Wednesday, December 14, 2016

No Noticiário

No noticiário, a imagem de uma jovem noiva na frente de um helicóptero, um sonho romântico de grandeza e o desejo de surpreender o noivo com uma chegada glamourosa na cerimônia. Um voo curto. Há cinco minutos de distância do salão, em que esperava o noivo, a família e quatrocentos convidados, jazem os restos dos sonhos de um jovem casal. O dono do salão fala ao repórter, lágrimas nos olhos, e conta de seu sofrimento e dificuldade em informar, primeiro, o noivo, que urrou e caiu de joelhos de dor; depois, os convidados, que o encararam em silêncio e descrença.

Isso foi ontem e eu não consigo tirar essa história da cabeça. Não consigo faze-la ir embora. Por quanto tempo permanecerá comigo, eu não sei, mas me pergunto se será como uma outra história, que uma amiga uma vez me contou, sobre um colega de trabalho que morreu de repente em uma manhã de quinta-feira. Ela contou que, na segunda seguinte, o departamento em que trabalhavam celebrava, como sempre fazia, os aniversariantes do mês e que usaram a mesa do colega morto para servir o bolinho e as bebidas da comemoração. Contou-me, então, que não disse palavra, mas que teve que correr para vomitar no banheiro. Ela nunca esqueceu essa história, e nem eu.

Imagino por quanto tempo essa noivinha, de pele marrom, como a maioria das brasileiras, com seu longo negro cabelo de grossos fios, em seu vestido branco brilhoso e bufante, permanecerá em meus pensamentos, quanto tempo sofrerei a dor de seus sonhos perdidos, não realizados, toda a felicidade e todos os pequenos e grandes dramas de uma longa vida de casada que ela não terá. Dói em mim, uma dor aguda no peito e um nó que sobe e desse na garganta.

Uma foto foi tirada da noiva em frente ao helicóptero que levou sua vida. Ela pretendia mostra-la a seus filhos, um dia, a foto de seu primeiro voo de helicóptero, a primeira vez que decidiu fazer algo aventureiro e surpreender o amor da sua vida. Eles sentariam em volta da mesa da cozinha e fariam gozação dessa história porque, para eles, ela era uma mãe e uma mãe não tem aventuras. Sua última foto foi um retrato feliz. Não permaneceu deitada em um hospital, cheia de tubos e equipamentos, sendo virada de um lado para o outro e cutucada de hora em hora por incontáveis agulhas. Ela subiu aos céus cheia das maiores esperanças e sonhos.

No helicóptero morreu outra mulher. Uma romântica, sem dúvida, pois ganhava a vida tirando fotos de casamentos. Uma romântica que precisava ganhar a vida, pois, grávida de seis meses, subiu no helicóptero decididamente, porque nada de ruim pode acontecer quando se faz coisas por amor, para o amor. Se fosse eu, provavelmente não teria subido nesse helicóptero, mas essa sou eu hoje. Eu sei que coisas horríveis podem acontecer. Há quinze anos teria sido diferente. Eu era diferente.

Essa jovem fotógrafa, grávida, talvez de seu primeiro filho, prestes a nascer, acreditava na vida, acreditava no amor, e tinha que ganhar a vida. Penso no seu marido, na família, nas roupinhas guardadas em um quarto de bebê decorado. Imagino que levará todas as roupinhas dali enquanto a família vive esse luto injusto em dobro. Imagino a raiva que o marido sentirá, a ira e o desespero de descobrir-se incapaz de voltar o tempo.

O helicóptero invade meu pensar, a máquina em si, e eu posso ouvir seu ruído alto, suas hélices rodando, o vento que elas provocam. Vejo a noiva lutando para subir nele sem destruir o lindo trabalho do cabelereiro, segurando a cauda do vestido de lado. Ela talvez tenha se indagado se teria mesmo sido uma boa ideia alugar esse negócio. Ela talvez tenha pensado sobre a inutilidade dessa chegada glamourosa se, no fim das contas, aparecesse na cerimônia com o cabelo de uma bruxa enlouquecida.

Espero que ela se tenha ido com um piscar de olhos. Espero que ela tenha ido inconsciente. Espero que tenham todos morrido instantaneamente. Prefiro pensar que o vestido da noiva permaneceu branco, puro como seus sonhos. Prefiro pensar nela em seu imaculado vestido marfim, em um caixão de cristal, um tipo de bela adormecida, pronta para acordar com um beijo de amor verdadeiro. Sei que não é assim. Eu jogo esse pensamento para longe, mas ele retorna, o vestido branco destruído de sangue. E eu penso nas pessoas que tiveram que retirar o corpo dos escombros, esse corpo e o corpo da jovem fotógrafa grávida.

Eu tento buscar razões que expliquem um acontecimento assim. Não encontro nenhuma. Nunca haverá explicação. Coisas horríveis acontecem, eu lembro a mim mesma. Elas acontecem. E não tenho a menor ideia de porque essa máquina simplesmente caiu do céu, acabando com tantos sonhos. Não consigo achar explicação e talvez por isso continue pensando nelas, nessa jovem noiva, nessa fotógrafa grávida, nas pessoas sem rosto que ficaram para chorar por elas. Eu sou parte da sua dor e eu quero gritar que não é justo. Eu sou parte dessa dor e quero dizer que isso nunca deveria ser permitido. Quero informar a alguém que algo assim nunca deveria acontecer, mas não há ninguém para contar. Não há ninguém a quem informar. E eu fico, aqui, pensando nelas.

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

On the News

On the news the image of this young bride in front of a helicopter, some romantic dream of grandeur and the wish to surprise her fiancé with a glamorous arrival at the ceremony. A short flight. Five minutes from arriving to the ballroom where the groom, the family and four hundred guests waited, lay  the remains of the young couple's dreams. The owner of the ballroom talks to the reporter, tears in his eyes, and tells of his pain and difficulty in informing first the groom, who screamed and fell on his knees in pain, then the guests, who stared at him in silence and disbelief. 

