…and here’s a painting that I found online, based on Klimt’s tree, by the artist Joy Poulard (with the Brooklyn Parrots – link here):

I was waiting for it for days. It arrived before yesterday.
First I fought with the idea of buying it, it’s too much money for a hobby. But then the industry came up with this more affordable model, and it was impossible to resist to the idea. I bought it, and I don’t regret.
I used for 2 nights only so far, and I basically fixed mistakes on the already felted scarves. It made me happy, because I am able to sell them now.
I am thinking of starting a brand new collection of scarves, wall art, etc, based on Klimt – just because one of them reminded me a little bit of his work, and my husband, without knowing it, looked at it and said “Klimt”. That did it! I did it unconsciously (of course, Klimt has been a huge influence in my life, ever since I visited Vienna in 1992) – but now I want to go for it – do a bunch of pieces as if I was Klimt playing with this new technique ;-D My sister was the one to give me the idea.
Here are a few pictures:

…and here is the machine itself (from the internet):

Definitivo, como tudo o que é simples.
Nossa dor não advém das coisas vividas,
mas das coisas que foram sonhadas e não se cumpriram.

Sofremos por quê? Porque automaticamente esquecemos
o que foi desfrutado e passamos a sofrer pelas nossas projeções
irrealizadas, por todas as cidades que gostaríamos de ter conhecido ao lado
do nosso amor e não conhecemos, por todos os filhos que gostaríamos de ter
tido junto e não tivemos,por todos os shows e livros e silêncios que
gostaríamos de ter compartilhado,
e não compartilhamos.
Por todos os beijos cancelados, pela eternidade.

Sofremos não porque nosso trabalho é desgastante e paga pouco, mas por todas
as horas livres que deixamos de ter para ir ao cinema, para conversar com um
amigo, para nadar, para namorar.

Sofremos não porque nossa mãe é impaciente conosco, mas por todos os
momentos em que poderíamos estar confidenciando a ela nossas mais profundas
angústias se ela estivesse interessada em nos compreender.

Sofremos não porque nosso time perdeu, mas pela euforia sufocada.

Sofremos não porque envelhecemos, mas porque o futuro está sendo
confiscado de nós, impedindo assim que mil aventuras nos aconteçam,
todas aquelas com as quais sonhamos e nunca chegamos a experimentar.

Por que sofremos tanto por amor?
O certo seria a gente não sofrer, apenas agradecer por termos conhecido uma
pessoa tão bacana, que gerou em nós um sentimento intenso e que nos fez
companhia por um tempo razoável,um tempo feliz.

Como aliviar a dor do que não foi vivido? A resposta é simples como um
verso:

Se iludindo menos e vivendo mais!!!
A cada dia que vivo, mais me convenço de que o desperdício da vida
está no amor que não damos, nas forças que não usamos,
na prudência egoísta que nada arrisca, e que, esquivando-se do
sofrimento,perdemos também a felicidade.

A dor é inevitável.
O sofrimento é opcional…

A dor é inevitável
O sofrimento é opcional

Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the Hidden Paw–
For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime–Macavity’s not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime–Macavity’s not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air–
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity’s not there!

Macavity’s a ginger cat, he’s very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he’s half asleep, he’s always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square–
But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there!

He’s outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s.
And when the larder’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke’s been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair–
Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Macavity’s not there!

And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty’s gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair–
But it’s useless of investigate–Macavity’s not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
“It must have been Macavity!”–but he’s a mile away.
You’ll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macacity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibit, or one or two to spare:
And whatever time the deed took place–MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there’s the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey–
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter–
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular,
A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there’s still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover–
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

O ME, man of slack faith so long!
Standing aloof—denying portions so long;
Only aware to-day of compact, all-diffused truth;
Discovering to-day there is no lie, or form of lie, and can be none, but grows as
inevitably
upon
itself as the truth does upon itself,
Or as any law of the earth, or any natural production of the earth does.

(This is curious, and may not be realized immediately—But it must be realized;
I feel in myself that I represent falsehoods equally with the rest,
And that the universe does.)

Where has fail’d a perfect return, indifferent of lies or the truth?
Is it upon the ground, or in water or fire? or in the spirit of man? or in the meat and
blood?

