Talvez a gente tenha que saber agir
de modo instintivo/intuitivo para conosco
e para o que está lá fora.
- trecho do meu diário
segunda-feira, 31 de agosto de 2020
domingo, 30 de agosto de 2020
06/05/2020
I think poems and songs and art itself is like a bonfire yes. bright on the surface, maybe darker at the bottom... hypnotizing and destructive if allowed to... and is always born from something that seems small to somebody.
sábado, 29 de agosto de 2020
O que me fez escritora?
Escrever foi algo que eu sempre fiz. Se isso é o suficiente para fazer de mim uma escritora, isso é o que eu sempre fui. Antes mesmo de começar a frequentar a escola, uma das minhas coisas favoritas no mundo era ter um livro por perto e colocar palavras no papel - fossem elas o que quer que passasse pela minha cabeça ou apenas o meu nome como treino de caligrafia cursiva.
Uma pessoa não é apenas aquilo que faz, é verdade. Mas escrever sempre foi uma parte tão grande de quem eu sou e de como me enxergo, do que posso deixar de legado, que é doido que eu só tenha passado a me reconhecer como tal alguns anos atrás.
Acho que ter conhecido certas pessoas e elas terem dado o valor para o que eu tinha a dizer que eu mesma não conseguia foi um grande ponto de virada. Em 2006, a poesia chegou mais perto da minha vida e se tornou um braço comprido do meu ofício (mas essa é uma história para outro dia, se vocês quiserem...).
E se foi por amor que me tornei poeta, ainda é por amor que eu escrevo e venho buscando maneiras de viver como escritora independente, já que cada vez mais não consigo me ver sem isso. É o que me traz tanto a alegria terrena quanto um pouco da alegria celestial que o meu nome indica.
Quanto mais velha fico, mais entendo a existência e justeza no grau de distância entre um autor e seu trabalho, bem como onde e como ocorre no meu. Mas, se tem uma coisa que nunca faltou, foi honestidade. Então, assim como Frida Kahlo esrá nos quadros, estou na minha escrita. Se alguém, e até eu mesma, quiser me conhecer, a dica que deixo é LEIA O QUE EU ESCREVO.
29/08/2020
sexta-feira, 28 de agosto de 2020
quinta-feira, 27 de agosto de 2020
Interiça
Não parece justo
o custo
do lembrar
do que se faz
e esquecer
que há muito mais,
da mulher
por trás
como ser
a esperar.
27/08/2020
o custo
do lembrar
do que se faz
e esquecer
que há muito mais,
da mulher
por trás
como ser
a esperar.
27/08/2020
quarta-feira, 26 de agosto de 2020
05/05/2020
As folhas que caem de uma árvore onde nasce outra ou um animal que caça outro porque tem que alimentar os seus... E ao mesmo tempo aquela presa lutou pela vida até o final. Porque essa é a essência e harmonia das coisas. O que acontece lá fora e conosco também, e não podemos nos perder disso.
- trecho do meu diário
terça-feira, 25 de agosto de 2020
From him - V
You are bleeding,
you are fertile, you are holy.
You know of what you are mistress
as much as I know of what I am master.
You are a mother
as much as I am a father.
YES.
OF MY STORY.
OF MY POETRY.
segunda-feira, 24 de agosto de 2020
05/05/2020
Acho que eu estou aprendendo que ser puro e tentar enxergar
o melhor das coisas não é o mesmo que ser ingênuo
e se deixar levar por absolutamente tudo, porque as pessoas se aproveitam disso.
- trecho do meu diário
domingo, 23 de agosto de 2020
7 em 1
É bonito como em cada camada da psique que se explora, mais perto se chega do cerne da identidade de alguém.
A pessoa que se foi anteriormente, que está tentando entender o que é amar e aceitar todas as partes de si para que tal amor seja estendido aos outros talvez tenha aprendido que o mundo é grande e que existem tentações e desafios a serem enfrentados.
Com o tempo percebe a existência de uma persona e de uma sombra por trás de suas interações, o que pode levar a um senso de falsidade (plausível ou não) e desenvolve uma maior ou menor noção da separação entre partes da psique.
Passa a olhar para elas diretamente, pelo bem da integração para se obter uma vida mais completa. É aí que ocorre a luta interna entre como a persona que moldamos afeta o consciente e, a nível profundo, a noção de Eu que se tem. Ainda mais quando se é artista e parte disso é moldado pelo nosso trabalho e o que ele exige, mas que se estende pelos outros aspectos da vida.
Aquilo de obscuro que nossa sombra carrega, servindo às nossas ambições, e a máscara que usamos, às vezes estão tão presentes misturadas que esquecemos quem somos sem isso, muito por ser bem difícil traçar as fronteiras. Pode ser ruim, pode não ser, mas a nossa essência permanece.
Os anos passam e aí chega a hora da verdade - a hora de dizer que aquilo que se mostra na posição que se tem é apenas uma faceta de quem somos, talvez uma e meia que nem sempre é bonita. Ainda assim, ninguém na batalha para forjar a própria identidade está sozinho.
05/03/2020
sábado, 22 de agosto de 2020
21/08/2020
E se a falta de experiência e vontade
de ter as vivências e a novidade na presença
da outra pessoa é o que induz o senso de amor
ligado à contemplação, especialmente na fase inicial
das relações e quando esse amor
não é correspondido, muito por causa
do que nos falta ou do que achamos que falta?
sexta-feira, 21 de agosto de 2020
Louvores
Eu louvo
de novo
e de novo...
Com lágrimas
no que digo e peço,
com palavras
no que declaro
ser tão caro
e que agradeço.
Em cada vez que sorrio
por coisa linda que vejo
e história e verso
que cai como pólen disperso
ou leito de rio
de desejo.
Na minha mão carinhosa
de fácil prosa,
nunca indiferente
que mal ousa
a ti e a ele tocar
com cada presente
e beijo
que de coração aberto
eu oferto
e gostaria de entregar.
20/08/2020
de novo
e de novo...
Com lágrimas
no que digo e peço,
com palavras
no que declaro
ser tão caro
e que agradeço.
Em cada vez que sorrio
por coisa linda que vejo
e história e verso
que cai como pólen disperso
ou leito de rio
de desejo.
Na minha mão carinhosa
de fácil prosa,
nunca indiferente
que mal ousa
a ti e a ele tocar
com cada presente
e beijo
que de coração aberto
eu oferto
e gostaria de entregar.
20/08/2020
quinta-feira, 20 de agosto de 2020
Ciclo do desabrochar III
Talvez eu tenha dificuldades ainda no “impor limites” porque esse tipo de situação nunca me foi ensinada. É como se no meu contexto, por mais horrível que seja o que e como é dito e feito seja, ninguém diz nada, ninguém se desculpa de verdade, ninguém se impõe respeito. Fica tudo muito misturado, todos sabem de tudo e dão opinião para tudo e age de forma sufocante; ninguém diz não para ninguém e é fácil replicar esse tipo de comportamento... Até que o ponto de virada se faz necessário. A gente cansa e se obriga a aprender.
