Thursday, December 31, 2015

O que eu quero do ano novo? / What do I want for myself in the new year?

O que eu quero do ano novo? 

Quero clareza de espírito, quero a leveza da alma, quero o conciliar das dúvidas, das incertezas. Quero o coração calmo. Quero ser eu mesma, quero olhar para dentro e saber quem eu sou, a cada instante. Quero caminhar firme, quero acreditar que sigo o rumo que devo seguir. Quero confiar no universo, em mim. Quero luz, quero paixão  quero amor, quero aconchego e colo amigo. Quero me dar colo e dizer para mim que tudo vai ficar bem. Quero harmonia, saúde, equilíbrio, paz! Quero para mim e quero para você também! Feliz ano novo! 

What do I want for myself in the new year? 

I want clarity of the espirit, lightness of the soul. I want the reconciliation of doubts, of uncertainties. I want a calm heart. I want to be myself, I want to look inside and know who I am, at every instant. I want to walk firmly, I want to believe that I'm following the path I'm supposed to walk. I want to trust the Universe, myself. I want light, I want passion, I want love. I want the warmth of friends. I want to embrace myself and tell me it will all be ok. I want harmony, health, balance, peace! I want it all for me and for you as well! Happy New Year! 



Sunday, December 27, 2015

Espiral

Saber onde começou
Lembrar o que principiou
A gente sabe
A gente lembra

Sem a menor ideia 
de onde vai parar
A gente sente
Sem saber sequer 
se quer que pare

Segue a espiral
Seguimos nós
Voltas rodopiantes
Um aparente mesmo lugar
Que não é o mesmo
Não somos os mesmos

Subimos a espiral
Passamos pelos mesmos pontos
As mesmas perguntas
Diferentes respostas 
A espiral gira, sobe, continua 
Mas não sabemos
Nunca adivinhamos
Onde vai parar



A leaf

What a relief!
In the end
What's left
Is a leaf

Sunday, December 20, 2015

A way to Paradise

We surrender
We submit 
To the energy of life 
The electrical current
Running through
Head to toes

We feel 
Both
The urgency
The burning 
of the bodies
The bliss 
of  the souls 

Meeting
At another dimension
No good, no evil 
Satisfied
Suspended
Us 
Finding our way 
to Paradise




Monday, December 14, 2015

Soap Bubble

Always a soap bubble 
All floating dreams' colors  
In a perfect round transparency
There's an unopened window 
in every soap bubble 

Away it floats the bubble
Thinner and thinner it gets
Every passing nanosecond 
Vanishing in the air
Until pop goes the bubble
And  pop goes me




Tuesday, December 8, 2015

When the little things did not light up my day

I walk every day the same path to work. What makes it different are the little things I see along the way, leaves and flowers fallen off trees, diligent ants, bits and pieces of things someone dropped unknowingly. I take photographs of these things I find and they become distorted versions of themselves, different lights, shapes, hues.  A sort of magic operates on them. The little things become great. 

Today, I could not find beauty in the little things along the path I walk everyday. Today, they did not manage to catch my eye, to uplift my spirit. They were there and I'm not saying I didn't see them. I did, but they did not glow, they did not stand out. Maybe it's because I see my country in a difficult situation, politicians and their dirty alliances preventing lives to grow into their full splendor. The stealing of public money, the closing of schools, of libraries, the threat to democratic institutions. People defending their own needs not thinking they can never survive alone. All very disappointing! 

And so you look at the world and you see the same, rich countries facing similar situations, their people defending the same "me first!" ideologies. Bad Joke Trump as a candidate to the presidency of the United States makes you wonder what sort of a dark age should the world prepare itself to face. Christians defending the right to use guns against the others and refusing to open the doors to Middle East refugees, families fleeing war zones, children included, our brothers and sisters in the true spirit of Christianism. Something is truly wrong with this world we live in. Bombing in Syria, terrorism in Paris and the brilliant solution to bomb everything further so there will be no more terrorism. We seem to never learn. 

So, today, the little things did not light up my day. They did not make me stop my slow pensive march to work to contemplate their beauty. They were there, but they did not shine out of the grayness of it all. They did not! Maybe it is because Christmas is coming up and I fail to see Christmas in the world. Maybe it's because "t'is the season to be jolly", but I don't feel jolly at all. It seems I'm hanging upside down, held by a really thin thread that might break at any moment and have me fall on my head.

But what is left for one to do, if not to start with the little things? Hope again for strength and hope to see the beauty in them tomorrow.  Work the beauty and the goodness of the world in the daily small activities, in the smiles to be shared, in the seriousness of  commitments, in the truthfulness of love. Hope to find beauty in the little things once more, to spread them, to choose the side of the weak even when walking among the strong, to be kind and true, to not hide behind accommodation. Recognize that some days you cannot be touched by the beauty of the little things, but never give up on them. 

