eyes.<br /><br />There was a time when he fell in love for her. First he asked her to take her home from school and then he started carrying her bags. Eventually, he wrote her love letters. Everything was new, everything so magic.<br /><br />But her older brothers noticed them and told her parents, and they forbade her from seeing him without further explanation. He was simply not good for her. She did not understand that and, what had been magical became secret. For the first time, she lied to her parents, which she did not regret, not even for a moment. He was the first boy ever to touch her, to kiss her, to hold her. Their love was intense yet quiet, strong yet smooth. Sometimes they went for a walk in the woods and they would talk for hours; other times conversation was not needed, as higher matters would arise.<br /><br />Then, one day, his entirely family moved away. Just like that, without previous notice, without a last kiss, without long last promises of return. ‘They were bloody communists’, she listened her father saying. What were communists, daddy? ‘There is no need for you to know it. They are not good people, they are evil.’ But how could her lover, that gentle boy, be evil? That made no sense. She was grounded, when her parents discovered she had been lying. She was grounded for weeks, no months, but she did not mind. She cried, she cried a lot, but in silence. Her father would not let her suffer inside the house.<br /><br />She did not know where he had gone. He had just vanished from the surface of the earth, so she started writing him letters. At first, she asked him for answers. Who was he? Who were they? Where did he go? What was communism? Then, as she grew up, she started to understand all those reasons. But there was one thing she did not understand: what did love had to do with such matters? She sent all the letters without a destination. The old post man always asked the same question, but she simply did not know the answer. She just had to send them; they were too heavy, and too dangerous, for her to keep them.<br /><br />A few years later, she married a man who had business affairs with his father. Her parents thought it would be the best way for her to forget the despicable rat. She married a strong and very nice man, who treated her in the best way he could. He was a competent lover, and a loving father of four children: three boys and one girl. One of the boys died of tuberculosis when he was a child, and the rest of the children grew up.<br /><br />They also got married with nice people and professional reasons made them change to other cities. The all family would get together for Christmas and, sometimes, summer vacations. The boys were loyal children, and turned out to be honest men. Real problems came when the girl grew up.<br /><br />The girl considered herself to be an artist, and an artist could not develop her artistic skills among a wealthy middle class family. Her husband was shocked with those ideas and locked their daughter inside her room. So, she ran away. After several months, and one of the biggest police investigations in that region, they received a letter from her daughter saying that she was fascinated with communism, and that her intention was not to hurt them; she just had to live her life. And that was the last time they heard from her. Her husband did never recover from that loss. She was not family anymore and he forbade them to even mention the very existence of that ungrateful girl.<br /><br />With her children abroad she started feeling very lonely in that old big house. Her husband was always working, but she knew what he was actually doing, perhaps with a younger, more beautiful woman. In the beginning, she suspected his secretary, but then, she realized he had several women following him. Yes, he was a handsome and successful middle aged man. She could easily understand his power over younger, ambitious women. But she was surprised when she was not jealous, not even sad. In fact, knowing it was a relief.<br /><br />Not long ago her husband died. It was a heart stroke, and the doctors told her he did not feel any pain. He had died when he was leaving the house of a girl, with whom he had a professional meeting. Or so, that was what she was told. Was this man so powerful, that he even controlled the police? That did not matter. He was dead, and, for the first time in fifty years, she was free. And that made her afraid. What would she do with that unexpected freedom? She did have neither children nor grandchildren to take care of. She did not have friends, because her husband did not like her to leave home, except at Sundays, for Mass and an occasional tea at the Cafe Central.<br /><br />(…)<br /><br />On a winter rainy morning, several months after her husband’s death, she received a letter. ‘For you’ was the only written thing on the envelope. Reluctantly, she opened it and started reading. As she realized who the writer was, her heart beat faster, to the point she almost fainted. Her eyes became wet and her mouth very dry. Was he still alive? Yes, he was. Apparently, his family had been persecuted and, eventually, migrated. He was called for battle but he did not want to write about it. He was the father of two boys. There was not even one word about her wife. Was he married, or was he a widower like her? The letter ended with sincere condolences for the death of her husband, but how did he know? In a brief post scriptum he invited her for a coffee. If she were in agreement, then would meet precisely one month later at the Cafe Central, at 11 o’clock am.