terça-feira, 8 de março de 2022
segunda-feira, 7 de março de 2022
Meditações - when the clock strikes the hour
The Perfect World
God of lost souls, thou who are lost amongst the gods, hear
me:
Gentle Destiny that watchest over us, mad, wandering
spirits, hear me:
I dwell in the midst of a perfect race, I the most
imperfect.
I, a human chaos, a nebula of confused elements, I move
amongst finished worlds—peoples of complete laws and pure order, whose thoughts
are assorted, whose dreams are arranged, and whose visions are enrolled and
registered.
Their virtues, O God, are measured, their sins are weighed,
and even the countless things that pass in the dim twilight of neither sin nor
virtue are recorded and catalogued.
Here days and night are divided into seasons of conduct and
governed by rules of blameless accuracy.
To eat, to drink, to sleep, to cover one’s nudity, and then
to be weary in due time.
To work, to play, to sing, to dance, and then to lie still
when the clock strikes the hour.
To think thus, to feel thus much, and then to cease thinking
and feeling when a certain star rises above yonder horizon.
To rob a neighbour with a smile, to bestow gifts with a
graceful wave of the hand, to praise prudently, to blame cautiously, to destroy
a sound with a word, to burn a body with a breath, and then to wash the hands
when the day’s work is done.
To love according to an established order, to entertain
one’s best self in a preconceived manner, to worship the gods becomingly, to
intrigue the devils artfully—and then to forget all as though memory were dead.
To fancy with a motive, to contemplate with consideration,
to be happy sweetly, to suffer nobly—and then to empty the cup so that tomorrow
may fill it again.
All these things, O God, are conceived with forethought,
born with determination, nursed with exactness, governed by rules, directed by
reason, and then slain and buried after a prescribed method. And even their
silent graves that lie within the human soul are marked and numbered.
It is a perfect world, a world of consummate excellence, a
world of supreme wonders, the ripest fruit in God’s garden, the master-thought
of the universe.
But why should I be here, O God, I a green seed of
unfulfilled passion, a mad tempest that seeketh neither east nor west, a
bewildered fragment from a burnt planet?
Why am I here, O God of lost souls, thou who art lost
amongst the gods?
Khalil Gibran
domingo, 6 de março de 2022
Memorabilia... há 10 anos, livre-trânsito de parqueamento Baselworld 2012
Há precisamente dez anos: livre-trânsito de parqueamento da equipa de Estação Cronográfica, Baselworld 2012
Meditações - I can hear the sand slip downward in my body clock
A one ended boomerang
For once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with
your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to
return.
— Leonardo da Vinci
An hourglass constricted, the whore inside of me who is
watching the clock, monitoring the time, this wasted time to get off, get
going, lunar cycle gauge of tide and meridian. How I can hear the sand slip
downward in my body clock? I need to be here, could be there, and not long ago
the only place you wanted me to be was by your side ... maybe?
I am a pencil that cannot sharpen,
ink that slides off paper,
outside of our time, I am lost,
a one
ended boomerang.
Samuel Wagan Watson
sábado, 5 de março de 2022
Meditações - the short span when the clocks ceased to revolve
The Great House in Various Light
The evening empty as a convex
coconut split down the seam:
not that it can be filled.
The evening empty as a gourd
that twists on an iron thread:
the rough skin of the sphere.
. . . . .
Not that there was a spoken word
to recall the moment of seeing
the short span when the clocks
ceased to revolve and hands
met in jest or benediction
time of the vortex into which
hibiscus and almond trees strayed
and windows made of aluminum.
The stars are suddenly remote
candescent petals night throws
above the yard, the beautiful things.
. . . . .
The great house is a hotel
and a museum of victory
how some lived at the epoch
of planters and governors
visible in the paintings
the armchairs and gilded glass
articulate artifacts
and floors polished by daylight
in a country of green hills
and water wheels and wagons
and sun coming out after a rain
the labor is hidden that built
the house long ago, and ploughed
the land to make it bear fruit
. . . . .
In British poetry, gentle woodland
creatures gaze at the hermit
with marble eyes lit from within.
A single bird defends the song.
Among the pines draped with snow
from the whole land only a secret
footfall teases the senses awake
like white breath on white canvas.
Ideal forms crowd the auditorium.
The sky deepens on the surface
of a lake, in a cradle of stars.
A coppice of isolated birch trees
climbs the mountainside to touch
the moon's scar, benevolent witness
washed of color and fragmentary
illuminating the village below.
. . . . .
In New World poetry, an invisible
river runs this way and that.
A car(t) eases on a bumpy track
over small hills and into shallows.
The world is a tangle of leaves.
