INSIDE THIS SILENCE

STULTIFERA NAVIS

Direção: José Manuel

Grupo de Atores do Hospital Psiquiátrico da Tamarineira

Teatro Arraial

I saw myself, at the Arraial´s Theater, in a boat of Calderon, of dreams and storms pregnant of all sea Greek hopes, boat of  egyptian ones and Sta Cecília Meireles. Boat of all journeys and Easters.

In all, helmsmen or crows of Poe, they recite  poems: I do not remember, I forgot.

This is an essential theater.

A handful of being weakened, a gigantic thunder of catastrophe, an immense downpour of purgation and death; and an end without end. Because nights do they always recommence when the blood stop  flowing  in the vein of a prisoner, which was killed, in that right night, in that right act....

While seeing that one, I talk to myself, like two other worried actors of the group that shouted: " I do not want to see any more theater ”.  I saw already, I think, almost the essential thing. Even being the esential, always, so far from our eyes.

Therefore, I ´ll stop writing here. Therefore my text ran around, today and here, in so many dunes. But I still have the honor, before all, to set foth my belief and creed:Sirs, I hate that  lull, that  calm that here sets up: it is fear; and I hate that hushed up voice, be in mental hospitals, classrooms, Columns.

That is it.

They were 10. 3 escaped. 2 did not want to do any more theater for anything. The 5 others  remained in a gigantic boat.  Where they said texts on courses of the life, like the one who declares love.

They ask for where we go, and more: is it better? And, I do not know, I forgot – the Helmsman answers them.

Then they sing their  nocturnal wakefulness. Those hulks sing gently ox, ox of the black face, rambling, hell-sailors, through a night of  storms.

Oh they find the most tremendous storm never felt before in a theater, of majestic crash, liters and liters of water played up of the orchestra.

Oh fuckingjesus, you are the Neptune itself, oh Norman!

And then, amid the violent storm, they die!

And how could not they die,

 if we are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is merely  rounded with a sleep?

At last, there the Helmsman comes.

 With little wings, and they stay all together, yet without knowing if there- where they would have arrived-  it was or not, a better world.

They sing then to me.

And  all the magic of centuries of theater recovers in a minute, in 5 voices tuned in Gonzaguinha, to live is that it will not be ashamed of being happy, singing and singing and singing the beauty of being an eternal apprentice, larala...

Then the gods went down and gave us cockle-boats of paper!

In the talks after the curtain´s fall, one of them said to have written 14 pages for theater, and  more: it would be a success!- he said. Other asserted he made a contract to sing a little more than the others comediants and immediately begin to sing a song for us.

It was that what happened.

So few gestures.

So few words.

So few images.

Almost the essential thing.

Since it is, the essential thing is always also: only.

Almost only.

And then, oh Lord of the Worried Ones, the audience falls down in crying.

Roberto Carlos – helmsman of the glorious Federation of Theater of Pernambuco - bursts into tears.

Rodrigo hides his face wetted in wide weeping, Leidson gushes two meters of pure fit of crying and J. Manoel in buáhs is devastated. Polly, like child crying. The psychiatrist behind me forgets Freud and cry. The director cries. And I - that I cry up just seeing commercials of shampoo - I was, villain, just a one-eyed crier. And  how couldn´t I do it if I, that write in this door of bathroom, am just a philosopher so shallow as a  flattest half bowl?

We were 7 little kitten, butchered in a rodriguean text.

 I stayed so little sized, look, in face of  the secular one and desperately distant solidarity of Norman, of José Manoel, of  Willians Santana, of  Valdir Nunes, of  Neemias Duarte. Demented helmsmen, guiding the gods who made us, in that little night, return to the most legitimate origin of the theater. They, the gods,  are the prisoners Aldo Emídio, Claudemir Coelho, Fabiano Rodrigues, José Amaury Héráclito Nascimento, Inaldo Pires, Israel Alves, João Alexandre e Manoel Narciso.

Two of those left us talking to nobody, and a third one had the intuition – I'm getting impregnated, he said-that everything not worth twice.  And said calmly: I will make theater never again! Margueritte Duras had told me the same lapidary phrase in a summer rain: not worth it.  Repeat the essential, not worth it!

So we are now, with me, 4 turncoats of these nights of so many stars!

The boat, now, is this ephemeris of the roses, because we don't note flowers, said the geographer to Little Prince.

The boat, now, is this providential fall of sparrows that challenged the omens. 

Because, ladies and gentlemen, if it be now, ´tis not to come; if it be not to come,it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all; since no man has aught of what he leaves. What is´t to live betimes?

The rest is silence.

To die is silence.

And inside this silence

 some day will be

me, you, Hamlet & Shakespeare.