Fui ontem na Vila Alta, bairro da periferia de Paranavaí, conversar com um amigo, o artista plástico Luiz Carlos Prates de Lima. Na ocasião, ele e outros moradores me relataram que nas últimas duas semanas apareceram vários candidatos a vereador, que até então nunca foram ao bairro, alegando serem os responsáveis pelo asfalto que existe naquele lugar desde o ano passado.
Na realidade, toda a malha viária da Vila Alta foi feita através de uma reivindicação dos próprios moradores, e com recursos do PAC. Ou seja, tais candidatos são basicamente mentirosos e picaretas querendo levar vantagem sobre os mais humildes.
Vão a bairros pobres para tentar enganar os moradores. Depois me perguntam porque é desanimador votar hoje em dia. É esse tipo de gente que mais briga para ocupar um cargo eletivo na atualidade.
She was an artist and a work of art, a platter author who has learned to be guided by the wind
On a mild climate day I got home late in the afternoon. I saw the garage and the clothes on the clothesline covered with soot from the burning of sugarcane. The way she moved through the air gave me the impression that I was in front of the remains of a tortuous and dirty storm.
The soot moved by air in a mocking way. When I tried to touch her, she dodged nimbly and fixed on something that I naively struggled to protect. There was dirt everywhere. Without constriction, the soot smeared all along the way.
She was an artist and a work of art, a platter author who has learned to be guided by the wind. It could be touched in its thoroughness, but never possessed, because after that it was born to nobody else. Dark and tiny, she seemed free to do whatever she wanted in her current world.
My white and clean car was blackened when he met her. Unable to move, he witnessed the specious wind carrying so much soot that made the sun disappear behind the massed shadows of filth. The brightness of the bodywork was gone, misted by sovereignty of false plumbago.
I rubbed my finger on the hood and I noticed a mishmash of ash and low-quality graphite faded under my right forefinger. To my surprise, she still preserved the smell of burnt sugarcane.
Resting in a dry place, and when she was clinging to damp or wet, the soot dissolved, creating designs not always incomprehensible or empty in meaning. In the center of a white shirt that brandished on the clothesline, I saw the hooked shape of a tiny, striated hand. She had bitten nails, and some were more grimy than others.
Maybe it was the most derogatory Phoenix, since she was reborn from the ashes and almost like ashes without the right to turn into something beautiful, good and fruitful that people could enjoy watching or aspirate. Bud of sugarcane straw, she was born ugly and without existential motivation.
Gestated in ember, soot went through dozens of miles to reach their destination – urban area homes, including people who do not know she existed. That was her fate, the short life of those who emerged stubborn by fire. I don’t blame her for indiscipline. It must be horrible to wake up feeling something hot forcing you to leave.
I dove into my mind and watched her first flight, shy and languorous. Sent away, obeying without question the order of things. After all, she felt the remaining freshness of green that was extinguished ten meters from the ground. The soot struggled to cry, seeing herself as blurred, uniform and insignificant. She writhed in the air, but it had no effect. Relegated to a sterile existence, she was drier than the most tenacious droughts.
Angered by not having any rights, and aware that she would have no more than hours, and with lucky a few days, she rebelled against her fate. She made a deal with the wind, promising to revere him as a god if he would help her go as far as possible in your rumpus. He agreed.
After turning into storm, the wind carried her. With his nimia and ruling force, he condensed all the soot of the cane fields, creating a small and blurred replica of the moon. In dozens of kilometers of route, the ball fell apart and fragments followed by the most different directions – through pastures, fields, villages, districts and cities around my hometown.
On that day, the soot invaded John Kennedy Street, crossed the sky of my house and left hundreds of unwanted traces, accompanied by a gurgling sound that mimicked the clink of knives. The sugarcane smell still lingered. While I decided what to do, soot got into my nose and I inhaled. Later I felt a burning in the chest. I had the impression that something unusual was alive inside me and moving.
I went to the doctor the next day and in the same week I made some tests. He showed me that there was a strange stain that distended on one of my lungs. I don’t deny I felt a mixture of worry, anger and sadness. “I’m pretty sure are traces of nitrogen monoxide, nitrogen dioxide, carbon dioxide and ammonia. We need to take care of it, because otherwise it can quickly turn into asthma, lung cancer or even penile cancer”, warned the pulmonologist.
