tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51384849163864986852024-03-13T05:41:41.290-03:00"As palavras têm sabor"DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.comBlogger99125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-69435265283556301842023-01-30T20:24:00.003-03:002023-01-30T20:29:43.319-03:00John Ames, o pastor que eu queria ter<p style="text-align: justify;"><span face="source-serif-pro, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif" style="background-color: white; color: #292929; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span face="source-serif-pro, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif" style="background-color: white; color: #292929; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span face="source-serif-pro, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif" style="background-color: white; color: #292929; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -0.003em;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3mZbXONaMdkpx5_VMoGsaTL-y3RShlzHzy3fboFQZmpVvb7cW6IF0du1yOE2CYF1A_8dfF3pn08oX2Ffex7x32j6AkF0k8CiSufTFw7Am_t8JdliYaQcqBSNTV2DI6mmb3vPIQpWys9ji3LoQp2_DDlPhYiwQ1gqcHXW5j88S27DrJyRq10HkQzXSkQ/s314/download.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="160" data-original-width="314" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3mZbXONaMdkpx5_VMoGsaTL-y3RShlzHzy3fboFQZmpVvb7cW6IF0du1yOE2CYF1A_8dfF3pn08oX2Ffex7x32j6AkF0k8CiSufTFw7Am_t8JdliYaQcqBSNTV2DI6mmb3vPIQpWys9ji3LoQp2_DDlPhYiwQ1gqcHXW5j88S27DrJyRq10HkQzXSkQ/s1600/download.jpg" width="314" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Pastor com um rebanho de ovelhas, de Van Gogh</span></div><br /><span face="source-serif-pro, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif" style="background-color: white; color: #292929; letter-spacing: -0.003em;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span face="source-serif-pro, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif" style="background-color: white; color: #292929; letter-spacing: -0.003em;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span face="source-serif-pro, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif" style="background-color: white; color: #292929; font-family: arial; letter-spacing: -0.003em;">A morte é inevitável e, ao mesmo tempo, inesperada em nossas vidas. O rev. John Ames sabia que a sua existência estava se abreviando e decidiu eternizar, para o seu filho, com a avidez de quem não sabe quanto tempo ainda lhe resta, a sua paternidade. A sua escrita de fôlego só faz viagens entre o passado, o presente e imagina o futuro de uma forma doce, mas com alguns sabores amargos quando ele lembra que não vai poder ver o seu garoto crescer.</span></p><blockquote class="ui uj uk" style="background-color: white; box-shadow: rgb(41, 41, 41) 3px 0px 0px 0px inset; box-sizing: inherit; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); margin: 0px 0px 0px -20px; padding-left: 23px;"><p class="lr ls ul jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz um mb mc md un mf mg mh uo mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="d96d" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Às vezes, chego quase a esquecer o meu propósito ao escrever essas páginas, qual seja, contar-lhe coisas que teria lhe contado se você crescesse ao meu lado; coisas que, acredito, caibam a mim, enquanto pai, ensinar a você. (p.179)</span></p></blockquote><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph lr ls lt jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz ma mb mc md me mf mg mh mi mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="99c1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Dessa forma, como alguém que não tem o que perder por abrir o coração e mostrar as dores e os prazeres de sua vida como pastor de uma comunidade, Ames se desnuda em seu ato de escrever. Por que John Ames é o pastor que eu queria ter?</span></p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph lr ls lt jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz ma mb mc md me mf mg mh mi mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="54b4" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="jx jd" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: 700;">Ames nos faz refletir sobre a forma que as ovelhas tratam os pastores</span>, como quando ele comenta que as pessoas, em grupos, paravam de falar ou de rir quando ele se aproximava delas. Esse parece ser um comportamento universal das pessoas nas igrejas, né? Ames comenta que gostaria muito de rir com as pessoas e mostrar que ele também tem senso de humor, como qualquer um (aliás, a cena do batismo dos gatos é hilária e comprova a sua tese!).</span></p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph lr ls lt jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz ma mb mc md me mf mg mh mi mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="b1c9" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="jx jd" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: 700;">Ele é pastor da sua família, em primeiro lugar</span>. Ames é um esposo amoroso e um pai dedicado a cada segundo que pode desfrutar do convívio com o filho. Apesar de passar pela tristeza que foi a morte da sua primeira esposa, ele diz que a graça lhe sorriu quando trouxe Lila que, antes de se tornar a sua esposa, já era sua ovelha e foi batizada por ele.</span></p><blockquote class="ui uj uk" style="background-color: white; box-shadow: rgb(41, 41, 41) 3px 0px 0px 0px inset; box-sizing: inherit; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); margin: 0px 0px 0px -20px; padding-left: 23px;"><p class="lr ls ul jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz um mb mc md un mf mg mh uo mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="8bf9" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Ela começou a vir a esta casa quando algumas das senhoras da igreja vinham descongelar o refrigerador ou levar as cortinas para lavar. Depois, passou a vir sozinha, para cuidar do jardim. Deixou-o lindo e fértil. E, uma tarde, quando a vi ali, cercada por aquelas rosas maravilhosas, perguntei: “Como poderia retribuir tudo isso?” “Você devia se casar comigo”, disse ela. E foi o que fiz. (p.273)</span></p></blockquote><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph lr ls lt jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz ma mb mc md me mf mg mh mi mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="e402" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Um dos trechos mais bonitos do livro é quando ele fala sobre a imagem do seu filho quando chegar a velhice:</span></p><blockquote class="ui uj uk" style="background-color: white; box-shadow: rgb(41, 41, 41) 3px 0px 0px 0px inset; box-sizing: inherit; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); margin: 0px 0px 0px -20px; padding-left: 23px;"><p class="lr ls ul jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz um mb mc md un mf mg mh uo mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="1701" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Por que será que a ideia de você velho me agrada tanto? A primeira pontada de artrite no seu joelho é algo que imagino com a maior ternura, exatamente como me senti quando você veio me mostrar o seu primeiro dente que caiu. Seja aplicado nas suas orações, meu velho. Espero que você conheça muito mais lugares do mundo do que eu, que nunca andei circulando por aí — por minha própria culpa. E espero que leia alguns dos meus livros. E que Deus abençoe os seus olhos, os seus ouvidos, e, é claro, o seu coração. Adoraria poder ajudá-lo a carregar o fardo de muitos anos. Mas o Senhor terá essa satisfação paterna. (p. 275)</span></p></blockquote><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph lr ls lt jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz ma mb mc md me mf mg mh mi mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="921b" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="jx jd" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: 700;">John Ames tem um profundo interesse pelas ovelhas e pelo cuidado dos seus corações. </span>Ele intercede nominalmente pelas ovelhas, especialmente quando realizava passeios pela cidade em suas madrugadas insones. <em class="ul" style="box-sizing: inherit;">Gilead</em> nos mostra um pastor preocupado com o alimento que lhes era necessário para o crescimento e com o remédio para os corações daqueles que lhes foram confiados.</span></p><blockquote class="ui uj uk" style="background-color: white; box-shadow: rgb(41, 41, 41) 3px 0px 0px 0px inset; box-sizing: inherit; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); margin: 0px 0px 0px -20px; padding-left: 23px;"><p class="lr ls ul jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz um mb mc md un mf mg mh uo mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="1eeb" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Tem sempre gente acordada à noite, com bebês chorando de cólica ou com filhos doentes; ou, ainda, pessoas brigando, preocupadas ou cheias de culpa. […] Às vezes, quando passava pela casa de uma das minhas famílias, e via as luzes acesas, pensava que talvez fosse melhor parar para ver se podia ajudar de alguma forma, mas, depois, acabava decidindo que poderia estar me intrometendo, e ia embora. […] Nos velhos tempos, podia passar por todas as ruas, pot todas as casas em cerca de uma hora. Tentava lembrar quem morava em cada uma delas e o que sabia sobre eles, o que era quase sempre muita coisa, já que vários dos que não eram meus eram de Boughton. E orava por eles. E imaginava a paz, pela qual não estavam esperando e com a qual não podiam contar, descendo sobre a sua doença, a sua briga, ou os seus sonhos. (p. 100 e 101)</span></p></blockquote><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph lr ls lt jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz ma mb mc md me mf mg mh mi mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="66d3" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="jx jd" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: 700;">Ames expressa o seu deslumbramento pelas obras da criação.</span> Ele compartilha isso com o seu filho com o máximo de descrição e de ternura, como quando fala dos vagalumes, da tempestade, dos seus momentos de oração e contemplação do amanhecer, sempre ressaltando o quanto todos eles apontam para o Criador.</span></p><blockquote class="ui uj uk" style="background-color: white; box-shadow: rgb(41, 41, 41) 3px 0px 0px 0px inset; box-sizing: inherit; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); margin: 0px 0px 0px -20px; padding-left: 23px;"><p class="lr ls ul jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz um mb mc md un mf mg mh uo mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="401b" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">De uma certa forma, também deduzi que os relâmpagos e os trovões daquela tarde eram a Criação levando a mão ao chapéu para cumprimentá-lo, como se dissesse: ‘Que bom vê-lo aí na arquibancada, reverendo.’ Ou, talvez, perguntando: ‘Ora, reverendo, o que será que o senhor está fazendo aqui, em um evento esportivo?’