Aprende a reconhecer a toxicidade na gente mesmo e nos outros, os comportamentos que, pelo bem do nosso crescimento e próprio espaço no mundo, não pode mais repetir nem aceitar... Aprende a dizer não e a não se fazer disponível para todos o tempo inteiro, para que os outros possam entender o que podem fazer por si mesmos e nós a termos nosso tempo para pensar uma vez que seja no melhor para nós... A reconhecer que tipo de pessoa alimenta de verdade aquilo que temos de melhor e nos incentiva a ir adiante... A saber que o nosso verdadeiro melhor é aquilo que nós sabemos que podemos dar, e não o que o barulho de fora diz que é.
E é justamente perto das pessoas certas que fica mais fácil perceber quando uma atitude precisa ser corrigida, e a fazê-lo com sinceridade, sem vitimização de um lado ou do outro. Quando as situações em que estamos inseridos podem nos prejudicar, também. É claro que estamos aqui para aprender e não faz sentido só conversar com quem concorda em tudo conosco, mas um mínimo de alinhamento expande a mente e a espontaneidade, na minha experiência. E reforça aquilo que no fundo sabemos ser importante.
20/08/2020
Aprende a reconhecer a toxicidade na gente mesmo e nos outros, os comportamentos que, pelo bem do nosso crescimento e próprio espaço no mundo, não pode mais repetir nem aceitar... Aprende a dizer não e a não se fazer disponível para todos o tempo inteiro, para que os outros possam entender o que podem fazer por si mesmos e nós a termos nosso tempo para pensar uma vez que seja no melhor para nós... A reconhecer que tipo de pessoa alimenta de verdade aquilo que temos de melhor e nos incentiva a ir adiante... A saber que o nosso verdadeiro melhor é aquilo que nós sabemos que podemos dar, e não o que o barulho de fora diz que é.
E é justamente perto das pessoas certas que fica mais fácil perceber quando uma atitude precisa ser corrigida, e a fazê-lo com sinceridade, sem vitimização de um lado ou do outro. Quando as situações em que estamos inseridos podem nos prejudicar, também. É claro que estamos aqui para aprender e não faz sentido só conversar com quem concorda em tudo conosco, mas um mínimo de alinhamento expande a mente e a espontaneidade, na minha experiência. E reforça aquilo que no fundo sabemos ser importante.
20/08/2020
quarta-feira, 19 de agosto de 2020
Ciclo do desabrochar II
A verdade é que com o patriarcado e a masculinidade tóxica, muita coisa se perdeu. Ainda preciso ler mais sobre isso, livros inteiros cujos trechos tenho guardados, mas até onde sei é justamente essa perda e essa contaminação que faz com que a selvageria na mulher seja vista de uma perspectiva necessariamente negativa e estereotipada, assim como a masculinidade em si de muitas formas, mas isso não precisa ser visto como uma resposta pronta, porque cada pessoa é tão única e é tão fácil se perder de si...
É isso que faz com que tudo o que foge do padrão tanto na mulher como no homem seja relativizado, fetichizado, ignorado e/ou rechaçado. O ocupar os espaços, seguir as nossas vocações, o dizer o que pensamos, fazer e ter e ser o que somos e queremos ser, com toda a sua beleza e crueza e independentemente do que digam. A pessoa, e principalmente a mulher, com as suas razões, com as suas maneiras, com a sua raiva e desejo é vista como necessariamente monstruosa, insaciável, incontrolável, repugnante e que precisa ser controlada e/ou servir a propósitos específicos que mais têm a ver com os outros do que com ela mesma. E é mais doloroso ainda ouvir isso de outra mulher.
Mas a alma que lembra que é selvagem é a que se aceita o máximo que pode, que se carrega com naturalidade e nobreza em todas as suas facetas. Que volta para o início e ilha para o cerne sempre que necessário. Que é e faz aquilo que é necessário para o próprio bem e não caminha apenas sob águas rasas. Que sabe sair da zona de conforto para propiciar a própria evolução, mas que também sabe reconhecer seu verdadeiro lar. Que respeita a natureza do mundo que é e do mundo onde vive. A que, com a mesma mão, mata e traz à tona o que é preciso no seu devido tempo e, no entanto, não deixa de se mover.
É isso que faz com que tudo o que foge do padrão tanto na mulher como no homem seja relativizado, fetichizado, ignorado e/ou rechaçado. O ocupar os espaços, seguir as nossas vocações, o dizer o que pensamos, fazer e ter e ser o que somos e queremos ser, com toda a sua beleza e crueza e independentemente do que digam. A pessoa, e principalmente a mulher, com as suas razões, com as suas maneiras, com a sua raiva e desejo é vista como necessariamente monstruosa, insaciável, incontrolável, repugnante e que precisa ser controlada e/ou servir a propósitos específicos que mais têm a ver com os outros do que com ela mesma. E é mais doloroso ainda ouvir isso de outra mulher.
Mas a alma que lembra que é selvagem é a que se aceita o máximo que pode, que se carrega com naturalidade e nobreza em todas as suas facetas. Que volta para o início e ilha para o cerne sempre que necessário. Que é e faz aquilo que é necessário para o próprio bem e não caminha apenas sob águas rasas. Que sabe sair da zona de conforto para propiciar a própria evolução, mas que também sabe reconhecer seu verdadeiro lar. Que respeita a natureza do mundo que é e do mundo onde vive. A que, com a mesma mão, mata e traz à tona o que é preciso no seu devido tempo e, no entanto, não deixa de se mover.
19/08/2020
terça-feira, 18 de agosto de 2020
Ciclo do desabrochar I
Ainda que não seja sempre possível ter um sonho ou encontrar uma vocação, não há como negar que eles facilitam a vida e nos dão uma direção e um senso de propósito e de jeito nenhum anulam nossa complexidade, pois existe tanto que podemos ser e fazer ao mesmo tempo, se quisermos... Posso imaginar que seja um grande consolo para aqueles que não se veem com um chamado que não odeiem seus empregos e as escolhas que fizeram e sinceramente cruzo os dedos para que não passe a odiar aquelas que hoje sei que são minhas.
É um tanto triste que principalmente a vida moderna com suas exigências muitas vezes não nos dê espaço para investigar de verdade quais são os nossos talentos e aptidões e o que podemos fazer com isso; se temos sonhos e se há maneiras de nos tornarmos realidade, cada um no seu tempo... Que quase sempre não é o mesmo tempo que até nós mesmos esperamos. E muito disso nos causa dificuldades de nos mantermos no presente e até de tomarmos ações concretas em qualquer que seja a direção, e é aí que as rupturas e frustrações acontecem; em que parece que há alguma coisa faltando.
Há muito em mim ainda a ser trabalhado, no qual eu preciso prestar atenção, e o passar dos anos me assusta porque tenho medo de não ter tempo o bastante. Mas a verdade é que o tempo passará de qualquer jeito e que se eu quiser que as coisas mudem em mim e à minha volta, preciso fazer a minha parte. Olhar para mim, pensar, esperar e, acima de tudo, não ter medo de pedir conselhos e fazer uma coisa de cada vez, respeitando os meus limites e os obstáculos nos quais não posso interferir por mim mesma. Aprender a ter orgulho de cada pequenez que obtenho para me levar onde quero, para ser quem quero ser, mesmo que seja um caminho a ser trilhado sozinha.