“I felt death smash up against my head, as if a meteor had fallen from space and just chose my skull as a airfield,” wrote Campos de Carvalho in “The Moon comes from Asia.” In the second and third battery of tests, carried out in the next month, showed me there was nothing left in my lungs. Then I remembered that 15 days before a prolonged sneezing gave me an odd sense of relief. What came out of my nose was not clear as water, but cloudy as the void of nonexistence.
Arriving home, I lay in bed and, looking through the window, I realized that on the other side of the wall there was a new soot stain. It looked like a burning bush. I fell asleep, thinking only of another passage of Campos de Carvalho. “At night the moon comes from Asia, but can not come, which shows that not everything in this world is perfect.”
“Arrisquei fazer os primeiros textos poéticos. Gostei, continuei e senti vontade de escrever textos corridos”
Foi na puberdade, quando se apaixonou pela primeira vez, que o escritor e advogado Renato Benvindo Frata, de Paranavaí, no Noroeste do Paraná, rascunhou alguns versos. Influenciado pelo pai e pelo irmão, assíduos leitores, ele descobriu na leitura um dos maiores prazeres da vida. “Então arrisquei fazer os primeiros textos poéticos. Gostei, continuei e senti vontade de escrever textos corridos”, relata.
O primeiro conto, “Pá de Polenta”, foi premiado na década de 1990 no Festival de Música e Poesia de Paranavaí (Femup), 20 anos depois de escrito. “Produzi uma extensão maior desse conto e o transformei em um livro que retrata parte da minha infância. Depois vieram outros. ‘Reflexão dos Cinquenta’, por exemplo, foi a primeira obra de um escritor de Paranavaí a ser publicada por um projeto da Secretaria de Cultura do Estado do Paraná”, conta.
Em 1999, Frata escreveu o conto infantil “O Sapo Chorão”, lançado pelo projeto Aluno Especial, da Secretaria da Educação de Paranavaí. “Fiz o texto e ele foi ilustrado por alunos de classes especiais. Fiquei muito satisfeito porque uma garotinha de Graciosa [distrito de Paranavaí], que tinha dificuldade de memorização, conseguiu captar a intenção do conto e o ilustrou de forma bastante singela, limpa. A obra foi editada com os desenhos dela”, informa.
Em 2009, o escritor lançou o livro “O Cavalariço e a Rainha Roxa”, que recebeu o Prêmio Clarice Lispector no 7º Concurso Literário Internacional da União Brasileira de Escritores (UBE), no Rio de Janeiro. Na história, há um confronto entre a cultura e a condição financeira dos personagens. “Ela era uma rainha triste e ele era um cavalariço sonhador. E através de sua capacidade intelectual, ele consegue conquistá-la. “Fiquei muito feliz com esse prêmio porque a UBE é um expoente literário e trabalha em parceria com a Academia Brasileira de Letras”, comenta.
Frata publicou também “Quarto de Solteiro”, que traz 60 crônicas da época em que saiu de casa para sedimentar a vida profissional, além de outras 40 crônicas sobre o cotidiano. É uma obra que o marcou muito, com histórias que remetem às décadas de 1960 e 1970. Na sequência, vieram “O Ipê Amarelo”, conto que garantiu outro prêmio no Femup, e “O Azarinho e o Caga Fogo”, premiado em Paranavaí e em Curitiba. “O trabalho com a literatura infantil é complicado porque a cabeça da criança é muito diferente da nossa. Não é fácil”, argumenta.
De literatura infantil, Frata cita ainda os livros “O Sapo Chorão”, publicado em duas versões, “Coração Alegria” e “Gato Tiziu”, escrito em parceria com o neto. Na semana passada, o escritor lançou “200 Microcontos…e mais alguns” na 3ª Festa Literária Internacional de Maringá (Flim). “Um verdadeiro desafio. Eu nunca tinha feito isso. Foi um exercício estafante porque o livro saiu em menos de dois meses. Mas fiquei contente pela receptividade. Algumas professoras de Maringá me convidaram para ministrar oficinas para alunos do ensino fundamental. Sei que há coisas a se considerar, mas parece-me que saiu um livro gostoso de se ler”, avalia, em referência à obra em que cada microconto tem cerca de 140 caracteres.