. (p.60)</span></p><p class="lr ls ul jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz um mb mc md un mf mg mh uo mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="9bf8" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Fui, então, para a igreja ver a aurora surgindo, porque, para mim, essa paz é mais reparadora do que qualquer sono. É como se houvesse um estoque de quietude naquele lugar; como se qualquer silêncio que porventura houvesse ali nunca mais tivesse saído. (p. 178)</span></p><p class="lr ls ul jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz um mb mc md un mf mg mh uo mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="4e5a" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Estava tentando me lembrar o que os pássaros faziam antes de existirem os cabos telefônicos. Devia ser bem mais difícil se empoleirar ao sol, coisa que visivelmente adoram fazer. (p.218)</span></p></blockquote><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph lr ls lt jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz ma mb mc md me mf mg mh mi mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="922f" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="jx jd" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: 700;">Ele é honesto quando trata sobre o que se passa em seu coração, </span>mesmo correndo o risco de causar uma má impressão.</span></p><blockquote class="ui uj uk" style="background-color: white; box-shadow: rgb(41, 41, 41) 3px 0px 0px 0px inset; box-sizing: inherit; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); margin: 0px 0px 0px -20px; padding-left: 23px;"><p class="lr ls ul jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz um mb mc md un mf mg mh uo mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="955a" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">O sofrimento me parece uma parte importante da substância da vida humana. Por exemplo, neste exato momento, estou sentindo uma espécie de dor amorosa por você estar lendo isto; porque não o conheço, e porque você cresceu sem pai, pobre criança deitada ali de barriga para baixo, com Xampu cochilando em suas costas, na altura da sua cintura. Você está fazendo aqueles desenhos horríveis que vai trazer para eu admirar, e que vou admirar porque não tenho coragem de dizer uma única palavra que possa lhe deixar alguma má recordação de mim. (p. 142)</span></p><p class="lr ls ul jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz um mb mc md un mf mg mh uo mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="073b" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">O meu coração está bem desassossegado. É estranho sentir doença e tristeza no mesmo órgão. Não há como distinguir uma da outra. Sempre tive por hábito apreciar a tristeza, isto é, ir acompanhando o seu percurso pelos ventrículos e pela aorta, para descobrir os locais onde ela se esconde. Aquele velho peso no peito, dizendo-me que há algo que merece a minha atenção, porque sei mais do que sei e preciso aprender comigo mesmo — só que, atualmente, até esse peso bom me deixa preocupado. (p. 236 e 237)</span></p></blockquote><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph lr ls lt jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz ma mb mc md me mf mg mh mi mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="a2b7" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="jx jd" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: 700;">O reverendo John Ames é um exemplo de devoção e de descanso. </span>Ao longo da narrativa, a oração e a soneca são companheiras inseparáveis. Nesse caso, a ordem dos acontecimentos é importante, pois ele sempre dizia: “vou orar e depois dormir”.</span></p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph lr ls lt jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz ma mb mc md me mf mg mh mi mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="4187" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="jx jd" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: 700;">John Ames me ensinou uma linda lição sobre o perdão, quando </span>abre o seu coração e nos mostra que os pastores também pensam mal das pessoas, são impacientes e muitas vezes intolerantes com aqueles que são mais difíceis de amar. A escrita do Ames nos mostra a obra miraculosa do perdão que só Deus nos capacita a desenvolver e faz com que ele mostre ao filho “a beleza que (Jack) traz dentro de si”, apesar de todas as coisas ruins que falavam dele.</span></p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph lr ls lt jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz ma mb mc md me mf mg mh mi mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="e8a3" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">A literatura nos conecta com o mundo real, estabelecendo pontes e fazendo com que compreendamos melhor o coração das pessoas. O reverendo John Ames é um personagem de ficção que nos constrange a viver, da melhor maneira possível, para a glória de Deus. Como representante dos pastores, certamente ele tem muito a nos revelar sobre o que é ser um pastor, mas a lição não acaba aí. Ames também nos faz pensar sobre o que os pastores esperam, pensam e sentem sobre as suas ovelhas. Se soubermos aproveitar bem, tiraremos lições preciosas que a literatura nos oferece.</span></p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph lr ls lt jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz ma mb mc md me mf mg mh mi mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="c1ba" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">A primeira vez que ouvi falar sobre <em class="ul" style="box-sizing: inherit;">Gilead</em>, da Marilynne Robinson, foi em 2018, por recomendação de alguns amigos. Na época, por volta de 2018, quem se interessava pela leitura dessa sofria um pouco, pois só estava disponível em sites como <a class="ae mn" href="https://www.estantevirtual.com.br/" rel="noopener ugc nofollow" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; box-sizing: inherit;" target="_blank">Estante Virtual</a> pela bagatela de um rim. O Senhor ouviu as súplicas dos leitores e fez com que a Editora Vida Nova nos presenteasse com uma linda edição de <a class="ae mn" href="https://amzn.to/3NKLLvT" rel="noopener ugc nofollow" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; box-sizing: inherit;" target="_blank">Gilead</a> (aguardamos ansiosamente pela publicação da continuação da história!).</span></p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph lr ls lt jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz ma mb mc md me mf mg mh mi mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="c1ba" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;"><a href="data:image/jpeg;base64,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" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: xx-small;">Fonte da imagem</span></a></p><p class="pw-post-body-paragraph lr ls lt jx b lu lv gs lw lx ly gw lz ma mb mc md me mf mg mh mi mj mk ml mm ix bi" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="c1ba" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #292929; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 32px; margin: 2em 0px -0.46em; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Texto produzido em 7 de junho de 2022.</span></p>DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-6946717644384474192023-01-24T17:01:00.003-03:002023-01-30T18:39:22.641-03:00Há um pouco de poesia no ato de dobrar as roupas que saíram do varal<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDm02qMRYN31tFWWVKitOm5cboPe_JSlVvp_lqZ8WdjojWxZEMpzz8vvjrd7TmX7RrnBx4olnlEFdZtQRaoV_cvPdeVOyDB-gMd6kelRiuREkGk55eVoTCHeupkitfOLr3Py6s7yLgz_p6tbP9yXXS0KgiUoiQhQsw1XuxyE-ha-VF4VqFp-6KWSCpvg/s640/l1%20William%20Merritt%20Chase%20(1849-1916)%20Wash%20Day%20Back%20Yard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="640" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDm02qMRYN31tFWWVKitOm5cboPe_JSlVvp_lqZ8WdjojWxZEMpzz8vvjrd7TmX7RrnBx4olnlEFdZtQRaoV_cvPdeVOyDB-gMd6kelRiuREkGk55eVoTCHeupkitfOLr3Py6s7yLgz_p6tbP9yXXS0KgiUoiQhQsw1XuxyE-ha-VF4VqFp-6KWSCpvg/w400-h319/l1%20William%20Merritt%20Chase%20(1849-1916)%20Wash%20Day%20Back%20Yard.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">William Merritt Chase (1849-1916) Wash Day Back Yard</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Há um pouco de poesia no ato de dobrar as roupas que saíram do varal. O processo pode ser rápido se a roupa for dobrada imediatamente, mas, convenhamos, a poesia não teria nem uma rima pobre, que dirá uma rica!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Esse ato precisa acontecer poeticamente em etapas milimetricamente executadas. Separa-se primeiro as roupas especiais, aquelas que usamos aos domingos e são perfeitas para embelezar a ocasião. Os tecidos são nobres e geralmente necessitam do calor do ferro de passar para surpreender, como uma rima rica.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Em seguida, temos as roupas que usamos no dia a dia, enquanto fazemos uma atividade corriqueira em casa. Elas costumam ser variadas: camisetas, shorts, saias, vestidos, calças longas ou curtas; se assemelham em aspecto: rasgadas, fora de moda, desgastadas, mas não deixam a desejar tanto quanto uma rima pobre, pois são confortáveis como uma sonoridade redonda que fica repetindo na cabeça um bom tempo.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Outra categoria importante das roupas que tiramos do varal são as de cama. Elas são as responsáveis pela linguagem figurativa do ato, uma vez que embalam os sonhos, nos entregam aos braços de Morfeu e, se a escolha do amaciante for equivocada, não tem metáfora que nos livre do pesadelo!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Não podemos esquecer das toalhas! Ela é parte importante no processo de purificação do que anteriormente estava sujo. Elas embelezam pela sua diversidade de cores, texturas e estampas! Um varal com toalhas diz muito sobre as pessoas que as utilizam: as mulheres preferem as mais macias, os homens não ligam muito para isso e as crianças amam quando têm desenhos de personagens e capuzes divertidos.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Há quem prefira as roupas penduradas por tamanho, por tipo, por cor, por prioridades e até usando um cabide, assim como uma quadrinha, um soneto, um verso livre, um poema concreto. Cada um no seu formato, tamanho e som.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Fiquei a divagar sobre a poesia do ato de tirar roupas do varal por tanto tempo que a máquina terminou de concluir mais uma lavagem. O ciclo da vida se repete na velocidade da centrifugação do nosso cotidiano poético.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: small;"><br /></div></div></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-056590f8-7fff-53cf-1b82-85010154dae2"><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://deniseludwig.blogspot.com/2014/04/pinturas-com-varais-de-roupas-e.html" target="_blank">Fonte da Imagem</a></span></span></div></span></div>DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-31512937883705004612023-01-01T12:06:00.003-03:002023-01-24T11:23:31.132-03:00Top ten 2022<div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>A leitura e as emoções são as melhores amigas e isso interferiu na minha relação com os livros em 2022. Apesar disso, ainda consegui me debruçar sobre 10 livros dos pretensos 24. Sendo assim, o meu top ten é uma lista de leitura dos livros que me acompanharam em 2022.<div><br /></div><div>1- Uma igreja chamada tov: A formação de uma cultura de bondade que resiste a abusos de poder e promove cura, de Scot McKnight e sua filha Laura Barringer.</div><div><br /></div><div>2- Gilead, da Marilynne Robinson.</div><div><br /></div><div>3- Phantastes, de George MacDonald.</div><div><br /></div><div>4- Ester na casa da Pérsia, de Emilio Garofalo.</div><div><br /></div><div>5- Isto É Filtro Solar: Eclesiastes E A Vida Debaixo Do Sol, de Emilio Garofalo.</div><div><br /></div><div>6- Sons de ferrugem e ecos de borboleta, da Noemi Nicoletti. (Thomas Nelson)</div><div><br /></div><div>7- O gato filósofo, Kwong Kuen Shan.</div><div><br /></div><div>8- Passagens da Bíblia na Versão Nordestina (PBVN Livro 1), de Wigo Lima Barros.