This was yesterday and I cannot shake the story off my mind, I cannot make it go away. For how long it will remain with me I do not know, but I wonder if it will be like this other story a friend told me about a coworker she had that died suddenly of a heart attack on a Thursday morning. She told me that on the following Monday, the department in which they worked was celebrating, as they usually did, the birthdays of the month and they used the dead coworker's desk to set the cake and beverages and merrily sing happy birthday. She told me, then, that she did not say anything, but that she had to run to the bathroom and throw up. She's never forgotten that story and neither have I. 

I wonder how long this young bride, brown skinned, as most Brazilians are, with her thick long dark hair, on her puffy shiny white gown, will remain on my thoughts,  how long I will suffer the pain of her lost dreams, unfulfilled, all the happiness and all the petty and great drama of a long married life she will not have. It pains me, an acute hurt in my chest and a lump that moves up and down my throat.

A picture was taken of her in front of the helicopter which took her life away. She intended to show her kids, one day, the picture of her first helicopter flight, the first time she decided to do something adventurous and surprise the love of her life, their dad. They would be sitting around the kitchen table  and they would mock her because, for them, she was a mother and a mother has no adventures. The last picture of her was a happy picture. She did not lay on a hospital bed, full of tubes and gadgets, being turned by strangers and poked hourly by countless needles. She rose to the skies full of the greatest hopes and dreams.

In the helicopter, died another woman, a romantic, no doubt, for she made a living out of taking pictures of weddings. A romantic who needed to make a living, since she was 6 months pregnant and climbed on the helicopter decidedly, because nothing bad can happen when you do things for love, out of love. If it were me, I would probably not have gotten in that helicopter, but that is me now. I know horrible things can happen. Fifteen years ago it was a different thing. I was a different person. 

This young photographer carrying, perhaps, her first baby, soon to be born, believed in life, believed in love and had to make a living. I think about th husband, the family, the tiny clothes in a decorated baby bedroom. I wonder who is going to carry all of the baby's clothes away while the family lives through this double unjust grieving. I imagine the anger this husband will feel, the rage and the despair of finding himself incapable of turning back time. 

The helicopter comes to my mind, the machine itself, and I can hear its loud noise, the rotating blades, the wind they provoke. I picture the young bride struggling to get inside it without destroying the beautiful work of her hair dresser, holding the trail of her dress to one side. She might have wondered then if it had really been a good idea to have rented this thing. She might have thought of the uselessness  of this glamorous arrival  if she would have looked like a crazy haired witch at the ceremony. 

hope she went with a blink, I hope she was unconscious. I hope they all died instantly. I'd like to think the bride's dress remained white, pure as her dreams. I'd like to think of her in her immaculate ivory dress, in a glass coffin, a sort of a sleeping beauty who would wake up by a true love kiss. I know otherwise. I shake that thought off, but I know it is there, the white dress destroyed with blood and I think of the people who had to carry that body away, that body and the body of the young pregnant photographer. 

I try to think of reasons why something like this happens. I find none. There will never be an explanation. Horrible things happen, I remember myself. They do happen. And I have no idea why this machine just fell from the sky, ending so many beautiful dreams. I can't find an explanation and maybe that's why I keep thinking of them, this young bride, this pregnant photographer, the faceless ones who remain to mourn them. I am a part of their pain and I want to scream that it is not fair. I want to tell someone this should never have been allowed. I want to inform someone that something like this should never happen, but there is no one to tell. There is no one to inform. And I remain here thinking of them. 

Saturday, December 3, 2016

Sobre burbujas de jabón


Hubo un tiempo en que pensé mucho en burbujas de jabón. En verdad, ellas surgían en mi pensamiento, livianas, de una transparencia azulada, suaves. Allá permanecían, flotando, de manera que solo podría pasar en sueños. Era un tiempo de suavidad, de caminar a un palmo del suelo y volar para lejos. Toda burbuja de jabón tiene una ventana. Y yo entraba por la ventana, sentía la delicadeza. Por dentro, contemplaba la belleza de las paredes finas. Yo veía el brillo de cada arcoíris. Toda burbuja de jabón tiene un arcoíris. Sabía que era imaginaria y sabía que mismo una burbuja imaginaria no podría durar para siempre. Flotaba con la burbuja y contemplaba la ventana abierta. Hasta que las paredes estuvieran más y más delgadas y el mínimo plop me avisara del fin de la burbuja. Puf, era una vez una burbuja. 

 

Yo continuaba pensando en la burbuja de jabón, yo la traía para el papel, yo la revivía. Y cuantas veces soñé y cuantas veces me dejé llevar. La verdad es que siempre me fascinaron las burbujas de jabón. No como el científico del cuento que estudiaba su estructura. Nunca quise saber de la estructura de la burbuja. Soy del tipo de persona que se pierde en la rigidez de las estructuras. Es la belleza de la burbuja que me atrae. Es su  liviandad que me conduce, su capacidad de vuelo que me lleva. Es su carácter efímero que me atormenta. 

 

 

Bella y sutil es la burbuja de jabón y yo cargo todo el peso del mundo. Mis pies se hunden en cada pisada, cada vez mas hondo, cada vez mas pesado el paso. Necesito de las burbujas de jabón y aún las busco. El paso es lento, la pisada es profunda, pero yo sueño con burbujas de jabón y hay siempre una ventana en una burbuja de jabón.



Monday, November 28, 2016

Coisas que você perde


Você perde coisas pelo caminho
Perde um amor que era puro
Perde a juventude

Você perde um amigo em quem acreditava
Perde a fé
Perde uma parte de si mesmo

Perde contato com a realidade
Seus pés não tocam o chão
As mãos não alcançam os céus
Você não sabe o que fazer

Você não faz
Muito
Você fica ali parado
Você espera 
Pela esperança






Saturday, November 19, 2016

Tiana (En Español)

 Tiana salió de la escuela, cargada de cuadernos, 200 redacciones para corregir durante el fin de semana. Tiana hace maestria y queria enseñar a los alumnos a escribir otra cosa que no sea disertación. No puede! "Tiene que enseñar lo que és util!" respondió la directora. En la universidad le dijeron, una vez, que limpiara el baño que estaba muy sucio. "No trabajo aquí!" En el trabajo ya le pidieran café. "Queda allá en aquella mesa." Tiana da la espalda y no da tiempo para justificativas y disculpas. Ya sintió mucho dolor. No más! Ahora lo que siente es algo como un desprecio.