Monday, December 7, 2015

Brief ponderation on time

There is never time. There are children, laughing, running, getting their knees scratched, crying. There are bills to pay, news to watch and things to say while we take big bites of beef and fries. Things started and not finished, sentences left incomplete. And their incompleteness hovers above my head and haunts me and wakes me up from my counted hours of sleep and I pick a pen and a piece of paper on the nightstand, and I pick up the IPad at the grocery's line, or a napkin at the ice cream parlor and I fill in the blanks with the words of our dreams with the delicacy of the love that once was and I continue the writing of the bits of our lives. I pick them up where we left them and I choose the words that will keep them infinite.

Sunday, December 6, 2015

Anywhere, anyone

Sometimes you'd like 
To be anywhere else
But where you are

You wish 
You were
Anyone else 
But who you are

Roots 
Hold you down
Choices 
Tie you up 
Immobility,
The only option

Life runs a river
Life flows steadily
Quick I t moves  
What's on the way
It takes 

By the river
You stand 
You watch it
You can't find yourself

You're there
You're not there
You're gone



Sunday, November 29, 2015

A romantic's reflection on a pop love song or Does it matter where they go?

"Where do broken hearts go?" 
Painful pop love song 
Adds to nothing
Solves nothing
"Where" may not be the question, 
but do they ever come back? 

Love songs solve nothing
Drag you deep into the darkness 
Of your own disillusion 
The dream of every romantic soul 
To die from loving 
Too much

Who wants it? 
Fool starving romantics
In a world of Black Fridays 
Dropping dead like flies 
Dying from longing
Too much 

So work the practical alchemy 
Of changing love into gold
Of sublimating its dark mass
Of polishing its infinite flaws
Still, will they ever return? 
Will they ever come back? 
The golden broken hearts of our pitiful despair? 


And if you'd like to be dragged in still: http://youtu.be/bmK-SAvoPpQ


Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Janelas




Por que gosto de janelas? Gosto de como elas nos permitem observar o de fora e o de dentro. Gosto de que sejam esse limiar entre o interno e o externo. Que possibilitem, de certo modo, que estejamos ao mesmo tempo em dois lugares. É o paraíso de uma alma tradutora, um lugar para estar em um segundo, aqui, em outro, ali.

Como são também importantes, as janelas, para aqueles impossibilitados de partir, para os enfermos, para aqueles a que sobram pouca esperança. As janelas permitem a entrada do Sol. Permitem manter alguma fé na vida que se contempla do outro lado, na vida que segue. 

São também, as janelas, um lugar de travessia, mas não um lugar oficial como uma porta. Uma janela te leva a outro lugar, mas é preciso uma certa transgressão, uma certa ousadia, para se sair por uma janela. Há que pouco importar-se com o que pensam os outros para atravessar pela janela.

Realmente, gosto de janelas! Gosto que, quando fechadas, ao caminhar pela rua, podemos imaginar o que se passa lá dentro, por detrás delas. Podemos adivinhar quem ali vive, pelos detalhes que elas permitem escapar, a cor de seus umbrais, um vaso de flores, o estilo da cortina, uma fresta insistente que mostra um reflexo no espelho. Podemos adivinhar tudo errado, é claro! Mas quem se importa?  Podemos adivinhar mesmo assim!

É possível apoiar-se nas janelas, debruçar-se e contemplar o mundo, este e outro.  A janela é o fino limite entre o eu e o outro, entre o meu e o do outro. Abrir a janela é um gesto diário, banal, mas com ele ilumina-se o dia. Illuminamo-nos também e, iluminados, podemos ver melhor a nós e aos outros, podemos reconhecer os limites de nossa luz e sombra. Podemos alcançar o claro e o escuro que há além. Por isso gosto de janelas! 

Monday, October 26, 2015

Sex, gender and the arrogant ignorance

She is a woman. She is against feminism. She is against any kind of service rendered specifically to women. She argues they are not necessary. She, of course, has never needed any of them. She believes education would end violence against women. She ignores the fact that many women suffer physical and psychological violence in their own homes, from their own highly educated, sometimes powerful partners. Women in third world countries, women in first world nations, hiding their black eyes under designer sunglasses. 

She is a woman. Protected and lucky, she goes around dictating rules for problems she has  never faced and problems she has decided to overlook. She has no power to change those rules and she is happy to receive the compliments she does from her protected and lucky friends, mostly male. She feels reassured of her wisdom with those compliments. She is so smart!

She mixes up concepts of gender and sex. She becomes annoyed that in a National exam, the Ministry of Education used a feminist basic text on one question. Yes, an old text, basic! Yes, one question! It upsets her! She affirms she is thankful that she is not influenced in any manner, whatsoever, by the thoughts of that particular woman. The thoughts concern the fact that a woman is not a given concept, but a construction. She says she even agrees that people can choose their sex, but she was born a woman and that will never change. 

She is a woman. Confused and scared behind the ignorant arrogance, she probably never read the feminist piece she is intending to deconstruct so misguidedly. She does not grasp the difference between sex and gender and she does not want to. She is happy with the compliments she receives, the ones she gets from her male friends who parade the same arrogant ignorance. The arrogance of those who do not need to read to know. 