</div><div><br /></div><div>9- Deleitando-se na oração, de Michael Reeves.</div><div><br /></div><div>10- Sons de ferrugem e ecos de borboleta, da Noemi Nicoletti. (Versão independente do Kindle)</div>DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-25072628106007210312018-03-15T10:34:00.001-03:002018-03-15T10:34:22.254-03:00A Gênese da criatividade<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Criatividade (Silvestre Kuhlmann)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Deus é o regente de todos os sons,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">O troar, ribombar, os tons e semitons,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">O murmúrio dos rios, farfalhar das folhas,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">O pio do uirapuru.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ele é o artífice de toda a forma,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Juba do leão, penacho do pica-pau,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Tromba do elefante, pescoço da girafa,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Variado é o mundo animal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ele coreografou movimentos,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A cabriolagem, o golfinho rotator</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">O urubu observando em círculos</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A paradinha do beija-flor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">É pintor do azul celeste,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Amarelo-canário e do branco algodão</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Alquimista do cravo e canela,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Do alecrim e do manjericão.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Temperou o mar com o sal,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Fez o doce do mel, fez azedo o limão,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Esculpiu chapadões, cordilheiras,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">E um dia, pra Ele, as bandeiras tremularão.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Pelo dia da poesia, comemorado em 14/03.</span></div>
DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-32849716499589109822017-03-28T22:40:00.000-03:002017-04-01T11:58:23.747-03:00Good People (Spoiller Alert!), de David Foster Wallace<div class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Leia o texto a seguir e somente após ter feito isso, volte e leia a análise:</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">GOOD PEOPLE</span></b></blockquote>
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<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Two young Christians and an unwanted pregnancy</span></i></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">By David Foster Wallace</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">They were up on a picnic table at that park by the lake, by the edge of the lake, with part of a downed tree in the shallows half hidden by the bank. Lane A. Dean, Jr., and his girlfriend, both in bluejeans and button-up shirts. They sat up on the table’s top portion and had their shoes on the bench part that people sat on to picnic or fellowship together in carefree times. They’d gone to different high schools but the same junior college, where they had met in campus ministries. It was springtime, and the park’s grass was very green and the air suffused with honeysuckle and lilacs both, which was almost too much. There were bees, and the angle of the sun made the water of the shallows look dark. There had been more storms that week, with some downed trees and the sound of chainsaws all up and down his parents’ street. Their postures on the picnic table were both the same forward kind with their shoulders rounded and elbows on their knees. In this position the girl rocked slightly and once put her face in her hands, but she was not crying. Lane was very still and immobile and looking past the bank at the downed tree in the shallows and its ball of exposed roots going all directions and the tree’s cloud of branches all half in the water. The only other individual nearby was a dozen spaced tables away, by himself, standing upright. Looking at the torn-up hole in the ground there where the tree had gone over. It was still early yet and all the shadows wheeling right and shortening. The girl wore a thin old checked cotton shirt with pearl-colored snaps with the long sleeves down and always smelled very good and clean, like someone you could trust and care about even if you weren’t in love. Lane Dean had liked the smell of her right away. His mother called her down to earth and liked her, thought she was good people, you could tell—she made this evident in little ways. The shallows lapped from different directions at the tree as if almost teething on it. Sometimes when alone and thinking or struggling to turn a matter over to Jesus Christ in prayer, he would find himself putting his fist in his palm and turning it slightly as if still playing and pounding his glove to stay sharp and alert in center. He did not do this now; it would be cruel and indecent to do this now. The older individual stood beside his picnic table—he was at it but not sitting—and looked also out of place in a suit coat or jacket and the kind of men’s hat Lane’s grandfather wore in photos as a young insurance man. He appeared to be looking across the lake. If he moved, Lane didn’t see it. He looked more like a picture than a man. There were not any ducks in view.</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">One thing Lane Dean did was reassure her again that he’d go with her and be there with her. It was one of the few safe or decent things he could really say. The second time he said it again now she shook her head and laughed in an unhappy way that was more just air out her nose. Her real laugh was different. Where he’d be was the waiting room, she said. That he’d be thinking about her and feeling bad for her, she knew, but he couldn’t be in there with her. This was so obviously true that he felt like a ninny that he’d kept on about it and now knew what she had thought every time he went and said it—it hadn’t brought her comfort or eased the burden at all. The worse he felt, the stiller he sat. The whole thing felt balanced on a knife or wire; if he moved to put his arm up or touch her the whole thing could tip over. He hated himself for sitting so frozen. He could almost visualize himself tiptoeing past something explosive. A big stupid-looking tiptoe, like in a cartoon. The whole last black week had been this way and it was wrong. He knew it was wrong, knew something was required of him that was not this terrible frozen care and caution, but he pretended to himself he did not know what it was that was required. He pretended it had no name. He pretended that not saying aloud what he knew to be right and true was for her sake, was for the sake of her needs and feelings. He also worked dock and routing at UPS, on top of school, but had traded to get the day off after they’d decided together. Two days before, he had awakened very early and tried to pray but could not. He was freezing more and more solid, he felt like, but he had not thought of his father or the blank frozenness of his father, even in church, which had once filled him with such pity. This was the truth. Lane Dean, Jr., felt sun on one arm as he pictured in his mind an image of himself on a train, waving mechanically to something that got smaller and smaller as the train pulled away. His father and his mother’s father had the same birthday, a Cancer. Sheri’s hair was colored an almost corn blond, very clean, the skin through her central part pink in the sunlight. They’d sat here long enough that only their right side was shaded now. He could look at her head, but not at her. Different parts of him felt unconnected to each other. She was smarter than him and they both knew it. It wasn’t just school—Lane Dean was in accounting and business and did all right; he was hanging in there. She was a year older, twenty, but it was also more—she had always seemed to Lane to be on good terms with her life in a way that age could not account for. His mother had put it that she knew what it is she wanted, which was nursing and not an easy program at Peoria Junior College, and plus she worked hostessing at the Embers and had bought her own car. She was serious in a way Lane liked. She had a cousin that died when she was thirteen, fourteen, that she’d loved and been close with. She only talked about it that once. He liked her smell and her downy arms and the way she exclaimed when something made her laugh. He had liked just being with her and talking to her. She was serious in her faith and values in a way that Lane had liked and now, sitting here with her on the table, found himself afraid of. This was an awful thing. He was starting to believe that he might not be serious in his faith. He might be somewhat of a hypocrite, like the Assyrians in Isaiah, which would be a far graver sin than the appointment—he had decided he believed this. He was desperate to be good people, to still be able to feel he was good. He rarely before now had thought of damnation and Hell—that part of it didn’t speak to his spirit—and in worship services he more just tuned himself out and tolerated Hell when it came up, the same way you tolerate the job you’ve got to have to save up for what it is you want. Her tennis shoes had little things doodled on them from sitting in her class lectures. She stayed looking down like that. Little notes or reading assignments in Bic in her neat round hand on the rubber elements around the sneaker’s rim. Lane A. Dean, looking now at her inclined head’s side’s barrettes in the shape of blue ladybugs. The appointment was for afternoon, but when the doorbell had rung so early and his mother’d called to him up the stairs, he had known, and a terrible kind of blankness had commenced falling through him.</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He told her that he did not know what to do. That he knew if he was the salesman of it and forced it upon her that was awful and wrong. But he was trying to understand—they’d prayed on it and talked it through from every different angle. Lane said how sorry she knew he was, and that if he was wrong in believing they’d truly decided together when they decided to make the appointment she should please tell him, because he thought he knew how she must have felt as it got closer and closer and how she must be so scared, but that what he couldn’t tell was if it was more than that. He was totally still except for moving his mouth, it felt like. She did not reply. That if they needed to pray on it more and talk it through, then he was here, he was ready, he said. The appointment could get moved back; if she just said the word they could call and push it back to take more time to be sure in the decision. It was still so early in it—they both knew that, he said. This was true, that he felt this way, and yet he also knew he was also trying to say things that would get her to open up and say enough back that he could see her and read her heart and know what to say to get her to go through with it. He knew this without admitting to himself that this was what he wanted, for it would make him a hypocrite and liar. He knew, in some locked-up little part of him, why it was that he’d gone to no one to open up and seek their life counsel, not Pastor Steve or the prayer partners at campus ministries, not his UPS friends or the spiritual counselling available through his parents’ old church. But he did not know why Sheri herself had not gone to Pastor Steve—he could not read her heart. She was blank and hidden. He so fervently wished it never happened. He felt like he knew now why it was a true sin and not just a leftover rule from past society. He felt like he had been brought low by it and humbled and now did believe that the rules were there for a reason. That the rules were concerned with him personally, as an individual. He promised God he had learned his lesson. But what if that, too, was a hollow promise, from a hypocrite who repented only after, who promised submission but really only wanted a reprieve? He might not even know his own heart or be able to read and know himself. He kept thinking also of 1 Timothy and the hypocrite therein who disputeth over words. He felt a terrible inner resistance but could not feel what it was that it resisted. This was the truth. All the different angles and ways they had come at the decision together did not ever include it—the word—for had he once said it, avowed that he did love her, loved Sheri Fisher, then it all would have been transformed. It would not be a different stance or angle, but a difference in the very thing they were praying and deciding on together. Sometimes they had prayed together over the phone, in a kind of half code in case anybody accidentally picked up the extension. She continued to sit as if thinking, in the pose of thinking, like that one statue. They were right up next to each other on the table. He was looking over past her at the tree in the water. But he could not say he did: it was not true.