Depois de 16 livros lançados, o escritor mantém-se animado. Confidencia que está editando mais dois livros de contos e crônicas. “Vamos fazendo por diletantismo. A minha motivação é a vida e uma família que, graças a Deus, segue inteira, sem nenhuma cisão. Sou casado há mais de 46 anos e minha esposa Helena me ajuda muito nesse processo”, pondera o escritor que possui sete Barrigudas, troféu-símbolo do Festival de Música e Poesia de Paranavaí, além de premiações em Maringá, Cornélio Procópio, São Paulo e Rio de Janeiro.
Sobre a inspiração para escrever, Renato Frata esclarece que suas obras surgem a partir de suas memórias ou relatos de amigos e conhecidos. “Tudo vem de um intercâmbio de ideias. Eu gostaria de editar todos os meus trabalhos. Tenho uma quantidade razoável de obras que rendem pelo menos mais dois ou três livros de contos e crônicas”, revela.
O escritor qualifica como muito gratificante as ocasiões em que é reconhecido pelos seus textos literários. Um dia, visitando o túmulo de seus pais, um senhor o abordou e disse que era seu fã. “Falou que guardava todas as minhas crônicas que saíam em jornais e revistas. Uma experiência que faz o trabalho de um escritor valer a pena. Para quem escreve, leitores sempre serão mais importantes do que qualquer prêmio”, enfatiza.
No dia 27, o livro “200 Microcontos…e mais alguns”, de Renato Frata, vai ser lançado às 20h no 1º Sarau da Academia de Letras e Artes de Paranavaí no Lions Clube. “Na mesma noite, serão premiados os vencedores do concurso de microcontos e poemas que versam sobre a doação de órgãos. Recebemos mais de 600 trabalhos. Foi uma experiência muito interessante”, declara Frata que é presidente de honra da academia, atualmente presidida por José Cauneto.
À beira da calçada, o copo com água e sabão e a haste de arame envergado faziam sonhos, felicidade, magia. Todos assoprados nas bolhas de sabão. (Página 3)
Renato Frata já publicou 16 livros de contos e crônicas. O escritor nascido no interior de São Paulo se mudou para o Paraná com apenas cinco anos, então se considera paranaense e paranavaiense.
Frase do escritor Renato Frata
“Simpatizo muito com trovas, porém não tenho o hábito de fazer. Acredito que me dou melhor com a crônica.”
I was surprised to see in the yard a small hawk perched on the branch of a brazilian grape tree
I was eight or nine years old. I got home and I was surprised to see in the yard a small hawk perched on the branch of a brazilian grape tree. He was so young and my mother found him injured near a vacant lot. She took care of him and soon he recovered, but he didn’t want to leave.
The little one loved living at home, going through every space he pleased or instigated his curiosity. His plumbeous feathers contrasted with the clear sky on hot days. I said he was the lord of the rain because his plumes were gray as the misty sky. Whenever someone asked me why Diodon had orange feathers next to the right foot, I repeated the same story I made up:
“In a day of little clarity, he flew so high that the sun got angry and suddenly appeared just burning a small portion of his plumes. The shock was so big that even his blue eyes changed color – an endless memory of his stubbornness.”
Dio was quiet and silent, but he didn’t like to interact with other animals. He only watched them from a distance, as if from the branch where he rested, he observed the vassals of his kingdom. He had an inquiring look and at the same time simple and pure. He couldn’t hunt, so the responsibility fell on us to feed him with ground meat plus calcium carbonate powder.
The first time he went up on my finger, I felt a tickle. When I started to laugh, Dio opened his beak and screeched. I had the impression that he wanted to answer my laughter in his own way. As Diodon grew, my fingers became insufficient to safeguard him, and he decided to nest in my arm and shoulder, especially around the neck, where he learned to poke me subtly with his claws. Over my shoulder, Dio always called the attention of onlookers in the center of the town.
From time to time, he opened his wings like a fan, reaffirming its grandiosity. His popped eyes gave me the impression that his painstaking vision contemplated all around him, like his hearing. Nothing went unnoticed, not even a solitary leaf swept by the breeze into a manhole.