<br /><br />Of course she wanted to see him. What would he look like, after all these years? Had time been pleasant with him, or had it been dreadful, like it had happened with her? Who was this young boy turned into an old man? After all these years could they be, once again, the young lovers they once had been?<br /><br />(…)<br /><br />One month after, she put on her best dress, a pair of pearl earrings from her mother and a black purse, almost empty. She looked tired, as she had not been sleeping for a month, so she was wearing subtle make-up.<br /><br />She left the house, and calmly headed towards the place he had told her. She was forcing herself not to run, but she was anxious just like a passionate woman that is about to rediscover her sweetheart. She confirmed twice that the letter was in the purse. It had been at her bedside during all that time, and it had been read dozens, perhaps hundreds of times. She memorized the letter, its smell, his handwriting, and even the paper weight. She knew the verbs he used, the adjectives he preferred, and the sweet way he used to address her.<br /><br />She entered the Cafe, sat in the corner table and asked for a green tea with herbs. She avoided the central tables, where she used to sit with her husband. He liked to be seen, to be the center and to tell jokes to all his friends, but she preferred to be discrete. Today she did not want to be seen, actually. She was feeling guilty, more like a guilty pleasure, like when she was forbid to date him.<br /><br />After a couple of minutes a man passed through the heavy wooden door. It was him, she had no doubts. He was taller than she could remember, and stronger. It was him, she could easily see, but at the same time that old man could not be the little boy she was once in love with. She could not remember his face, or his smell.<br /><br />He looked at her, recognized those dark brown eyes and immediately smiled at her. As he approached her, the anxiety increased. Her body was electric, more than ever, more than she could remember. And it was heavy; she could not move one single finger. She had the feeling that she was glued to that nineteenth century chair.<br /><br />His voice was deep and the accent different from what it used to be, maybe because of the time he had been in exile. The expression in his eyes was liquid. He spoke in a calm, steady voice, as if he was tired of the world. She was not paying much attention to the words coming out of his wrinkled mouth; she just could not take her eyes out of him. Who was he, whom had he became? Time had treated him kindly, he was so lovely. She had an urgent will to kiss him, to feel his taste, to touch her body even over those heavy winter clothes.<br /><br />‘I’ve noticed you are drinking tea already’ – he said playfully, just like he used to do when he talked about her hair. ‘I’m afraid I will have to order something as well. Where is that waitress?’ He called her, with his finger in the air, and she noticed his strong arm, full of scars. Perhaps he had been burned, or torn to the bone. She felt an incomprehensible desire to treat him, to give him comfort.<br /><br />‘Hello miss, I want a glass of whisky, old and strong, just like this old man in front of you.’ He used an even deeper tone in his voice, making him more serious. ‘Oh and another tea like the one this lady is drinking please’. She thanked him, but she did not need another tea; the cup was still full. ‘It is not for you Brigitte, it is for my wife. She is outside, trying to park the car. Since my accident, the doctors say I am not able to drive a car, can you imagine? I wonder if they think I do not please my wife as well. But she insists on fulfilling the promise I made to the doctor, so she is in charge of that old machine now. I feel such a useless old man. She is also from near here, you know?’.<br /><br />But her mind was thinking too quickly for that, almost exploding in fact. So, he was married. What was she doing there then? What did he want from her? As these questions arose inside her neurotic brain, she felt betrayed, lonely, pulled out of that body, like a soul when it leaves a dead corpse. And, above that, had he brought her wife to meet her? She could not say a word. ‘Has the cat got your tongue? We have not seen each other for fifty years, and now you do not speak?’<br /><br />A woman entered the Cafe, but the sunlight was hiding her face. Apparently she was much younger than her, maybe blond. She was looking to the other part of the establishment.<br /><br />‘Where are you looking at? Oh it is my wife! In here, just turn around and come meet this special lady.’<br /><br />When the woman turned his face towards the voice of her husband, she felt her heart shatter, like a frozen glass thrown into a concrete wall. The woman standing in front of her was his daughter.<br /><br /><br /></div>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-4399781023812730732010-03-09T07:45:00.000-08:002010-03-09T07:47:27.301-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S5ZtTrWA61I/AAAAAAAAEZ8/yj1gfkhnJSY/s1440/LONG%20TIME.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 890px; height: 475px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S5ZtTrWA61I/AAAAAAAAEZ8/yj1gfkhnJSY/s1440/LONG%20TIME.