She claims not to be influenced by the thoughts of the feminist thinker she demises, but she is the clear sad product of the patriarchal system she chooses to ignore. A sad product that chooses to unite with the winners hoping for a special deference. A nice pet, who bites its own sisters and receives the reward it deserves: "Good girl! Here, have a cookie!"

Friday, October 23, 2015

Soul Searchers, Deep Divers

Soul searchers
Deep divers
Walking the dungeons
of their dark past dreams
Weaving threads
of intricate thoughts
of frightening feelings

Looking for the flower within
Breathing in
The freshness of the garden
Breathing out

Burning the bridge
From where rests
the seven headed dragon
Its fiery breath
Its menacing eyes
Its darkness
Its desperation

Burning the bridges
Cutting the ropes
Setting feet
on the solidity of the mountain
Being there
Remaining

Breathing in
Diving in
Peaceful clear water
Breathing out
The blue sky

With the water
One
All is one
Soul
Searching

Breathing in
Breathing out
All one
In the space
Where we float
Where we search
Deep divers



Tuesday, October 13, 2015

White Flying Feather

Flying feather
Cuts across my drowsy driving. 
White flying feather 
Against Brasília's blue October sky
Disturbs the dryness 
Fights life's forceful  practical purposes

Flying feather
Deep cuts gray threads of dark thoughts
Carrying me to dreamy lands
Of subtle shades of brighter colors

White flying feather
Fierceful softness 
Delicate violence
Holds the answer 
to all the questions I'll never make 

Flying feather
Defies the inert existence
of concreteness
Fluctuating knife 
perforates the flesh 
 of  my contradictions 

White flying feather 
Floats across the windshield
Disappears in the cloudless vastitude
Takes with it the dreamy land 
Leaves me the leaping 
into the drowsiness 
of my own abyss


Sunday, October 11, 2015

A nice life

It is a nice life 
If you don't care to listen 
to the noisy silence of the soul
If you need not the contemplation
of the inner walls of your own heart
If you need not turn them inside out 
If you need not walk 
on the pathways of your veins
If you need not dive in the streams
of your own pulsating blood 





Friday, October 9, 2015

Tudo e Nada

É, me acostumei com o cheiro forte do verniz. O verniz seca, agora, a nadadora em giz pastel, antes que borre, que apague, que desapareça.  A gente se acostuma com tudo. Ainda mais quando é coisa assim, forte, que aumenta a permanência. Você cresce, envelhece, e nada é permanente. Nada! Quanto mais o tempo passa, mais tudo é nada, mais tudo é fluido e fugaz. E você desiste de domar a vida, e você aceita que não sabe tudo, que não sabe nada. E lê muito, e escreve tratados. E mergulha fundo, em tudo, e não sabe. Não sabe nada!

Você caminha, alternando o caminhar: passos firmes, decididos, olhar altivo; passos lentos, cabeça baixa, procurando, procurando, sem nunca encontrar. Tudo e nada! Tudo é tudo e nada! Leve como uma bigorna. É tudo o que é!  Sempre! Nada!

E assim você vai, mergulhando, fundo e longe. Vai em apneia! Vai até não aguentar mais. E sobe, de uma vez, à superfície, onde não se vê a margem, onde não dá pé. É lá que você para. Para e enche o pulmão de ar, de uma só vez. Porque é preciso! É preciso encher o pulmão de ar! E de uma vez!  Então exausta, sorrindo, você flutua e contempla o céu. Tudo e nada... É o que é.

Flutua e permanece ali, pesada como uma bolha de sabão. Voa mais longe, recostada em seu lençol de água. Linha fina, entre a densa e verde massa aquática e o infinito azul do céu. Azul, muito azul, do seco céu! Ele lhe contempla em retorno, deitada, inerte, exceto pelo movimento do ventre, que se estende e contrai, lento, o ar pelas narinas, o caminho natural da existência. O fino lençol lhe sustenta e você voa.Tapete mágico!

Você voa e esquece. Esquece tudo! O nada que pesa, o tudo que não há, o que é excesso, sobra, e o que falta. E sempre falta! Menos agora! Agora é a fina linha tênue e o equilibrar-se entre tudo e nada. Equilibrar-se, efêmero momento, entre a água e o céu. A terra lá embaixo, longe... Astronauta. Como astronauta, flutua.

Um movimento. Sempre há um movimento. É inesperado, é brusco! E você engole água, muita água, e engasga e tosse. Engole e tosse, tudo! E não há nada, nada que possa lhe salvar dessa água. Até que você se conforme e espere a água se acalmar. E você espera... E respira. E olha em torno. E resolve voltar, retornar.

Você retorna à margem e contempla água e céu. Da terra firme você contempla tudo o que não é de fato seu. Nem seu, nem de ninguém! Tudo o que é demais, tudo o que não controla, não domina. Contempla tudo aquilo que lhe chama sempre em tom ambíguo, que lhe convida, instiga, provoca. Contempla esse tudo e nada em que fundo mergulha. Esse tudo e nada, de onde nunca sabe se vai mesmo voltar.