Meditating among liars, and retreating sternly into myself, I see that there are really no
liars or
lies after all,
And that nothing fails its perfect return—And that what are called lies are perfect
returns,
And that each thing exactly represents itself, and what has preceded it,
And that the truth includes all, and is compact, just as much as space is compact,
And that there is no flaw or vacuum in the amount of the truth—but that all is truth
without
exception;
And henceforth I will go celebrate anything I see or am,
And sing and laugh, and deny nothing.

Nothing had ever obliged him to do anything. He had spent his childhood alone. He never joined any group. He never pursued a course of study. He never belonged to a crowd. The circumstances of his life were marked by that strange but rather common phenomenon – perhaps, in fact, it’s true for all lives – of being tailored to the image and likeness of his instincts, which tended towards inertia and withdrawal.

O poeta é um fingidor
Finge tão completamente
Que chega a fingir que é dor
A dor que deveras sente
_____________________________
The poet is a faker
Who’s so good at his act
He even fakes the pain
Of pain he feels in fact.

Fernando Pessoa-himself, “Autopsychography”
(Autopsicografia), tr. Richard Zenith.

Quando falo em escuro
Penso em nao tao escuro assim

Se falo em cheio
Lembro o muito, e o vazio,
talvez.

Se eles falam em Deus,
Remeto-me a paz,
e o que a antecede.

No inferno ha um azul,
No amarelo, um lilas,
Na inercia ha um infinito movimento,
No silencio, uma cidade.

Tudo e luz e frio,
Frio e calma,
Asas e peso.

Tenho vontade de olhar para dentro -
Agressiva curiosidade -
Dilascerar, separar cada viscera,
Rir do meu estomago.

Quero olhar para dentro fundo,
profundo, profano meu desejo.
Ver o que nunca me foi concedido.
Quero avistar meus oceanos,
Meus abismos, luas e ceus, a lava.

Toda sentidos, no paradoxo do corporeo,
Agora sentido tao etereo e efemero,
Tocar no lixo protegido
Sentir o cheiro da grande orgia
Guardia dos meus medos.
Ouvir de longe a efervescencia violenta
dos desejos, meus desejos
Que me fazem andar nao em uma,
Mas em varias linhas curvas.

Com minha boca molhada,
Compreender finalmente o gosto da minha
pintura interna, feita a infinitas maos.

Com minhas maos, agora sujar mais um amarelo,
Com minhas maos, agora cavar um pouco mais o tunel,

Acariciar o intestino, E subir a tona, puta,

Agarrando-me a cada pulsao, instinto,
cada movimento involuntario,
Que me faz respirar.

(1994)

Carlos Drummond de Andrade

Definitive, as everything that is simple.
Our pain doesn’t come from the things that we’ve lived,
but from the things that were dreamed up and not acquired.

Why do we suffer? Why do we automatically forget
what we had enjoyed and we suffer for our unfulfilled projections,
for all the cities that we would have known next to
our love and did not happen, for all the children that we would have together
and didn’t have, for all the shows and books and silences that we would have shared
and did not share.
For all those kisses canceled, for eternity.

We suffer not because our work is stressful and pays little, but for all the free
hours that we lost to go to the movies, to talk to a friend,
to swim, to date.

We suffer not because our mother is impatient with us, but for all the
moments that we could be confiding to her our deepest
anxieties if she was interested to understand us.

We suffer not because our team lost, but for the suffocated euphoria.

We suffer not because we age, but because the future is being
confiscated from us, thus preventing a thousand adventures to happen to us,
all those with whom we dreamed and we never ever try.

Why suffer so much for love?
The truth was we did not suffer, just thank you for having known a so
nice person, which generated an intense feeling in us and made us
company for a reasonable time, a happy time.

How to ease the pain that is in what wasn’t lived? The answer is simple as a verse:

Deluding themselves less and living longer!
Every day I live, the more I become convinced that the waste of life
are in love that we don’t give, the forces that we don’t use,
in the selfish prudence that nothing ventures, and that, dodging the
suffering, we lose also the happiness.

Pain is inevitable.
Suffering is optional …