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-63983595738153061632010-03-09T07:11:00.000-08:002010-03-09T07:13:57.477-08:00<object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" codebase="http://fpdownload.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=8,0,0,0" width="335" height="28" id="divplaylist"><param name="movie" value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=10709083-cbf"><embed src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=10709083-cbf" width="335" height="28" name="divplaylist" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed></object><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Creedance Clearwater Revival - Chronicle<br /><br />Down on the corner</span>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-77434041004420211552010-02-15T08:45:00.001-08:002010-02-15T08:49:05.546-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S3l56-vuDVI/AAAAAAAAEY4/SV6Si4GRfGA/s1600/are%20we.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 806px; height: 70px;" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S3l56-vuDVI/AAAAAAAAEY4/SV6Si4GRfGA/s1600/are%20we.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br /><br /><br />How magic is the night?<br /><br />No, really, think about it for one moment. People are well dressed – in fact, they always use their best clothes – and most have good makeup. The light is just perfect, letting us all see only what the night allows. Most of them feel protected by the music, the alcohol and the occasional cigarette break, and usually they seek new experiences that contribute for the common sense of liberty. People go out for a great variety of reasons, but in the end, they always share a common will – to see and let be seen. They experience different night clubs and discos, but there is always the preferred one – where one feels at home, with the right kind of people, the right music and the right drinks.<br /><br />And what about the urban tribes? There is the popular group, always surrounded by dozens of overwhelmed. There is the flirty group, always seeking new targets. There is the shy group, sitting in the dark and protected by a glass of alcohol, wishing they could only say a few words to the gorgeous person in the bar. There are the lonely runners, proud of their bravery of conquering alone their space. And then, there are the dancers, which never, ever, leave the dance floor.<br /><br />A few nights ago I went to my own cathedral and, at a certain point during the night, a group of break dancers showed up in the dance floor. Among them, there was a regular boy, with a comfortable and thick wool sweater, dark jeans and a pair of used sneakers, which were once colorful. There was nothing particularly outstanding about him. He was not too tall, nor too gorgeous. He was not famous, nor especially nice. In fact he was not the best break dancer that disco had seen. But there was an unusual intensity in his look, some strange vibrations in his moves, which made people stare at him. The usual circle was created around him, and the disco almost stopped. It was like he was hypnotizing us all, by all the strong moves, the strange movement with his hips, or the amazing pirouettes without any kind of protection.<br /><br />I didn’t know who that boy was, or how his life was going. I didn’t know what he did for a living, his hobbies or his desires. I didn’t even know if he spoke the same language than I. Was he dancing for himself, was he struggling in a battle that was just too great? Was he wishing to be accepted among his friends, or was he their leader? Was he showing off his dazzling break dance skills, or was he just a shy boy, exorcising his own fears?<br /><br />I did not get all the answers for these questions. In fact, I didn’t think about these things at that moment. I was just looking at him with both allure and envy, like all the rest, occasionally making some comments about the spontaneous show. During the rest of the night, the boy flirted with two or three absolutely stunning girls, possibly more. Boys wanted to be him, girls wanted to be him, even I wanted to be him. In fact, that was his moment, and he just embraced it. And he was brave, oh yes, he was brave. That boy was missing an arm.<br /><br /><br /></div>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-45084854349852166802010-02-09T09:45:00.000-08:002010-02-09T09:47:15.245-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 372px;" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S3GfEhAgiGI/AAAAAAAAEYE/_ISVmkJPD-Y/s1440/the%20time.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-37855846723749926512010-02-03T10:00:00.000-08:002010-02-03T10:01:28.545-08:00<object width="640" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/hD8uQzu0IL0&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/hD8uQzu0IL0&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Vincent - Tim Burton's first short film (1982)</span>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-23730942428554429542010-02-01T09:53:00.000-08:002010-02-01T09:57:12.023-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S2cVmW6ysRI/AAAAAAAAEXY/EoQ145nbPwU/s1600/when.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 768px; height: 59px;" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S2cVmW6ysRI/AAAAAAAAEXY/EoQ145nbPwU/s1600/when.