</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But neither did he ever open up and tell her straight out he did not love her. This might be his lie by omission. This might be the frozen resistance—were he to look right at her and tell her he didn’t, she would keep the appointment and go. He knew this. Something in him, though, some terrible weakness or lack of values, could not tell her. It felt like a muscle he did not have. He didn’t know why; he just could not do it, or even pray to do it. She believed he was good, serious in his values. Part of him seemed willing to more or less just about lie to someone with that kind of faith and trust, and what did that make him? How could such a type of individual even pray? What it really felt like was a taste of the reality of what might be meant by Hell. Lane Dean had never believed in Hell as a lake of fire or a loving God consigning folks to a burning lake of fire—he knew in his heart this was not true. What he believed in was a living God of compassion and love and the possibility of a personal relationship with Jesus Christ through whom this love was enacted in human time. But sitting here beside this girl as unknown to him now as outer space, waiting for whatever she might say to unfreeze him, now he felt like he could see the edge or outline of what a real vision of Hell might be. It was of two great and terrible armies within himself, opposed and facing each other, silent. There would be battle but no victor. Or never a battle—the armies would stay like that, motionless, looking across at each other, and seeing therein something so different and alien from themselves that they could not understand, could not hear each other’s speech as even words or read anything from what their face looked like, frozen like that, opposed and uncomprehending, for all human time. Two-hearted, a hypocrite to yourself either way.</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">When he moved his head, a part of the lake further out flashed with sun—the water up close wasn’t black now, and you could see into the shallows and see that all the water was moving but gently, this way and that—and in this same way he besought to return to himself as Sheri moved her leg and started to turn beside him. He could see the man in the suit and gray hat standing motionless now at the lake’s rim, holding something under one arm and looking across at the opposite side where a row of little forms on camp chairs sat in a way that meant they had lines in the water for crappie—which mostly only your blacks from the East Side ever did—and the little white shape at the row’s end a Styrofoam creel. In his moment or time at the lake now just to come, Lane Dean first felt he could take this all in whole: everything seemed distinctly lit, for the circle of the pin oak’s shade had rotated off all the way, and they sat now in sun with their shadow a two-headed thing in the grass before them. He was looking or gazing again at where the downed tree’s branches seemed to all bend so sharply just under the shallows’ surface when he was given to know that through all this frozen silence he’d despised he had, in truth, been praying, or some little part of his heart he could not hear had, for he was answered now with a type of vision, what he would later call within his own mind a vision or moment of grace. He was not a hypocrite, just broken and split off like all men. Later on, he believed that what happened was he’d had a moment of almost seeing them both as Jesus saw them—as blind but groping, wanting to please God despite their inborn fallen nature. For in that same given moment he saw, quick as light, into Sheri’s heart, and was made to know what would occur here as she finished turning to him and the man in the hat watched the fishing and the downed elm shed cells into the water. This down-to-earth girl that smelled good and wanted to be a nurse would take and hold one of his hands in both of hers to unfreeze him and make him look at her, and she would say that she cannot do it. That she is sorry she did not know this sooner, that she hadn’t meant to lie—she agreed because she’d wanted to believe that she could, but she cannot. That she will carry this and have it; she has to. With her gaze clear and steady. That all night last night she prayed and searched inside herself and decided this is what love commands of her. That Lane should please please sweetie let her finish. That listen—this is her own decision and obliges him to nothing. That she knows he does not love her, not that way, has known it all this time, and that it’s all right. That it is as it is and it’s all right. She will carry this, and have it, and love it and make no claim on Lane except his good wishes and respecting what she has to do. That she releases him, all claim, and hopes he finishes up at P.J.C. and does so good in his life and has all joy and good things. Her voice will be clear and steady, and she will be lying, for Lane has been given to read her heart. To see through her. One of the opposite side’s blacks raises his arm in what may be greeting, or waving off a bee. There is a mower cutting grass someplace off behind them. It will be a terrible, last-ditch gamble born out of the desperation in Sheri Fisher’s soul, the knowledge that she can neither do this thing today nor carry a child alone and shame her family. Her values blocked the way either way, Lane could see, and she has no other options or choice—this lie is not a sin. Galatians 4:16, Have I then become your enemy? She is gambling that he is good. There on the table, neither frozen nor yet moving, Lane Dean, Jr., sees all this, and is moved with pity, and also with something more, something without any name he knows, that is given to him in the form of a question that never once in all the long week’s thinking and division had even so much as occurred—why is he so sure he doesn’t love her? Why is one kind of love any different? What if he has no earthly idea what love is? What would even Jesus do? For it was just now he felt her two small strong soft hands on his, to turn him. What if he was just afraid, if the truth was no more than this, and if what to pray for was not even love but simple courage, to meet both her eyes as she says it and trust his heart?</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Fonte: <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2007/02/05/good-people" target="_blank">The New Yorker</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Minha opinião a respeito do texto:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Não vou aqui me valer de termos técnicos envolvidos na literatura. Falarei como uma leitora amadora...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A primeira coisa que pensei durante a leitura foi se o autor seria cristão. Já vi amigos comentarem a respeito dele, mas nunca havia pesquisado sobre a vida do autor; fiz isto logo após o término da degustação do texto e fiquei mais impressionada ainda.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Curto autores que me fazem imaginar (facilmente) o ambiente da narrativa. As imagens mentais foram tão bonitas que se eu tivesse competência artística para uma pintura, faria.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Poderia jurar que ouvi as motosserras e senti o perfume da personagem... </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Fiquei com muita vontade de ler mais do autor, pois sempre tive dificuldades com escritores cuja marca fosse o fluxo de consciência (não sei se li livros que me deixaram com trauma do estilo foram uma escolha ruim ou o DFW escrevia de uma forma que me cativou). Os passeios que ele faz com a linguagem arrematam com o enredo (a viagem tem ida e volta). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A figura da árvore e as relações dela com o estado de alma do protagonista são muito tocantes. Que diálogo genial aquele que ele imagina em sua cabeça. Deu um nó na garganta...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Gostei do texto, da percepção do cristianismo que o autor demonstra e leria mais escritos dele com toda a certeza.</span></div>
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DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-13488006503508240112016-09-22T18:32:00.000-03:002016-09-22T18:32:56.136-03:00Sons de Ferrugem & Ecos de Borboleta - resenha divertida<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">14 razões para ler <i>Sons de Ferrugem & Ecos de Borboleta</i>, da <a href="https://www.facebook.com/MimaPumpkin/" target="_blank">Mima Pumpkin</a>. Sim, 14, porque é o dobro do número da perfeição.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsKj5v_46Q281M2ozmxcbiOI06wadkddUh2ClnzJ0dtLuYJwGwxsLosIetKQKk49zrG4vjm9TVmlmuUIqG02wNftoz74YT_leNTUfqRRjsBcaEyi1QiJepJEAbcUulH_dUbgN1VARb8X-3/s1600/13879378_1149160645148831_5980006324989520123_n.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsKj5v_46Q281M2ozmxcbiOI06wadkddUh2ClnzJ0dtLuYJwGwxsLosIetKQKk49zrG4vjm9TVmlmuUIqG02wNftoz74YT_leNTUfqRRjsBcaEyi1QiJepJEAbcUulH_dUbgN1VARb8X-3/s400/13879378_1149160645148831_5980006324989520123_n.png" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1-Você certamente fará uma escritora brasileira radicada na Alemanha explodir de alegria por realizar o seu sonho.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">2-Se te flagram lendo literatura para adolescentes você fala que está fazendo uma análise teórico-crítico-literária tomando como base a teoria da recepção.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">3-O livro é muito legal, eu li numa sentada enquanto esperava uma amiga no shopping.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">4-Eu quis socar alguns personagens durante a leitura. Outros me fizeram sorrir.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">5-Você tem a chance de ler o livro antes dele se tornar um best-seller internacional. Quando o meu netinho vier falar sobre ele no futuro direi: “fui uma das primeiras a ler a obra antes da publicação. Além disso, eu já a conhecia antes de ser famosinha. Batíamos altos papos no pvt do Zpoc.