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Showing posts from 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…

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

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



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



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 surv…

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.

Anywhere, anyone

Sometimes you'd like To be anywhere elseBut 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


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

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, po…

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 …

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



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

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 




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. Po…

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


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 bir…

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.

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

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…

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

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.…

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



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


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 s…

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…

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 p…

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…

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 mi…

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,…