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br /><br />Hello, my name is Grover, and I want to live forever. Or, at least, to become a good writer, which is, in fact, pretty much the same thing. I use words to catch the world in one frame, since the beginning of time, my time. Words are my wisdom, my question and my doubt. They are the most sincere way to describe myself, and to discover you. But what do I say when there is not a word to reveal this that I am feeling? How can I refer to the unpronounceable expression I read in your eyes? What does that subtle touch in your lips mean? What can I say when there is nothing to be said? Am I condemned to silence? I began to die since the day I was born. My body is bigger than before, and my eyes more tired than ever. But I know that the word is becoming stronger, sometimes even stronger than me.<br /><br /><br /></div>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-75148860319576156532010-01-31T09:36:00.000-08:002010-02-03T09:58:34.448-08:00<object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" codebase="http://fpdownload.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=8,0,0,0" id="divplaylist" width="335" height="28"><param name="movie" value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=10338551-6e8"><embed src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=10338551-6e8" name="divplaylist" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" width="335" height="28"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Hamba Nathi - Invictus Soundtrack<br />Overtone (With Yollandi Nortjie)</span>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-48327702438736748832010-01-26T08:55:00.000-08:002010-02-03T09:58:59.456-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S18cVb1lNfI/AAAAAAAAEVw/4Lexq6aN5cs/s1600/when%20does%20it.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 537px; height: 96px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S18cVb1lNfI/AAAAAAAAEVw/4Lexq6aN5cs/s1600/when%20does%20it.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Drawings from the book 'Perpectiva para arquitectos'</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 411px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S18dBKcOI9I/AAAAAAAAEWA/ZFa2-LZzCs0/4.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 590px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S18dFg5PGJI/AAAAAAAAEWI/TBJoipQSNks/6.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 451px;" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S18dBX8uOZI/AAAAAAAAEWE/F1pJtvfTxd8/5.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 518px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S18dAzMukXI/AAAAAAAAEV8/-hx82crFvKo/3.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 681px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S18dA3Cm4fI/AAAAAAAAEV4/fItEXa1yHHI/2.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 680px;" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S18dAgimcoI/AAAAAAAAEV0/1NWf0RaZDKg/1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-66087120660117455522010-01-26T08:51:00.001-08:002015-07-12T11:49:25.457-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S18cVDdsY4I/AAAAAAAAEVs/H6m-qAgDgLU/s1600/let%20there%20be.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://lh4.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S18cVDdsY4I/AAAAAAAAEVs/H6m-qAgDgLU/s1600/let%20there%20be.jpg" style="float: left; height: 51px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 564px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Let there be howls the size of the Moon,<br />
<br />
And Silence grow in drops of Shadow<br />
<br />
Let the fire fight against the Great Darkness<br />
<br />
Let there be Rain for ages,<br />
<br />
Making us forget the heat of the Sun<br />
<br />
Let there be stones ripped off from their bedrock,<br />
<br />
Dragged into dust by wind and water of the Great River<br />
<br />
Ask the disobedient Angel about the feeling of flying,<br />
<br />
Or else make bonds with the White Unicorn.<br />
<br />
Let the Nymph become a Butterfly,<br />
<br />
And let the Butterfly be crushed by the hungry Tiger<br />
<br />
Do not say a word to the old Carp in trance<br />
<br />
Pass through the Swamps without pulling the Mandrake roots,<br />
<br />
They are the Semen, they are not the Food.<br />
<br />
Find the endless Lowland filled with nothing but melting Light<br />
<br />
Reach the Mountain surrounded by the Emptiness,<br />
<br />
And climb it as far as you can see<br />
<br />
Find that sacred place where Time stays still,<br />
<br />
And the juicy fruits fall rotten to the ground<br />
<br />
That's where I will be<br />
<br />
That's where I will build my Empire.</div>
TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-17662975329899963392010-01-25T09:28:00.000-08:002010-01-26T08:46:44.626-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S13MCipCXuI/AAAAAAAAEUY/WMJe6uWQZWc/s1600/sometimes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 621px; height: 49px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S13MCipCXuI/AAAAAAAAEUY/WMJe6uWQZWc/s1600/sometimes.