Monday, October 5, 2015

One thing and another

Dark mane
The head lies
On the womb
There it rests

Fingers  run slowly through
The soft hair
Countless black threads
Other grey
Emerging
Here and there

Hands caressing
Dreams, Joy
Following
Day, night
Embracing
Fear and solitude

One thing and another
Hands, fingers, hair
One thing and another
Alone

One thing and another
Put together
One thing and another
Just one thing








Uma coisa e outra

Farta cabeleira negra,
Repousa a cabeça
Sobre o ventre
Descansa

Os dedos correm 
Lentos
Entre macios cabelos
Negros fios
Outros gris
Apontam
Aqui e ali

Mãos acarinham 
Sonho, alegria 
Acompanham 
O dia, a noite
Aconchegam 
Medo e solidão

Uma coisa e outra
Mãos, dedos, cabelos
Uma coisa e outra
Sós

Uma coisa e outra
Unem-se
Uma coisa e outra
Uma coisa só



Wednesday, September 30, 2015

A little bird fell off a tree

Small, frail and cold, it shivered. I took it. In the shell of my hands I protected it.  I brought it home.  I sheltered it from the rain, from the cold, from the wind that brought it down. Its big eyes stared at me. "Am I dying?", "Is there hope?", they questioned. I poured tiny drops of water. They slipped from my fingertips. Its frail beak took them avidly. I fed it the best I could.

"Forget it! You can never save it!", friends would have said, had friends been given the chance. They were not! I was determined to make the bird survive. I could not take any more loss, I could not take any more death. I decided, omnipotently, it would not die, just like I once decided I would not die. 

It did not! It did not die! It survived! And I set it up on a tree when it seemed stronger. It showed no recollection of the rain, of the cold, of the wind. No gratitude in its eyes. It was not needed.  No fear of the vastness either.  The vastness had always been his birthright as a bird, I guess. 

Uncertain of its fate, unsure of its possibilities, I knew there was hope now. Perhaps it would fly high, perhaps it would go far. I had done what I could, I told myself as I turned around, as I walked away. I had done all I could for the little bird that fell from the tree.

Thursday, September 17, 2015

The Butt Obsession - Very brief reflection on the matter

In Brazil there is always someone checking someone else's butt. Those were her thoughts while she waited for the light to turn green and a black robust woman passed by a mullato middle aged guy at the corner. She observed them.  The man looked up for a second, watching an inexistent bird in the sky. As soon as she was two steps away from him he looked down to the left and checked her butt out. It was a discreet look, she thought. Some of them almost get their necks broken just to chek out some butt. "A national obsession!" She heard someone honking a horn, the light was green. "Man, if I put my butt on the window, they might even stop the nonsense!". "Run me over!", she screamed instead. She pressed the pedal and moved on.

Thursday, September 10, 2015

Tons Sobre Tons


Nasci branca, consta na certidão
Branca da cor do papel, um branco que não existe
Cruzando a invisível linha que restringe o mundo da amplidão
Tornei me escura, não mais triste

Andando na fina linha
Em tons diversos, negros e marrons
Devolvem-me, todavia, essa branca carne, que não mais é minha
Paleta que sou de tons sobre tons

Diverte-me, hoje, a fluidez das minhas cores
Que me atravesssam o mundo inteiro
Enganando maus e bons

Alenta-me dispensar o conforto da palidez
Passado pernicioso do alheio sofrimento
Há mais por onde caminho, acolhendo a mistura, esparramando altivez

The oracle is dead

Find the key to the door
Lock it up
The oracle is dead
It never said yes
It never said no
It will say no word
No more!

Monday, August 17, 2015

To the Fairy with the Heavy Heart

Dear Fairy with the Heavy Heart,

I had you on my mind today. You and your sad eyes, your disappointments and your shattered fairy dreams. The lightness of your wings wasted due to this burden you still carry in your heart. How are you, dear Fairy? Hope you have found some new dreams, hope you have seen different lights and colors, hope you are still aiming to fly high. 

Today, sweet Fairy, I found a gift for you. Gifts, dear Fairy, do not solve all our troubles, do not save us from darkness. But some gifts when they are meant to be ours can bring joy, can bring the hope of joy. I'm sure you know this, dear Fairy, 'cause fairies, even the ones with the heavy hearts do know of love and gifts.  Aren't the fairies the ones bringing princesses the gifts of beauty, love and grace? 

I found a gift for you, dear Fairy. I found it while I walked to work today, while I thought of unpaid bills and unfinished projects. It was there among the little things scattered along the way. The little things never fail, dear Fairy. And today, it was there, a gift for you. 

A dress, dear Fairy. I found a dress for you! You may be thinking, sweet Fairy, why you would need this dress. And you're right! You don't! You don't need it as you don't need the moon in the sky to look at, the stars shining bright when the moon isn't there. You don't need it, like you don't need songs and books, stories and poetry, colours and flavors or memories that make you cry and smile all at once. You don't need it, yet you do! Let me tell you about it and remember, dear Fairy, it's a gift: My gift to you.   