En casa, pide comida del restaurante de la esquina. Detesta cocinar! Entra en su cuarto colorido, paredes azules, mesa amarilla de frente para un ventanal, silla roja, y se sienta para corregir las 200 redacciones. Oye el croar de los sapos allá fuera. Tiana tiene mucho asco de sapo. Oye un jazz instrumental y comienza el trabajo. Media hora y se duerme encima del montón de textos iguales.

Despierta con el sol quemando el rostro. En cinco minutos toca el despertador. Tiene clase. Necesita correr. Sale con el pelo mojado. Entra en el ascensor, da buen día. "Tiene un ascensor de servicio, vió?" "Yo vivo aquí!" Da un paso adelante. Vuelca los ojos y se pega a la puerta. La puerta abre. Tiana sale primero. No mira para atrás. El sol golpea en el rostro, el viento sacude su cabello, Tiana vá.




Monday, November 7, 2016

Hoje você morreu

Hoje você morreu. Há mais de dez anos, você morreu. E, hoje, pensei em escrever em inglês, menos olhares complacentes, menos vozes me perguntando: "Ainda falando disso?" Às vezes fujo para o inglês. Hoje você morreu e levou com você quem eu era. Hoje eu sei que você não morreu só. Morreu a moça daquele tempo também. Ficou um espectro, um farrapinho, que teve que se plasmar em outro ser, outra pessoa.

Hoje você morreu e já faz tanto tempo! Mas todo ano, você morre mais uma vez e eu tenho que morrer de novo junto. E tenho que voltar dos escombros mais uma vez e recomeçar. E eu volto. Porque lá longe prometi que não iria e hoje não sou mais aquela que morreu. Uma vez por ano, morro de novo. E não tem jeito, não tem como. Olho o farrapo que fui, olho o estrago que se fez e sei que estou longe daquilo e sei que sobrevive-se a coisas inimagináveis, dores excruciantes, medos que escurecem o mundo. Sobrevive-se. E com sorte, ou com empenho, é possível construir outras obras, abrir novas estradas, acender outras luzes. 

Não sei o que seria daquela que hoje morreu com você, se você tivesse ficado. Aquela outra, não sei. Sei dessa aqui que afundou, que quase se afogou. Perambulou cega e só, muito tempo. E a culpa foi e não foi sua. E você morreu. Essa que ficou, hoje nada longas distâncias. Essa que ficou, sabe que se fica, mas se pode ir como um raio, ao atravessar a rua, ao dar o primeiro passo, ao piscar os olhos ou ao manter-se estática. Melhor caminhar. 

E eu caminho e quando olho para trás não tenho certeza ainda de o que vem a ser esse novo ser que sou eu. É recente. Esse novo ser tem pouco mais de dez anos e enterrou trinta e poucos anos no seu enterro, aquele ao qual não pode comparecer. Esse ser caminha e busca e ousa e carrega também uma dor maior que o mundo, mas não quer o compadecimento de ninguém. Não quer mensagens de otimismo, muito menos de esperança religiosa. Mergulhos rasos que não saem de si mesmos, arrogâncias de entender o que não se entende, nem se justifica.

Danem-se encontros e compensações futuras. Fiquem com eles e respeitem meus trinta anos enterrados e minha caminhada em busca de luz, minha ressurreição. Não há tempo para futuros longínquos. Não tenho tempo para suas ilusões calmantes, suas enervantes bondades. Fiquem com elas! Caminho para o que é feito de agora, para o que toca hoje, este minuto, e é isso o que pode ficar para o amanhã. O amor de hoje, a luz de hoje, o criar e cuidar de hoje. O resto está enterrado, o resto uma vez por ano retorna mais forte, mas o resto do resto é o meu caminhar. 

Sunday, September 25, 2016

Tiana

Tiana saiu da escola, carregada de cadernos, 200 redações para corrigir durante o fim de semana. Tiana faz mestrado e queria ensinar os alunos a escrever outra coisa que não dissertação. Não pode! "Tem que ensinar o que é útil!", respondeu a diretora.

Na universidade lhe cutucaram uma vez e informaram que era preciso limpar o banheiro que estava muito sujo. "Não trabalho aqui!"  No trabalho já lhe pediram cafezinho. "Fica ali naquela mesa." Tiana vira as costas e não dá tempo para as justificativas e desculpas. Já sentiu muita dor. Não mais!  Agora é algo  assim como um desprezo. Em casa, pede comida do restaurante da esquina. Detesta cozinhar. 

Entra em seu quarto colorido, paredes azuis, mesa amarela de frente para um janelão, cadeira vermelha, e senta para corrigir as 200 redações.  Ouve o coaxar dos sapos lá de fora. Tiana tem muito nojo de sapo. Ouve um jazz instrumental e começa o trabalho. Meia hora e adormece em cima da pilha de textos iguais, formulaicos.

Acorda com o sol, queimando o rosto. Em cinco minutos toca o despertador. Tem aula, precisa correr. Sai de cabelo molhado. Pega o elevador, dá bom dia. "Tem um elevador de serviço, viu?" "Eu moro aqui!" Dá um passo à frente. Revira os olhos e cola na porta. A porta abre, Tiana sai primeiro. Não olha para trás. O sol bate no rosto, o vento sacode o cabelo, Tiana vai. 

Friday, September 23, 2016

Snow White

Snow White looks at herself in the mirror and puts on sunscreen. She makes sure she has it on her ears. Last time, she forgot them and spent a week with red burning ears. Snow White walks to the fruit shop. Passed the apple season, which always makes her feel inexplicably nauxious, she  feels reasonably well. Snow White works the whole day as a cashier. When the evening comes, she catches a bus to night school. She studies to be a nurse. "It's easy to get a job!", said one of her aunts. But what she really wanted was to be  a veterinarian. She had always had a way with animals. Snow White saves money. She does not eat anything during class breaks. Midnight, when she gets home, there is a plate of rice and beans saved for her in the fridge. She fries an egg. She eats and passes out. Such a heavy slumber she doesn't even know how she manages to get up the following day. Snow White saves the money from the snacks she doesn't eat at school and dreams to visit a castle in Germany. She saw it once on a magazine. Snow White wakes up for another day. She takes a shower, looks at herself in the mirror and puts on sunscreen. 




