da dignidade dos professores

"Talvez eles me tenham perseguido por eu nunca me ter portado da forma como se esperava que um professor se portasse. (...) Comecei por ser um rebelde (...) Incendiava-me a preocupação de estabelecer a dignidade da minha profissão. Talvez isso os tivesse enfurecido mais do que outra coisa qualquer. A indignidade que tínhamos de suportar como professores na altura em que comecei a leccionar... não ias acreditar. Sermos tratados como crianças. Aquilo que os superiores diziam era lei. Inquestionável. Tem de estar aqui às tantas horas, assinar o livro de pontos a horas. Vai passar tantas horas na escola. E será requisitado para outras tarefas à tarde e à noite, embora isso não esteja mencionado no contrato. Todo o tipo de abusos e mesquinhices. Uma pessoa sentia-se humilhada." in Casei com um comunista de Philip Roth.

amplexo em ruínas

10x10, nova temporada. 2011

O espectáculo 10x10 vai ter uma nova temporada, com novos textos e também novos intérpretes.


info retirada do site da Estaca Zero:
a partir de textos de
AKKAS AL-ALI, ÁLVARO SILVEIRA, NINA RAPI,
NUNO BRITO, SANCHITA ISLAM, SUZANA GUIMARÃENS,
TIAGO PATRÍCIO e VERA CUNHA
conceito e direcção artística EMANUEL DE SOUSA
vídeo VICTOR CARVALHO
interpretação BÁRBARA ANDREZ, CRISTINA CARDOSO,
DANIELA GONÇALVES, CLÁUDIA SOUSA, EMANUEL DE SOUSA,
FILIPE MOREIRA, JORGE BOTELHO, MARTA CARVALHO,
OLINDA FAVAS, PEDRO DIAS e RITA VIEIRA
execução de figurinos e adereços A MANIA DA MARIA
by PATRÍCIA SOUSA
imagem gráfica LINHA DE PARTIDA
fotografia de cena VITOR LEITE, PAULO SOUSA
produção ESTACA ZERO TEATRO
apoios MINISTÉRIO DA CULTURA / DIRECÇÃO-GERAL DAS ARTES, ESCOLA SUPERIOR DE MÚSICA E ARTES DO ESPECTÁCULO, e GALERIA DE PARIS
classificação etária maiores de 12 anos
duração aproximada 100 minutos / intervalo

A temporada de 2011 da produção 10X10 conta com novos textos em língua portuguesa e inglesa, da autoria de AKKAS AL-ALI, SUZANA GUIMARÃENS, ÁLVARO SILVEIRA, TIAGO PATRÍCIO, NUNO BRITO e VERA CUNHA, sendo este último texto resultante do Desafio de Escrita Criativa realizado em Dezembro 2009.
A temporada de 2011 integra quatro novos intérpretes, BÁRBARA ANDREZ, CRISTINA CARDOSO, MARTA CARVALHO e FILIPE MOREIRA, assim como a participação de VICTOR CARVALHO na video art e HUGO MARTINS na sonoplastia.

A temporada de 2009/10 contou com textos em língua portuguesa e inglesa, da autoria de ANA MARTA FORTUNA, CATARINA AIDOS, NINA RAPI, NUNO BRITO, RITA BURMESTER, SANCHITA ISLAM, SUZANA GUIMARÃENS, TIAGO MONTENEGRO, TIAGO PATRÍCIO e VERA CUNHA
A temporada de 2009/10 contou com a participação dos intérpretes ALEXANDRE SÁ, JANELA MAGALHÃES, PEDRO JORGE RIBEIRO, RITA BURMESTER e SARA FERNANDES, e a participação de VITOR LEITE na video art, os quais integraram a produção até Outubro 2010.


INFORMAÇÕES / RESERVAS
+351 916 529 041


Próximas datas:


Tertúlia Castelense
Maia
18 Fevereiro 2011, 22h30


Convento Corpus Christi
Vila Nova Gaia
19 Fevereiro 2011, 22h00


Por Amor à Arte Galeria
Porto
25 Fevereiro 2011, 22h00


Alfaiate
Porto
26 Fevereiro 2011, 22h00


Hard Club
Porto
1 Março 2011, 22h00


Por Amor à Arte Galeria
Porto
4 Março 2011, 22h00


Lumiére
Porto
5 Março 2011, 22h00


Hard Club
Porto
29 Março 2011, 22h00
22 Março 2011, 22h00
15 Março 2011, 22h00
8 Março 2011, 22h00 + conversa aberta

Quintas de Leitura em Março

Mais info aqui

Da solidão

"De onde vem a solidão? Era capaz de arriscar que o jogo de dados que é a família tem alguma coisa a ver com isso (...) Mutilamos os nossos filhos para toda a vida não lhes dizendo o que é a solidão com todas as suas sombras, todos os seus matizes e implicações. Quando ela nos bate na cabeça, geralmente logo depois de sairmos de casa, ficamos a ver estrelas. Não fazemos ideia do que acabou de nos atingir. Pensamos que estamos doentes, que sofremos de esquizofrenia, de doença bipolar, que somos monstruosos e temos falta de crómio na nossa dieta. Só quando chegamos aos trinta é que percebemos o que nos roubou a alegria da juventude, o que fez os nossos cérebros ficarem encolhidos e fritos por dentro, mesmo que o nosso aspecto exterior nos fizesse sentir tão confiantes e bronzeados como pilotos da Qantas. Foi a solidão."

in Eleanor Rigby, de Douglas Coupland, Teorema 

Laboratório de Leitura Poética - 2ª Edição

 

mais info aqui. 

conselho simples para os procrastinadores natos

"The nearest I have to a rule is a Post-It on the wall in front of my desk saying “Faire et se taire” (Flaubert), which I translate for myself as “Shut up and get on with it.”

