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?