Se eu for pensar bem, sempre soube da verdade. A semente sempre esteve plantada e sempre fui quem eu hoje me considero majoritariamente em termos profissionais e que provavelmente vão para além disso. De um modo ou outro eu sempre fiz o que não consigo me ver sem fazer, e sempre caminhei nessa direção, mesmo que em movimentos circulares e com passos talvez sem equilíbrio. Não que eu tenha tomado decisões erradas per se, mas o barulho externo e a falta de atenção a mim mesma me fez questionar essa verdade e acabar não mirando no cerne de tudo e estou cada vez mais certa de que negligenciar isso outra vez só vai me moldar naquilo que esperam de mim e que não condiz comigo.
O que hoje eu tento fazer é alimentar essa semente com o adubo correto, andar por esse caminho com uma direção mais consciente e constante, até porque o que quero para mim não é impossível. Esta é uma história que sempre quis ser contada, e eu busco as palavras certas para tal. Este é um filho que vem há muito sendo gestado e que não posso permitir que seja tirado de mim; quem o dará à luz e o fará crescer da melhor maneira possível serei eu e mais ninguém. Enquanto isso, eu me cerco das pessoas certas para apadrinhá-lo e prover para ele o alimento mais nutritivo.
Uma coisa de cada vez... O protetor, provedor, semeador que me acompanha e que acompanha aquele com as mesmas características que vive em mim, agindo aos poucos para que as pétalas da flor da minha vida se abram com essa força, dando espaço para a mulher que essa flor é, aquela que eu sou e de que tantas vezes me esqueço... Que tem a sua raiva, tão feminina, mas também muito amor, muita capacidade de ser generosa, força dentro do que uns dizem ser fraqueza, que respeita e ao mesmo tempo molda o que para si parece ser decente na experiência de ser mulher. Que sempre teve uma voz e que está aprendendo a usá-la e, assim, juntar todas as partes de si num todo que todos merecem ser. Se mesmo pessoas que amo muito já me enxergam por outros ângulos e já veem o meu cerne, não seria justo comigo mesma não treinar meu olhar para ver a mesma coisa, não é mesmo?
É um tanto triste que principalmente a vida moderna com suas exigências muitas vezes não nos dê espaço para investigar de verdade quais são os nossos talentos e aptidões e o que podemos fazer com isso; se temos sonhos e se há maneiras de nos tornarmos realidade, cada um no seu tempo... Que quase sempre não é o mesmo tempo que até nós mesmos esperamos. E muito disso nos causa dificuldades de nos mantermos no presente e até de tomarmos ações concretas em qualquer que seja a direção, e é aí que as rupturas e frustrações acontecem; em que parece que há alguma coisa faltando.
Há muito em mim ainda a ser trabalhado, no qual eu preciso prestar atenção, e o passar dos anos me assusta porque tenho medo de não ter tempo o bastante. Mas a verdade é que o tempo passará de qualquer jeito e que se eu quiser que as coisas mudem em mim e à minha volta, preciso fazer a minha parte. Olhar para mim, pensar, esperar e, acima de tudo, não ter medo de pedir conselhos e fazer uma coisa de cada vez, respeitando os meus limites e os obstáculos nos quais não posso interferir por mim mesma. Aprender a ter orgulho de cada pequenez que obtenho para me levar onde quero, para ser quem quero ser, mesmo que seja um caminho a ser trilhado sozinha.
Se eu for pensar bem, sempre soube da verdade. A semente sempre esteve plantada e sempre fui quem eu hoje me considero majoritariamente em termos profissionais e que provavelmente vão para além disso. De um modo ou outro eu sempre fiz o que não consigo me ver sem fazer, e sempre caminhei nessa direção, mesmo que em movimentos circulares e com passos talvez sem equilíbrio. Não que eu tenha tomado decisões erradas per se, mas o barulho externo e a falta de atenção a mim mesma me fez questionar essa verdade e acabar não mirando no cerne de tudo e estou cada vez mais certa de que negligenciar isso outra vez só vai me moldar naquilo que esperam de mim e que não condiz comigo.
O que hoje eu tento fazer é alimentar essa semente com o adubo correto, andar por esse caminho com uma direção mais consciente e constante, até porque o que quero para mim não é impossível. Esta é uma história que sempre quis ser contada, e eu busco as palavras certas para tal. Este é um filho que vem há muito sendo gestado e que não posso permitir que seja tirado de mim; quem o dará à luz e o fará crescer da melhor maneira possível serei eu e mais ninguém. Enquanto isso, eu me cerco das pessoas certas para apadrinhá-lo e prover para ele o alimento mais nutritivo.
Uma coisa de cada vez... O protetor, provedor, semeador que me acompanha e que acompanha aquele com as mesmas características que vive em mim, agindo aos poucos para que as pétalas da flor da minha vida se abram com essa força, dando espaço para a mulher que essa flor é, aquela que eu sou e de que tantas vezes me esqueço... Que tem a sua raiva, tão feminina, mas também muito amor, muita capacidade de ser generosa, força dentro do que uns dizem ser fraqueza, que respeita e ao mesmo tempo molda o que para si parece ser decente na experiência de ser mulher. Que sempre teve uma voz e que está aprendendo a usá-la e, assim, juntar todas as partes de si num todo que todos merecem ser. Se mesmo pessoas que amo muito já me enxergam por outros ângulos e já veem o meu cerne, não seria justo comigo mesma não treinar meu olhar para ver a mesma coisa, não é mesmo?
18/08/2020
segunda-feira, 17 de agosto de 2020
The forest of the heart - English version
Dark. Damp. Cold. Sound of leaves and branches breaking. Owls hooting, crickets chirping. Shadows. I was at the place and at its time that most deserves respect. The woods, in the middle of a night of new moon. What if had He summoned me again? I heard another noise, a bit louder this time, and couldn’t keep from screaming. I began to cry. There still was and still is so much that I don’t know, that I don’t understand...
“Sire...” I tried to whisper and repeat many a time, despite the mental whirlwind. I didn’t know whether he’d hear me, but I did it anyway. For what felt like a long while I heard only the silence of the woods and thought I was truly alone. Until...
“Hey, girl...” the rare thing that I more easily noticed in the cards, but that also would come from my heart, as I tend to ask for. Words that sound with my voice, as one of my thoughts, but not really, for they were too fast and also too paused and wise to be fully mine. Despite my doubts that came from time to time, my limitations and answers either vague or as clear as a waterfall, as far as I know, all this time, the one who’s been interacting with me, calling for me, to whom I opened the door of my life... Was Him.
“Lord of every tree, song of the birds and the wind, humblest majesty!” was what I shouted to the dark, swallowing a sob. A sort of prayer I’d written down and which I knew a few parts of by heart. Silence.
“Master... Lord. My prince. I am yours, I am my own and yours. You are welcome to my house, to my body...” I waited, waited and waited a bit longer. A brusk blow of wind made me shiver. Then, upon repeating what I’m used to saying, I felt the old goosebump, stronger than ever, which was not out of cold. It was not as if he was stroking me from afar, busy in his affairs yet aware of my devotion, of the strength in what I say, like the words that brought him to me. Even though I couldn’t see him, it was as though he was next to me, and at the same time, was not. I waited.
“Calm. Come.” He said, very low and softly like a distant spray of perfume.
“Where to, Sire? It’s dark...” more waiting.
“I know. Patience. Trust.”
“I am... A forest. I’m just a little bird. Just... A little bird.” Was what I whispered to the earth when I laid in my stomach, trying to feel the terrain and hear the voice that is said to come from underground. Then my nails noticed an unevenness on the soil. It seemed like an animal’s pawprint. Medium to large an animal. I wondered whether the prince was really around there.
