Pedro Álvares Cabral — alt story (Part Three)

André Picanço

Feb 24, 2019·3 min read

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The man has had a really hard time thinking out about everything that happened in his whole existence until that encounter. Pedro had spent the last two weeks trying to pick up the bits and pieces of his own mind that were shattered around the ship. The errant winds had blown his sanity away, having him abandoned the command for a while so as the simplest of tasks ~ such as maintaining his personal hygiene up to date. Meanwhile, the crew was raging star…vation wars.

Miguel had taken over the command of the ship since the Captain was not okay, but knowing it was all about astrology he has raised his shields and swords against the six rebel ships that tried to convince the fleet to move direction. The battle was quite long since the territory was wide enough ~no walls nor corners ~ and due to their provisions ran out quicker when spending energy. The fishing ship had been sunk and so their aliment right on the second day of that war. It was a dull move from one of the sides ~ thinking that famine would make the other side weaker, ending the conflict earlier. It was on a sunny lucky day that one of then-commanded Miguel’s caravel had spotted a whale nearby and then fished it with an improvised harpoon. Pedro was not able to listen to a sound coming out of his room, as he was just in state of trance all of a sudden. Everybody felt he wouldn’t make it very far. Occasionally, Miguel would put a plate of meat in front of the door so Cabral could pick that up when nobody was on sight.

~ What about Margarida? She is rather decent and enjoys music ~ then a long moment of silence would follow it, to be interrupted with a random grumble.

From the other side of the door a couple of seamen would be listening discreetly, with a mix of fear and resignation. “He’s definitely gone, what do we do now?”

At one day they couldn’t avoid been caught by Miguel’s sight, who gave them a brutal earful right beside the door.

~ BUNCH OF POULTRY BOTH OF YOU ARE! YOU JUST GOT SO USED TO BE COMMANDED YOU CAN’T EVEN THINK BY YOURSELF ANYMORE!

Both of them got a huge fright as if it was Pedro himself shouting. Then somebody inside that room shouted back:

~ YOU BETTER LEAVE ME ON MY OWN YOU FUCKS!

Miguel looked amused, knowing he was about to come back from his travel.

(at this point the author has just got caught in self doubt, whether he would continue the story or stop it right here to write a longer essay ~book ~on the story)

any suggestions that would help me out clearing my mind, you’re welcome to email me at andreeeepicanco@gmail.com.

thanks.

 

Pedro Álvares Cabral — alt story (Part Two)

André Picanço

Feb 22, 2019·5 min read

https://www.ancient-origins.net/sites/default/files/field/image/Discovery-of-Brazil-alvares.jpg

Senhor Fernão did not seem to be as cheerful as Pedro, maybe due to their byes to be said at the stairs or as the young man read through his eyes, it was maybe a mix of both absence of his loved son and a bitter disappointment due to this course of choice was on Arts instead of Architecture. ‘If he is lucky enough he will join some Italian atelier, although he better not learn with the French’. At this moment a tearful Sr. Fernão stopped walking amidst those long stairs at the entrance of the University of Coimbra, then gazed ahead while waiting his son to stop ~so he could stand taller than the young boy.

~ I once said you should always follow your heart, my son. Are you definitely sure this is it?

~ I wouldn’t be this far if it wasn’t, father.

~ You said exactly the same a couple years ago, Pedro. ~ Sr. Fernão enjoyed looking at his son downwards. Pedro felt odd, although he was used to oddness. It was as if along with his words a frozen breath was sent straight to his spine.

~ Father, I thought we had been through this already.

~ I just wish you luck, son. I love you ~said the father with a glance of confusion.

The fall sunset was just shading Pedro’s face down the stairs, while the young man was staring at his father’s brown eyes that looked goldenish from under. He caught a teardrop running down his eyes and thought foolishly it was about the money he was handing out of his coat to him. So Fernão said, in a strangely calm manner:

~ You are a navigator, Pedro. I just wish you become able to discover what you are searching out from within.

He was struck by what his father had just said, and tried to speak a word. But at this moment his lips was just shut, and finally when he did mumble something he woke up bursting out in tears.

He reached his latest techy pocket watch in the top drawer to see it was just past 4 a.m.. He felt a bit uneasy even sailing on a tranquil sea. It was March, 31st. So he wore his clothing to go for a walk on the deck.

Miguel was sitting at the quarterdeck table having a cup of tea struggling to understand the book that was on his hands. When noticing the Captain had noticed him, he goofed, nearly spilling the hot drink on his lap. Then apologized for that, trying to hide the book.

“Good morning, senhor”.

“Good morning, Miguel. No need to panic, mister. It is a quiet sea night. What book are you reading, if you don’t mind my disturbance.”

“It’s one of Geoffrey Chaucer’s. The Complaint of Mars.”

Pedro nodded, seeming to know what the book was about. So he uncrossed his hands, pocketing them and saying afterwards:

~ I will give you something to clear your mind for this read. Heat some water for us, would you? I’m gonna be right back.