Occasionally, he cowered in the presence of strangers, hiding part of his body behind me. I was tickled and laughed when his grizzly beak poked my head. Then he moved his feet to the left, to touch my deltoid, and watched me carefully, since ignoring the visits that he regarded as intrusion. Despite the estrangement that lasted months, he no longer saw the poodles Happy and Chemmy as threats. By analyzing them, his behavior has changed considerably. I remember when I caught the fond Chemmy licking Diodon’s feathers. Silently, the little hawk was aiming the nozzle towards the indigo sky in contemplation.
At late afternoon, after the restless Happy came to lick his beak, Dio wasn’t positioned to peck the dog’s nose as usual. The truth is that he didn’t care. The little hawk may not have noticed what happened and continued admiring the celestial vastness, abstracted from the earth and released to the heavens where he floated under soft dreams as his feathers.
Happy thought that Diodon’s passivity was strange, and examined with exultant and ensnared expression. The poodles retreated when the little hawk flapped his wings and walked toward the brazilian grape tree in the backyard. Climbing from branch to branch, he reached the top and hesitated for nearly a minute before he jumped with open wings.
During the flight, Dio squealed with excitement that caught the attention of neighbors and strangers who passed through Arthur Bernard Street. He was happy and even the most inattentive person realized it. It was as if the cloudless sky gained a new owner, a young animal which discovered that the breath of life also exists in the concession.
Every day in the afternoon he flew at the same time. I was finding it curious and I started to time the duration of his flights. One, two, three, four hours. Each week that passed I noticed that Diodon spent less time at home. That’s when I realized that his home was no longer a place, but a space where his wings bobbed with the purity of a winged horse.
The last time I met him at home, he gently pecked my head. His feathers were more vibrant as well as their glittering eyes of citrine that conveyed me cunning and conviction. Diodon was no longer the small hawk who came home wounded, malnourished and with few feathers. Although he didn’t like hugs, he allowed me to involve him quickly between my arms, without even pointing his long, sharp claws. I let him, and he played the same way he winched the first time that he came up on my finger. Within minutes, Dio left and never returned.We didn’t try to seek him because there is nothing to find when the departure is motivated by the untimely desire to fly.
Querubim ouviu tiro de espingarda seguido de miado. Lá fora, na rua de terra arenosa, Ranulpho nem se mexia, estatelado sobre uma porção de folhas miúdas de sibipiruna. A boca continuava entreaberta, denunciando que a dor da morte não poupava nem os mais inocentes.
Com receio de parecer sentimental demais, o menino engoliu o choro. Fez tanto esforço que as quentes lágrimas que ameaçavam escorrer dos cantos dos olhos desapareceram. Nem conquistaram o princípio de liberdade. Encolerizado, Querubim observou Matias sobre o pé de manga, sorrindo e mirando a espingarda em sua direção. “Você quer também? Dou em você, trouxa!”, avisou o moleque. Querubim não disse nada. Só coçou a cabeça, sem se importar com a nuvem poeirenta que se formava ao redor de sua cabeça, como névoa alaranjada.
De costas para o assassino, o menino agachou e fez carícias na barriga do gato que já não sentia suas mãos sobre o pelo claro. Onde havia um par de olhos azuis, restaram pequenas massas disformes. Duas lágrimas caíram pejosas, umedecendo a boca seca do felino. Era tarde demais.
As horas passavam, e a natureza sepultava Ranulpho, cobrindo seu corpo com o solo arenoso, pouco a pouco transportado do bosque pelo vento sul. “Ô Querubim! Leva esse bicho daqui. Já vai começar a feder”, diziam. Ele só acenava com a cabeça em concordância, sem sequer mover as pernas alinhadas sobre o meio-fio.
Quando a terra arrastada pela aragem invadia a boca do gato, o menino se aproximava e a limpava usando uma toalhinha umedecida com água. No final da tarde, tentou enterrar Ranulpho no canteiro de plantas de sua mãe. Foi repreendido enquanto cavava a terra com a colher de pedreiro de seu avô. “Tá louco, menino! Aqui não é lugar de enterrar bicho!”, reclamou o avô.