“Come. It’s alright. Just come.”
The darkness I was facing there was nothing like I had ever experienced before. It was dense, way too heavy, a bit due to the thin line of the moon. I almost felt like the worms, doing everything based on the sense of touch. I don’t know how, but I started to crawl on the ground at times hard, at other times soft, with the body weighing a ton and without even knowing well what I was doing and very likely being eaten up by the mosquitos and other animals as I crossed over them, which was quite fair. That was not even a little like the other time His Lordship had spoken to me. And if He had not summoned me... What was going on?
At a certain point, I was exhausted and must have fallen asleep. I woke up with the feeling of something against my face and of being on what seemed like a smooth and slightly warmed surface, like a rock near the fire, but with my head elevated upon what I realized was the Mentor’s lap. I wanted to move, but he stopped me with a determined hiss and went on brushing the piece of wet rag over my face and hair, his other hand under my nape. He seemed worried, for he’d whisper under his teeth.
“What a shambles...”
“Forgive me, Sire. I...”
“It’s alright. That can be fixed. Can you stand up?” I pushed my legs out, but even there I had the same physical limitations as always. I induced him to sustain me as I raised myself to sit on the rock; did more strength than the normal because I didn’t want to look lazy. My legs were too short for that height and I wasn’t used to it yet, so I kept his hands on my torso so as to balance me, on his knees before me.
“Go raibh míle maith agaibh, a chuisle mo chroí.” Thank you very much, my love. He waved the head and smiled. I looked at myself I liked not what I saw; that is not the way one meets a king. I was scratched and dirty, but at least felt no pain. Without taking one of his hands off me, with the other the Lord wetted another rag and gave it to me so that I could examine and clean up where he didn’t feel allowed to touch. My body vibrated and tingled from being close to him.
“Fire of my heart, shock of my spine...” I bowed the head in reverence. “Is this your home? Your favourite home?” then the Mentor smiled again, lifted my chin, and straightened my back under the pressure of his palms, like in the other time.
“That’s it, very good. Look at me, woman.” Pause. “Well, as you know, all forests are my home, in this world and the others. But no, these are not the woods dearest to my heart. And no, I did not summon you this time. You don’t know why you are here, is that it?” he sighed when I shook my head, then he said he had an idea of the reason, but wanted to wait a bit just to be sure. Then he asked me whether I wanted some tea.
“I accept, my lord.” Since he’d walk away to make the tea, the Lord was afraid I’d fall off the rock upon releasing me, so he fastened one of my arms around his own neck, lifted me and left me on the ground, against the wall of the sort of cavern where we were. It was a little sharp, but next to what I’d been through, it was nothing.
“There, there... Wait just a wee bit, I’ll be right back.” His Lordship got up, almost as tall as an oak tree compared to me. Grabbing a bowl, he left the cavern passing me by and toward the darkness. With some focus, I could hear the sound of water, although it seemed distant. I heard the large steps of the Lord again, and another pause. He returned with the bowl full and something I couldn’t identify on the other hand.
I saw the Lord sit upon the stone where I had been, and, resting the bowl and the other ingredient, rubbed his hands as one does when they feel cold. He touched his palms to the sides of the bowl and breathed deeply and slowly. Soon I saw a wisp of smoke curling up from it. Then he pressed the ingredient in his hands, blew in between them, and threw it in the bowl. From time to time he smiled at me and admired the infusion with the corner of his eye, covered by a cloth. Once it was ready, he brought it to me. Hibiscus, by the lovely color and smell.
“Try it, see if it’s not too strong. And be careful.”
As slowly as possible because of my trembling hand, I tried it. It was at a temperature that didn’t make me jump and spill everything... The air still and quiet around me like when he came to me. And the tea, brewed to perfection. Of course he knew about those things.
“It’s excellent, Sire. Thank you. How long since I’ve drunk this one...” I smiled at the petals of hibiscus that floated in the warm water.
“The young woman deserved some comfort after what happened. And it was what I could find without going too far away from here. Besides, as you might know, it’s good for pain and swelling. A beautiful flower...” murmured the master, sitting on the ground next to me and hugging his own legs.
“Yes, it is, sir. Thank you once again, for not forsaking me." I’d still get baffled at how gentle that lofty, wild being who never apologized for it could be, and vice-versa. But I guess what I needed to learn was that all nature was that way. Neutral, and beautiful for being neutral. Hibiscus, for instance, when used a certain way, could sore the throat and cause stomach aches, nausea, etc.
Long pause. What came after was no more than a whisper.
“The young woman knows where I am.” He landed a hand on my shoulder, the palm stained red from the hibiscus, and the fingers blackened by dirt. “Finish your tea slowly, rest a wee longer. We think about the rest later.”
It was a pleasured to obey him, for with him I was free to disobey, close the door and never let him in again, for He understands and respects the meaning of NO, as automatic as it is for me to obey orders, even if I don’t agree with them. He does not abuse his power and capacity over others to impose his will or alleged intentions and never goes where he’s not allowed in. The love he had and lost must be handed willingly; even being who he is, powerful like that, regardless of the response from the mortals. The authority His Lordship has over me was given by myself and by myself can be retrieved if I so desire.
After drinking the tea and trying to sharpen my senses and enjoy the sensations that came from it, I put the bowl aside and peered at Him. He had a frown and I think I heard something like a growl coming from him. His hands with long fingers and nails, like mine tended to be as well, seemed to scratch the stone ground in a defensive gesture.
“Sire... What should I do now?” I inquired carefully.
The master gazed me for a long while, then came closer, opening his hand upon my heart and made a small grimace that soon relaxed. I felt like I was bubbling from within.
“For a while now the young woman has been asking me for something. That I help you and love you and take you to those who can guide you where my limits don’t reach. And I always keep my promises. Right?” I agreed. He really listened to me, he really cared.
“You always provide me the resources, tell me where to find them, make me think and try... Back to what matters and I forgot, and it’s up to me to use them or not. I’m grateful, as you know.” How I loved to be his reason to smile... How humble I was, but also so strong, in his hands. Not that I never had been, but... Wasn’t that what true love did? Enlarge us in our smallness?
“Very good...” pause. “It wasn’t any different this time. I told you whom to speak to, where to look at, what to try... Where to go. That is why this forest is different and why the young woman came here. The young woman really followed my advice. Now I realize...”
“What you mean, my liege?”
“I felt it when I left to fetch the water and the hibiscus. All forests are the same at their core, but also carry within them something special that differentiates them from the others.”
“The animals... Plants... The weather... Whether it’s preserved or violated and how it deals with that.” He bit his lip and nodded. I felt as if I was burning when he moved his hand a millimeter.
“That’s why the young woman can’t walk through here like you did when we were together.” Pause. “This soil that is barren but full of life underneath that I stepped on and you crawled over without seeing, this air, this water, each and every flower, leaf, and beast here... Smells like you and has your mark on it. Is as yours as it’s mine. You brought yourself here.”
“I am... a forest. I am... A little bird.” Was what I caught myself repeating. The Lord gestured for me to continue. “A flower, a goodly tree, a bountiful vine... A blade of grass. Woman and flame. Sacred, old, and living thing. Beast of an alert body who learns its lesson and tries not to forget it. Born to be free, with its own laws and who knows laws no man ever wrote, but merely decoded.”
