segunda-feira, 4 de novembro de 2013

(Noutra língua pensamos diferente, de novo?)


Once upon a time, some million years ago, people went to the movies. They saw a train and cried, for they believed it would come out of the screen and kill them. They saw men and women and cried, for they believed they were not men and women but ghosts. They saw this close-up of a blank face and then a close-up of a piece of bread and cried, for they believed the actor was hungry. 
In the best city spots, on big crazy rocks, there were these cinema houses made only of columns and sun; these super-delicate machines that projected words of fire against the ancient skies, the opaque-blue skies that existed before 0000, the year the man from Nazareth was crucified by the nazis. Back then, people went to the movies like today we go to the earth when we die. Only they did it on a daily basis. So, well. That's how it was. Life. They saw a bull — up there, on the screen, this great mystery of an animal — and they cried, for they believed it was a god. They were absolutely right.
Everything was in black-and-white, of course. This was during the Natural Cinema phase of the world. The bull was white in the night, shining white, like a glass of milk seen through Hitchcock's eyes. It's the myth, and, you know the slogan right?, the myth is the truth twenty-four times per second. And one fine day, Sunday it was, this bull saw a beautiful girl in the audience. Oh boy she had such an attentive face. Oh my, the way she chewed her chewing gum.
In the cinemascope-reality of the world, the bull kidnapped, raped or made love to the girl. There are different versions here. Three, at least. The girl's name we all know, of course, because it's our name, really. Even if we tend to forget it. Even if sometimes, out of guilt or whatever it is, we don't use it. But, you know, a name is a name. What Pessoa said about the myth, that's a name: the nothing that is everything. Europa, Europe, Europe.
The girl's father was a powerful man, a Forbes billionaire, but there was nothing he could do to bring back his daughter. For better or for worse, she was in the future now. Riding god over the waves, under the fool moon, a naked woman surfer, her face open open. When she arrived in Crete she became a queen and gave birth to three sons: the European Parliament, the European Commission and the European Council. This is just a brief introduction to the real thing, I'm afraid. History will be out next Monday. Do not miss it. You have a say in how all this plays out. Will the three Europeans save their mother, god's love — our name — from austerity, inequality, technocracy?

(texto que escrevi para o espetáculo "Bull's Eye" de Philippe Vincent)

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