O velho pegou o gato morto pelo couro do dorso e o lançou dentro de uma sacola grossa e escura. Parecia um saco para cadáver em PVC. A pendurou no guidão da bicicleta de aros tortos e pedalou até o lixão do bairro mais próximo. Retornou sem dizer palavra. Entrou na cozinha, tomou um gole de café amargo e deitou na rede.
Querubim assistia o velho, querendo saber o que ele fez com Ranulpho. Sem coragem de perguntar, lembrou de uma lei imposta na Vila Paraná na década de 1970, quando três cães de grande porte mataram dois bebês. “Ninguém mais pode entrar aqui com animais. E se alguém matar, não pode chorar nem enterrar, senão vai se ver comigo”, declarou Mandino Conselheiro, a quem a população recorria sempre que surgia algum problema no bairro.
Sob um pé de mamão, Querubim observou o avô até a hora em que o velho dormiu na rede. Chorou e gritou com a mão na boca. Também açoitou as próprias pernas e costas com os galhos do mamoeiro. Ninguém ouvia. Os vergões se multiplicavam. Ele não se importava. Deitou na terra e sentiu gosto acre na boca, misto de terra e sangue.
Amanheceu no seu colchão velho, enrolado num lençol branco encardido e cheio de furos. Pelo buraco no teto, o sol mirava pacotinho de ração ladeado por tampa com água. Querubim levantou e correu até a entrada do barraco onde vivia com a mãe e o avô. O casebre ameaçava cair há anos, porém resistia.
Sentou no chão e usou pedaço de graveto para desenhar Ranulpho. Quando terminou, cochilou com as costas escoradas na cerca de madeira e arame farpado. Em sonho, ouviu um ronronar que lhe arrepiou até os pelos que não possuía. Abriu os olhos e, sob sua mão esquerda, Ranulpho marcava território mais uma vez, esfregando o pelo sujo e macio.
O odor de lixo passou despercebido, não o miado de fome. Chorando, Querubim tomou o gato cego e derreado nos braços. O levou para dentro de casa e de lá não saiu mais naquele dia. A história de Ranulpho e Querubim mudou a Vila Paraná no final dos anos 1990: “Quem não vê amor num animal, não vê amor em si mesmo”, disse Neto Conselheiro, filho de Mandino.
I never understood how love, so colorful symbolically, could have baleful constitution
Throughout life, many times I’ve heard someone saying that love, mistaken for passion, is overwhelming, as if made of sparks of foolishness. When it comes, makes you blind and averse to sense and reason of serene things. It consumes you unexpectedly, leaving your lips parched as dashed ground by severe drought. I’ve heard many stories in my town about suicide for love; people jumping from buildings, throwing their cars against trees, hanging themself, consuming strychnine and shooting themselves in the head. I never understood how love, so colorful symbolically, could have baleful constitution.
Love should not be like mourning, a sorrow manifest. Neither deserves to be related to death if it embraces in essence the fearlessness of light. The heart that loves in abnegation only darkens when it stops beating, irremediable fact of our epilogue. But while living is colorful and robust as a mango harvested in march. It is beyond good and evil. Love is beautiful in literalness, in the purity of its semantics. Not so unilaterally or less distorted and depreciated by clumsiness, confabulations and deconstructions of sense.
Not that there is no pain in love, after all it is inherent to life and sends us iterated signals that suffering also dignifies the existence; teaches that we are defectives, fragile and ephemeral as all beings that inhabit the Earth. However, a feeling becomes harmful only if we allow it to. At least that’s what my life shows me since I started to recognize its entanglement and depth.
When I was seven years old, I lived with my parents in an old house on Pern Street. At the time, a part of the population of my town still had the custom to hold funerals in the own residence hall. One day, across the street, just over 50 meters from home, walking and moving the fingers of the right hand by the wall painted with lime, I stopped in front of a gate where I saw and heard people in a shy crying, talking and scratching their eyes.
They were around a glossy black coffin that looked like a newly unmeasured greased shoe. The room was small and the people, depending on the height, almost rubbed the navel and chest at the deceased’s head to get to the bathroom. Because of the distance, I could not see her face covered by a snowy cloth that more resembled a bridal veil. I knew she was a woman because I remember when someone said that the deceased was mistress Stela. “Hey, they will bury her with that party cloth?”, I asked myself in a burst of spontaneity and simplicity.
