eu tenho quase certeza de que era o Roberto Carlos viajando ao meu lado. não o jogador com pernas de minotauro. mas o Rei. o olhar doce, o cabelo sedoso escorrido nas bochechas levemente ressecadas, a boca totalmente sem lábios. tingido de azul celeste. a voz saltava com os relevos da estrada que se desenrolava no parabrisas verde oliva. no banco traseiro, meu corpo deslizava levemente nas curvas da antiga via lagos sentindo o toque suave da capa impermeável. ao meu lado, o Rei. não em pessoa. numa caixa 4:3 da fita cassete, me olhava e ria. grandes gargalhadas. no banco da frente, ele me inspecionava com o canto dos olhos atrás de um RayBan Aviador pelo retrovisor-estendido-acessório-da-moda-retrovisor-gigantesco-preso-com-elástico-com-um-pequeno-terço-pendurado enquanto cantarolava contido, pra dentro de si, as melodias das caixas de som. o gol 1000, azul havaí, 94, 167.435km, terceiro dono, era uma máquina potente na mão dele. o câmbio em gota invertida tinha trocas velozes e encaixes precisos no tempo do contra-tempo das levadas do Rei no alto-falante. no passageiro, os cabelos dela sobrevoavam a paisagem com o corte certeiro do vento do basculante. ao meu lado, Roberto Carlos. no mesmo banco que anos depois teria minha primeira experiência de quase morte com uma bala de uva atravessada na guela, guinada pra fora da estrada, salto certeiro na banca de tangerina e toca fruta pra dentro pra vê se desce. no mesmo banco traseiro que montei minha primeira barraca de vendas-casadas antártica-quente e diarreia certeira, no quintal da casa, pros íntimos da família. o mesmo banco traseiro que não me despedi quando o carro virou lembrança. o mesmo banco traseiro que sonho um dia me sentar novamente, quem sabe, nem deus sabe. no final das contas, bem mais que essa empilhada de lata retorcida, todo carro antigo conta sua própria história. é questão de sentir. pousar os dedos sobre o capô, arquear as mãos em forma de concha e - deitando delicadamente no vidro do motorista - observar suas marcas, suas texturas, o ressequido do câmbio, o desgaste do pedal da embreagem, a almofada do assento comida nas laterais. é questão de sentir. obeliscos do esquecimento, silenciosamente continuam habitando nossas esquinas, as quinas da memória, observam nosso vai e vem, enquanto a gente se acostuma com essa ideia insana de esquecer. enquanto a gente e o neoliberalismo dança esse pacto brutal do que vale ser lembrado. tem dias que o tropeço me joga na calçada, totalmente embasbacado com essas figuras, quanto mais riscado melhor, quanto mais tinta tostada no sol, mais bonito. eu e esses guardiões de contos perdidos. tem dias que essa dança dá registro e sigo na esperança de que um dia eu, Roberto, a bala de uva e a capa de banco possamos estar novamente na mesma curva da estrada.
[translate ate the bottom of the page]
série criada para a disciplina Experiências Gráficas - Cotidiano e Memória (EAV - Parque Lage - RJ)
gear still:
Nikon N65 | Nikkor 50mm [KODAK VISIONPRO 400]
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[ENG]
I'm almost certain it was Roberto Carlos traveling by my side. not the footballer with minotaur legs. but the King. that sweet gaze, the silky hair cascading down his slightly chapped cheeks, the lipless mouth. tinted in celestial blue. his voice leapt with the bumps in the road unfolding through the olive-green windshield. in the back seat, my body glided gently through the curves of the old Via Lagos, feeling the soft touch of the waterproof seat cover. beside me, the King. not in person. but in a 4:3 cassette tape box, he looked at me and laughed. big laughs. in the front seat, he watched me from the corner of his eye, behind Ray-Ban Aviators,
through the oversized-rearview-mirror-retro-accessory-held-by-an-elastic-with-a-small-hanging-rosary, humming quietly, inwardly,
to the melodies pouring from the speakers. the Volkswagen Gol 1000, Hawaiian blue, '94, 167,435 km, third owner,
was a powerful machine in his hands. the inverted-drop gearshift moved swiftly, with precise clicks in the syncopated time of the King’s rhythm from the speaker. in the passenger seat, her hair sliced through the landscape, cut clean by the breeze from the pop-out window. beside me, Roberto Carlos. on the same seat where, years later, I’d have my first near-death experience— a grape candy lodged in my throat, swerve off the road, a perfect jump into the tangerine stand, fruit down the hatch to try and make it pass. the same back seat where I built my first stand— bundled sales of warm Antártica beer and guaranteed diarrhea— in the backyard, just for the family. the same back seat I never said goodbye to when the car became a memory. the same back seat I dream of sitting in again someday. who knows, not even God knows. in the end, much more than a heap of twisted metal,
every old car tells its own story. it’s a matter of feeling. of placing your fingers on the hood, cupping your hands, and—laying gently against the driver’s window— observing its marks, its textures, the dryness of the shifter, the worn clutch pedal, the seat cushion gnawed at the edges. it’s a matter of feeling. obelisks of forgetting, they silently inhabit our street corners, the corners of memory, watching our comings and goings while we grow used to this insane idea of forgetting. while we, and neoliberalism,
dance this brutal pact of what’s worth remembering. some days, a stumble knocks me onto the sidewalk, utterly dumbstruck by these figures— the more scratched, the better, the more sun-faded paint, the more beautiful. me and these guardians of lost tales.
through the oversized-rearview-mirror-retro-accessory-held-by-an-elastic-with-a-small-hanging-rosary, humming quietly, inwardly,
to the melodies pouring from the speakers. the Volkswagen Gol 1000, Hawaiian blue, '94, 167,435 km, third owner,
was a powerful machine in his hands. the inverted-drop gearshift moved swiftly, with precise clicks in the syncopated time of the King’s rhythm from the speaker. in the passenger seat, her hair sliced through the landscape, cut clean by the breeze from the pop-out window. beside me, Roberto Carlos. on the same seat where, years later, I’d have my first near-death experience— a grape candy lodged in my throat, swerve off the road, a perfect jump into the tangerine stand, fruit down the hatch to try and make it pass. the same back seat where I built my first stand— bundled sales of warm Antártica beer and guaranteed diarrhea— in the backyard, just for the family. the same back seat I never said goodbye to when the car became a memory. the same back seat I dream of sitting in again someday. who knows, not even God knows. in the end, much more than a heap of twisted metal,
every old car tells its own story. it’s a matter of feeling. of placing your fingers on the hood, cupping your hands, and—laying gently against the driver’s window— observing its marks, its textures, the dryness of the shifter, the worn clutch pedal, the seat cushion gnawed at the edges. it’s a matter of feeling. obelisks of forgetting, they silently inhabit our street corners, the corners of memory, watching our comings and goings while we grow used to this insane idea of forgetting. while we, and neoliberalism,
dance this brutal pact of what’s worth remembering. some days, a stumble knocks me onto the sidewalk, utterly dumbstruck by these figures— the more scratched, the better, the more sun-faded paint, the more beautiful. me and these guardians of lost tales.
Some days this dance becomes a record, and I keep going, in the hope that one day, me, Roberto, the grape candy, and the seat cover will be back together on the same curve in the road.