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">6-Clarice Lispector, em um desabafo blasé à revista Literatura em Foco, comentou: “ A maior parte das citações publicadas no Facebook atribuídas a mim não são minhas. Em vez disso, vocês deveriam ocupar o seu tempinho ocioso lendo </span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Sons de Ferrugem & Ecos de Borboleta</i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> da<a href="https://www.facebook.com/MimaPumpkin/" target="_blank"> Mima</a>, aquela fofura de escritora. A moça é muito talentosa. Vocês ainda ouvirão muito a respeito dela.” Em seguida, deu uma baforada charmosa com o seu cigarro e descruzou as pernas.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">7-Se você é jovenzinha, vai se identificar com a personagem principal, Liesel, e talvez até reflita a respeito do perdão na vida de alguém.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">8-Dar estrelinhas pra ele: vale um sorriso.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">9-Deixar comentários e sugestões: pulinhos de felicidade.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">10-Ter uma amiga escritora: não tem preço, além de ser cult.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">11-A <a href="https://www.facebook.com/MimaPumpkin/" target="_blank">Mima</a> é uma escritora de mão cheia.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">12-A história do livro é envolvente, sem apelações.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">13-Toda menina sonhará com o dia em que será a “Garota Gibson 1941 Original” de alguém.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">14-A leitura está disponível no Wattpad. É muito fácil abrir uma conta por lá. O Wattpad tem app para IPhone, Android e Win Phone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Link para ter acesso ao livro e saboreá-lo:</span><br />
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<a href="https://www.wattpad.com/story/74744568-sons-de-ferrugem-ecos-de-borboleta" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">https://www.wattpad.com/story/74744568-sons-de-ferrugem-ecos-de-borboleta </span></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Alguns trechinhos para te deixar ainda mais curioso (a) sobre o livro:</span><br />
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DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-32356592601751547252015-11-23T12:35:00.001-03:002016-05-02T11:38:43.494-03:00Como se faz literatura (livro)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sbhaimD2KiE/VkxmQG5w3tI/AAAAAAAAGh8/5jgdBNhrBeA/s1600/20151117_190536.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sbhaimD2KiE/VkxmQG5w3tI/AAAAAAAAGh8/5jgdBNhrBeA/s320/20151117_190536.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Em 60 páginas, Affonso Romano de Sant'Anna orienta aos interessados em estrear a "carreira literária" como escritor. Apesar da data da publicação ter acontecido em 1985, pela Editora Vozes, as orientações servem para os dias atuais. A leitura é bastante agradável e rápida, além de bem-humorada. Affonso inclui no livro indicações de leitura para os iniciantes. Recomendo a leitura!</div>
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<br />DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-20674048424081797292015-06-26T11:38:00.000-03:002015-06-26T11:38:13.817-03:00A voz do passarinho...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDv3VtJBDz7aReQiV3fDPh0X_kAduIgUwQ-kQ7regUERcVsXSGEdpNSJi2P4SvaZd99orHcyQTwROgwKw-aRClYFQMrPj1MRX-lp6yY4nYE_W3-UT5NKzUuUw5Uf0ladre9GZFi5jpV9Eg/s1600/d663dffd18e375dddec03ea8a4fdb0b6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDv3VtJBDz7aReQiV3fDPh0X_kAduIgUwQ-kQ7regUERcVsXSGEdpNSJi2P4SvaZd99orHcyQTwROgwKw-aRClYFQMrPj1MRX-lp6yY4nYE_W3-UT5NKzUuUw5Uf0ladre9GZFi5jpV9Eg/s400/d663dffd18e375dddec03ea8a4fdb0b6.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/d6/63/df/d663dffd18e375dddec03ea8a4fdb0b6.jpg" target="_blank">Imagem</a></span></div>
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Já pensou em ouvir os poemas do Quintana recitados pelo próprio?<br />
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Eis:<a href="http://www.radiobatuta.com.br/Episodes/view/593" target="_blank">http://www.radiobatuta.com.br/Episodes/view/593</a>DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-10234824594913469322015-03-27T17:03:00.000-03:002015-03-27T17:13:24.623-03:00Sobre tirar espinhos...<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Olá, meus queridos leitores! (se é que alguém ainda me dá o prazer disso por aqui...)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Vim tirar a poeira daqui com um trecho lindo das Crônicas de Narnia que caiu como uma bomba diante dos meus olhos hoje e muito me comoveu. Como eu pude deixar passar algo tão lindo assim durante as minhas leituras? </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As alegorias do C.S.Lewis me são imensamente prazerosas. Degustem:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Créditos da imagem:<a href="https://www.facebook.com/jonas.madureira/photos/a.213278548839403.1073741826.213278502172741/423940211106568/?type=1" target="_blank">Jonas Madureira</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Não vou contar como virei dragão, mas vou lhe dizer como deixei de ser dragão." (...) "Pensava: “Deus do céu! Quantas peles terei de despir?” Como estava louco para molhar a pata, esfreguei-me pela terceira vez e tirei uma terceira pele. Mas ao olhar-me na água vi que estava na mesma. Então o leão disse (mas não sei se falou): “Eu tiro a sua pele”. Tinha muito medo daquelas garras, mas, ao mesmo tempo, estava louco para ver-me livre daquilo. Por isso me deitei de costas e deixei que ele tirasse a minha pele. A primeira unhada que me deu foi tão funda que julguei ter me atingido o coração. E quando começou a tirar-me a pele senti a pior dor da minha vida. A única coisa que me fazia aguentar era o prazer de sentir que me tirava a pele. É como quem tira um espinho de um lugar dolorido. Dói pra valer, mas é bom ver o espinho sair." </span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">C. S. Lewis, "A viagem do peregrino da alvorada", in: "As crônicas de Nárnia".</span></blockquote>
DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-52575909746740248452014-10-27T13:32:00.000-03:002014-10-27T13:32:01.058-03:00Umas das mais belas metáforas de Eclesiastes...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9aUMFNXD5NBAGC-m9GxeWYj5lErTxmos-1fERp3VmxzjfVcoTh3shV4itc8CPq-1KcEu1iP7xri1uOaVMlpI14EkoJsexziKYuNZ9UV5RVUD-GFXCkzGODg0A3iNkwZEWYDhXRgu8Vsvz/s1600/Jerry+Uelsmann.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9aUMFNXD5NBAGC-m9GxeWYj5lErTxmos-1fERp3VmxzjfVcoTh3shV4itc8CPq-1KcEu1iP7xri1uOaVMlpI14EkoJsexziKYuNZ9UV5RVUD-GFXCkzGODg0A3iNkwZEWYDhXRgu8Vsvz/s1600/Jerry+Uelsmann.jpg" height="400" width="356" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;">"1 Lembre-se do seu Criador nos dias da sua juventude, antes que venham os dias difíceis e antes que se aproximem os anos em que você dirá:<i><b> 'Não tenho satisfação neles'</b></i>;</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px;"></span>2 antes que se escureçam o sol e a luz, a lua e as estrelas, e as nuvens voltem depois da chuva;</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">3 quando os guardas da casa tremerem e os homens fortes caminharem encurvados, e pararem os moedores por serem poucos, e aqueles que olham pelas janelas enxergarem embaçado;</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">4 quando as portas da rua forem fechadas e diminuir o som da moagem; quando o barulho das aves o fizer despertar, mas o som de todas as canções lhe parecer fraco;</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">5 quando você tiver medo de altura, e dos perigos das ruas; quando florir a amendoeira, o gafanhoto for um peso e o desejo já não se despertar. Então o homem se vai para o seu lar eterno, e os pranteadores já vagueiam pelas ruas."</span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: 0px 0px; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; fill: rgb(42, 100, 150); font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; line-height: 20px; text-decoration: none;"><a href="http://www.bibliaonline.com.br/nvi/ec/12/1-5" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: 0px 0px; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; fill: rgb(42, 100, 150); line-height: 20px; text-decoration: none;">Eclesiastes 12:1-5</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Imagem: <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://obviousmag.org/archives/2007/09/fotografias_de.html" target="_blank">Jerry Uelsmann</a></span></span><br />
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<br />DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-16135302983802510472014-06-28T21:07:00.000-03:002014-06-28T21:11:14.178-03:00Das tempestades interiores...<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ela tentava, em vão, trabalhar ouvindo as suas canções favoritas, mas o som que vinha de dentro de si era mais alto. Talvez fosse "muito barulho por nada", alguns diriam. Mal sabiam que ela abrigava uma tempestade dentro do coração.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhIgJKghh4pKrINucRCJ4Gd7WxU2v7dJF1rJXOjX_rfbCE1N0tnqB6VUaXFJRrYpQJPssWEhRu_8Y4EZCzHfChDFH3p1jiFPvu5gkYJ_L32TajfAjM8ecz6dNHshM5bB6iFB9mcTUDT_WK/s1600/20140620_072630.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhIgJKghh4pKrINucRCJ4Gd7WxU2v7dJF1rJXOjX_rfbCE1N0tnqB6VUaXFJRrYpQJPssWEhRu_8Y4EZCzHfChDFH3p1jiFPvu5gkYJ_L32TajfAjM8ecz6dNHshM5bB6iFB9mcTUDT_WK/s1600/20140620_072630.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Praia de Pipa</span></div>
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<br />DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com0Pipa - RN, República Federativa do Brasil-6.2312892999999994 -35.048594500000036-6.3540268 -35.209956000000034 -6.108551799999999 -34.887233000000037tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-86361039033099956232014-03-27T00:21:00.000-03:002014-03-27T14:29:56.112-03:00Anatomia de um coração<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRkVxJiP9AEBxZAc_TZ37xki7hYSST1yFLxivVbkiVW8XOZRTItm_uye-sNhcd_QWINcDdB8RdIBg_IcjqB5EFzudb5DWMEp9K7BY9_F8GynQqNMO-iN3dhcqSjQBL54szdvEpALQLxZfs/s1600/art,artistic,devil,heart,metaphor,red-f654f3eabeb69b0a1caa6f0abd3c3446_h.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRkVxJiP9AEBxZAc_TZ37xki7hYSST1yFLxivVbkiVW8XOZRTItm_uye-sNhcd_QWINcDdB8RdIBg_IcjqB5EFzudb5DWMEp9K7BY9_F8GynQqNMO-iN3dhcqSjQBL54szdvEpALQLxZfs/s1600/art,artistic,devil,heart,metaphor,red-f654f3eabeb69b0a1caa6f0abd3c3446_h.jpg" height="256" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://vi.sualize.us/a_broken_of_a_multiple_mind_devil_heart_metaphor_art_picture_6P7h.html" target="_blank">Imagem</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Taquicardia, borboletas no estômago, euforia.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">A vida inteira que foi passando e ela nem viu.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Acelera, (des)acelera, acelera, (des)acelera.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Foi ao médico:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Diga que não vai se deixar enganar de novo</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">- De novo não... de novo não... de novo não</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Suspire</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-A senhora tem a ausência de um pedaço da razão</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">[ilusão</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Então, doutor, não é possível preencher com um pedaço de emoção?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Não. A única coisa a fazer é acalmar o coração. (*)</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><i><b>O coração é mais enganoso que qualquer outra coisa e sua doença é incurável. Quem é capaz de compreendê-lo?</b></i></span><br />