Towards sundown a driver gets out
and pushes into the forest, drawn
by a noise he cannot identify:
perhaps the hiss of water below.
It's only the river on its way.
Ideal forms crowd the auditorium
things present and things past
scattered beneath the poinciana.
The car heads into higher country
then out into space where fields
suddenly lie down beneath the seer
cattle pastures and agricultural lands
that have always been there
watched over by the great house
from its hilltop, like a sentinel.
. . . . .
In British poetry, the forms
of desire darken with the change
of seasons: green leaves once
they fade and turn gold and fall
to earth, and make a carpet
in the forest, awaiting the rain.
For each season has its sonata.
Silence and sound in balance
belong to the decline of autumn.
In winter the notes are fewer.
Silence comes into its kingdom
crown of the father, who departs.
The world of white prepares
to conquer the earth with silence.
. . . . .
In British poetry, articulate hues
speak as they are visible to the mind
audible colors played on a piano
primary sounds in an empty forest.
And then above a lake, the moon
in motion suspended like a dancer
as the music temporarily ceases
depriving her body of its rhythm.
. . . . .
Ideal forms crowd the auditorium.
The light of day starts to fade
and a mist settles in the valleys.
The great house is lit from within.
. . . . .
As they were, in other windows
you want to see their ghosts
the slaves, like black posts
staggered through the fields.
You want to make a picture
that shows the strange overlords
at intervals watch the misery
of torsos laboring to plant
and harvest the seas of sugar.
. . . . .
The green beds of sugar cane
extend from here to the hills.
Bright heads grazed by the light
of paradise become its negative.
. . . . .
In time, would the land irritate us
as it must have irritated the masters
the tropical caress of the air unavoidable
getting up each day to see once more
the rolling green hills and cattle ponds
tranquil in the valleys, the horses
collected at the water trough, content
to stand or to walk over the grass.
A comely scene worthy of an oil painting
(fruit trees dappled with sunlight).
They have escaped from seasons
into the monotony of a terrible beauty.
(Who is speaking?)
. . . . .
Away from the coast
the car passes through
a shadowy green world
of tropical syntax
ragged slopes and curves.
. . . . .
What then was promised by the evening
lights that spangled about the hills?
. . . . .
Endless tall grasses, a landscape
composed of variations on a color.
The after-image of elliptical forms
transparent as the cry of a seagull.
. . . . .
A tablet of scripted exclamations:
there, a poinciana with pink blossoms
overhangs the road, there a scrawl
of fighting tendrils, an indigo grammar
of petals offering illumination
to fan-shaped pristine hieroglyphs
waving to greener punctuations
of banana trees and mango, a tangle
of writing over writing closed
to further interventions. Visible
palimpsest of a book without letters
the tangle of leaves has no secret key
and cannot be deciphered, wordless
monads travelling contours of silence.
. . . . .
Mimesis touches the world
with an imperceptible
tenderness, only hardly
like wind an Aeolian harp.
. . . . .
There is a point when the sky pivots
to face the dawn, to face the dark side
of personality, that of a sensible man
recanting the mysteries he embraced
as a youth, when the angels spoke to him
and he ran towards them with arms wide open
across a field, beneath the painted stars.
. . . . .
Say that the world is a drinking glass
containing things of the life and language
and say that a poet wakes up one morning
thinking of capturing for the future
those petals inside that glass, broken vowels.
A vase of orchids stands on a kitchen table.
Not that it is abstract, or a luminous
symbol, nonetheless it is an algebra
of forces, like the equations of space-time,
which rule outside the mental universe.
As if an image should
leave its mirror behind
(the thing of which it is but a ghost)
like bodiless speech, and yet sensuous, in the way
a dream can leave its mark on the dreamer—
Esse est percipi, so speaketh the Law.
Wind begins to touch an Aeolian harp.
The great house is a place of articulation
word calls to other words, in transit.
Compelled by the beauty of flowers
the mind creates a space for other things.
. . . . .
(By British I mean Romantic idealist.)
Warm night descends
like a cloak. The whistle
of tree frogs supplies
a melody, and crickets
invisible to the moon
begin their Parliament.
The birds sleep with their young.
The air is otherwise still.
Mark McMorris, "The Great House in Various Light"
from The Book of Landings. Copyright © 2016 by Mark McMorris. Reprinted by
permission of Wesleyan University Press.
sexta-feira, 4 de março de 2022
Anuário Relógios & Canetas - Edição online faz 9 anos e continua a liderar
Um quarto de século após a sua fundação, o Anuário Relógios & Canetas continua a ser a publicação mais antiga e respeitada na sua área de actividade – a Alta Relojoaria, os Instrumentos de Escrita, as Jóias e os objectos de Luxo em geral.
