Guilherme Teixeira

Some notes about chaos, or about power being frustration 

Here we’ll talk about the autonomy of things that can be dysfunctional

I recently saw an image, I believe it was on Instagram, that illustrated the relation between the mass of a star with its gravitational field around it over an hexagonal mesh, starting with the sun and then neutrinos to finally reach its indifference. In every relationship construction there is still that opportunity that we refuse to listen to and do not pay attention, that takes for granted all the accrual of hopelessness, alluding to our absences; I think it was from this image that I became aware that reality, as we conceive it, is made, if not to articulate any and all possible narratives, to justify our small being.

And we close our eyes… We face that redness that only the sun builds on the eyelid.

A “see” is then announced… An eye looks back, swallows itself with the world, opens its mouth and gets ready to say much; gives up, looks down, writes and in a scribble takes a false step, falls flat down and everything turns into an open vowel, that comes from that will that was never shut down:


Here, in this place where the writing runs off, there is something kind of lost between what would be the body, what would be the text, what would be the space and the invitation to everyone to contemplate the death of something useful.

“What a tragedy! Something useful is extinguished! Something useful dies! Something is no longer useful!” And my knee cracks open, sustaining my body; I wake up and the unconsciousness becomes everything, there are names that are not ours and will never be, and an eye that is taught to see gets swallowed by itself and rests.

The sight announces itself, it transforms into weight, scream, name, space, presence, future and then sound and then meaning, as the acoustics of a foreign word - something useless has to die.


“Thank you so much for joining us, it is an honor to welcome you. Yes, indeed. No, unfortunately the tea is over” and the sentence echoed, stuck in a microphone feedback. Something is not right here: the journals repeat themselves; the days repeat themselves, the numbers repeat themselves and the voices remain the same ones that, through nothing and themselves, guided those steps towards the claps (which could be silence), and the certainty about the place (if time was different) and the certainty that there is something like everything, and literature is no longer enough - something useless has to die.

Something is right here: “Unfortunately the tea is over”, they chocked with us, giving names to everything surrounded us and semantic to us and that now were but another name turned into verb, that is like a cry in the prairie, getting away from there.

And the will to speak then takes shape and then wake - and some would meaning - while we watch this scene unfold, this stage that swallows itself, this image that retracts and this audience that observes… from here we observe this scene and nothing is simulated… it’s as if it didn’t matter how much effort or will, or need, or movement was put behind or forward, we were and nothing there would meet the need of scene, of being, the need of trying to swallow, that infinite that no mouth ever tried, that “whilst” that is not right, that doesn’t work, that chokes, gets blocked, bugs and the metaphors that do not sing, the verb fails, the literature succumbs and ceases…

My knee cracks open, sustaining my body; I wake up and the unconsciousness becomes everything, there are names that are not mine and will never be, literature ceases, literature tries, literature succumbs, the verb fails, it is buggy, and metaphors can’t handle it all, they choke, they crash, they don’t work, one sees himself stumbling in his own body and something here is not right. Future… presence, space, name, scream, weight: A “see” self-announces…

looking back,

it swallows itself with the world.