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 700px;" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S13Mje1ASII/AAAAAAAAEUk/Dq5y1f_IxBY/Image%208.png" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 701px;" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S13Mj6mLYuI/AAAAAAAAEUo/ue710wTRmwc/Image%209.png" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 698px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S13MjECjWfI/AAAAAAAAEUg/XNPsxM3sJPM/Image%206.png" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 700px;" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S13MimRXNFI/AAAAAAAAEUc/lZ1uXsHWRHA/Image%205.png" alt="" border="0" /></a>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-25647284447444377342010-01-25T09:19:00.000-08:002010-01-25T09:25:55.209-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S13T7kBcNzI/AAAAAAAAEVQ/rsr7ImURqdM/s1600/2%20or%203.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 620px; height: 94px;" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S13T7kBcNzI/AAAAAAAAEVQ/rsr7ImURqdM/s1600/2%20or%203.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br /><br />That´s what people do. They fall and then, eventually, rise up, with the certainty that they will never fall for that trick again. And that is precisely when the illusion restarts. There is no magic in it, only illusion that may bring us comfort or even happiness, if we really start to believe in it.<br /><br />There are certain things in life we grab with all our strength, desiring they will never end, wishing they fulfill our hope that forever actually exists. But the strength blinds us, precisely until the moment we realize they are not there anymore. In fact, we then understand they were not there in the first place. Was it a dream, a parallel world, where Alice fights against the Queen of Hearts? Is the pain of the discovery more real than the warm feeling we once had?<br /><br />Maybe that is what faith it is all about. Maybe it is hope who orchestrates this illusion.<br /><br /><br /></div>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-23042819989812527492010-01-25T09:09:00.000-08:002010-01-26T08:47:04.530-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S13MCVDrbUI/AAAAAAAAEUU/_7iWcLBXwHM/s1600/my%20world.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 413px; height: 96px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S13MCVDrbUI/AAAAAAAAEUU/_7iWcLBXwHM/s1600/my%20world.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Concept art by Peter Fischci & David Weiss<br />Musée d'Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 476px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S13NT1fVQMI/AAAAAAAAEU0/3r8kjt_Uqfs/dois.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 476px;" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S13NURIAzCI/AAAAAAAAEU8/H9HckMoQv5s/tres.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 476px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S13NUyCxaOI/AAAAAAAAEVA/_ZGN7FTFBw0/um.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 476px;" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S13NTw92emI/AAAAAAAAEU4/bRKw1gCh4Yw/quatro.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-46263523932059304042010-01-20T10:34:00.000-08:002010-01-20T11:08:24.744-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home?hl=pt-PT&tab=wq"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 715px; height: 41px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1dMdUYB99I/AAAAAAAAESk/T67up6mY77E/s1600/amplify.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home?hl=pt-PT&tab=wq"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 563px;" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1dMdLVgeSI/AAAAAAAAESg/eyLv-rnoyzs/53_big_Ampli-Fender-2-web_philipe%20gronon.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home?hl=pt-PT&tab=wq"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 700px; height: 586px;" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1dMcyXA_wI/AAAAAAAAESc/LWsvRk086tM/s912/53_big_Ampli-Fender-1%2002_philipe%20gronon.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-86518659486823726542010-01-19T08:47:00.000-08:002010-01-19T09:22:29.274-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1XdNyzk1EI/AAAAAAAAEQs/KQ8YmDVPp8w/s1600/we%20were.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 531px; height: 43px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1XdNyzk1EI/AAAAAAAAEQs/KQ8YmDVPp8w/s1600/we%20were.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">These soldiers belong to my father since he was a child. They belonged to someone else , whom I cannot recall, and were offered to him when he was old enough to play with these little toys. They are old and full of scars, they have been kept in a shelter for ages, like if they belonged to a museum, but they are precious and have never been forgotten. At a certain point in life everybody wants to be an astronaut, a fireman, or a doctor. And, at a certain point in life, everybody has to fight, has to be a soldier.<br /></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Photos taken by TTC. All rights reserved. </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home?hl=pt-PT&tab=wq"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 750px; height: 561px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1XeXQra15I/AAAAAAAAEQw/fc9XRIp3Kok/P1190033_alt.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home?hl=pt-PT&tab=wq"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 750px; height: 561px;" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1XeXrdkpHI/AAAAAAAAEQ4/qtOVCMlp1H0/P1190038_alt.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home?hl=pt-PT&tab=wq"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 750px; height: 561px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1XeYAAogoI/AAAAAAAAEQ8/rANrAugtq08/P1190043_alt.