  

Branca de Neve

           Branca de Neve se olha no espelho e passa o protetor solar. Certifica-se de que passou nas orelhas. Da outra vez, esqueceu e passou uma semana com a orelha em brasa. Branca de Neve caminha até  a frutaria. Passada a temporada de maçãs que lhe dá sempre um mal estar inexplicável, ela se sente razoavelmente bem. Branca de Neve trabalha no caixa, o dia todo. A noite pega um ônibus para a faculdade. Faz enfermagem. "Emprego certo!", disse uma tia. Mas o que ela queria mesmo era fazer Veterinária. Sempre teve jeito com bicho. Branca de Neve economiza. Não come nada nos intervalos das aulas. Meia noite quando chega em casa, abre a geladeira e tem um pratinho de feijão com arroz esperando. Frita um ovo. Come e desmaia. Um sono tão pesado que nem sabe como acorda no outro dia. Branca de Neve economiza o dinheiro do lanche e sonha em visitar um castelo na Alemanha. Viu em uma revista. Branca de Neve acorda para mais um dia, toma banho, se olha no espelho e passa o protetor solar. 



Sunday, September 11, 2016

Sobre bolhas de sabão

Houve um tempo em que pensei muito em bolhas de sabão. Na verdade, elas surgiam no pensamento, leves, uma transparência azulada, suaves. Lá permaneciam, flutuando, de um jeito que só poderia acontecer em sonho. Era um tempo de suavidade, de caminhar a um palmo do chão e voar para longe. Toda bolha de sabão tem uma janela. E eu entrava pela janela, sentia a delicadeza. Por dentro,   contemplava a beleza das paredes finas.  Eu via o brilho de cada arco íris. Toda bolha de sabão tem um arco íris. Eu a sabia imaginária e sabia que mesmo uma bolha imaginária não poderia durar para sempre. Flutuava com a bolha e contemplava a janela aberta. Até que as paredes ficassem mais e mais finas e o mínimo pop me avisasse do fim da bolha. Puf, era uma vez uma bolha. 

Eu continuava a pensar  na bolha de sabão, eu a trazia para o papel, eu a revivia. E quantas vezes sonhei e quantas vezes me deixei levar. A verdade é que sempre fui fascinada por bolhas de sabão. Não como o cientista do conto que estudava a sua estrutura. Nunca quis saber da estrutura da bolha. Sou o tipo de pessoa que se perde na rigidez das estruturas. É a beleza da bolha que me atrai. É sua leveza que me conduz, sua capacidade de vôo que me leva. É sua efemeridade que me atormenta. 

Linda e leve é a bolha de sabão e eu carrego todo o peso do mundo. Meus pés afundam a cada pisada, cada vez mais fundo, cada vez mais pesado o passo. Eu preciso das bolhas de sabão e ainda as procuro. O passo é lento, a pegada é funda, mas eu sonho com bolhas de sabão e há sempre  uma janela em uma bolha de sabão. 


Wednesday, August 17, 2016

About fish

Fish are mysterious creatures. Fish are elegant like their natural enemy, cats. Cats sway sensually. Fish are cats' prey. Fish are beautiful things. You can see them in oriental paintings and porcelain. In Brazil, we say fish die for their mouths. We say one has eyes of a dead fish, big eyes, slow to follow whatever is going on. And what's going on? I'd say if anyone knows what 's going on is fish. One tried to tell me the truth behind the origin of the universe or the secret for being ever content with what you have. It tried to tell me the secret of happiness. 

I saw it, there, in a tank at the Indianapolis Botanical Gardens. You could almost see its brain underneath its thin skin. We looked at each other and it kept the fixed stare at me. It came closer to the surface. I took its picture and left. When I looked back, it looked at me yet, remaining close to the surface, the mouth outside the water like it still had hope to say what it meant to say. Had it legs it would have followed me, I'm sure. I did not look back again. I was afraid that the fish would talk to me. More than that, I was afraid of what it was going to say. To my companion, I said the Green house was too hot for me and I left. Fish are mysterious creatures and this one wanted to talk to me.  It had something important and urgent to tell me. It chose me and made an effort to let me know. It did it all and I left, a coward, and what it had to say I'll never know.





Monday, August 8, 2016

Be a Lady (Exploring what lies behind a poem - #1)

Be a lady
Don't write about craving
Don't write about desire
Don't write about lust

You look at yourself in the mirror and you remember your mother, not the reflected image, you swim,you exercise, still... the words: "My self image is not complying with the reflection in the mirror".  You did not understand it then, you do now. You laugh, you remember your mom. You look at your naked self in the mirror and you try to be nice to the changes of time. You can like what you see at times, but what you see is not what once was. You tell your husband: "if I had a mind like this when I  was twenty I would have left no stone unturned". He smiles. You think of how self-conscious, how mean to your young self you were, how abusive you were to that reflection in the mirror. 

You can still be mean, but you know so much more about yourself now. You write, you undress body and soul and you let the world know it cannot tell you what to feel, what to do. You warn it, loud and clearly:  "Do not tell me not to write about craving, do not tell me not to talk about desire, not to speak about lust. I know more about desire now then that girl from twenty years ago." 

Your  eyes, so aware of beauty,  are filled with tears at the sight of a leaf falling slowly off a tree, swinging back and forth with the wind, touching the ground with a caress. You feel the smoothness of lips touching the skin of your cheek, lips that press it softly, yet firmly, and  one second becomes a minute, of goosebumps and heartbeats. The moment lasts an age and an age is but a second. 