Atingindo um universo potencial de 250 milhões de falantes em língua portuguesa, a 6ª mais falada no mundo, o Anuário Relógios & Canetas produz todos os anos uma edição em papel (com as suas 300 páginas, considerada a “bíblia” do sector, objecto de colecção e perene por natureza).
Desde Março de 2013 que o Anuário Relógios e Canetas mantém uma edição digital mensal da revista bem como um website de suporte. Mas a revista tem também criado outros assets digitais, nomeadamente através das redes sociais, apps para aplicações móveis e até parcerias – como é o caso da TAP – para acesso directo às edições digitais da revista.
Ao entrar no nono ano de edições mensais disponíveis grátis online, alguns números:
O site (https://www.anuariorelogiosecanetas.pt/) tem uma média mensal de 130 mil pageviews e de 40 mil visitas.
No Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/AnuarioRelogioseCanetas/), a página tem mais de 21 mil seguidores, tornando-o líder nesta plataforma em termos de imprensa especializada do sector e em língua portuguesa.
No Issuu (https://issuu.com/anuariorelogiosecanetas), com possibilidade de descarregamento directo em pdf, as estatísticas entre 1 de Julho de 2016 e 31 de Janeiro de 2022 dão 872.774 impressões (número de vezes que a primeira página de uma publicação foi visualizada); e 58.076 leituras. Com um tempo médio de leitura por edição de 8 a 15 minutos.
No Instagram (https://www.instagram.com/anuariorelogiosecanetas/), o título tem mais de 1.700 fãs.
O Anuário Relógios & Canetas está também presente na App Store, no quiosque virtual da TAP e no universo do blogue Estação Cronográfica (https://estacaochronographica.blogspot.com/), que abrange o Facebook e o Linkedin, com um total de mais de 50 mil contactos.
Meditações - Time was away and somewhere else
Meeting Point
Time was away and somewhere else,
There were two glasses and two chairs
And two people with the one pulse
(Somebody stopped the moving stairs):
Time was away and somewhere else.
And they were neither up nor down;
The stream’s music did not stop
Flowing through heather, limpid brown,
Although they sat in a coffee shop
And they were neither up nor down.
The bell was silent in the air
Holding its inverted poise—
Between the clang and clang a flower,
A brazen calyx of no noise:
The bell was silent in the air.
The camels crossed the miles of sand
That stretched around the cups and plates;
The desert was their own, they planned
To portion out the stars and dates:
The camels crossed the miles of sand.
Time was away and somewhere else.
The waiter did not come, the clock
Forgot them and the radio waltz
Came out like water from a rock:
Time was away and somewhere else.
Her fingers flicked away the ash
That bloomed again in tropic trees:
Not caring if the markets crash
When they had forests such as these,
Her fingers flicked away the ash.
God or whatever means the Good
Be praised that time can stop like this,
That what the heart has understood
Can verify in the body’s peace
God or whatever means the Good.
Time was away and she was here
And life no longer what it was,
The bell was silent in the air
And all the room one glow because
Time was away and she was here.
Louis MacNeice, “Meeting Point” from The Collected Poems of
Louis MacNeice. Copyright © 1967 by
Louis MacNeice. Reprinted by permission
of David Higham Associates, Ltd.
quinta-feira, 3 de março de 2022
Primavera em Genebra - relógios Sevenfriday convidam...
In order to celebrate the 10th anniversary of SEVENFRIDAY, Dan Niederer (co-founder and CEO) and his team are happy inviting you to meet in Geneva on March 29th for a cool and easy moment at the FloorTwo bar (Fairmont Hotel, 2nd floor).
Os relógios Hublot no Relógios & Canetas online
O futuro está na Richape Mille? Ou está mesmo tudo doido?
O futuro está na Richape Mille? Ou está mesmo tudo doido?
Um enredo com todos os ingredientes previsíveis – NFTs, cópias digitais de modelos Patek Philippe (sem aparente autorização da marca), nome da empresa a piscar o olho à exclusiva e super-cara Richard Mille (sem o aparente consentimento desta), Metaverse, cripto moedas, blockchain e outros conceitos digitais actualmente na crista da onda.
De leitura obrigatória, a entrevista dada por um tal Hannu
Siren, fundador da Richape Mille (sic) ao site financeiro brasileiro ADVFN News
(https://br.advfn.com/jornal/)
Pode lê-la aqui: https://br.advfn.com/jornal/2022/02/richape-mille-faz-o-mercado-nft-de-us-41-bilhoes-conhecer-o-mercado-de-relogios-de-us-21-bilhoes
E saber mais sobre a tal Richape Mille aqui: https://www.richapemille.com/.