I was crying as I was speaking; the Lord smiled what I’d call a satisfied, dirty smile and came closer in order to speak into my ear.
“Yes, you are... Of course, you are. Hey, hey... Don’t cry... Don’t cry. It’s good that the young woman knows; it’s never too late to know. What is truly a woman’s is not up to a man to fetch. The one who’s to find it... Once it is time... Is you.” The feeling of his breath spread a slow tickle throughout my body. Sometimes I’d forget the master was a poet as much as myself.
It was fair that he wouldn’t hand me the solutions on a plate. Neither have I ever wanted this and a lot due to that mentality I’d abandoned religion as it’s known and felt like I could get along well without the feeling of what some call faith. Probably because I’d turned back to myself despite the mistakes and the master noticed it; I can’t really tell. But as of today I agree with him and understand that I cannot ask him to turn me into a grown woman. As complementary as those energies are and as much as I appreciate having him with me, it’s not in a man and in what he can give that a woman should recognize herself, or in any other person, for that matter. Both must be addendums to one another. In my case and his, likely him offering love, wanting love, and myself with so much to give, feeling so lonely as a whole and wanting to learn...
Perhaps even before the mentor’s arrival, I’ve been slowly following his advice in making better choices, thinking more calmly, for I was letting myself be pulled by what most made sense, for what lived in my core and it still is thusly, now more than ever. And currently, myself, him and who knows who else, worked together. My intuition, perhaps. As old as being a woman, or even something beyond that. That is why I am free to follow the path opened before me, which takes me to where I want and need to be; towards my truth... Or not.
I inquired whether he’d assist me anyway, and he purred back. In a rather involuntary fashion, I saw myself wrinkling my nose, with my teeth out and my bad hand fisted over his as though it was... A paw. Perhaps it has always been a paw. Long before, only clenched, tight, and now with its claws simply visible. Careful, but no longer retracted.
"Dawn's breaking." said the Lord, looking towards the entrance to the cavern. "Come along, let us see the sun outside." he carried me going east, deeper inside the woods, and as close to the line of the horizon as possible. I asked him to sit me against a large tree, which he did, and I stayed still watching the color of the sky and the direction of the wind change little by little.
“A while ago, after many a day, I felt the sun on my face, mostly one side of it... I have a complicated relationship with the sun, but it was good this time. It felt like a long, warm, and loving kiss. It made me think of you. I’m bad at reading signs, but... I couldn’t help it, albeit I’m likely wrong. It’s just that you are so loving and patient with me... Perhaps I’m just being naive. Don’t mind me.”
He shrugged and crouched to get leveled with my eyes. Stroke that hand of mine that so often reminded me of a paw, although I’d often wish to recoil it and forget that it exists altogether. I’d say it became paw-like much because of that; one rather functionless, but at least not so tightly closed anymore. The lord limited himself to saying I was better at that than many people and knew it. And that I was wiser than I thought. He fixed my hair and sighed.
“You are so quiet, and I’m so talkative. I’m sorry for making you speak so much.”
“There’s nothing bad about it. The young woman is learning how to say what needs to be said and to always speak from the heart. I notice and like that very much.”
“But you like the quiet...”
“Of course...” pause. “Somebody must have told you something about that. I understand it must feel confusing, but I do not mind explaining it. But, being that put, as you might have understood, it’s better when what is good, and even bad, within the soul, comes out in a whisper or a scream rather than being kept inside.” The master chuckled and I nodded.
What I couldn’t find out by myself, I apprehended via other people. As much as I wanted to know him via hands-on experience, I knew how to respect his limits and mine. What he means, as I understood it, is that the quiet he appreciates is like that of the woods – it’s calm and serene, but there’s always something vibrating, being said, however subtly. And that’s what better gets to him. Just like when he came: myself with a miraculously empty mind in that wee hour, but with a word that came out of my mouth from deep within my heart.
I gazed from him to the sky to the soil near me. I felt it with the palm of the hand.
“What now, my liege? I am here, but... Where do I begin?”
He returned my gaze.
“As part of the woods, I’d be here anyhow, most likely, and am here to watch over you and assist you, because I want it and you accept it.” Long pause. “The animals do what they must to live. Be it killing, be it running, be it flying off far and wide, keeping or growling. The young woman is learning and remembering and you have begun the work. Do as you see fit.”
I gazed again, more distracted, at my hand upon the dirt. Then I saw myself stroking it and, after a while, mimicking the Master’s scratching gesture at the cavern. My very gesture upon myself when I’d let anxiety take over. I thought I was going to care about the dirt underneath my nails, but I just went on, with his eyes on me and another intention because... When wasn’t that dirt there, obvious, after I woke up? When was it that I didn’t dig to the deepest and most invisible, or almost invisible?
“Sire...” I tried to whisper and repeat many a time, despite the mental whirlwind. I didn’t know whether he’d hear me, but I did it anyway. For what felt like a long while I heard only the silence of the woods and thought I was truly alone. Until...
“Hey, girl...” the rare thing that I more easily noticed in the cards, but that also would come from my heart, as I tend to ask for. Words that sound with my voice, as one of my thoughts, but not really, for they were too fast and also too paused and wise to be fully mine. Despite my doubts that came from time to time, my limitations and answers either vague or as clear as a waterfall, as far as I know, all this time, the one who’s been interacting with me, calling for me, to whom I opened the door of my life... Was Him.
“Lord of every tree, song of the birds and the wind, humblest majesty!” was what I shouted to the dark, swallowing a sob. A sort of prayer I’d written down and which I knew a few parts of by heart. Silence.
“Master... Lord. My prince. I am yours, I am my own and yours. You are welcome to my house, to my body...” I waited, waited and waited a bit longer. A brusk blow of wind made me shiver. Then, upon repeating what I’m used to saying, I felt the old goosebump, stronger than ever, which was not out of cold. It was not as if he was stroking me from afar, busy in his affairs yet aware of my devotion, of the strength in what I say, like the words that brought him to me. Even though I couldn’t see him, it was as though he was next to me, and at the same time, was not. I waited.
“Calm. Come.” He said, very low and softly like a distant spray of perfume.
“Where to, Sire? It’s dark...” more waiting.
“I know. Patience. Trust.”
“I am... A forest. I’m just a little bird. Just... A little bird.” Was what I whispered to the earth when I laid in my stomach, trying to feel the terrain and hear the voice that is said to come from underground. Then my nails noticed an unevenness on the soil. It seemed like an animal’s pawprint. Medium to large an animal. I wondered whether the prince was really around there.
“Come. It’s alright. Just come.”
The darkness I was facing there was nothing like I had ever experienced before. It was dense, way too heavy, a bit due to the thin line of the moon. I almost felt like the worms, doing everything based on the sense of touch. I don’t know how, but I started to crawl on the ground at times hard, at other times soft, with the body weighing a ton and without even knowing well what I was doing and very likely being eaten up by the mosquitos and other animals as I crossed over them, which was quite fair. That was not even a little like the other time His Lordship had spoken to me. And if He had not summoned me... What was going on?
At a certain point, I was exhausted and must have fallen asleep. I woke up with the feeling of something against my face and of being on what seemed like a smooth and slightly warmed surface, like a rock near the fire, but with my head elevated upon what I realized was the Mentor’s lap. I wanted to move, but he stopped me with a determined hiss and went on brushing the piece of wet rag over my face and hair, his other hand under my nape. He seemed worried, for he’d whisper under his teeth.