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home?hl=pt-PT&tab=wq"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 750px; height: 561px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1XeYAOcQYI/AAAAAAAAERA/RB6c9UU33tE/P1190046_alt.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home?hl=pt-PT&tab=wq"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 750px; height: 561px;" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1XeXtnLuUI/AAAAAAAAEQ0/HVMFrwYnntY/P1190035_alt.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home?hl=pt-PT&tab=wq"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 750px; height: 561px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1Xexgcq4DI/AAAAAAAAERg/xtH5v5LxPI0/P1190056_alt.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home?hl=pt-PT&tab=wq"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 750px; height: 561px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1XeyRpm8RI/AAAAAAAAERo/fQUV2eV0ZMY/P1190050_at.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home?hl=pt-PT&tab=wq"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 750px; height: 561px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1XexzGJEvI/AAAAAAAAERk/QWXMVCHFgeA/P1190051_alt.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-63301024517108647622010-01-19T08:42:00.000-08:002010-01-20T10:24:38.533-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1XdN4YrMGI/AAAAAAAAEQk/KyB9LN2zbF0/an%20orgasm.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 249px; height: 45px;" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1XdN4YrMGI/AAAAAAAAEQk/KyB9LN2zbF0/an%20orgasm.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />is that point in time that can't be measured<br />a mystical instant that doesn't really exist in this dimension<br /><br /><object width="700" height="394"></object><object width="700" height="398"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=8195617&server=vimeo.com&show_title=0&show_byline=0&show_portrait=0&color=ffffff&fullscreen=1"><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=8195617&server=vimeo.com&show_title=0&show_byline=0&show_portrait=0&color=ffffff&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="700" height="398"></embed></object><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/8195617">Massive Attack Paradise Circus</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user2799668">sabakan</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p><br /><p></p>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-36241951475076650442010-01-19T08:33:00.001-08:002010-01-19T10:47:14.845-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1XdNxN3VXI/AAAAAAAAEQo/9vsUczH7FmA/s1600/my%20little%20muji_t.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 312px; height: 40px;" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1XdNxN3VXI/AAAAAAAAEQo/9vsUczH7FmA/s1600/my%20little%20muji_t.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br /><br />I'm writing a small tale for children. I still don't know the title, but it will be about strange birds living in enchanted trees. These are the first sketches I made in my little <a href="http://www.muji.com/">MUJI</a> notebook.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home?hl=pt-PT&tab=wq"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 750px; height: 534px;" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1XWV7RaeII/AAAAAAAAEQY/v4Ws-uGQ4gw/little%20muji.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home?hl=pt-PT&tab=wq"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 750px; height: 534px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1XWWAnve8I/AAAAAAAAEQc/Cr4-qRqMzSE/little%20muji2.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home?hl=pt-PT&tab=wq"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 750px; height: 534px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1XWWaZ_PJI/AAAAAAAAEQg/38IiN6MgpOg/little%20muji3.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-62165863573447960572010-01-18T10:17:00.000-08:002010-01-18T10:21:12.155-08:00In one of these random walks on the beach, I was photographed.<br /><br />Thank you for these amazing photo, <a href="http://www.imagem-do-meu-sentir.blogspot.com/">Tânia Espírito Santo</a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.imagem-do-meu-sentir.blogspot.com/"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 763px; height: 558px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1SlXH6kgfI/AAAAAAAAEP0/jVs2S5QdAE0/s1024/DSC_0131.JPG" alt="" border="0" /></a>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1608554813200568022.post-55497648006588575762010-01-17T12:05:00.001-08:002010-01-19T09:23:09.972-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1XUKx-kFzI/AAAAAAAAEQU/9fnGzx8Zv0c/s1600/mr.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 596px; height: 76px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1XUKx-kFzI/AAAAAAAAEQU/9fnGzx8Zv0c/s1600/mr.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://picasaweb.google.pt/home?hl=pt-PT&tab=wq"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 755px; height: 598px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_70ECs1oFObU/S1Ns26gnncI/AAAAAAAAEPA/3bjHptOrvP8/s1024/Philippe%2520Halsman.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>TTChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00421432760662296822noreply@blogger.com0