Você cria muita expectativa sobre as coisas?

Bob Dylan & Allen Ginsberg  - “The music lesson” por  Elsa Dorfman , Lowell, MA [1975]

Bob Dylan & Allen Ginsberg - “The music lesson” por Elsa Dorfman, Lowell, MA [1975]

Assisti o filme Rolling Thunder Revue: A Bob Dylan story by Martin Scorsese, do Netflix e adorei todo o rolê. Pelas figuras e pela surpresa.

O filme não é um documentário de Scorsese sobre Dylan, mas essa foi expectativa criada... talvez. E não curiosamente, o filme também fala sobre expectativas. Dylan assim como Bowie, Picasso e tantos outros grandes artistas, era um grande ladrão. Porém, vou reverberar uma ideia de sua filosofia, que não tem a ver com roubo.

One-hit wonder

Muitas das pessoas que gostam do que você faz, costumam esperar que você faça mais do mesmo. Que você sempre apresente o seu catálogo de hits. Um excelente exercício pessoal é não criar expectativas. Tanto sobre o trabalho dos outros, sim. Quanto sobre o seu próprio trabalho.

Faz-se muito bem não deixar que o julgamento do que você faz, e do porquê você faz, venha de terceiros. Crie pra você, por que você precisa, e aponte a direção pra que mais pessoas que acham foda o que você faz te encontrem no caminho. Rafaela Cappai promove muito a ideia de encontrar sua turma no meio do caminho até.

Crie seus bangues sem julgamento

Pare de criar expectativas sobre as coisas dos outros, pra ter mais chances de surpresa na experiência com os trabalhos deles. E principalmente, tenha menos expectativas com as coisas que você mesmo faz. Você pode se surpreender com a distância e velocidade que chega sem o auto julgamento.

Dylan, categoricamente:

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"This is one of the first rules… Expectations, you know? If you have big expectations, you're gonna be let down. You can't have any expectations. People have preconceptions. That's their own problem. We can't account for everybody that's walking around, you know? Like having expectations. Who gives a shit?".


Patti Smith emocionou-se cantando “A hard rain’s a-gonna fall” na cerimônia do Prêmio Nobel de Literatura entregue ao Dylan. É de chorar. BTW, Smith merece uma outra postagem por aqui.

 
 
 

Pra cantar junto:

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin'
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin'
I saw a white ladder all covered with water
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin'
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin'
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall

Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony
I met a white man who walked a black dog
I met a young woman whose body was burning
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
I met one man who was wounded in love
I met another man who was wounded with hatred
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall

Oh, what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin'
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
Where the executioner's face is always well-hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number
And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it
Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin'
But I'll know my song well before I start singin'
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall


E remixando, Allen Ginsberg:

"Encontre sua galera, nutra suas amizades, cultive seus bangues, sua arte, sua beleza. Vá para o mundão e crie para a sua própria eternidade".

Coragem. 🔥

B.