You know more about lust then twenty years ago. The different weighs of a body on top of yours, skins brushing against each other, the different smells, the sweat, the taste of the sweat, like the taste of salt in your body during a day at the beach. You know of the movements, how they can be similar to the butterfly stroke of a perfect swimmer, how they can make you breathless and speechless, how your face can burn and your body happily collapse. Or else, how you can be left  in lonely and quiet despair, craving for what was not, eyes open, sleepless. 


They say you should not talk about those things, you are a mother. They hope you will become invisible as you grow older. They hope. They've told you you would scare men away if you showed them what you think and they tell you,  still, that it would be so much nicer if you just behaved like a lady. You would be so much nicer, they say. But a lady has no craving, a lady needs no lust, a lady should have no desires. And seriously, who wants to be a lady?

Saturday, July 30, 2016

Anemia


Anemia, a deficiency of hemoglobin in the blood. I knew that had to be the problem even before the appointment. Anemia makes you weary and pale. You bleed too much, said the doctor. He gave me colored pills, one to stop the bleeding, the others to keep me strong, but I'm not strong. You think too much, someone else had said someday. I think too much, I bleed too much. A vampire had been sucking my blood for a long long time. But there are no pills for that. Are there? The creature  walked  in the shadows and slept inside a coffin. Anemia, the doctor said, a lack of red cells in your blood. I'm half myself now,  but I'm persevering. I will have to tell the vampire he can have my blood no more. Weary and pale, I walk, slowly. "Eat some liver, some dark greens, take your pills, iron, vitamins...", well meant people tell me.  Stay away from blood suckers and buy myself a "pensieve", I add to the list silently. I always thought the "pensieve" was the coolest gadget in Hogwarts, a basin where you'd put your threads of thoughts to rest, to air. Anemia, said the doctor, but he does not know of the creature that bites my neck in the middle of the night. When it leaves, it is like the world becomes contaminated by my paleness, life cannot recover from my weariness. Life becomes full of this creature's emptiness. My soul became anemic and I have to tell the vampire it can have my blood no more.


Thursday, July 28, 2016

Things I remember

I remember I had somewhere to run to when I was in trouble. I remember you telling me I'd always have that place. I could always come to you. But you are gone and I have nowhere to go, you know? I remember things would be all right. I remember you used to say this to me. I remember 

I remember I loved to read on lazy Saturday afternoons and easy Sunday mornings. I remember lying in a hammock with a book, overlooking the lake. I remember we could not swim in it then, we could only look at it. Most of the times it was bathed by the sun and its waters sparkled silvery stars here and there. I remember there was never much rain. And when there was rain, it used to fall diagonally. You told me this was the only place on earth rain would fall diagonally. I am not sure about that anymore.

I remember I could be anything I dreamt. One day I would be everything I dreamt. I remember the only place I would feel safe was the only place I would feel fear. And the only place I would feel fear was at home. I remember there were many rooms and nowhere to hide. I remember fear had me running from my bedroom to the bathroom, locking the door, waiting for silence, running back again to the room, locking the door. I remember you telling me to stay in my room until you'd come back. I remember, years later, you told me you were trying to protect me. I remember I tried, one day, to add up the afternoons I spent hiding in my room, afraid.  One year of my life was wasted locked up in a room, in fear.

I remember you telling me there was always going to be an open door for me there. I remember I believed it. I remember that when I came back from the dead and you became a child again, no longer the owner of your own fate, my room was clustered with things belonging to other people, even the bed occupied. I remember feeling it did not matter if I was dead or alive. Dead seemed the best option. There would be more space. I remember I said nothing. I just stood there and stared at the books unread, the unwanted decoration and  all the out of fashion dresses, shirts,  that occupied my place in that room.

I remember that room had a view to the lake. It had a shelf by the window. It was used both as a desk and a bench. Sitting there, I would contemplate the stars at night, I would dream. In that big big house, that room was where I lived. Nothing could harm me there if the key was turned, if the door was locked.  But, there was no room for me anymore. There was no place to hide and feel safe. Someone had closed the door you promised to keep open. I sighed and left. I remember you made me promises you could not keep. And now,  there is no room, there is no door and there is no you

Friday, July 1, 2016

Para Talytta

Minha amiga me deu um marcador de livro em forma de borboleta. Carrego agora, comigo, para onde vou. Vejo o sorriso da amiga que se foi, sempre que fecho os olhos. Em sonho, ouço sua voz que também sorria. Era boa, minha amiga. Tão boa, que minha alma desconfiada, duvidou em princípio de tanta bondade. Era suave. Ria das minhas fúrias. E, sei lá porque, dizia me admirar. Minha amiga está hoje no lago em que nado. Outro amigo disse: "Agora você vai nadar com ela", e me fez um carinho. Tenho bons amigos. Minha amiga me viu perder um filho. Hoje vejo seu filho perder a mãe. A minha dor e a perda dele, a minha perda e a sua dor. 

Estava feliz, a minha amiga. A vida começando, os sonhos caminhando. Da última vez que nos falamos, o calor, a praia, o mar... Tinha o mar para amenizar. Há poucas semanas pensara, quando formos a praia será ainda melhor. Sua família, minha família, na praia, as crianças correndo, castelos de areia, alegria e paz. Ao saber da minha amiga, fiquei braba, comigo. Não estava lá, não segurei sua mão, não lhe disse que ela podia também ficar braba, se quisesse, não arrumei seu travesseiro, não molhei seus lábios, não amenizei sua sede. Eu não estava lá. Parece que nunca estou lá. Mais tarde, a igreja, as elaborações, o consolo.  "Está melhor",  "Está com o Pai", eu murmurando: "Pare de levar meus amigos! Pare de levar meus amigos!" 

I'm mourning my friend, a frase me vem enquanto caminho meu caminho de todos os dias, meu caminho de borboletas, flores, folhas vivas e secas. Seu rosto em meu pensamento, seu sorriso, a borboleta saindo do livro que ainda não consegui ler. I'm missing my friend, saudade de nó na garganta, saudade de me deixar furiosa e de brigar com o mundo. "Pare de levar os meus amigos!" Ela ria das minhas brabezas, ela se divertia. Ela riria dessa história, de mim e diria algo que acalmaria minha raiva. Sem querer, ela diria. Era suave, minha amiga. O vento balança as folhas das árvores em frente ao escritório em que trabalho, suave. Eu vou nadar com você, minha amiga, e vou levar você comigo, sempre. 