<a href="http://www.bibliaonline.com.br/nvi/jr/17/9" style="background-position: 0px 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; fill: #2a6496; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;">Jeremias 17:9</span></a><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/XaqaqRuU9Hw?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;">*O texto é uma paródia escancarada do poema <a href="http://www.academia.org.br/abl/cgi/cgilua.exe/sys/start.htm?infoid=649&sid=249" target="_blank">Pneumotórax, de Manuel Bandeira</a> e resultado de uma ideia que ficou passeando pela cabeça enquanto eu ouvia a canção <a href="http://letras.mus.br/zeca-baleiro/calma-ai-coracao/" target="_blank">Calma Aí, coração, do Zeca Baleiro</a>, que ao mesmo tempo faz uma ponte interessante com o texto bíblico.</span><br />
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<br />DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-46926436296543421712014-03-24T10:03:00.000-03:002014-03-24T10:03:34.506-03:00Quem é você, Alaska?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXWlZvVgUBS_smkcvP9MPQtgYnfN20BbCCgIqm0WSJGQGS8Tk3eXHyCqpTRiUxxRS-4LZdrbuCodeKb7ALe29V3nFpQ8P0qYKAsuB2i9f7040S9WwI7ka5PSPzKnDaKseeVh3naE9h66mC/s1600/12709_650198245021957_1707346683_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXWlZvVgUBS_smkcvP9MPQtgYnfN20BbCCgIqm0WSJGQGS8Tk3eXHyCqpTRiUxxRS-4LZdrbuCodeKb7ALe29V3nFpQ8P0qYKAsuB2i9f7040S9WwI7ka5PSPzKnDaKseeVh3naE9h66mC/s1600/12709_650198245021957_1707346683_n.jpg" height="400" width="376" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Desconheço o autor da imagem</span></div>
DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-82666905895338321302014-03-13T12:26:00.000-03:002015-02-25T11:28:34.466-03:00Estrabismo lexical<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kI8SpKvadyM/UyHNx_apvGI/AAAAAAAAD4g/8eG3TDc_sjA/s1600/estrabismo-infantil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kI8SpKvadyM/UyHNx_apvGI/AAAAAAAAD4g/8eG3TDc_sjA/s1600/estrabismo-infantil.jpg" height="75" width="320" /></a></div>
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Algo recorrente em minha vida de escritora esporádica quando tenho a ideia de escrever um texto: as palavras começam a surgir na cabeça como uma chuva que começa fininha e de repente se transforma em enxurrada. O que sucede são tropeços e mais tropeços, pois quando isso acontece eu nunca tenho um bloquinho sequer pra lançar as ideias. Consequentemente, o estrabismo lexical do título que você que me lê procurou ao longos dessas poucas linhas que escrevo, surge e se por sorte eu chegar em casa a tempo, montarei o texto como um quebra-cabeça, utilizando apenas um lápis e um papel.</div>
DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-26742513319435771152014-01-03T00:11:00.001-03:002014-01-03T00:11:50.792-03:00<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #f6f6f6; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Talvez não tenhamos todo o tempo que imaginávamos...<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2027178/" target="_blank"> </a></span><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2027178/" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #f6f6f6; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">#</span><span style="background-color: #f6f6f6; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">ohomemdofuturo</span></a></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidtTBdR61ePeJHqJDnmeu5Gh13O8YrkGsWc_SGM_fHIp6hrhaFA-pJGE_fJkPqxSGRIpQRr9_XAg2B2h2E-2zz-V2vZTHxrdIKKWEHyZto01q1KTImptq_03S_vHKSOMU41oahneVgt3RT/s1600/o-homem-do-futuro.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidtTBdR61ePeJHqJDnmeu5Gh13O8YrkGsWc_SGM_fHIp6hrhaFA-pJGE_fJkPqxSGRIpQRr9_XAg2B2h2E-2zz-V2vZTHxrdIKKWEHyZto01q1KTImptq_03S_vHKSOMU41oahneVgt3RT/s400/o-homem-do-futuro.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-45839045423557051672013-10-09T19:19:00.000-03:002013-12-06T20:00:04.530-03:00Começo e f i m.Entre um começo e um<br />
f i m<br />
Uma p(arte) fica outra(s) levam de m i m.<br />
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E assim, nesse e t e r n o (re)começo<br />
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e fim transformo em palavras, enfim; esse ciclo em m i m.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-btwPieLBFzY/UlHh2MavMNI/AAAAAAAADl8/ltlYdMfKinA/s1600/nevesplantarsonho.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-btwPieLBFzY/UlHh2MavMNI/AAAAAAAADl8/ltlYdMfKinA/s320/nevesplantarsonho.jpg" width="255" /></a></div>
Fonte da imagem: <a href="http://confabulandoimagens.blogspot.com.br/2011/10/o-pintor-plantava.html" target="_blank">http://confabulandoimagens.blogspot.com.br/2011/10/o-pintor-plantava.html</a><br />
<br />DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-55925836948687751992013-08-12T20:48:00.000-03:002013-12-06T20:04:02.252-03:00Memórias (doces) da minha adolescência: Cris e Ted<h5 class="uiStreamMessage userContentWrapper" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent">- Sabe, Kilikina? Há muito tempo que eu estava orando para que nós dois estivéssemos juntos assim.</span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent"> Descansando a cabeça no seu ombro, Cris respondeu:</span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent"> - Eu também tenho pedido isso a Deus, Ted. Lembra quando você, um dia desses, disse que era tempo de nos alegrarmos?</span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent"> - Lembro, replicou ele em voz baixa e doce. </span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent"> - Acho que sei uma expressão melhor.</span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"> - É? Qual?</span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"> - Amar. Para nós, agora é tempo de amar.</span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"> Aconchegada a ele, Cris sentia vibrar dentro de si o eco harmonioso de suas palavras.</span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"> - Gostei dessa. Tempo de amar.</span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"> Juntos contemplaram o pôr-do-sol, cada qual ouvindo a respiração firme do outro e sentindo o calor um do outro.</span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"> <br /> Em "Tempo de amar"</span></span></span></span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show">O trecho acima foi retirado <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/S%C3%A9rie-Cris-Ted/161926280557175?hc_location=stream" target="_blank">daqui</a>.</span></span></span></span></span></h5>
DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-85317017770570322422013-07-26T23:56:00.001-03:002013-12-06T20:05:06.344-03:00Uma vó que faz poesia...<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNM0o_71oB0PQN1K7fIwTddzHuOhXxV28-a8KX6rAGC26G4GOE0qWSTkgT81-cnD2AIeWOEq6CvJRmBOp5CwdnLwuJWdNFEVY0S4ebAageSS05u746Ms-qe9D_Q3p2w9pAvigsgL12Lgpf/s1600/Ad%C3%A9lia-Prado-03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNM0o_71oB0PQN1K7fIwTddzHuOhXxV28-a8KX6rAGC26G4GOE0qWSTkgT81-cnD2AIeWOEq6CvJRmBOp5CwdnLwuJWdNFEVY0S4ebAageSS05u746Ms-qe9D_Q3p2w9pAvigsgL12Lgpf/s320/Ad%C3%A9lia-Prado-03.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Hoje é o dia das avós, aqueles serzinhos maravilhosos criados por Deus para cuidar com carinho dos netinhos, "estragá-los" e entupi-los com guloseimas. Lembro com muita saudade da minha avó Iaponira e dos seus mimos para comigo. Nunca esquecerei dos quitutes e dos momentos de acolhida em seu lar.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Se eu fosse pensar numa vó para eleger para mim eu possivelmente escolheria a poetiza<a href="http://pt.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ad%C3%A9lia_Prado" target="_blank"> Adélia Prado</a>. O meu 1º contato com a sua poesia aconteceu no final de 2009 quando naquele ano eu faria uma seleção de mestrado em Campina Grande e tive como (grata) tarefa realizar a leitura do livro <i>Terra de Santa Cruz</i>. O mais legal é que ela ainda está viva e produzindo bastante!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Deixarei como encerramento deste pequeno post-tira-teia-de-aranha-do-blog-meio-abandonado-por-falta-de-tempo um poema dela cujo título é Ensinamento (vocês hão de convir que ensinar é a especialidade das avós):</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;"><b>Ensinamento </b><br />
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Minha mãe achava estudo <br />
a coisa mais fina do mundo. <br />
Não é. <br />
A coisa mais fina do mundo é o sentimento. <br />
Aquele dia de noite, o pai fazendo serão, <br />
ela falou comigo: <br />
"Coitado, até essa hora no serviço pesado". <br />
Arrumou pão e café , deixou tacho no fogo com água quente. <br />
Não me falou em amor. <br />
Essa palavra de luxo. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.jornaldepoesia.jor.br/ad.html#ensi" target="_blank">Fonte</a> </span></span>DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-35050167224482246322013-05-01T16:07:00.000-03:002013-12-06T20:06:14.857-03:00Equilíbrio - A vida não faz acordos<div style="text-align: justify;">
Há uns meses falei sobre o meu kindle e as vantagens de leituras através dele. Quem ficou curioso, pois ainda não leu o post, acesse o link <a href="http://bydebby.blogspot.com.br/2013/02/minha-biblioteca-de-babel.html" target="_blank">aqui</a>.</div>
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Depois da postagem sobre o kindle, algumas pessoas começaram a perguntar o que eu andava lendo nele. Sempre que visito o site da <a href="http://www.amazon.com.br/" target="_blank">amazon</a>, dou uma olhadinha nos livros gratuitos e por causa do hábito já tenho bons títulos tanto em português quanto em inglês de alguns clássicos. Certo dia, visitando a página dos <a href="http://www.amazon.com.br/b/ref=amb_link_366167202_4?ie=UTF8&node=6311441011&pf_rd_m=A1ZZFT5FULY4LN&pf_rd_s=left-2&pf_rd_r=1F6623X17X0V6W5GVB1R&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_p=1518441242&pf_rd_i=5559953011" target="_blank">eBooks gratuitos</a>, me deparei com um chamado <b style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com.br/Equil%C3%ADbrio-vida-n%C3%A3o-acordos-ebook/dp/B007GPFKLQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1367431890&sr=1-1&keywords=equil%C3%ADbrio" target="_blank">Equilíbrio - A vida não faz acordos</a> </b>da escritora <a href="http://www.kbrdigital.com.br/flavia-mariano.html" target="_blank">Flavia Mariano</a><b style="font-style: italic;"> </b>e li rapidinho.</div>
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A leitura flui fácil e envolve. A história é sobre uma moça chamada Marília, que se vê engolida pela correria do seu trabalho ao ponto de não ter tempo para nada, até que resolve fazer uma viagem de autoconhecimento. O livro traz lições simples e reflexivas para repensarmos a vida e as prioridades que escolhemos para nós. Não me sinto muito atraída pela leitura de livros de auto-ajuda, mas esse acabou caindo na minha simpatia e confesso que o fato dele ser gratuito me deixou com um pé atrás, hehe. Fiquei surpresa e satisfeita com o que li.</div>
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Durante a leitura, marquei alguns trechos que saltaram os olhos:</div>
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"[...] os melhores anos de sua vida estão sendo oferecidos de bandeja a um esforço que nunca acabará, pois, quanto mais temos, mais queremos ter. Transformamos o fruto do nosso trabalho em bens materiais só para termos a impressão de que todo o esforço de vida desperdiçada está valendo a pena." (página 37)</div>