Let's just talk about the dress, dear Fairy, the dress which is my gift to you. It has a strapless green top that can leave your wings free when you decide to fly away, when you decide it's finally time to leave your sorrows behind. It is the green of new leaves, of green grass in the early hours of the morning.  It will look marvelous on you! The skirt, dear Fairy,  is yet another thing completely. Light and delicate! It's simply dreamy! The white petals and the rosy veins, the movement of it,  I can almost see you dancing around in it, when you decide, dear Fairy that is time to be free, that it's time to be happy again. 

I am sure, dear Fairy, that  it would seem close to nothing to the eyes of the bypassers, but to you, dear Fairy, I'm sure it will fit perfectly. What a beautiful gown you'll have! You can wear it to dance under the moonlight. You can wear it for a walk under the Sun. You can wear it to remind you of the beauty in the world of the love you once felt, of the hopes you once had. You can wear it to remind yourself that it is all still there, that you can find it all inside you, that you can dance and you can dream, when you welcome a gift and you understand that it is just for you, that it fits only you, that it's as beautiful as you. 

Dear Fairy with the heavy heart, I found this dress for you today and I hope you will have it. Wear it when searching for the lost lightness, for the lost joy, for the brightness and colours you once saw in the world. Let this little thing be the first step, a dancing step into the light, once again. 

Love, 

Me


Tuesday, August 11, 2015

Vestido de Fada (Para minhas meninas)

De branca flor rosada
faz-se uma saia de fada
Pequenas pétalas
Seriam nada
Mas para a fada
Até os pés
Toda rodada

Verde tomara que caia
Cor de caule
Não, não caia!
Para a fada,
de flor, a longa saia

Seria nada
Não fosse a fada
Seria nada
Não fosse o sonho

Sapatos de luar
Para a fada
Brilho de Estrela
Nos cachos revoltos
De fada animada
Luz de Sol
no olhar da fada

Dança, Fada!
Rodopia!
Abre os braços
Solta o corpo
Em seu lindo vestido de flor


Friday, August 7, 2015

It's ok to be in pieces! (The words to go with the image)

"It's ok to be in pieces!", I told myself today. It's ok to be in pieces as long as you still have a core. As long as there is still a thread connecting the fragments of you. It doesn't even have to be a thick thread, you know? Any thread will do. 

A while ago,  I saw a quote by Emma Watson, the young Harry Potter's Hermione, and she was saying that she finally knew who she was. "Wow!", I thought at first, "She's so young and already knows who she is! I'm 43 and I have no idea!" That quote haunted me for a while. It remained in the back of my mind.  It made me look back at the paths I've walked, the crossroads and corners I've stood at, contemplating traffic, speeding up or slowing down, the steep roads I had to struggle to run, or drag myself through, and the many moments I've remained there, contemplating green and red traffic lights, simply refusing to budge. 

I remembered sometimes too when I really knew who I was. They did last for a while until I did not know anymore. "That's probably where Emma Watson must be!", I thought. She now knows who she is. What she doesn't know, yet, is that this knowing is temporary. 

The knowing who you are is temporary if you have a searching soul, if you make questions, if you look for answers. The more answers you find, the more questions you have. The more you walk, the more places you go to, the more music you listen, the more books you read, the more you change, if you have a searching soul.  The more people you meet, the more you carefully listen, look, talk, the more you are not you anymore and the more you are the core of you still. 

Contemplating this picture I took a while ago, I can see that I'm not even the same that took the picture. Then, these scattered pieces of a fallen golden leaf moved me, touched me, but there were no words to go with them. Looking at this image, today, the words poured out and I heard this voice telling me: "It's ok to be in pieces!" I understand now that Emma Watson knows who she is and  I'm glad she does.  I do hope she will be ok too when one day she finds she doesn't. I've known who I was many times. I do not know who I am right now. Perhaps I will never know it again. Except from the core of me, I am these little fragments of many different dreams, loves and lives. And it's ok! It's ok to be in pieces!  


Tuesday, July 28, 2015

What was once

What was once nourishing 
Now lies empty and shriveled
What was once fresh and ripe
Now decays in abandonment
What was sweet and whole 
Now is left in shreds 
A dark reminder 
A lonely witness
A sad picture of what it once was




Friday, July 24, 2015

Flowers could have bloomed

Suffocating 
Screaming silences
The soul
Quietly cries
Voiceless supplications

Every bit of illusion 
stolen away 
Every day
A little loss
Every night 
A thicker  web of despair 

A frozen wave 
over once green fields
A translucent white blanket 
Covering dreams of buds

Flowers could have bloomed 
Yet go deadly dorment
Sleeping beauties 
never to be awaken 
By uncalled-for loving kisses



Monday, July 20, 2015

The unbearable lightness of what we used to be

Intertwined mythical twins
Breathing the same air
Laughing the same laughter
Birds of a feather
We used to be