The sailor felt embraced by the Captain.

“…so it’s all about astrology? that wind me up.” At this moment Pedro threw the towel off his shoulder and decided to agree with that question so he could move out of the subject. So he said with a face of despair: “yeah it’s exactly it”. He excused himself to light a cigar in solitude. Miguel seemed thrilled he’d just made a great discovery just that moment.

While opening the box, labeled “Tabaco do Novo Mundo” Pedro felt lucky to be living in such a moment. “Dark Ages have gone behind”, thought to himself. He barely knew the Portuguese Inquisition was setting itself up in Lisbon as slowly as the cigar he was smoking. Pedro was looking nowhere behind the ship where he could spot one or two other ships in distance. He was so distracted by his thoughts that he didn’t realize Miguel had walked out of the quarterdeck. So when he heard a cracking sound behind him on the table, he turned around saying:

~ Miguel…

He couldn’t believe his very own eyes and nearly fell off the boat. The Portuguese cigar did not have the same fortune, falling into the sea.

~JESUS CRISTO DO CÉU!!!!

It was a man on a white tunic, with a long beard and an odd-shaped hat. He seemed to hold a gem on each hand.

~ Pedro. I once said you should always follow your heart. Are you definitely sure this is it?

The Captain felt a storm raging inside of him, shutting his mouth, freaking him out and panicking his soul out of himself. This time it seemed realer then the dream, so real he couldn’t even move a feet nor shout out for help; he didn’t feel to need to do so, though. He was a frozen man. The old man looked wise enough to comfort him somehow.

~ I know you cannot say a word. I will tell you something, my dear. You will find out what you are looking for, even though you don’t have a clue of what that is.

Pedro couldn’t resist and began to cry due to the purest thrill of knowing he was on the right way to something he did not have a clue of what that was. The old man went on:

~ The only thing I ask you is to, well… Pick yourself just one person to bring with you to the New World. Choose carefully and don’t make hasty decisions, since this person is going to be along yourself in your destiny.

He was only able to agree with his head, crying as a newborn baby at this stage.

~You will have a few more days before reaching the Land. Make a good use of your mind and body, and have good luck on your quest.

The Captain finally mumbled a “yeaaaaa…” before passing out.

On the next morning his crew faced a riot started by a couple ships that were starving and sickening.

(to be continued…)

 

As escolhas

André Picanço

Feb 22, 2019·1 min read

Sou um velho jovem
cheio de energia, mas cansado
de tanto ter que fazer escolhas.

um dia me ofereceram a pílula vermelha
e me arrastei
e me reduzi
até o fundo do buraco da minhoca
(ou até onde consegui chegar)
Nesse dia a Dor
foi minha maior mestra.

noutro dia me ofereceram
a pílula azul
e dormi num sono profundo
no qual o sonho era tão bom
que quase eu não acordei.
Mas foi aí que um mestre
acabou por me acordar.

daí pensei no quanto
esse Morfeu
era sem vergonha
e pensei no traficante
que não deve consumir seu produto
e comecei a oferecer
as ditas azuis e vermelhas.
Foi aí que eu entendi
porque as luzes do carro de Polícia
também são azuis e vermelhas,
então fui preso pelos mestres.

daí quando veio a liberdade
consegui compreender a beleza que há
em não ser nada.

E assim parei de cair na tentação de escolher coisas.

 

Sobre a arte e o café

André Picanço

Feb 20, 2019·3 min read

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Nesse teatro da vida esse carinha que escreve aqui já foi ator. Já fui vilão, já fui heroi, já fui policial e já fui bandido. Já fui o cocô do cavalo do bandido, e já fui a mosca que pousou na sopa de alguém. Sinceramente, hoje estou muito mais contente ao me tornar espectador e de vez em quando contribuir com o que eu for capaz de fazer para ajudar aqueles que tentam puxar a carroça adiante. Estou usando esse espaço em plenas seis horas da manhã para discutir sobre café mais uma vez. Alguns dos meus amigos se espantam pelo quão encantado eu sou por esse mundo, e do outro lado, eu é que me espanto por eles não conseguirem entender o que eu sinto pelo café. Portanto, toda vez que se tiver que explicar um sentimento, nada o explicará tão bem quanto a arte e o artista precisará entrar em cena.

Para começar, como você descreveria a intensidade da fome que você sentiu ontem à noite quando chegou da rua? Faminto, morto de fome, brocado, mei com fome ou varado da zorra com fome pacaralho? Agora pense comigo sobre o dia em que você precisou se despedir de alguém relevante para você. Como foi a sensação? Triste, alegre, horrenda, inesquecível, de partir o coração ou de cair o cu das calças? Repare que cada termo utilizado te remete a uma sensação diferente. E quando se trata de cafés e de sentimentos, não existe nada realmente igual. A não ser que você apenas tome cafés mecanizados ou busque apenas ruminar os mesmos sentimentos (preciso mesmo descrever isso?).