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"Se eu fosse seguir tudo o que a sociedade tem definido como<i> in</i>, eu estaria completamente <i>out</i> de mim." (página 51)</div>
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"Podemos passar a vida sonhando com o dia de amanhã ou aproveitar o hoje como se o amanhã nunca fosse existir." (páginas 135 e 136)</div>
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"[...] quando você se transforma, tudo ao seu redor também se transforma." (página 136)</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d2znbK3avd8/UYFnvPRt89I/AAAAAAAADhQ/95Qd-clQsTs/s1600/51cIstF7VXL._AA258_PIkin4,BottomRight,-42,22_AA280_SH20_OU32_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d2znbK3avd8/UYFnvPRt89I/AAAAAAAADhQ/95Qd-clQsTs/s400/51cIstF7VXL._AA258_PIkin4,BottomRight,-42,22_AA280_SH20_OU32_.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Livro: Equilíbrio - A vida não faz acordos</div>
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Editora: <a href="http://www.kbrdigital.com.br/" target="_blank">KBR</a></div>
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Formato: Edição Kindle</div>
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Tamanho do arquivo: 520 KB</div>
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Número de páginas: 200</div>
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DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-39269607462540011662013-04-06T21:14:00.003-03:002013-12-06T20:07:48.482-03:00Sobre olhar para dentro<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Há saudades que devem ser mantidas (apenas) na mente e no coração, ainda mais quando se sabe que caminhar em direção a elas será doloroso.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA4OewYfRhhSZf_OGmSbPdnX72_LRP09nKL2geQx2o7o_vJZLwziDZQ0dlqsrzP-oxhllZHBjMXO3p93ws4GEszMu-KlT2J7iD5zIDx00o8RyQjR78XgN_l2GKz7icpwErtYK39X8pzpGi/s1600/art,bones,butterfly,drawing,girl,rose-1c55a60e9eae35e0acc7ad62e3b82a41_h.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA4OewYfRhhSZf_OGmSbPdnX72_LRP09nKL2geQx2o7o_vJZLwziDZQ0dlqsrzP-oxhllZHBjMXO3p93ws4GEszMu-KlT2J7iD5zIDx00o8RyQjR78XgN_l2GKz7icpwErtYK39X8pzpGi/s320/art,bones,butterfly,drawing,girl,rose-1c55a60e9eae35e0acc7ad62e3b82a41_h.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://vi.sualize.us/beauty_inside_and_out_by_gillienne_castillo_rose_drawing_bones_skeleton_picture_mdqf.html" target="_blank">imagem</a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-50615168928313832172013-03-14T19:42:00.004-03:002013-12-06T20:08:19.824-03:00No dia da poesia...... um apelo dramático:<br />
Leia <b><i>p o e s i a</i></b>!<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OtZs0Zy6GL0/UUJSOQKopiI/AAAAAAAADeI/cOeY1NAv1no/s1600/3250189661_a9ea6aa83f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OtZs0Zy6GL0/UUJSOQKopiI/AAAAAAAADeI/cOeY1NAv1no/s400/3250189661_a9ea6aa83f.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-50246477274904490952013-03-08T20:33:00.003-03:002013-12-06T20:09:15.824-03:00"De dentro"<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ontem tive a oportunidade de visitar uma exposição bem interessante. Fotografei quase tudo e trouxe aqui para compartilhar com vocês. A exposição chama-se "Andedan" e significa "de dentro". O artistas plástico Marcos Popó utiliza materiais e técnicas simples para trazer "de dentro" trabalhos interessantíssimos. Alguns dos materiais utilizados são: chocolate, fios, pregos, furadeira, madeira, pedaços de papel, fita adesiva. Eis alumas das principais peças que ele produziu:</span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6M0FfWN8pTI/UTptDXfUHGI/AAAAAAAADcQ/CyiNvedKaSg/s1600/collage+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6M0FfWN8pTI/UTptDXfUHGI/AAAAAAAADcQ/CyiNvedKaSg/s320/collage+11.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Umas das mais interessantes da exposição é a reprodução de uma foto do Pelé feita com boladas e usando tinta acrílica em um lençol.</span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4a93pcU5Aes/UTptD33rmiI/AAAAAAAADcY/CXhS-2BtXRA/s1600/collage+12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="192" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4a93pcU5Aes/UTptD33rmiI/AAAAAAAADcY/CXhS-2BtXRA/s320/collage+12.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A imagem acima foi produzida utilizando um pedaço de madeira e toda entalhada com uma faca. Eu diria que a metalinguagem da faca aparecendo no quadro, dando pistas de como o mesmo foi feito é bem interessante.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR3FRK2vcaaWvhRXrVEt5nYBC055xZ2qrltWxuGRnA-TCZoOerAnZTeiJ2M6OHXNhSUg7CRMzz2k0jr2qcbAmxDhSxYxco-ejzYVWcWdKVdKqvs-_BWPc9nMFFHma5_N3T9Aimj3QtVtRf/s1600/collage+10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR3FRK2vcaaWvhRXrVEt5nYBC055xZ2qrltWxuGRnA-TCZoOerAnZTeiJ2M6OHXNhSUg7CRMzz2k0jr2qcbAmxDhSxYxco-ejzYVWcWdKVdKqvs-_BWPc9nMFFHma5_N3T9Aimj3QtVtRf/s320/collage+10.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">O rapaz retratado acima é um amigo próximo do artista. Para essa peça ele usou a furadeira em um pedaço de madeira e para desenhar o rosto, gesso. Tirei uma foto aproximada de um detalhe do quadro para ressaltar o gesso.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUKAGvWgNa0ALuFre4iWIzz9Bmc_BpqCOdGJchP5oN25JE35YNFk6JsnrODS-cAiaUwzPzIZrUbuW-Ajk2VUHFXhW6-6I-Q-Kfj2XENmqQyE25-lbhalxAyxLDyzGrENqbFAD0Bqdzh-Sd/s1600/collage+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUKAGvWgNa0ALuFre4iWIzz9Bmc_BpqCOdGJchP5oN25JE35YNFk6JsnrODS-cAiaUwzPzIZrUbuW-Ajk2VUHFXhW6-6I-Q-Kfj2XENmqQyE25-lbhalxAyxLDyzGrENqbFAD0Bqdzh-Sd/s320/collage+2.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Eu vibrei quando vi a imagem do Machado de Assis e a técnica é simples: lembram quando na escola a professora do jardim de infância nos colocava para cortar tirinhas de papel e formar imagens? Essa foi a técnica que o artista utilizou e com um detalhe interessantíssimo: as tirinhas de papel eram parte de uma reportagem sobre o livro Brás Cubas, do autor retratado.</span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-53Vo7KcVKZ8/UTptIEbeHdI/AAAAAAAADcw/TNi4ZIc-DFU/s1600/collage+13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="294" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-53Vo7KcVKZ8/UTptIEbeHdI/AAAAAAAADcw/TNi4ZIc-DFU/s320/collage+13.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A peça acima foi feita basicamente utilizando uma chapa de ferro e solvente em várias camadas para retratar o personagem Nilo vivido pelo ator José de Abreu.</span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5wW5C_6f-ak/UTptJSOLsYI/AAAAAAAADdA/h0pDqwUl3Tk/s1600/collage+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="160" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5wW5C_6f-ak/UTptJSOLsYI/AAAAAAAADdA/h0pDqwUl3Tk/s320/collage+3.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As duas acima foram feitas com prego e fios entrelaçados neles. Segundo a moça que explicou a exposição, essa é uma técnica antiga nas artes plásticas. A riqueza de detalhes impressiona os olhos.</span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qVs7DUlWkc0/UTptJZE_oII/AAAAAAAADdE/LYaoJF6_jUo/s1600/collage+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="160" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qVs7DUlWkc0/UTptJZE_oII/AAAAAAAADdE/LYaoJF6_jUo/s320/collage+4.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As duas acima foram desenhadas com caneta hidrocor e adquiriram um aspecto aquarelado.</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oMa8GxmuRxg/UTptJv4FNOI/AAAAAAAADdI/HJazuJjW2ls/s1600/collage+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="192" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oMa8GxmuRxg/UTptJv4FNOI/AAAAAAAADdI/HJazuJjW2ls/s320/collage+5.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">O amigo do artista foi mais uma vez retratado através de impressões com carimbo. O número que contém na ferramenta é um registro do rapaz que aparece na imagem e...</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggGbQ03bGNHr5q__a8Thgq-Q4YTWKk8COxYu1L-H6RlNSMstj6qgB252WDCOV1qVz0g-Lp00niydELAUxXhKeXUP-xJOXF3lFlkVbUMtrIHmz5FtBOc3sb7bxpLfg-If63FBNyyVLqvKfR/s1600/collage+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggGbQ03bGNHr5q__a8Thgq-Q4YTWKk8COxYu1L-H6RlNSMstj6qgB252WDCOV1qVz0g-Lp00niydELAUxXhKeXUP-xJOXF3lFlkVbUMtrIHmz5FtBOc3sb7bxpLfg-If63FBNyyVLqvKfR/s320/collage+6.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">... ao lado estava a ponte do Brooklyn, um dos lugares preferidos do mesmo rapaz e produzida com o mesmo carimbo da imagem anterior.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTMt5ov-NcPIO_Qv4zZbe0RRLaJAvaVjm4Ef1ASTH3GKPR1W3YutE8KmCaazGi2eX6S1gETYaxI0tP5bie_m4aoWbslS-9OT2oUjWw9tIMIUwmC6e9ykdBKYrL2PAZsTaSj95V0qvSjnrO/s1600/collage+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTMt5ov-NcPIO_Qv4zZbe0RRLaJAvaVjm4Ef1ASTH3GKPR1W3YutE8KmCaazGi2eX6S1gETYaxI0tP5bie_m4aoWbslS-9OT2oUjWw9tIMIUwmC6e9ykdBKYrL2PAZsTaSj95V0qvSjnrO/s320/collage+8.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Peças que foram produzidas com técnica semelhante: entalhe em madeira.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPBOy2RvcHNvgdywWkJQM-uaF3KnMyTx0DdlVA15VpAQvCuSYdWsCN0hIDQNqowCLCvIkPb6QQEVuRfyY_2-McrFUDR9_AAqfXEgQNkFp3VYv7yg9MwIlNGTqV6wls5AEZ_AzH-yp1tjTO/s1600/collage+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPBOy2RvcHNvgdywWkJQM-uaF3KnMyTx0DdlVA15VpAQvCuSYdWsCN0hIDQNqowCLCvIkPb6QQEVuRfyY_2-McrFUDR9_AAqfXEgQNkFp3VYv7yg9MwIlNGTqV6wls5AEZ_AzH-yp1tjTO/s320/collage+7.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Aqui são as famosas pinturas feitas com chocolate. As que estavam expostas eram fotografias, pois o chocolate poderia derreter ou atrair formigas. A maioria das imagens retratadas foram feitas por encomenda ou mostra pessoas do convívio do autor. </span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FALnJOF2VqA/UTptMEqQ3kI/AAAAAAAADdw/iWSQF1TWBxA/s1600/collage+9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="140" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FALnJOF2VqA/UTptMEqQ3kI/AAAAAAAADdw/iWSQF1TWBxA/s320/collage+9.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Reconhecem o cara da foto acima? A sua imagem foi entalhada de forma mais violenta (reparem na segunda imagem) em uma porta de armário de cozinha. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK0vky-BO9McHhd26Byf2evH8lP3SwCdXxQI2jl8Fws3-dJqkwz1pb1eWf6fF_N_ypesl1r5IltNH8yjmwn-YWg0_XS3t330EBbEVqqvlTtJK5Y4QfBefKecUMwgJTcBAwIZ__YkjZUGwD/s1600/collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK0vky-BO9McHhd26Byf2evH8lP3SwCdXxQI2jl8Fws3-dJqkwz1pb1eWf6fF_N_ypesl1r5IltNH8yjmwn-YWg0_XS3t330EBbEVqqvlTtJK5Y4QfBefKecUMwgJTcBAwIZ__YkjZUGwD/s320/collage.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ah, essa é uma das mais bonitas e foi feita com fita adesiva, nada mais!</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiydPdgNjYp13LYXy8hbj-Tu2LNOKAyS14HGG_Plx6ADDCqrhLnkqQqM23JW6lwXVyjKArbgvgC-3_3aPrGp3dquw1zVfpGy0K9QPOebKwHR-X512QVxs8ulJrXXgGKT0G6UY9vn0tur95E/s1600/DSC00049.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiydPdgNjYp13LYXy8hbj-Tu2LNOKAyS14HGG_Plx6ADDCqrhLnkqQqM23JW6lwXVyjKArbgvgC-3_3aPrGp3dquw1zVfpGy0K9QPOebKwHR-X512QVxs8ulJrXXgGKT0G6UY9vn0tur95E/s320/DSC00049.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">E essa aqui também! Ele retratou a esposa.</span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CZF_jHiJPWw/UTpkk4EV7DI/AAAAAAAADaM/Nt9wkesXUTA/s1600/DSC00044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CZF_jHiJPWw/UTpkk4EV7DI/AAAAAAAADaM/Nt9wkesXUTA/s320/DSC00044.