these are the swatches I managed to make during "the Planet Hour" (last Saturday)
Jardim de suculentas
8 years ago
Monday, March 29, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
My first guinea pigs
These women are lovely indeed, the black-and-white scarf was given to the person who patiently taught me how to cast the stitches.
Knitting is all about patterns!
I finished this scarf yesterday, not without making some mistakes and having to undo the work.Saturday, March 13, 2010
Proud of my achievements
This is a project of a scarf, I'm using slightly bigger needles; this makes the progress more slow. I've already learned to be patient and do only a few rows at a time...
Learning to Knit
After a year going to many physicians I was finally diagnosed as having focal dystonia. Although this might mean the end of a musician's career, I still have hope to recover. Meanwhile I am knitting as a form of therapy. Mind you that I had never knitted before in my life...
Friday, October 31, 2008
Das Veilchen
Das Veilchen
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Ein Veilchen auf der Wiese stand,
Gebückt in sich und unbekannt:
Es war ein herzig’s Veilchen.
Da kam ein’junge Schäferin
Mit leichtem Schritt und munter’m Sinn
Daher, daher,
Die Wiese her und sang.
Ach! denkt das Veilchen, wär’ich nur
Die schönste Blume der Natur,
Ach, nur eine kleines Veilchen,
Bis mich das Liebchen abgepflückt
Und an dem Busen mattgedrückt,
Ach nur, ach nur
Ein Viertelstündchen lang!
Ach! Aber ach! das Mädchen kam
Und nicht in acht das Veilchen nahm,
Ertrat das arme Veilchen
Es sank und starb und freut’sich noch:
Und sterb’ich denn, so sterb’ich doch
Durch sie, durch sie,
Zu ihren Füßen doch!
Das arme Veilchen!
Es war ein herzig’s Veilchen.
Obs: de acordo com meus parcos conhecimentos de alemão, “das” denota que o gênero é neutro.
The Violet
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
A violet stood in the meadow,
modestly retiring and obscure-
it was a sweet little violet.
Then a young shepherdess,
light of step and gay of heart,
came along
through the meadow singing.
“Ah”, thinks the violet,
“if only I were Nature’s loveliest flower,
even but for a little while,
so that the darling girl might pluck me
and press me to her bosom,
even for
a mere quarter of an hour!”
But alas! Alas! The girl came by,
and, never noticing the violet,
crushed the poor violet underfoot.
Yet even as it fell and died it rejoiced:
“Though I die, at least I die
through her, through her,
at her very feet!”
The poor violet!
It was a sweet little violet.
A Violeta
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Estava uma violeta na pradaria
envolta em si mesma e despercebida;
era uma pequena e doce violeta.
Então veio uma pastorinha,
de passos leves e coração alegre
cantando aqui e acolá através dos campos.
Ah, pensa a violeta,
se eu pudesse ser a mais bela flor da Natureza,
fosse só por um instante fugaz,
de modo que a bela garota pudesse me colher
e me colocar junto a seu seio
por um mero quarto-de-hora!
Porém, ai! Ai! Veio a garota e,
sem se dar conta da flor,
esmagou a coitada sob seus pés.
Ainda, enquanto caía e morria, ela se regozijava:
é certo que morro, pelo menos morro por causa dela
por ela morro sob seus mesmos pés!
Pobre violeta!
Era uma pequena e doce violeta.
vertido do inglês por Clodoaldo, 2008.
ouça a peça com música de Mozart K. 476 (1785) em www.blip.fm na interpretação da soprano Kathleen Battle acompanhada por J. Levine
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Ein Veilchen auf der Wiese stand,
Gebückt in sich und unbekannt:
Es war ein herzig’s Veilchen.
Da kam ein’junge Schäferin
Mit leichtem Schritt und munter’m Sinn
Daher, daher,
Die Wiese her und sang.
Ach! denkt das Veilchen, wär’ich nur
Die schönste Blume der Natur,
Ach, nur eine kleines Veilchen,
Bis mich das Liebchen abgepflückt
Und an dem Busen mattgedrückt,
Ach nur, ach nur
Ein Viertelstündchen lang!
Ach! Aber ach! das Mädchen kam
Und nicht in acht das Veilchen nahm,
Ertrat das arme Veilchen
Es sank und starb und freut’sich noch:
Und sterb’ich denn, so sterb’ich doch
Durch sie, durch sie,
Zu ihren Füßen doch!
Das arme Veilchen!
Es war ein herzig’s Veilchen.
Obs: de acordo com meus parcos conhecimentos de alemão, “das” denota que o gênero é neutro.
The Violet
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
A violet stood in the meadow,
modestly retiring and obscure-
it was a sweet little violet.
Then a young shepherdess,
light of step and gay of heart,
came along
through the meadow singing.
“Ah”, thinks the violet,
“if only I were Nature’s loveliest flower,
even but for a little while,
so that the darling girl might pluck me
and press me to her bosom,
even for
a mere quarter of an hour!”
But alas! Alas! The girl came by,
and, never noticing the violet,
crushed the poor violet underfoot.
Yet even as it fell and died it rejoiced:
“Though I die, at least I die
through her, through her,
at her very feet!”