Sunday, June 19, 2016

On prose poems and sleepless nights

I'm thinking of prose poems. I'm thinking in English about them, prose poems. I'm thinking of how I had never heard of them, for so long. I'm thinking of how a sentence sometimes pops on my mind, after seeing a leaf of uncommon, unthinkable, shape or of some more banal shape, like a heart. Or when a sentence comes to mind because I've been worrying, reflecting wondering and pondering about something in life. I'm thinking of how what I see or think comes back to me in a specific language. I'm a translator. I'm always here and there. And that is that. That is how it is. And the rest follows. The language chosen by the thought. The thought leading the language. The language flowing the thought. A wave brushing the ocean softly, the foam... Foam? A espuma. One language fails, the thought slips into the other. One language invades the other. 

I'm thinking of prose poems. Three twenty nine in the morning, I've been thinking of them for hours. The hours I should have slept, the hours I'll miss tomorrow. I'm thinking of prose poems and telling myself I should be sleeping, I should not be thinking of them, prose poems. I remember, before I knew they existed, I had written pieces that started with one sentence, followed by another and another and another... I'd look at that thing I had written, that text box, that group of words that formed sentences that made up... something. I used to wonder what that was. I'd think: "It's a poem!". 

The thing was a poem. I did not know prose poems. The poem was in the wrong shape, I'd think. I had to organize the poem. I had to align it, organize it discipline it.  I'm thinking now of how many possible prose poems I might have transmutated or amputated into something else. I'm obsessing, in the middle of the night, about prose poems. I'm thinking of them and taking little naps when exhausted. I decide, finally, that there is nothing I can do but to write about prose poems. I do it finally. I write about them. I think and write about prose poems and now I can, at last, sleep. 

Tuesday, May 31, 2016

Where flowers bloom

Here I go again
To a place I once was happy
To where I felt alive 
To where I knew I was free 

This place 
Where thoughts are new
Where light shines brighter 
Music surrounds you 
And life expands 
Beyond its limitations
Regardless of temptations

I'll sip coffee 
I'll drink wine 
I'll dive deep 
I was happy in this place
I will contemplate youth's face

I will knit joy with thick threads of hope
I will stride down its roads
A thousand dreams
Floating in and out of my mind

I will fluctuate
I'll soar
And at night I'll go to bed 
Peaceful, I will be,
Silent, in a room 
And I'll gaze through the window 
At this place where flowers bloom

Sunday, May 29, 2016

A shadow

A shadow
Not the light it once was  
Not the silvery shine of a dream
Not the golden gleam of hope
A dark silhouette 
A shadow

She did not pursue it anymore
But it followed her from afar
It reminded her 
Occasionally 
Of things that almost were 
Yet never become 

A shadow 
The darkness projected 
By the light that it was 

Now, 
A shadow, 
Following 
Sad
Silent
Slow

A memory 
A reminder 
Of all it could have been
And all it never was 
All it never  is



Thursday, May 26, 2016

O pior cego, aquele que tudo vê

Com o que você  se importa?
Fica aí no seu cantinho
Seus queixumes faz baixinho
Meio de lado
Nada público
Pra não parecer alterado

Com o que você se importa? 
Tanto pensamento
Profundo conhecimento
Dá pinta de reservado
Tudo escondido 
Tudo guardado

Mas é preciso entender
Você não pode perder
As possíveis concessões
Os eventuais favorecimentos
As potenciais benesses 
Que venham a aparecer

Não é cego
Permanece mudo
E se faz de morto
Pra tudo

Tudo afunda
Tudo afoga
Tudo se esvai
Mas sua única paixão 
É sua tábua de salvação

Sunday, May 15, 2016

Never there

Your country is going down the hole
You post pictures of cute dogs
We are all inside a time machine
Going back to the Dark ages
You're sharing videos of fluffy cats 

The poor are losing the little chance they had
Women are disappearing from spaces they'd finally started to share
Students are being beaten 
Struggling for the bit that should be naturally theirs

And you? 
You are there 
With your pictures by the pool 
Your forced fake whitened smile 
Your Instagram full of pictures of your drinks
You don't give a damn if the ship sinks

They are telling us not to think
They are telling us not to care
They are telling us all
And some of us are fighting back
But you don't count 
You never counted
You were never there

Sunday, May 1, 2016

No hope

There is no more hope
A tunnel takes you back 
To dark ages
To despair
To no more dreams
No more llusions

You will hear their forceful steps
The march of the blind haters
They will take you out of bed
They will pull you by the hair
They will drag you around the streets 
They will burn you in the fire

You will not mean a thing 
You may try to run
There will be no escape
No more
You can try to run 
Or you can hope for the rope


Sunday, April 24, 2016

Romance in France

He followed her from France to Spain. She had been travelling with friends and they met in Montpellier. She fell in love with the place instantly. Students at La Place de la Comedie, sipping coffee, sitting around the fountain, laughing, talking, life bubbling like a glass of Kir Royale. He offered to help with her bags. She walked beside him in silence, her friends giggling behind them, "Oh, why! Oh, why isn't there anyone to carry my suitcase." She kept the best neutral face she could. "Let them joke, in Portuguese he will not understand anyway!" 

They stopped at the top of the dorm stairs. She thanked him in French. A shy smile and eyes that said otherwise looked back at her: "Brazilians?", he asked in Portuguese from Portugal. She felt the fire on her cheeks: "Yes", she replied. She tried hiding the surprise in her voice, but his eyes told her he'd caught her. He smiled, "Enjoy your stay!" The friends' voices, dragging their overloaded suitcases, which had been left behind caught up with them "why wasn't there a cute guy to carry my suitcase?" "Why, oh why! Poor me..." He smiled at her, winked and left. 