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Clique na imagem e veja como ele retratou bem o que acontece no contexto da mulher quando está programando o seu casamento, hehe.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirnamjOTHOYjyH6JoOILsJlIHWBmoTv3S_TFb6k3ReCbLXW2JJaNoykdFxbNoUlD4r43NfLPXwCYl1lUYxBreD-1D8K9tOP60L-Ox-O6ut7ciOG2qKe751wIAIO_no0_zk8H1tw0pUZQQn/s1600/DSC00028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirnamjOTHOYjyH6JoOILsJlIHWBmoTv3S_TFb6k3ReCbLXW2JJaNoykdFxbNoUlD4r43NfLPXwCYl1lUYxBreD-1D8K9tOP60L-Ox-O6ut7ciOG2qKe751wIAIO_no0_zk8H1tw0pUZQQn/s320/DSC00028.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Lindíssima colagem com quadradinhos de papel colorido.</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-K9fsgjmnEZU/UTpkZYtU3hI/AAAAAAAADZU/UlX2y899Z98/s1600/DSC00038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-K9fsgjmnEZU/UTpkZYtU3hI/AAAAAAAADZU/UlX2y899Z98/s320/DSC00038.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Retrato da filha do artista feito com uma furadeira em madeira...</span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MGQDHIKYj3w/UTpkYrp1m8I/AAAAAAAADZM/Zt4FbvdQxf0/s1600/DSC00039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="193" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MGQDHIKYj3w/UTpkYrp1m8I/AAAAAAAADZM/Zt4FbvdQxf0/s320/DSC00039.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">... a foto que serviu de modelo.</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C1VlsAOyHxY/UTpk7UoJB6I/AAAAAAAADbw/JTvil0T0U9s/s1600/DSC00058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C1VlsAOyHxY/UTpk7UoJB6I/AAAAAAAADbw/JTvil0T0U9s/s320/DSC00058.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A foto da Ivete tomou forma através de vários quadrados coloridos desenhados.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Ig5ChyDAMa-Xe3jgcfkh3SgR8lY19yI1buRBk3sc5uK_mNiiTxp7oKUHxklraPUiRciaz1VWxEpNhmRWqd0pl-h88_b3mV9J6oLxdk5-gW55-3BbYXsFfUa-df5OahdjiuS7sPic-hPp/s1600/DSC00057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Ig5ChyDAMa-Xe3jgcfkh3SgR8lY19yI1buRBk3sc5uK_mNiiTxp7oKUHxklraPUiRciaz1VWxEpNhmRWqd0pl-h88_b3mV9J6oLxdk5-gW55-3BbYXsFfUa-df5OahdjiuS7sPic-hPp/s320/DSC00057.JPG" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Pintura em tinta óleo, mais uma imagem do Seu Jorge.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Aos que residem em Natal e desejam visitar:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Exposição “Andedan” do artísta Plástico “Marcos Popó” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Vernissage: 1º de Março de 2013, às 18 horas e 30 minutos</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Período da Exposição: 01 de Março de 2013 a 31 de Março de 2013</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Local: Galeria de Arte Campus Natal Cidade Alta – IFRN</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Av. Rio Branco,743, Cidade Alta, Natal/RN</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Curadoria: Mára Beatriz Pucci de Mattos e Marcos Vinicíus de Oliveira Pereira</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Produção Cultural: Jonathan Francioli, Jocasta Andrade e Sonia Silva</span></div>
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<br />DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-18902750677748850802013-02-27T21:24:00.000-03:002013-12-06T20:10:35.145-03:00Minha "Biblioteca de Babel"<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Após um longo tempo de espera e ansiedade pela chegada da amazon aqui no Brasil, finalmente comprei o meu kindle! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Desde que o adquiri (e ficar como criança brincando com ele), fiquei pensando em um conto do Jorge Luís Borges que li há algum tempo no curso de Letras e cheguei a conclusão de que posso chamá-lo de *<a href="http://www.ufvjm.edu.br/site/cafeliterario/a-biblioteca-de-babel-jorge-luis-borges/" target="_blank">A Biblioteca de Babel</a>. Aos que ainda não leram, fica a lição de casa!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Há algum tempo eu era terminantemente contra os leitores de <a href="http://pt.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leitor_de_livros_digitais" target="_blank">e-Readers</a> por uma razão simples: siu uma cheiradora de livros, gosto de pegá-los, apertá-los e senti-los em minhas mãos, tanto quanto a menina do conto **<a href="http://pagina-de-vida.blogspot.com.br/2007/05/felicidade-clandestina-clarice.html" target="_blank">Felicidade Clandestina</a> de Clarice Lispector e ficava bem incomodada com a ideia de que os livros poderiam se extinguir do mundo algum dia. Com o passar do tempo eu comecei a ler um pouco sobre eles e vi que podem ser grandes aliados no incentivo à leitura. Vou explicar mostrando as vantagens de ter um e-Reader nas mãos:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1- Economia de espaço em casa;</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">2- Alguns títulos são exclusivos neste formato;</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">3- Ao menos no kindle que adquiri, possuo um espaço para armazenar cerca de 1.000 livros;</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">4- Posso levar na bolsa para onde eu quiser, já que não pesa;</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">5- As baterias dos leitores costumam durar bastante;</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">6- A leitura não cansa, pois mesmo que algumas versões possuam luz interna, a sensação é a de estar lendo em papel de verdade;</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">7- Mesmo lendo com a luz acesa atrás de você, o reflexo dela não atrapalha, como seria no caso de um pc, tablet ou notebook, pois os e-Readers são projetados em textura muito semelhante ao papel;</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">8- No meu caso, estou ampliando o meu vocabulário de língua estrangeira, pois estou lendo livros em inglês. O dispositivo dispõe de dicionários de inglês e português;</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Após a explicação de algumas das razões pelas quais aderi ao formato, você poderia perguntar: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">-- Mas você ainda curte livros de papel? Eu responderia:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">--Claro que sim, ainda gosto muito! Continuarei comprando em ambos os formatos. Quanto mais livros, melhor!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Eu não poderia deixar de falar da parte estética do kindle! Eu acho lindo os papéis de parede que entram automaticamente cada vez que inicio o meu kindle. Fotografei alguns para vocês que ainda não conhecem (clique para ampliar a foto):</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwM5rD3FL_WMbLxm1DOFziASljgt43FOd9WwOJ4wCG2z73RubsCeFQOERK7bMd0AwmDh-mgPs-cuoHKOtggMZTmetXcVKtr-UvCE0yPmFsugTjCM9HiN4d5_OYsdCRokExXk8apwDyv1n1/s1600/artenokindle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwM5rD3FL_WMbLxm1DOFziASljgt43FOd9WwOJ4wCG2z73RubsCeFQOERK7bMd0AwmDh-mgPs-cuoHKOtggMZTmetXcVKtr-UvCE0yPmFsugTjCM9HiN4d5_OYsdCRokExXk8apwDyv1n1/s320/artenokindle.jpg" width="236" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Por fim, sugiro que quem ficou curioso a respeito dos e-Readers pesquise e veja o que mais agrada. Sou suspeita em falar, mas recomendo muito o kindle. Para maiores informações, acesse o site da amazon brasileira <a href="http://www.amazon.com.br/gp/feature.html/ref=sa_menu_kdvcs?ie=UTF8&docId=1000841461" target="_blank">aqui</a>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Na minha lista de livros do kindle, incluí Os Miseráveis na versão em espanhol.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Seja qual for o estilo de livro que mais combina com você, boa leitura!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">* e **: O links vão direcioná-lo à leitura dos contos citados.</span></div>
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DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-68627396926384326362012-12-09T22:52:00.001-03:002013-12-06T20:12:09.513-03:00Palavrantiga tão atual...<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Mês passado tive a oportunidade de conhecer pessoalmente a banda <a href="http://www.palavrantiga.com/" target="_blank">Palavrantiga</a>. O propósito do post não é falar a trajetória deles, comentar sobre os cds, etc, mas focar nas sensações e genialidades de algumas letras que curto bastante.</span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JVZZHb9TXcM/ULy4ndmf-KI/AAAAAAAADQw/iD9yI3LyrYU/s1600/para+o+blog+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JVZZHb9TXcM/ULy4ndmf-KI/AAAAAAAADQw/iD9yI3LyrYU/s320/para+o+blog+(2).JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Vamos ao show? Sempre que posso e tenho a oportunidade, dou um jeitinho de pegar a <a href="http://pt.wikipedia.org/wiki/Set_list" target="_blank">setlist</a> das bandas e cantores que gosto. A maioria que tenho são de shows que eu fui, mas também tenho outras que amigos pegaram em apresentações que não pude participar. Farei umas postagens no blog falando de cada uma. A do Palavrantiga eu consegui com o produtor da banda e na hora do pedido ele me olhou achando estranho o meu hábito, hahaha. Além da lista das músicas, ainda peguei assinaturas em meu cd, além de ter ficado bastante satisfeita com a qualidade musical da banda.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Detalhe para a dedicatória do vocalista Marcos Almeida: "Débora, alegria sempre!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">O novo trabalho da banda está bem interessante e com uma veia filosófica bem agradável de ouvir. A maioria das músicas foram tocadas na ocasião e mesmo sem saber direito as letras eu desfrutei muito de cada uma delas. Elegi como a música fofa do cd a que se chama <a class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" data-original-id=""gsSong3746686653"" href="http://www.blogger.com/%3Cimg%20src=" id=""gsSong3746686653"" img2.blogblog.com="img2.blogblog.com" img="img" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; height: "40"px; width: "250"px;" video_object.png="video_object.png">" target="_blank">"Minha Menina"</a> . A segunda queridona do cd é <a class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" data-original-id=""gsSong3746690414"" href="http://www.blogger.com/%3Cimg%20src=" id=""gsSong3746690414"" img2.blogblog.com="img2.blogblog.com" img="img" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; height: "40"px; width: "250"px;" video_object.png="video_object.png">" target="_blank">"Boa Nova"</a>. Algum dia, após ouvir mais o cd, quem sabe voltarei aqui para editar e falar mais detalhadamente a respeito do cd inteiro?</span></div>
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<br />DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5138484916386498685.post-25355804383947875172012-10-28T14:59:00.001-03:002013-12-06T20:40:58.360-03:00Às vezes eu queria morar fora de mim...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Pra onde fugir das (boas) lembranças que (paradoxalmente) motivam a chuva que escorre pelos olhos?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A solução (impossível e improvável, ou uma, ou outra, ou ambas) seria morar fora de mim.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Como não posso fazê-lo, fica tudo assim.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Se as tempestades naturais passam e se transformam em bonança, por que não as interiores, aquelas da alma?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>DÉBORA http://www.blogger.com/profile/13390103373262743044noreply@blogger.com4