The poor violet!
It was a sweet little violet.
A Violeta
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Estava uma violeta na pradaria
envolta em si mesma e despercebida;
era uma pequena e doce violeta.
Então veio uma pastorinha,
de passos leves e coração alegre
cantando aqui e acolá através dos campos.
Ah, pensa a violeta,
se eu pudesse ser a mais bela flor da Natureza,
fosse só por um instante fugaz,
de modo que a bela garota pudesse me colher
e me colocar junto a seu seio
por um mero quarto-de-hora!
Porém, ai! Ai! Veio a garota e,
sem se dar conta da flor,
esmagou a coitada sob seus pés.
Ainda, enquanto caía e morria, ela se regozijava:
é certo que morro, pelo menos morro por causa dela
por ela morro sob seus mesmos pés!
Pobre violeta!
Era uma pequena e doce violeta.
vertido do inglês por Clodoaldo, 2008.
ouça a peça com música de Mozart K. 476 (1785) em www.blip.fm na interpretação da soprano Kathleen Battle acompanhada por J. Levine
Saturday, September 08, 2007
weeping is not at all bad
"Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlaying our hard hearts".
Charles Dickens, in Great Expectations
Saturday, September 01, 2007
One of my favourite short stories
THE IMAGE OF THE LOST SOUL
There were a number of carved stone figures placed at intervals along the parapets of the old Cathedral; some of them represented angels, other kings and bishops, and nearly all were in attitudes of pious exaltation and composure. But one figure, low down on the cold north side of the building, had neither crown, mitre, nor nimbus, and its face was hard and bitter and downcast; it must be a demon, declared the fat blue pigeons that roosted and sunned themselves all day on the ledges of the parapet; but the old belfry jackdaw, who was an authority on ecclesiastical architecture, said it was a lost soul. And there the matter rested.
One autumn day there fluttered on to the Cathedral roof a slender, sweet-voiced bird that had wandered away from the bare fields and thinning hedgerows in search of winter roosting-place. It tried to rest its tired feet under the shade of a great angel-wing or to nestle in the sculptured folds of a kingly robe, but the fat pigeons hustled it away from wherever it settled, and the noisy sparrow-folk drove it off the ledges. No respectable bird sang with so much feeling they cheeped one to another, and the wanderer had to move on.
Only the effigy of the Lost Soul offered a place of refuge. The pigeons did not consider it safe to perch on a projection that leaned so much out of the perpendicular, and was, besides, too much in the shadow. The figure did not cross its hands in the pious attitude of the other graven dignitaries, but its arms were folded as in defiance and their angle made a snug resting-place for the little bird. Every evening it crept trustfully into its corner against the stone breast of the image, and the darkling eyes seemed to keep watch over its slumbers. The lonely bird grew to love its lonely protector, and during the day it would sit from time to time on some rain-shoot or other abutment and trill forth its sweetest music in grateful thanks for its nightly shelter. And, it may have been the work of wind and weather, or some other influence, but the wild drawn face seemed gradually to lose some of its hardness and unhappiness. Every day, through the long monotonous hours, the song of his little guest would come up in snatches of the lonely watcher, and at evening, when the vesper-bell was ringing and the great grey bats slid out of their hiding-places in the belfry roof, the bright-eyed bird would return, twitter a few sleepy notes, and nestle into the arms that were waiting for him. Those were happy days for the Dark Image. Only the great bell of the Cathedral rang out daily its mocking message, ‘After joy...sorrow.’
The folk in the verger’s lodge noticed a little brown bird flitting about the Cathedral precincts, and admired its beautiful singing. ‘But it is a pity’, said they, ‘that all that warbling should be lost and wasted far out of hearing up on the parapet.’ They were poor, but they understood the principles of political economy. So they caught the bird and put it in a little wicker cage outside the lodge door.
That night the little songster was missing form its accustomed haunt, and the Dark Image knew more than ever the bitterness of loneliness. Perhaps his little friend had been killed by a prowling cat or hurt by a stone. Perhaps...perhaps he had flown elsewhere. But when morning came there floated up to him, through the noise and bustle of the Cathedral world, a faint heart-aching message from the prisoner of the wicker cage far below. And every day, at high noon, when the fat pigeons were stupefied into silence after their midday meal and the sparrows were washing themselves in the street-puddles, the song of the little bird came up to the parapets – a song of hunger and longing and hopelessness, a cry that could never be answered.
The pigeons remarked, between mealtimes, that the figure leaned forward more than ever out of the perpendicular.
One day no song came up from the little wicker cage. It was the coldest day of the winter, and the pigeons and sparrows on the Cathedral roof looked anxiously on all sides for the scraps of food which they were dependent on in hard weather.
‘Have the lodge-folk thrown out anything on to the dust-heap?’ inquired one pigeon of another which was peering over the edge of the north parapet.
‘Only a little dead bird,’ was the answer.
There was a crackling sound in the night on the Cathedral roof and a noise as falling masonry. The belfry jackdaw said the frost was affecting the fabric, and as he had experienced many frosts it must have been so. In the morning it was seen that the Figure of the Last Soul had toppled from its cornice and lay now in a broken mass on the dust-heap outside the verger’s lodge.