The next morning, when I went out to buy bread, I found mister Ofer, the husband of mistress Stela, walking slowly, laughing alone, and without pointing eyes to anything that surrounded him near a bakery at the Federal Avenue. It seemed like a solemn trance and perhaps meaningless in the strangers conception. I approached, greeted him, and in a typically thoughtless act of a child, I asked: “Mister Ofer, your wife died yesterday, so why are you laughing?”
So he kept quiet for three or four seconds as he watched me and straightened the last button of his flowered shirt, such that retirees use when they go on vacation to a tropical paradise. His complexion and his eyes sparkled so much that I could see my little reflection distorted in his almond-shaped velvety pupils.
“Look, David, you’re still too young, I don’t know if you will understand, but I will reveal to you a secret. I’m not happy, but I committed to rediscover a new direction in my life. Before Stela died, she knew how much I was dependent on her. She was my first and only companion for more than 40 years, since we were teenagers. So you know what she did when she became ill and they told her she wouldn’t live long? She was not lamented. She took a notebook from inside the nightstand, picked up a pen and planned my life, day by day for the next five years. She always knew that I am a mess. She said it was for me to follow straight, so I wouldn’t feel lost. If I started a new life, I could leave the notebook. Otherwise, I just needed to restart the tasks. The first day is today. Take a look!”
I took the notebook with both hands and there were the first suggestions. “Dear Ofer, my great love, get up tomorrow, take a good bath, wear the flowered shirt that is on the first hanger, put on the beige shorts in the second drawer and the almond sandals that are in the first row of the shoe rack. Walk slowly to the bakery and smile. Remember the first time we met, when we got married and when Laura was born. Be sure to smile, even if the people judge you. Ignore all the negativity. Sooner or later this exercise will brighten your heart, turning pain into a new form of love. ”
I returned the notebook and walked to the bakery. There, he bought me a snack and a soda. He preserved the smile most of the time, even when he reported the difficulties in the 1950s. “Our house was practically a shack. We had no fridge, so I only could buy food that did not spoil quickly. We were young, very young, but we were happy in a little place in the woods, “he said, already teary eyed.
On the way back, I noticed that while he was walking, mister Ofer fondly massaged his wedding ring on his left hand. There was a warm and stuffy silence like a diving suit that blended the sounds of motorcycles, cars and trucks crossing the Federal Avenue. Suddenly the uncomfortable smell was overshadowed by a uniform and subtle scent of a blue lily bouquet transported on foot by a young employee of a flower shop. “It is her favorite. Stella called it a Blue Darling”, commented mister Ofer in a laconic laughter.
In front of his house we said goodbye. When I was leaving, he yelled my name and asked me to await. Soon he returned with pomegranates in his hands, picked from his backyard. “That never miss love in your home as never lacked in mine,” he said with a candid smile. I continued visiting mister Ofer until 1993, when we lived in Progress Garden. Over time, my routine changed and his too, then we lost contact.
One day in 2002, I received a letter signed by his daughter Laura, who lived in Curitiba for more than 15 years. I thought the correspondence was sent by mistake because I no longer remembered her. When I opened the envelope, I found pomegranate seeds, brought from Palestine, and a small letter. “My dear and good friend David, all that dies today reborns tomorrow, if the heart accepts it. Never forget that even the Dead Sea couldn’t overshadow the scent of pomegranates that radiated to Jericho”, wrote mister Ofer.
Ontem, na fila de um mercado em Nova Esperança, um senhor sendo atendido pelo caixa gesticulava, falava e sorria. Daí notei o caixa, o empacotador e outro homem também sorrindo. A princípio, não entendi o que estava acontecendo. Parecia-me até um tipo de conferência – com os quatro formando um semicírculo . “Quando eu era jovem tive uma barba grande e luminosa igual a daquele rapaz ali. Qualquer dia trago a foto pra vocês darem uma olhada”, disse o cliente na faixa dos 60 anos. Em seguida, mais gente virou o rosto e seguiu o dedo do homem, apontando para o portador da tal barba luminosa – eu.