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

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.