They met occasionally the following days. Him, coming back from his studies, her, returning from her walks and adventures. Brief conversations, shy smiles and the eyes always saying something more. The friends' jokes went silent. Instead, they now discretely monitored their movements. He took an afternoon off and offered to guide them through the city. He showed them the other side of the town, the modernity of Antigone, its mirrorred façades in a neighborhood built for the poor. They walked around the narrow streets of old town, they strolled among the other students at la Place de La Comedie, while the skies turned from blue to red, to dark. She saw him once staring at her from the back, she had felt his eyes scanning her body, he blushed when caught. 

He took them to a pub later on, an empty pub with a dance floor, about which she had to hear several complains until the end of the trip. It became a benchmark for a bad night out. "A place could hardly be as horrible than the one that Portuguese took us", it was the general comment. She thinks he did not put much thought on the place, they were just a load he was forced to carry around. He wanted a place to talk to her, but they were always there. She did not make much of an effort. At that time she still cared about what others would think. Had we the knowledge of our fourties at our twenties... 

At the dorm, her friends followed all to their rooms still disappointed about the night. They sat on the steps and talked for a long time, about too many things to be remembered. She was leaving in the morning, early. After a long silence, they said goodbye with a kiss on the cheek and the promise to write. She walked to her room on the ground floor, he vanished up the stairs. At the door, she stopped a second, life changes in a flash, life is gone with a blink of your eyes, she turned around and ran upstairs, unsure she'd find him still. She met him at the top of the stairs, coming back. They kissed, hands running through hair, hands covering the territories of their bodies soon to be separated by the Atlantic Ocean. They went back to his room, but the night was not what she had hoped for. Too stressed up with the life of a grad student writing a thesis, maybe, too nervous, too anxious, too afraid of her, perhaps. She returned to her room half an hour before the trip. He came to say goodbye at breakfast and she thought they would never meet again. 

One week later, though, there he was.  A rose in his hands, the shy smile and the eyes that did not hide anything anymore, he had followed her from France to Spain and that could have been the perfect love story. She did welcome the flattery, the flowers, the compliments. She even retributed the kisses, the tenderness, but she was young. He was there, but he seemed to her now as old as the Portuguese vessels which once reached the virgin coast of Brazil. Their story as ancient as the History of their countries told in her high school books. It had only been a week, but it seemed it had been centuries ago. She was young and, when you are young, life moves in the speed of the light, life changes  in the blink of an eye.

Friday, April 15, 2016

Art / Arte

Because Art can help you turn what never was into something real. Art can put in the world what is only in your heart. Art can help you recover rights taken away. Art can help you heal. It can help you survive and overcome pain. It can help you live through it, anytime it comes back in your spiraling path. Art can help you love. Art can help you live. 

Porque a Arte pode ajudar a tornar o que nunca foi em algo real. A Arte pode por no mundo o que está apenas no coração. Ela pode ajudar a recuperar direitos usurpados. A Arte pode ajudar a curar. Pode ajudar a sobreviver à dor e a superá-la. Pode lhe ajudar a atravessá-la sempre que ela voltar ao seu caminho espiralado. A Arte pode ajudar a amar. A Arte pode ajudar a viver.

Tuesday, April 5, 2016

Small

I dwell in a small small world
I dare not affirm a thing 
on the greater issues of man kind
I offer no solutions

I remain entangled
In the web of my thoughts
Puzzled by petty confused notions

I dare not offer advice
I dare not tell you where to go
I stand here on a pile of "I don't knows"

I look at the world from afar
With squinting eyes I try to see
I try to grasp 
I try to decide

I wander in small and large circles
Round and round
I get dizzy
Round and round

I hover above
Distant
I gaze the world
From far away
And everything looks small





Sunday, April 3, 2016

I upset people (This may be the first of a series)

I feel I upset many people. Maybe it is something I do, but the feeling I get is that what upsets them is the way I live, the choices I make. People get upset with me when they hear I don't believe in God. If I tell them that I once did, but have lost my faith after I lost my first child, a premature baby, they fail to grasp the complexity of it. They look at me with irritating condescendent pityful eyes and they think I can be "fixed." To be fair, maybe I fail to help them understand that after what happened to me, God as I came to know it and most people of Christian beliefs do, is of no use to me. 

God proved himself either nonexistent or useless to me when my first born died and when I almost followed him due to Eclampsia and Hellp Syndrome (Go ahead and google it! Unless you are doctor or had someone in the family who had this, you will never know it.) He did not save my baby and he did not spare me the excruciating suffering I had to endure. And if you think I found any comfort in any of God's words after that, you are wrong! I did not and I find none still. 

My approach to God today can be understood, perhaps, by the way I dive to swim open waters. Last year I went to swim in the ocean for the first time and I saw people making the sign of the cross before diving in the cold waters of Copacabana. I confess I thought for a second of how comforting it was to have the feeling that this superior entity is taking care of you and that nothing will go wrong because of that, but the fact is shit happens to lots of people, everywhere, everyday, so evidence to me is either that God plays a funny lottery with people's lives or he is not there at all. 

The illusion, when you believe in it, can be helpful anyway. But since I don't believe in it, but still cannot be a hundred percent sure, I mentally uttered the following words to a possible God before following my fellow swimmers of obvious faith: "Look, if you are there, please do not interfere, let me do what I know and stay away!  Do not make it more difficult or easier! Just leave me alone, you've already done enough harm!"  So, with no external comfort, I dove in and swam at my own speed, at my own pace, taking deep breaths and contemplating the view.

