By June 25, 2018texts

At the first hour to contemplate with the palm the cold magma, to question about its preceding eruption and about its peculiar drawing that its cooling brings to the surface. To understand from the stone its cycle. To walk.

At the second hour to go to its gem with the verb itself, guessing that the paths the word indicates can only be taken by the pedestrian weight. To move forward in the direction of the exact and simple interior of the things.

At the third hour, the shiniest one, to be an accomplice of the mineral time and, just like it, and against it, and in its favour, to barge in the erosion and in the sediment at once. To be the mine’s inside, the crack’s outside, the digging, trying by all means to find from it a face on the windward side.

At the fourth and fifth hours to be already amongst the non-vegetable state of the flora: amongst the coal, graphite, granite, amongst the round, wild gravel, amongst the thickest layer and the sanded one. To confuse the written with the writer, the support with the supported, to let oneself stay there in a soot state. To be as it has always been.

At the sixth hour, to find oneself again in the calm surface of the things, in its exact and sometimes ceramic dermis, to be able to find in them, little by little, the testimony that keeps the whole time of having been lava.To finally carve the invention of a raw game, which allows seeing the segment of eternity that being soot and almost rolling sphere offers.

At the seventh hour to recall everything again, and to find everything new while recalling: that the geological art of relooking the cuts on the solid ground is that same one of understanding that the act of seeing also suffers tectonic shake-ups, and that from its cracks hosts the heat of what it has once been, of what it still isn’t, of what shall become rock, what at the moment is fire and feeds itself from air, and with it slowly cools down. The new is also the unchangeable drawing of the mountains, continuously rewriting itself from the inside, and to look at it is part of eroding it.

At the eighth hour, the last one so far, to start again, which is ancient order, principle of the whole school of radically being another one, each time one comes back from the depth. That the craft of the poet and of the artist is so often the miner’s one. The light above the head, in the darkness, in the guts, the light as Cyclops’ eye. And in the look’s direction, the precise piece of the world being revealed. And the work of the hand grabbing it, so many times, over the table. Afterwards, to sleep without resting, to reach out

to everything that may explain the quiet slowness of the things that are placed down or that are up in the air around us: the pencil, the rock, the grape, the sphere, the chalk, the piece of paper, the axis, the shade, the grass, the skin, the salt. To dream a simple dream, raw, exact and fair, clean, smiling, and to wake up humus to thrive, holding out your hand, giving space to the flocks’ invasions, biding its time, knowing, from the beginning, that good things come to those who wait. To resume all the hours. To reorder time in land portions.


Marta Bernardes