“What a shambles...”
“Forgive me, Sire. I...”
“It’s alright. That can be fixed. Can you stand up?” I pushed my legs out, but even there I had the same physical limitations as always. I induced him to sustain me as I raised myself to sit on the rock; did more strength than the normal because I didn’t want to look lazy. My legs were too short for that height and I wasn’t used to it yet, so I kept his hands on my torso so as to balance me, on his knees before me.
“Go raibh míle maith agaibh, a chuisle mo chroí.” Thank you very much, my love. He waved the head and smiled. I looked at myself I liked not what I saw; that is not the way one meets a king. I was scratched and dirty, but at least felt no pain. Without taking one of his hands off me, with the other the Lord wetted another rag and gave it to me so that I could examine and clean up where he didn’t feel allowed to touch. My body vibrated and tingled from being close to him.
“Fire of my heart, shock of my spine...” I bowed the head in reverence. “Is this your home? Your favourite home?” then the Mentor smiled again, lifted my chin, and straightened my back under the pressure of his palms, like in the other time.
“That’s it, very good. Look at me, woman.” Pause. “Well, as you know, all forests are my home, in this world and the others. But no, these are not the woods dearest to my heart. And no, I did not summon you this time. You don’t know why you are here, is that it?” he sighed when I shook my head, then he said he had an idea of the reason, but wanted to wait a bit just to be sure. Then he asked me whether I wanted some tea.
“I accept, my lord.” Since he’d walk away to make the tea, the Lord was afraid I’d fall off the rock upon releasing me, so he fastened one of my arms around his own neck, lifted me and left me on the ground, against the wall of the sort of cavern where we were. It was a little sharp, but next to what I’d been through, it was nothing.
“There, there... Wait just a wee bit, I’ll be right back.” His Lordship got up, almost as tall as an oak tree compared to me. Grabbing a bowl, he left the cavern passing me by and toward the darkness. With some focus, I could hear the sound of water, although it seemed distant. I heard the large steps of the Lord again, and another pause. He returned with the bowl full and something I couldn’t identify on the other hand.
I saw the Lord sit upon the stone where I had been, and, resting the bowl and the other ingredient, rubbed his hands as one does when they feel cold. He touched his palms to the sides of the bowl and breathed deeply and slowly. Soon I saw a wisp of smoke curling up from it. Then he pressed the ingredient in his hands, blew in between them, and threw it in the bowl. From time to time he smiled at me and admired the infusion with the corner of his eye, covered by a cloth. Once it was ready, he brought it to me. Hibiscus, by the lovely color and smell.
“Try it, see if it’s not too strong. And be careful.”
As slowly as possible because of my trembling hand, I tried it. It was at a temperature that didn’t make me jump and spill everything... The air still and quiet around me like when he came to me. And the tea, brewed to perfection. Of course he knew about those things.
“It’s excellent, Sire. Thank you. How long since I’ve drunk this one...” I smiled at the petals of hibiscus that floated in the warm water.
“The young woman deserved some comfort after what happened. And it was what I could find without going too far away from here. Besides, as you might know, it’s good for pain and swelling. A beautiful flower...” murmured the master, sitting on the ground next to me and hugging his own legs.
“Yes, it is, sir. Thank you once again, for not forsaking me." I’d still get baffled at how gentle that lofty, wild being who never apologized for it could be, and vice-versa. But I guess what I needed to learn was that all nature was that way. Neutral, and beautiful for being neutral. Hibiscus, for instance, when used a certain way, could sore the throat and cause stomach aches, nausea, etc.
Long pause. What came after was no more than a whisper.
“The young woman knows where I am.” He landed a hand on my shoulder, the palm stained red from the hibiscus, and the fingers blackened by dirt. “Finish your tea slowly, rest a wee longer. We think about the rest later.”
It was a pleasured to obey him, for with him I was free to disobey, close the door and never let him in again, for He understands and respects the meaning of NO, as automatic as it is for me to obey orders, even if I don’t agree with them. He does not abuse his power and capacity over others to impose his will or alleged intentions and never goes where he’s not allowed in. The love he had and lost must be handed willingly; even being who he is, powerful like that, regardless of the response from the mortals. The authority His Lordship has over me was given by myself and by myself can be retrieved if I so desire.
After drinking the tea and trying to sharpen my senses and enjoy the sensations that came from it, I put the bowl aside and peered at Him. He had a frown and I think I heard something like a growl coming from him. His hands with long fingers and nails, like mine tended to be as well, seemed to scratch the stone ground in a defensive gesture.
“Sire... What should I do now?” I inquired carefully.
The master gazed me for a long while, then came closer, opening his hand upon my heart and made a small grimace that soon relaxed. I felt like I was bubbling from within.
“For a while now the young woman has been asking me for something. That I help you and love you and take you to those who can guide you where my limits don’t reach. And I always keep my promises. Right?” I agreed. He really listened to me, he really cared.
“You always provide me the resources, tell me where to find them, make me think and try... Back to what matters and I forgot, and it’s up to me to use them or not. I’m grateful, as you know.” How I loved to be his reason to smile... How humble I was, but also so strong, in his hands. Not that I never had been, but... Wasn’t that what true love did? Enlarge us in our smallness?
“Very good...” pause. “It wasn’t any different this time. I told you whom to speak to, where to look at, what to try... Where to go. That is why this forest is different and why the young woman came here. The young woman really followed my advice. Now I realize...”
“What you mean, my liege?”
“I felt it when I left to fetch the water and the hibiscus. All forests are the same at their core, but also carry within them something special that differentiates them from the others.”
“The animals... Plants... The weather... Whether it’s preserved or violated and how it deals with that.” He bit his lip and nodded. I felt as if I was burning when he moved his hand a millimeter.
“That’s why the young woman can’t walk through here like you did when we were together.” Pause. “This soil that is barren but full of life underneath that I stepped on and you crawled over without seeing, this air, this water, each and every flower, leaf, and beast here... Smells like you and has your mark on it. Is as yours as it’s mine. You brought yourself here.”
“I am... a forest. I am... A little bird.” Was what I caught myself repeating. The Lord gestured for me to continue. “A flower, a goodly tree, a bountiful vine... A blade of grass. Woman and flame. Sacred, old, and living thing. Beast of an alert body who learns its lesson and tries not to forget it. Born to be free, with its own laws and who knows laws no man ever wrote, but merely decoded.”
I was crying as I was speaking; the Lord smiled what I’d call a satisfied, dirty smile and came closer in order to speak into my ear.
“Yes, you are... Of course, you are. Hey, hey... Don’t cry... Don’t cry. It’s good that the young woman knows; it’s never too late to know. What is truly a woman’s is not up to a man to fetch. The one who’s to find it... Once it is time... Is you.” The feeling of his breath spread a slow tickle throughout my body. Sometimes I’d forget the master was a poet as much as myself.
It was fair that he wouldn’t hand me the solutions on a plate. Neither have I ever wanted this and a lot due to that mentality I’d abandoned religion as it’s known and felt like I could get along well without the feeling of what some call faith. Probably because I’d turned back to myself despite the mistakes and the master noticed it; I can’t really tell. But as of today I agree with him and understand that I cannot ask him to turn me into a grown woman. As complementary as those energies are and as much as I appreciate having him with me, it’s not in a man and in what he can give that a woman should recognize herself, or in any other person, for that matter. Both must be addendums to one another. In my case and his, likely him offering love, wanting love, and myself with so much to give, feeling so lonely as a whole and wanting to learn...