We used to mean love 

We used to mean dreams
White cotton clouds 
In a blue blue sky
We used to be

Silver threads of thoughts

Flickering fireflies in the night
Inconsequent light  leaves 
carelessly thrown by the wind 
We used to be 

Waves of forgotten waters

Tides of an endless ocean
Brushing unknown sands
Ever delicately

Morning sunshine

Sparkling sea waters 
Goldly glimmering glows
fluctuating glistening souls 
We used to be 






To a half dead friend

Dear friend, hang on! 
I know you feel half dead. 
Still, hang on! 
I know you are drowning in darkness. 
I know it is hard to breathe. 
Still, my friend, hang on!
I am not telling you, 
my friend,  
not to be afraid,  
not to feel the cold. 

I respect this wave of darkness 
that comes crawling, 
enwraping our bodies, 
suffocating our dreams, 
making us forget 
the purpose of breathing, 
the process of breathing. 

I'm not telling you to be strong. 
You already are.
I'm not asking you to control the monsters,
to kill the seven headed dragon, 
to hold its heart in your hands. 
No, my friend, 
just hang on! 

Baby steps towards light
forceful little movements 
away from the dark.
Every day a small conquest.
Every night a little dream. 

A short walk in the sun
The contemplation of a flower, 
its elaborate simplicity 
The gazing at a single star in the sky, 
proof of our insignificance, 
of our connection with it all

The feel of water on your skin, 
the soothing warm temperature
or its energizing cold
The harmony of a song, 
the beat that makes the heart pound, 
the words that show you are not alone

Do Yoga.
Your body stretching, 
your mind resting for a split of second
Take a hundred photographs 
of the very same thing 
See other angles, 
other sides, other stories

Caress your own hair until you sleep, 
You deserve to be caressed
Be gentle to your half dead soul

Details, my friend! 
Life can resume from details
One brief smile every day

Force yourself 
to be around those who love you,
Do not set deadlines
Do not care for watches or calendars

Ignore the shortcomings 
of those who never met the dark seven headed dragon
Forgive them,
for they do not know!

Remember you are loved! 
I know
To be loved can be a burden 
when you want to let all go
Still, do! 

Remember you're loved
There is a reason it is so
There is light in you!
There is love in you! 
There is life in you!
Hang on, my friend! Hang on! 
And you shall see it too! 





Wednesday, July 15, 2015

Avengers, Bad Guys, Hypocrites and Oscar Wilde

I got to the office and opened the Facebook page. "I'll just check out the news and move on to my reading. "Just a few minutes won't hurt!" That's what I told myself! An hour later, here I am dealing with the effects of it, pouring them into words so I'll be able to breathe a little better. "Who was I fooling?  Why do I tell myself such lies?"

 I read the news and made the repetitive mistake of reading the comments, the same obnoxious comments, many of them the acritical repetition of  the midia discourse, many ignorant, paranoid and delusional interpretations of history. "Man, life is hard!" One picture of a guy, in black, wearing a skeleton mask, on top of a motorcycle, a dead dark body, no shirt on,  covered in blood and the headlines explaining: "Skeleton masked man kills bandits in Teresina and gets popular support" "What a world!" The shock just grew bigger when I read the post that followed it: "I wish this guy would come to my hometown and get rid of the bad guys here!" Here was the place I live too. I thought of my kids walking down the street and witnessing the "justicing" of "bad guys" by the masked man.  I shivered. My stomach turned. "Horrible times!"

The bad guys... Who are the bad guys? How old is this person who talks about the bad guys? Four? Who does she think are the bad guys? The bad guys, for her, are the poor robbers, the petty drug dealers, the ones that stand on her way to her upscale fun parties. The ones with no education, no rights, cast aside since children and coopted by the gangs and their school of crimes. Interestingly, the bad guys do not include the Politician this person, who dreams of  cleaning her hometown of the bad guys, worked to elect for an important position in our Congress. A politician that with her aid has been trumping the democratic institutions, using questionable mechanisms to bend the country's constitution and putting our young democracy constantly at risk. A politician that has forgiven millions in taxes owed by fraudulent religious leaders, leaders belonging to the same religion as his.

"Well, money in the pocket, who gives a shit about democracy anyway? Right? Difficult times!" I wonder what is the scope of bad people of the man with the Skeleton mask, I wonder why she thinks it coincides with hers. I wonder how someone gets to be the kind of person that allies herself with a psychopath and is proud of it. I wonder if given information, he, the masked man, would still be aiming his weapons to the petty thieves and drug dealers.

I don't believe in shooting around people. "You may say I'm a dreamer", but it is against my nature. I'm no saint, of course, and my writer's mind takes my kind of revenge  on thinking of the surprise avengers and hypocrites will have when they walk down their basements, open their secret rooms and uncover their portraits. I imagine their shock when they finally see their souls, the deep marks on their faces, their evil gaze, their sordid expressions, the indelible records of their acts, their feelings. Will they scream when they find out who the real bad guys are?