HELEN SIMPSON

daqui

If you want to ask What The Fuck?, think twice, and don't ask.

"Dear Sugar,

WTF, WTF, WTF?

I’m asking this question as it applies to everything every day.

Best,
WTF

Dear WTF,

My father’s father made me jack him off when I was three and four and five. I wasn’t any good at it. My hands were too small and I couldn’t get the rhythm right and I didn’t understand what I was doing. I only knew I didn’t want to do it. Knew that it made me feel miserable and anxious in a way so sickeningly particular that I can feel that same particular sickness rising this very minute in my throat. I hated having to rub my grandfather’s cock, but there was nothing I could do. I had to do it. My grandfather babysat my older sister and me a couple times a week in that era of my life and most of the days that I was trapped in his house with him he would pull his already-getting-hard penis out of his pants and say come here and that was that.

I moved far away from him when I was nearly six and soon after that my parents split up and my father left my life and I never saw my grandfather again. He died of black lung disease when he was 66 and I was 15, the same as his father had, both of them coal miners.

When I learned that my grandfather died, I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t happy either. He was no one to me and yet he was always there, the force of him and what he’d made me do moving through me like a dark river.

“Do you remember how we used to have to jack him off?” I asked my sister one day shortly after he died. We’d never spoken of it. I’d never said a word about it to anyone. I was ready for my sister to say no, for everything I remembered about my grandfather and his cock to be an ugly invention of my nasty little mind.

But she said, “Yeah.” She said, “Wow.” She said, “What the fuck was up with that?”

There was nothing the fuck up with that and there never will be. I will die with there never being anything the fuck up with my grandfather making my hands do the things he made my hands do with his cock. But it took me years to figure that out. To hold the truth within me that some things are so sad and wrong and unanswerable that the question must simply stand alone like a spear in the mud.

So I railed against it, in search of the answer to what the fuck was up with my grandfather doing that to my sister and me. What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?

But I could never shake it. That particular fuck would not be shook. Asking what the fuck only brought it around. Around and around it went, my grandfather’s cock in my hands, the memory if it so vivid, so palpable, so very much a part of me. It came to me during sex and not during sex. It came to me in flashes and it came to me in dreams. It came to me one day when I found a baby bird, fallen from a tree.

I know you aren’t supposed to pick up baby birds. I know once you touch them their mama won’t come back and get them, but this bird was a goner anyway. Its neck was broken, its head lolling treacherously to the side. I picked it up and cradled it as delicately as I could in my palms. I cooed to soothe it, but each time I cooed, it only struggled piteously to get away, terrified by my voice.

The bird’s suffering would’ve been unbearable at any time, but it was particularly unbearable at that moment in my life because my mother had just died. Her death was ugly. She was only forty-five. And because she was dead I was pretty much dead too. I was dead but alive. And I had a baby bird in my palms that was dead but alive as well.

I knew there was only one humane thing to do, though it took me the better part of an hour to work up the courage to do it: I put the baby bird in a paper bag and smothered it with my hands.

Nothing that has died in my life has ever died easily and this bird was no exception. This bird did not go down without a fight. I could feel it through the paper bag, pulsing against my hand and rearing up, simultaneously flaccid and ferocious beneath its translucent sheen of skin, precisely as my grandfather’s cock had been.

There it was! There it was again. Right there in the paper bag. The ghost of that old man’s cock would always be in my hands. But I understood what I was doing this time. I understood that I had to press against it harder than I could bear. It had to die. Pressing harder was murder. It was mercy.

That’s what the fuck it was. The fuck was mine.

And the fuck is yours too, WTF. That question does not apply “to everything every day.” If it does, you’re wasting your life. If it does, you’re a lazy coward and you are not a lazy coward.

Ask better questions, sweet pea. The fuck is your life. Answer it.

Yours,
Sugar"

origem do texto: http://therumpus.net/

keep it simple...and in 12 point type, Times New Roman

"Dear Betsy: Much of the work I do is written in 14-point font, but publishers and others request 12.  Why the 12 when 14 is easier to read? NAME WITHHELD

You know, every now and then you get a question that touches you deeply. That cuts to the core. Font size is one of those issues. Like penises, they can be too big, too small, or just right. 12-point is the standard, friend, don’t fuck with it. And don’t go all Boldoni or Helvetica on my ass either. Bring it in 12 point type, Times New Roman, double-spaced paginated pages because there is nothing uglier on the face of the earth than an agent who has reached over for  a sip of her Numi ginger tea and dropped an unpaginated manuscript all over the floor. And while we’re at it: don’t use colored paper, don’t use personalized stationery especially if it’s decorated with a quill, a typewriter, kittens, or a tiny shelf of books,  don’t include a picture of yourself (really, do not), no little gifties like chocolate or gift cards especially if they’re for Cracker Barrel, no perfume, or CD’s, or a small horse made out of ear wax. Don’t do anything cute, or funny (as in ha ha), or cheeky, or silly. This is not an audition for American Idol. This is your manuscript. Keep it holy.

Tonight there is only question: what the fuck?"

 tirado daqui