Perhaps even before the mentor’s arrival, I’ve been slowly following his advice in making better choices, thinking more calmly, for I was letting myself be pulled by what most made sense, for what lived in my core and it still is thusly, now more than ever. And currently, myself, him and who knows who else, worked together. My intuition, perhaps. As old as being a woman, or even something beyond that. That is why I am free to follow the path opened before me, which takes me to where I want and need to be; towards my truth... Or not.
I inquired whether he’d assist me anyway, and he purred back. In a rather involuntary fashion, I saw myself wrinkling my nose, with my teeth out and my bad hand fisted over his as though it was... A paw. Perhaps it has always been a paw. Long before, only clenched, tight, and now with its claws simply visible. Careful, but no longer retracted.
"Dawn's breaking." said the Lord, looking towards the entrance to the cavern. "Come along, let us see the sun outside." he carried me going east, deeper inside the woods, and as close to the line of the horizon as possible. I asked him to sit me against a large tree, which he did, and I stayed still watching the color of the sky and the direction of the wind change little by little.
“A while ago, after many a day, I felt the sun on my face, mostly one side of it... I have a complicated relationship with the sun, but it was good this time. It felt like a long, warm, and loving kiss. It made me think of you. I’m bad at reading signs, but... I couldn’t help it, albeit I’m likely wrong. It’s just that you are so loving and patient with me... Perhaps I’m just being naive. Don’t mind me.”
He shrugged and crouched to get leveled with my eyes. Stroke that hand of mine that so often reminded me of a paw, although I’d often wish to recoil it and forget that it exists altogether. I’d say it became paw-like much because of that; one rather functionless, but at least not so tightly closed anymore. The lord limited himself to saying I was better at that than many people and knew it. And that I was wiser than I thought. He fixed my hair and sighed.
“You are so quiet, and I’m so talkative. I’m sorry for making you speak so much.”
“There’s nothing bad about it. The young woman is learning how to say what needs to be said and to always speak from the heart. I notice and like that very much.”
“But you like the quiet...”
“Of course...” pause. “Somebody must have told you something about that. I understand it must feel confusing, but I do not mind explaining it. But, being that put, as you might have understood, it’s better when what is good, and even bad, within the soul, comes out in a whisper or a scream rather than being kept inside.” The master chuckled and I nodded.
What I couldn’t find out by myself, I apprehended via other people. As much as I wanted to know him via hands-on experience, I knew how to respect his limits and mine. What he means, as I understood it, is that the quiet he appreciates is like that of the woods – it’s calm and serene, but there’s always something vibrating, being said, however subtly. And that’s what better gets to him. Just like when he came: myself with a miraculously empty mind in that wee hour, but with a word that came out of my mouth from deep within my heart.
I gazed from him to the sky to the soil near me. I felt it with the palm of the hand.
“What now, my liege? I am here, but... Where do I begin?”
He returned my gaze.
“As part of the woods, I’d be here anyhow, most likely, and am here to watch over you and assist you, because I want it and you accept it.” Long pause. “The animals do what they must to live. Be it killing, be it running, be it flying off far and wide, keeping or growling. The young woman is learning and remembering and you have begun the work. Do as you see fit.”
I gazed again, more distracted, at my hand upon the dirt. Then I saw myself stroking it and, after a while, mimicking the Master’s scratching gesture at the cavern. My very gesture upon myself when I’d let anxiety take over. I thought I was going to care about the dirt underneath my nails, but I just went on, with his eyes on me and another intention because... When wasn’t that dirt there, obvious, after I woke up? When was it that I didn’t dig to the deepest and most invisible, or almost invisible?
domingo, 16 de agosto de 2020
Story of a fish - English version
I go there every dusk to clear my mind, look at the waves, the birds and the boats. Because it feels good to bury the feet in some fluffy piece of sand. Because I live nearby, so why not? That’s what one usually does when they go to the beach, mostly when there’s no one else by the shore...
HAH! Who am I to lie to myself? The beach is beautiful, the void is welcoming, watching the moon rise with the waves is magnificent. But it wasn't just that which lured me to there time after time in which I remain in the most absolute of trances. The moon may be of women, be the queen of the dark skies and of the emotions. But never have I imagined to lay eyes on somebody whom upon the Earth could be like her up in the sky. Who shone so brightly under such light, like pure silver. Or that of the sun, like an ember.
As in all the other occasions, I ended up arriving just in time to sit, settle down, and soon to hear another’s syncopated steps at the part where the water splashes and goes back a few meters ahead when I thought he wouldn’t be coming anymore. The sun setting and him, coming... Bare feet in a race without rush; either almost without sound on the hard and wet sand or adding melody to the incessant harmony of the shore once they are touched by the water and spread it.
The magnetism was such that I’d watch the occasional birds in pairs either meeting or retiring to their nests and the boats floating away while the night was coming, painting the horizon with dark watercolor for what felt like forever. With my heart racing by the now usual perspective of that silhouette slowly crossing the rays of moonlight, this time in a relaxed gait. Even so, he seemed too lost inside himself to raise his gaze to me so that I could see his colors; and I, too shy to make at least a minimal approach. Therefore, all on that beach, except the man knew about how I felt and that it was already beyond anything I could explain.
It was after several days in self-denial that I could admit to myself the madness of being attracted to somebody I did not know except for their appearance and the habit of going to the beach at the same time I do. That’s because at night I also see him in my dreams. I can swear in the name of all the faith I wish I truly had that I hear a voice hover above the sea and city noises referring to me. “Come with me”, it says, and something made me feel sure it belonged to the one who went across the shore, albeit we never talked... Deep down I knew it could only be desire messing up with my reasoning because that’s what I wanted.
That same night, however, everything changed. Instead of keeping on going his way back to wherever and time and again making me want to die from the urge to kiss him, I saw him briefly look towards me, combing his hair with his fingers. I felt my heart stop the second the man turned his back on me; body cut against the white and dull light and feet stroking the foam at the end of the crests. After a few minutes, he came in my direction with hands in his pockets as though he had all the time in the world. And myself there, paralyzed. But I wouldn't run away.
- Come with me. No fear. I swear. – whispered the man, now crouched in front of me and gesturing as one does when they have the intention of taking the other person’s hand.
- But how... – I babbled in disbelief while my hand was indeed taken and kissed more than once, with a warmth and softness which I lack the language to describe. As though it was already something of our own.
He peered at me and I understood by his body language and brief withdrawal that he knew I was confused, so I simply went back home. Who was he? How did he know? What does he want from me? The same I do? That was what crossed my mind as I tried to go along with the rest of my day without the smallest bit of concentration and thinking I was getting mad. It could not be true.
- I’ll wait for you. – was what I recall having heard, even though I had no memory of his lips moving. Maybe it was just the wind and the sea.
I went to bed with what had happened still fresh in my mind and without ceasing to think it felt good, however unlikely. It was still early because I suddenly felt very, very tired, so soon I fell asleep... Just as I was about to close my eyes, again I felt on my head as if fingers lighter than those of my own mother or even Mary stroke me here and there, moving random locks of hair, but not like the cold which in winter would come through the gaps in the bedroom window. It was always when I slept with my back to the door. The gesture of somebody sat close enough to the bed to stretch their arm and reach me even shrunk in a fetal position.