Tuesday, March 29, 2016

Moribundo

Morre nāo morre 
Pendura-se 
Por fino fio
Sustenta-se 

Sorve gotas de ternura
Alimenta-se 
Da escassa matéria 
Dos sonhos

Mingua,
Moribundo
Arfa 
Suspira 

Segue
Resignado
Em direção à luz



Saturday, March 26, 2016

Rio Valsa

Um rio separa,
Divide, 
O que é jovem e o que é antigo 
O novo se vê no velho 
E o que é novo envelhece a cada dia

Muda assim o novo 
Mistura-se
A esse antigo 
Que se transforma 
Um rio nunca é o mesmo rio

Os tristes sapatos permanecem 
À beira do gélido rio
Sapatos sem pés que os calcem 
Nunca mais
Corpos levados pelo rio

O rio não é mais o mesmo
Não corre mais sangue 
Nesse rio valsa
Que separa e mescla 
O que envelhece e rejuvenesce
O que é brasa adormecida  
intensa chama
Rodopia, valsa!
Rodopia, rio!
Rodopio eu

Um rio atravessa
Corre 
Sinto seu movimento,
Sua correnteza
Leva-me, hoje,
Cinzento rio
Em sua valsa azul 

Choro e sorrio
Do que foi,
Do que será
Mas o que é,
Apenas é,
É um rio
E todo o rio segue
Urgente 
Para o mar





Algo que sei da Ditadura

Ano passado, contei uma história do meu tempo de escola para minha filha, uma agressão sofrida por mim e cometida por um colega. Uma agressão que ninguém testemunhou. Ela logo me perguntou: - Por que não foi na Coordenadora?  Não soube responder imediatamente. Fiquei pensando... 

Na escola das minhas filhas, a coordenação é um espaço aberto, as crianças entram em grupos ou sozinhas, questionam injustiças, demandam soluções.  Entendi, ali, mais um pouco de como o período da ditadura, que eu vivi como criança  e adolescente, influenciou minha formação. A escola não era, na Ditadura, um lugar  para pensar, era um lugar para se informar, talvez, mas não para pensar. Não era um lugar para questionar. A Ditadura não permite questionamentos.

A Coordenação, no tempo da ditadura, não era um espaço acolhedor para os alunos. Era um espaço de punição. Você era mandado à coordenação se cometessse algum delito. Se o delito fosse muito grave, seus pais também eram chamados. Expliquei para minha filha que no meu tempo a gente não tinha espaço para questionar coisas com a coordenação, e,  ainda bem, que ela achou aquilo tudo muito estranho! 

Olhando para trás, vejo que tive sorte de ter pais que me educaram para a crítica e o questionamento, que me incentivaram a conhecer História, a explorar a Literatura, indo além do oficial e recomendado. Ensinaram-me que é preciso ler nas entrelinhas, buscando não só o que está exposto, mas o avesso do bordado.  Percebo, no entanto,  que a escola da época, reflexo da opressão da ditadura, tolhiu muito do meu potencial criador. Aulas de artes, poucas, que indicavam como fazer, em que estilo pintar, escrita que seguia fórmulas, música e leituras limitadas, a impossibilidade do exercício criador... Tive que descobrir meu caminho só e apesar desse sistema que me formou. 

Meus pais fizeram muito para que eu pudesse viver criticamente, para que eu avançasse de modo independente. Dei sorte! Mas eles também foram limitados por esse período, em que viveram como jovens e como pais. Eles tiveram suas perdas, seus temores, suas vozes abafadas, suas liberdades cerceadas. 

Hoje, vejo que levei muito tempo para compreender e acreditar que criar era possível e que era um direito meu. Há poucos anos, consegui permitir que a minha criatividade alçasse vôos. Desejo vôos mais altos para minhas filhas e seus amigos e sei que a Ditadura não permite vôos. A Ditadura corta asas! Ditadura, nunca mais! 

Monday, March 21, 2016

Reflecting about truth

My mother had Alzheimer's. I took her to the Doctor in the beginning and due to quite a high number of threats from her sisters, my sisters and I had to agree not to tell her she had it. According to one of my mother's sisters she would either kill herself if she knew or she would perish twice as fast. It was a great responsibility to take a decision concerning other person's life and, afraid of having to deal with the consequences of an unsupported decision, I gave in reluctantly. I decided, however, that, although I would not tell her she suffered from the condition, if she asked me directly if she had Alzheimer's, I would then tell her. I was not going to lie to my mother about her own life. She never asked though and I never had to say anything. 

One day, when we could still maintain a conversation, I was talking to her and I told her that  if anything happened to me, if I ever got cancer or some other disease, I would like to be informed of everything, I would like to use my time to make my own decisions. I would like to be the one in charge of my life for as long as possible. She turned to me and said: "I'd rather not know." That gave me some peace of mind. Of course, I question, at times, if that was her in her sound mind, or her already ill, saying it, but still it was her and she was a very intelligent woman who never made the question: "Do I have Alzheimer's?" 

My thoughts went to my mom today because I was thinking about my relationship with the matter of truth. I search truth when doing research. I search truth in my writing, in the drawings I make, in the pictures I take. I search for it. It may not seem so, but even when I feel divided and confused I do search for the truth within. I am a true believer that the truth will set you free. Still, I lie. And don't we all?

 In my defense, I'd say I hide the truth, at times, to protect others from a hurting truth, somehow like I did for my mother. I lie, at other times, in hope I'll find the truth as I go on, in hope that I will choose the truth once I find it. Truth is what moves me and truth always sets me free.  So, if you ever fear, you will hurt me by telling the truth, know that truth is the core matter of my life and its other side, the lies, its dark side, are also known to me.

I feel the vibrations of insincerity, of hidden and unknown intentions. They reverberate like sound waves inside me, echoing for long after they are gone.  I'm moved by the truth and the lack of it saddens me deeply, hurts me profoundly. If you fear the truth will hurt me, know that I feel the lying, the uncertainty, the laconic answers. You too may be lost and have not found your truth yet. Perhaps you are not even looking for it, perhaps this is not your search, but if it is, if you know your truth, share it with me and set me free. 

Losing our parents

We are losing our parents
We are becoming orphans
Gray haired orphans
Pretending to be strong
As they once did

They are leaving us behind
One by one
They are betraying their promises
They are abandoning us
As they've never done before

We are alone
In the dark, we find ourselves 
And we want to call them out:
"Stay a little longer!"
"Hold my hand once more!"
"Make the bad dreams go away!" 

We feel the lines crawling on our faces
One for each disappointment, each frustration
One for every loss, every dream that is no more
They have carved sulks in our faces 
They have changed our smiles

We let out a few tears
When what we truly want is to scream
To despair, 
To fall apart

Yet, we don't
We won't
We hold on

We are the parents of our children 
We are the parents of our parents
We are our parents
We pretend to be strong