Monday, July 13, 2015

O filho que não ficou

Eu me lembro de esperar um filho que nunca veio, um filho que nunca ninei nos meus braços. Eu me lembro de esperar um filho que teria os cabelos do seu pai, seu olhar bondoso. Ele seria curioso do mundo e eu acompanharia todas as coisas que ele veria com seus olhos de encantamento. Tudo seria novo para os seus olhos novos, como dizia a música que eu ouvia enquanto o esperava. Eu me lembro de sonhar com seu futuro, seus sorrisos. Eu me lembro das esperanças que guardava para ele. Ele não me quis, esse filho. Ele não ficou.

Ele não estava interessado no parquinho na frente do prédio em que moramos. Não estava interessado em minha mão segurando a dele enquanto caminhava seus primeiros passos. Ele não ligou para as flores, folhas e gravetos que caem das árvores na nossa vizinhança. Não quis ouvir as canções de ninar levemente desafinadas que eu ia cantar ou as histórias que eu ia contar na hora de dormir. Ele sequer se importou com o leite, todo aquele leite que já estava ali esperando por ele. O leite que uma pílula ajudou a secar. O leite que jorrou dos meus seios, meses depois, em um pesadelo.   Todos os planos, todos os sonhos, todo o amor que eu guardava para ele não foram suficiente para fazê-lo ficar.

Eu quase morri tentando trazer esse filho ao mundo, mas isso também não o comoveu, nem o convenceu a ficar. Eu sobrevivi, incrivelmente. Eu estou aqui. Eu vi outras crianças vindo ao mundo. Eu as vi querendo ficar. Eu fui posta de lado por algumas mulheres. Marcada, manchada, tornei-me, porque meu filho não quis ficar. 

Duplamente punida como seca, incapaz e indesejada. Recebi a punição com perplexa tristeza, mas sobrevivi. Vi outras crianças desejadas hesitantes a vir. Vi tantas mentiras contadas por mulheres apavoradas por serem marcadas secas, inférteis, incapazes. Eu vi suas mentiras machucando-as, machucando outras que seguiriam o mesmo caminho depois, solitárias, isoladas, indesejadas.

Mas também houve crianças que ficaram. Eu as recebi de coração aberto. Olho para elas com felicidade. Eu as vejo crescer com amor. Mas uma vez ou outra, eu me lembro. Quem não lembraria? Eu me lembro que houve, uma vez, um filho, meu filho, e ele não ficou. Ele não quis ficar.

Escolhi outros caminhos. Escolhi construir outro castelo com os pedaços daquele que desmoronou. Levou tempo, muito tempo, mas acho que é um belo e sólido castelo. Escolhi a vida e deixei o resto no passado. Acho que fiz a coisa certa. Sou uma pessoa feliz hoje. Diria que vivo uma vida bastante feliz. 

Ainda assim, eu sei o que sente alguém quando seu filho não quer ficar. "A vida é dura!", às vezes. "Azar o seu!", aguente aí. "Merda acontece!", como se diz em inglês. Enfim... O melhor que se pode fazer é aprender alguma coisa com tudo isso, se você puder, quando você puder, do melhor jeito que puder. Algo que amplie sua forma de ver o mundo e o sofrimento dos outros.Você tenta. Em geral funciona. Quando não faz de você apenas mais impaciente com as mesquinharias da vida. Eu mesma tento e funciona na maioria das vezes. Mesmo assim, de vez em quando, volta para mim um sentimento. Retorna para mim quando há perda e separação, quando a vida não me dá alternativa. Surpreende-me e me machuca o sentimento,  a dor, o fato de que esse filho, meu primeiro filho, não quis ficar.



Monday, July 6, 2015

On straight lines, gremlins and soap bubbles

I envy people with linear lives, no curves, potholes, u-turns. They move in straight lines, these people, satisfied. No questions, no doubts, no furies. Always satisfied, these people. I, myself, am crooked, confused, mutant. I feel imeasurable angst, restlessness. I have uncountable urges.  Insomnia, I have insomnia. I worry about the flapping of wings of a butterfly in Tokyo. I travel through time and space. I have dreams of lightness and transparence. I have desires and fears. 
Infinite fears reside in me. I face them, I hide them. 

They multiply, my fears, as gremlins. You know, gremlins? I breathe with difficulty, a lump in the throat, a scream that I can't let out, choked in. Threads of thoughts intertwined, feelings, entangled in such a manner that I cannot tell where one starts or where the other ends.  

So, I create stories. I make them up, I exaggerate, I do not stop. I come and go, I come and go. I do not sleep. I count stars, I hum songs, I do not sleep.  I feel, I suffer, I know nothing of myself. Everything, too much. Everything, too little. 

A giant, light, beautiful soap bubble floats.  At any moment it can burst, the bubble. The soap will sting my eyes. Momentarily blind, I will be groping around, aimlessly. All because I dream, awake, of soap bubbles. 