Meus rituais de tomar café para começar o dia tem se tornado cada vez mais religiosos, no sentido de me aprofundar mais no autoconhecimento através do paladar; é uma conversa que tenho comigo mesmo com a ajuda do café. E juro por Deus que não coloco nada psicoativo nas minhas bebidas. De psicoativo já basta a própria mente. Mas às vezes fico pensando nas notas sensoriais que dou pros meus cafés e penso, cara, quem é que vai entender o que é um café brilhante ou que porra é um café redondo mesmo? O grande ponto da arte em geral é que basta que exista apenas mais um entendedor além do artista que a visualizou para que ela se torne válida, e não um mero devaneio autista. Por isso o artista é um ser que caminha no escuro portando uma lanterna, à procura da saída ou simplesmente à procura de uma companhia dentro dessa escuridão que é a vida.

Então concluo que os profissionais da cadeia do café são grandes tecelões das sensações humanas. Os produtores são responsáveis pela criação do objeto de estudo e admiração de uma série de malucos ~ os quais felizmente posso me incluir ~ que tentam trazer para o contexto linguístico algo que é preparado por diversas mãos de forma completamente artesanal. Talvez se no meio da cadeia o torrador tivesse tido um dia meio ruim, o café na ponta poderia ter defeitos mais evidentes, ou se de repente o barista estivesse de mau humor ou de má disposição, certamente o café refletiria aquele que o preparou naquele momento. Um grande amigo uma vez me disse que as pessoas também podem ser ácidas, ríspidas, azedas ou amargas. Assim como também podem ser moles, frutadas, florais e com doçura acentuada. Guardo esse pensamento comigo até hoje, e sou imensamente grato em poder ver que pelo menos mais alguém compreendeu o que ele visualizou. E através das notas sensoriais que damos aos cafés que tomamos, nos damos conta que temos a capacidade de construir uma nova linguagem, e a oportunidade para isso está não apenas na ponta da língua, mas também nas laterais e no restante do palato.

 

Coffee freedom

André Picanço

André Picanço

Freelance writer based in Amazon, Brazil. I write sometimes em Português and às vezes in English.

Last published Dec 29, 2020

Feb 18, 2019·2 min read

http://u.osu.edu/guillozet6hseportfolio/files/2015/08/espresso-coffee-beans-24n95jb.jpg

It has been so long and it makes one good observer really delighted to be living at this present moment in the history of coffee. Since 850 a.C. it is actually the first time that these beans had been freed. Wait though, free from what and who?

Free from humankind.

Ever since Kaldi’s made his greatest discovery, people have been trying to hide not only the beans themselves but their purest flavours. There are a lot of cards to be put on this table but I don’t pretend to blow your mind. Yet. Time, as did master Bob said, are A-Changing. I’ll just wait you across the caffeine road. Anyway, we should go back to our train of thought so we don’t go off tracks.

This is a glorious moment in the history of coffee that as far as one can see, the best cup of joe is finally available and accessible to everyone who seeks it. Coffee has finally reached its final ~ if we consider time like that ~ stage of freedom. What I find amazing about freedom is the idiosincrasy of it. It may mean anything. But only few of them ~we call them coffee lovers ~ get to really understand what it is to be free.

Some of them are in the pursue of the perfect cup, some are just stuck under a pile of gear and brewing methods, and some just don’t really care about it at all. Poor little ones!

It’s nearly 7am here in Manaus and I had just brewed my perfect cup of coffee on the Chemex using a proportion I’d never used before and it was perfectly amazing to start a day. If you’re into this world I hope you brew your best coffee today too. Sláinte mhaith.

 

O atalho

André Picanço

Feb 17, 2019·1 min read

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O velho marujo refletia
sob o som dos ventos do norte
enquanto fumava um negócio africano
quando um
~filho da puta ~
interrompeu
mas ele sabe que
os filhos da puta
sempre interrompem a reflexão do sábio
e por isso
abstrai.

Daí o dito sujeito
filho de uma profissional de serviços sexuais
perguntou
Capitão,
não devíamos pegar o atalho
do canal daquele rio do Egito?
o velho soprou a fumaça
como se expulsasse
toda a raiva
do peito
por ter sido interrompido
na melhor parte do pensamento.
Disse:
Pudim, meu nobre
hoje não dá mais
~o canal está fechado
e qualquer tipo de atalho
virou emboscada.
Saindo na sexta
e no sábado
o sábado
espera a gente
armado
com os nossos descuidos.

O Pudim arrotou
pra pelo menos oferecer uma resposta
àquilo tudo que não entendeu porra nenhuma
e por isso seu álibi
é o rum.
O velho teve que completar
sabendo do álibi do Pudim.

Acontece que o atalho
é rápido sim,
mas com a falta de atenção
se afunda todo um navio
num instante.
Por isso às vezes
o caminho mais longo
é o mais seguro
~agora deixa eu fumar meu cigarro em paz
ô filho da puta.