‘It is just as well,’ cooed the fat pigeons, after they had peered at the matter for some minutes, ‘now we shall have a nice angel put up there. Certainly they will put an angel there.’
‘After joy...sorrow,’ rang out the great bell.
Hector Hugh Munro (Saki)
(please forgive me if I missed some word, as it is well past bed-time...)
There were a number of carved stone figures placed at intervals along the parapets of the old Cathedral; some of them represented angels, other kings and bishops, and nearly all were in attitudes of pious exaltation and composure. But one figure, low down on the cold north side of the building, had neither crown, mitre, nor nimbus, and its face was hard and bitter and downcast; it must be a demon, declared the fat blue pigeons that roosted and sunned themselves all day on the ledges of the parapet; but the old belfry jackdaw, who was an authority on ecclesiastical architecture, said it was a lost soul. And there the matter rested.
One autumn day there fluttered on to the Cathedral roof a slender, sweet-voiced bird that had wandered away from the bare fields and thinning hedgerows in search of winter roosting-place. It tried to rest its tired feet under the shade of a great angel-wing or to nestle in the sculptured folds of a kingly robe, but the fat pigeons hustled it away from wherever it settled, and the noisy sparrow-folk drove it off the ledges. No respectable bird sang with so much feeling they cheeped one to another, and the wanderer had to move on.
Only the effigy of the Lost Soul offered a place of refuge. The pigeons did not consider it safe to perch on a projection that leaned so much out of the perpendicular, and was, besides, too much in the shadow. The figure did not cross its hands in the pious attitude of the other graven dignitaries, but its arms were folded as in defiance and their angle made a snug resting-place for the little bird. Every evening it crept trustfully into its corner against the stone breast of the image, and the darkling eyes seemed to keep watch over its slumbers. The lonely bird grew to love its lonely protector, and during the day it would sit from time to time on some rain-shoot or other abutment and trill forth its sweetest music in grateful thanks for its nightly shelter. And, it may have been the work of wind and weather, or some other influence, but the wild drawn face seemed gradually to lose some of its hardness and unhappiness. Every day, through the long monotonous hours, the song of his little guest would come up in snatches of the lonely watcher, and at evening, when the vesper-bell was ringing and the great grey bats slid out of their hiding-places in the belfry roof, the bright-eyed bird would return, twitter a few sleepy notes, and nestle into the arms that were waiting for him. Those were happy days for the Dark Image. Only the great bell of the Cathedral rang out daily its mocking message, ‘After joy...sorrow.’
The folk in the verger’s lodge noticed a little brown bird flitting about the Cathedral precincts, and admired its beautiful singing. ‘But it is a pity’, said they, ‘that all that warbling should be lost and wasted far out of hearing up on the parapet.’ They were poor, but they understood the principles of political economy. So they caught the bird and put it in a little wicker cage outside the lodge door.
That night the little songster was missing form its accustomed haunt, and the Dark Image knew more than ever the bitterness of loneliness. Perhaps his little friend had been killed by a prowling cat or hurt by a stone. Perhaps...perhaps he had flown elsewhere. But when morning came there floated up to him, through the noise and bustle of the Cathedral world, a faint heart-aching message from the prisoner of the wicker cage far below. And every day, at high noon, when the fat pigeons were stupefied into silence after their midday meal and the sparrows were washing themselves in the street-puddles, the song of the little bird came up to the parapets – a song of hunger and longing and hopelessness, a cry that could never be answered.
The pigeons remarked, between mealtimes, that the figure leaned forward more than ever out of the perpendicular.
One day no song came up from the little wicker cage. It was the coldest day of the winter, and the pigeons and sparrows on the Cathedral roof looked anxiously on all sides for the scraps of food which they were dependent on in hard weather.
‘Have the lodge-folk thrown out anything on to the dust-heap?’ inquired one pigeon of another which was peering over the edge of the north parapet.
‘Only a little dead bird,’ was the answer.
There was a crackling sound in the night on the Cathedral roof and a noise as falling masonry. The belfry jackdaw said the frost was affecting the fabric, and as he had experienced many frosts it must have been so. In the morning it was seen that the Figure of the Last Soul had toppled from its cornice and lay now in a broken mass on the dust-heap outside the verger’s lodge.
‘It is just as well,’ cooed the fat pigeons, after they had peered at the matter for some minutes, ‘now we shall have a nice angel put up there. Certainly they will put an angel there.’
‘After joy...sorrow,’ rang out the great bell.
Hector Hugh Munro (Saki)
(please forgive me if I missed some word, as it is well past bed-time...)
Monday, May 07, 2007
Bach's Six Suites for Solo Cello
May, 10th, 2007
Thursday
8:30 p.m.
School of Arts Fego Camargo
Avenida Tiradentes, 202
Taubaté SP
Brazil
info: (12) 3625-5061
Thursday
8:30 p.m.
School of Arts Fego Camargo
Avenida Tiradentes, 202
Taubaté SP
Brazil
info: (12) 3625-5061
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