Friday, July 3, 2015

The child that did not stay

I remember expecting a child that never came, a child I never held in my arms. I remember expecting a child who would have his father's hair, his kind eyes.  He would be curious of the world and I would follow closely all the things he would see with enchanted eyes. Everything would be new for his new eyes. Those were the words of a song about someone else's child, a song I used to listen to while waiting for this child. I remember dreaming of his future, of his smiles. I remember my hopes for him. He did not want me, this child. He did not stay. 

He was not interested in the playground in front of the building we live. He was not interested in having my hand holding his while he walked his first steps. He did not care about the flowers, leaves, little dry sticks that fall from the trees in our neighbourhood. He did not want to listen to the slightly out of tune lullabies I was going to sing or the stories I would read at bedtime. He did not even care for the milk, all the milk that was already there for him. The milk a pill helped to dry. The milk that spurted from my breasts, months later, in a bad dream. All the plans, all the dreams, all the love I had for him were not enough to make him stay.

I almost died trying to bring this child to the world, but that did not move him to stay either. I survived, amazingly. I am here. I've seen other children coming to the world. I've seen them wanting to stay. I've been cast aside by some women. Stained, marked, I became, because my child did not want to stay.  

Doubly punished as bare, incapable and unwelcome. I took it with bewildered sadness, but I survived. I've seen other expected children hesitant to come. I've seen so many lies being told by women who were terrified of being marked bare, dry, incapable. I've seen their lies hurting them, hurting others who would walk their same path later, alone, cast aside, unwelcome. 

But there were also the children who stayed. I welcomed them. I look at them with happiness. I watch them grow with love. But, occasionally, I do remember. Who would not? I remember there was once a child, my child, and he did not stay. He did not want to stay. 

I chose to walk other paths. I chose to build a different castle from the pieces of the one that fell apart. It took time, a great deal of time, but I think it is a solid beautiful castle. I chose life and left the rest in the past. I think I did  the right thing. I am a happy person today, I'd say.  I live quite a happy life.

Still, I know what you feel when your child does not want to stay. "Life sucks!", at times. "Tough luck", deal with it. "Shit happens!" Anyway... The best you can do is learn something from it, if you can, when you can, the best you can.  Something that will broaden the way you see the world and other's suffering. You try. It works, usually. When it doesn't just make you more impatient with the pettiness of life. I try, myself, and  it works, mostly. Still, it comes back to me, at times. It comes to me when there is loss and separation, when life does not give me choice. It surprises me, and it hurts, the fact, the pain, that this child, my first child, did not want to stay. 

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

As pequenas coisas

O caminho é o mesmo, parece. O mesmo! Mas as pequenas coisas, essas mudam a cada dia. Desde que abri os olhos posso ver as pequenas coisas. Não quer dizer que as vejo desde que nasci. Não é isso que estou dizendo! Elas estavam aí, eu sei, mas eu não as via, as pequenas coisas. Eu as vejo agora e foi preciso uma longa jornada, uma longa e difícil travessia, para ver as pequenas coisas pelo caminho. 

Já ando por esse mesmo caminho há um tempo. Já passei por ele antes, em outras ocasiões. Mas   antes eu não via as pequenas coisas. Tenho certeza que já estavam aí e que pisei nelas, esmaguei-as  talvez, até mesmo matei algumas delas, mas eu não as via.   

Minha mãe, creio, quando estava por aqui, via as pequenas coisas e tentava mostrá-las para mim, mas eu não as via. Não havia tempo para as pequenas coisas então. Eu tinha pressa, eu tinha coisas a fazer,  eu tinha raiva, eu corria muito e rápido. Não havia tempo para as pequenas coisas. Ela as encontrava  no alto, geralmente. As árvores, as flores, os passarinhos, os céus... Elas podem estar em todos os lugares. Agora eu sei.
Eu percebo com gratidão o que ela tentou fazer, minha mãe. Mas há um tempo para cada um de nós. E aquele era o tempo dela, não o meu. O tempo dela de ver as pequenas coisas, apreciá-las, saboreá-las. Agora é o meu. Elas não estão no alto, as pequenas coisas que vejo. Eu as encontro pelo chão, espalhadas, simples e belas. 

Foi apenas quando meu coração expandiu-se e eu abri os olhos que pude vê-las por onde passo todos os dias. Elas brilham e iluminam o caminho. São folhas, verdes, novas, marrons, mortas, secas... São sementes e flores, botões, florescendo, murchando, mortos, coloridos, vivos... São formigas, trabalham duro, determinadas, carregam o peso do mundo, diligentes, com sua fé cega...  

Elas me fazem feliz, as pequenas coisas. Mostram-me beleza, delicadeza, impermanência, esperança. O vento as traz, o homem as varre para longe. Elas voltam no dia seguinte. Elas insistem em seu direito de existir.  

Estão aí para todo mundo ver, espalhadas pelo caminho. Você também talvez as veja quando fizer sua jornada, quando atravessar seus portais, quando seu coração se expandir e você abrir os olhos. Você talvez as veja, as pequenas coisas, e que elas lhe tragam felicidade também.