A bolha relojoeira está no auge, seja no mundo físico ou no
mundo virtual. Seja com modelos novos, seja com peças vintage. Somos só nós que
temos uma sensação de impotente melancolia perante este quadro especulativo?
Não estará ele a matar o amor genuíno à relojoaria mecânica e ao património
histórico e cultural que ela representa? Não estará esta especulação
desenfreada a impedir que gerações mais novas se interessem verdadeiramente por
relógios e não por mais um meio de investimento, ainda por cima altamente
especulativo?
Segundo as contas feitas por especialistas em compra e venda
de relógios usados, Bob’s Watches, o investimento feito na última década em
Rolex superou em ganhos os tradicionais investimentos em ouro ou imobiliário.
Vale a pena ler o artigo que a Forbes fez sobre o assunto - https://robbreport.com/style/watch-collector/rolex-outperform-stock-real-estate-gold-1234661689/.
E espreitar o site da empresa norte-americana - https://www.bobswatches.com/
Citamos:
This is based on inflation-adjusted values for the price
of gold provided by macrotrends.net and median sales price data for houses sold
in the United States from the Federal Reserve Economic Data (FRED) database.
Additionally, while the stock market (based on historical
Dow Jones Industrial Average values from macrotrends.net) offered similar
overall returns over the course of the last decade, Rolex watches offered a
noticeably higher appreciation percentage when it comes to the last five years,
and this trend only seems to be continuing into 2022.
The average price of a used Rolex watch has gone from
less than $5,000 in 2011, to more than $13,000 by the end of 2021.
Não se trata de saber se a bolha vai rebentar, mas quando…
O Relógios & Canetas online faz 9 anos. As edições mensais estão disponíveis aqui ou aqui. Siga-o no Instagram, aqui. Ou no Facebook, aqui.
Primavera em Genebra - relógios Bovet convidam...
Date: March 30th - April 5th Venue: Villa Fondation Jeantet, Chemin Rieu 17, CH-1208 Geneva
Meditações - the time falling away from the clock's circular face
Forgiving the Darkness
Darkness is not a death, does not obliterate,
will not bury you or take your breath away.
Darkness will not erase you the way it erases day with night
because darkness is not the clock but merely the time
falling away from the clock's circular face.
Darkness is not the loss but the thing misplaced,
not the hammer but the nail in its curved emergence
from wood's grasp, not the storm's insurgence
but the limbs broken off from their miraculous
suspension in a storm out far, beyond us.
Darkness is not about hearts, imperfect as they are,
but what leaks through their incorrigible doors, not the
stars
but the glissade or glide of their dust.
Darkness no longer shields the hunters' musk
in search of you, or turns you to animal prey,
it is only a measure of weight or days.
Not something without a beginning or an end,
it is not even—especially not—an end.
Nor is it vertigo, nor the whole, but merely a piece.
No, darkness is but a ghost of an idea, the least
remembered, most estranged prayer, and your fear
but a lingering, limbic fear torn from shreds of forgotten
years.
Only that much is clear.
Alice B. Fogel
quarta-feira, 2 de março de 2022
Relógios & Canetas online Março
Meditações - The clock on your thigh is ticking
Strangers
Tremendous orange things are happening somewhere.
I lay a wooden stick for stirring on the white note
on the desk. I lay a stain on the clean note.
Somewhere things are happening. Marvelous orange
and purple things. Flooding rivers at dusk, wheels threading
roads in the desert. Strangers. Strangers. Sea.
Somewhere you are lying in a white bed. The clock
on your thigh is ticking. Somewhere a human form
is being lifted from the ground.
Somewhere, yes, and I am counting. The clean note
with its numbers has changed. I will remember.
You are a location, with a bed.
The road ends somewhere in the flooding river
at dusk. Why here, strangers. A cartwheel in the stow hold
of a ship. A stranger who wheels it on the ice.
Somewhere the ship has frozen. The ship has frozen
in the ice. A frozen form. The ship cannot be lifted
from the purple sky at dusk.
Stain in the somewhere. You are lying in a white bed.
Why here is the river. On the thigh. Remember
what we did with clocks. Orange and purple.
Lovely trees in the frozen sky. Holding somewhere and
threading
thighs. Strangers. I lay a stain on the white bed.
Remembering what tremendous purple things we did.
The mind ends every thing stirring. Somewhere the ship
is being lifted from the desert. Marvelous. You will change
from the river location to the sea.
Somewhere, things are happening. You are lying in the white
bed
beside the sea with coffee. I am lying in the white bed.
Tremendous strangers. Blind roads in the sea.
Christine Gosnay
terça-feira, 1 de março de 2022
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