our tool

Black then white are all I see in my infancy.
red and yellow then came to be, reaching out to me.
lets me see.
As below, so above and beyond, I imagine
drawn beyond the lines of reason.
Push the envelope. Watch it bend.

Over thinking, over analyzing separates the body from the mind.
Withering my intuition, missing opportunities and I must
Feed my will to feel my moment drawing way outside the lines.

Black then white are all I see in my infancy.
red and yellow then came to be, reaching out to me.
lets me see there is so much more
and beckons me to look through to these infinite possibilities.
As below, so above and beyond, I imagine
drawn outside the lines of reason.
Push the envelope. Watch it bend.

Over thinking, over analyzing separates the body from the mind.
Withering my intuition leaving all these opportunities behind.

Feed my will to feel this moment urging me to cross the line.
Reaching out to embrace the random.
Reaching out to embrace whatever may come.

I embrace my desire to
feel the rhythm, to feel connected
enough to step aside and weep like a widow
to feel inspired, to fathom the power,
to witness the beauty, to bathe in the fountain,
to swing on the spiral
of our divinity and still be a human.

With my feet upon the ground I lose myself
between the sounds and open wide to suck it in,
I feel it move across my skin.
I'm reaching up and reaching out,
I'm reaching for the random or what ever will bewilder me.
And following our will and wind we may just go where no one's been.
We'll ride the spiral to the end and may just go where no one's been.

Spiral out. Keep going, going...


"Tool is exactly what it sounds like: It's a big dick. It's a wrench. It's also what it sounds like: It's a verb, it's a digging factor. It's an active process of searching, as in use us, we are a shovel, we are the match, we're the blotter of acid, your tool; use us as a catalyst in your process of finding out whatever it is you need to find out, or whatever it is you're trying to achieve." - Maynard James Keenan


no fundo e num sentido mais amplo, somos todos ferramentas uns dos outros. e isso faz todo o sentido, enquanto por aqui andamos.

Era a forma como ele lhe estendia a mão a convidar a dela sempre que iam para algum lado. Invariavelmente. Levantava-se, ficava um ou dois passos à frente dela, olhava-a e estendia-lhe a mão. Aqueles cinco, seis segundos em que ela fazia por hesitar, era o ritual deles.

Isto dir-me-ia ela, meses depois. Não havia contacto visual entre nós, eu estava deitada no sofá, com os olhos semi-cerrados, sonolenta e ela estava à janela a fumar. Era Verão, lembro-me. Sempre achei curioso a maneira que encontrava de me dizer que gostava de alguém. Nunca articulava o sentimento. Só nestes momentos é que me dava conta. É que percebia o quanto aquela pessoa que lhe estendia a mão daquela maneira tinha realmente significado.

'Aqueles cinco, seis segundos eram a minha morte'. Eu conseguia sentir o sorriso dela a dizer aquilo, pela voz. Ele sabia que era a forma dela se defender e o quanto ilustrava a importância do que nunca era dito entre os dois. Ele respeitava isso e pedia-lhe sempre permissão para entrar, todas as vezes que repetia aquele gesto.

Eu ouvi-a. Sabia que esta era a primeira e última vez que me falaria dele. Olhei por cima do braço do sofá e vi-a de costas, a acabar o cigarro. O meu silêncio estava cá para ela.