Within what I was sure was a level of subconsciousness, and therefore of a dream, I turned to the other side with my eyes still shut lest I lost my sleep, but I ended up opening them. And there was that silhouette against the dark, I don’t know how. It could have scared me, but it didn’t happen; maybe for already being familiar like the beach. I wanted to get up, but he stopped me and I laid down again. We exchanged gazes for a long while until it was I who broke the beautiful silence.
- Hey... You have come. – the man just nodded in agreement.
- I told you I’d wait for you. And yes, it’s all true. All you thought was just conjecture.
- Really? How come? We’ve never spoken, never looked at each other... I even thought I was bothering you when you tackled me.
- I just know it. I know about what matters. – the sweetest of smiles opened his lips and I could barely keep eye contact.
- So... What do you want of me? Am I dreaming?
- I know what I want. The question that remains is... whether you want it too. If you want what every once in a while I call you to. Really staying with me and living far from here. – the man chuckled. – Life itself is a beautiful big dream, my love.
- So many are tricked by proposals like this. – I swallowed hard before that truth and again he agreed.
- I have heard of and witnessed many of those stories. But I don’t include myself among the rotten oranges. – I felt his fingers pull my face up in the penumbra and then the salty and humid warmth of his breath against my jaw. – You just have to close your eyes again and bet on it.
Amazingly, I really weighed my perspectives before accepting the invitation. So many things have happened to me in the past few years... I guess nothing is left of who I was before and I likely had nothing to lose. Very slowly, with his eyes very close as the last thing I saw, I shut mine, dozing off again.
And woke up on the sand, under the stars, because of the roar of the sea, and with him by my side. I don’t know how much time had passed, nor how I had gotten there, but by the man’s smile, he probably had brought me. I resolved into just trusting in what happened once in my life and only asked why the beach again.
- Because it was here that we met... And because it is from here that I come. – the man murmured, looking affectionately at the horizon ahead. He likely saw question marks in my expression, for he just shrugged and added: - I was born on those sands and come from the bottom of this sea. Literally.
I kept brief quiet and, when I thought he was gonna ask me if I was doubting him, I just asked him to take me wherever he wanted. If it was the ocean, that’s okay. Although I didn’t wish to die, if that was my time, at least I wouldn’t go alone. Before what I was witnessing at that moment, nothing seemed impossible. He sat near me on the sand and wrapped me in his arms, whilst I lowered my eyelids once more; a lot because of the comfort that came from that, of how familiar it felt.
And ever since then the sirens sing to and envy the happiness of their prince, their king... And my own. Of all the tales of salt and leaf that only he knows and tells me. Of the fierceness of the joy in his smile and the softness of his countenance when he’s with me or speaks of me. Of my honor, of my certainty, of my love. Of all that ceased to have weight in the deep.
HAH! Who am I to lie to myself? The beach is beautiful, the void is welcoming, watching the moon rise with the waves is magnificent. But it wasn't just that which lured me to there time after time in which I remain in the most absolute of trances. The moon may be of women, be the queen of the dark skies and of the emotions. But never have I imagined to lay eyes on somebody whom upon the Earth could be like her up in the sky. Who shone so brightly under such light, like pure silver. Or that of the sun, like an ember.
As in all the other occasions, I ended up arriving just in time to sit, settle down, and soon to hear another’s syncopated steps at the part where the water splashes and goes back a few meters ahead when I thought he wouldn’t be coming anymore. The sun setting and him, coming... Bare feet in a race without rush; either almost without sound on the hard and wet sand or adding melody to the incessant harmony of the shore once they are touched by the water and spread it.
The magnetism was such that I’d watch the occasional birds in pairs either meeting or retiring to their nests and the boats floating away while the night was coming, painting the horizon with dark watercolor for what felt like forever. With my heart racing by the now usual perspective of that silhouette slowly crossing the rays of moonlight, this time in a relaxed gait. Even so, he seemed too lost inside himself to raise his gaze to me so that I could see his colors; and I, too shy to make at least a minimal approach. Therefore, all on that beach, except the man knew about how I felt and that it was already beyond anything I could explain.
It was after several days in self-denial that I could admit to myself the madness of being attracted to somebody I did not know except for their appearance and the habit of going to the beach at the same time I do. That’s because at night I also see him in my dreams. I can swear in the name of all the faith I wish I truly had that I hear a voice hover above the sea and city noises referring to me. “Come with me”, it says, and something made me feel sure it belonged to the one who went across the shore, albeit we never talked... Deep down I knew it could only be desire messing up with my reasoning because that’s what I wanted.
That same night, however, everything changed. Instead of keeping on going his way back to wherever and time and again making me want to die from the urge to kiss him, I saw him briefly look towards me, combing his hair with his fingers. I felt my heart stop the second the man turned his back on me; body cut against the white and dull light and feet stroking the foam at the end of the crests. After a few minutes, he came in my direction with hands in his pockets as though he had all the time in the world. And myself there, paralyzed. But I wouldn't run away.
- Come with me. No fear. I swear. – whispered the man, now crouched in front of me and gesturing as one does when they have the intention of taking the other person’s hand.
- But how... – I babbled in disbelief while my hand was indeed taken and kissed more than once, with a warmth and softness which I lack the language to describe. As though it was already something of our own.
He peered at me and I understood by his body language and brief withdrawal that he knew I was confused, so I simply went back home. Who was he? How did he know? What does he want from me? The same I do? That was what crossed my mind as I tried to go along with the rest of my day without the smallest bit of concentration and thinking I was getting mad. It could not be true.
- I’ll wait for you. – was what I recall having heard, even though I had no memory of his lips moving. Maybe it was just the wind and the sea.
I went to bed with what had happened still fresh in my mind and without ceasing to think it felt good, however unlikely. It was still early because I suddenly felt very, very tired, so soon I fell asleep... Just as I was about to close my eyes, again I felt on my head as if fingers lighter than those of my own mother or even Mary stroke me here and there, moving random locks of hair, but not like the cold which in winter would come through the gaps in the bedroom window. It was always when I slept with my back to the door. The gesture of somebody sat close enough to the bed to stretch their arm and reach me even shrunk in a fetal position.
Within what I was sure was a level of subconsciousness, and therefore of a dream, I turned to the other side with my eyes still shut lest I lost my sleep, but I ended up opening them. And there was that silhouette against the dark, I don’t know how. It could have scared me, but it didn’t happen; maybe for already being familiar like the beach. I wanted to get up, but he stopped me and I laid down again. We exchanged gazes for a long while until it was I who broke the beautiful silence.
- Hey... You have come. – the man just nodded in agreement.
- I told you I’d wait for you. And yes, it’s all true. All you thought was just conjecture.
- Really? How come? We’ve never spoken, never looked at each other... I even thought I was bothering you when you tackled me.
- I just know it. I know about what matters. – the sweetest of smiles opened his lips and I could barely keep eye contact.
- So... What do you want of me? Am I dreaming?
- I know what I want. The question that remains is... whether you want it too. If you want what every once in a while I call you to. Really staying with me and living far from here. – the man chuckled. – Life itself is a beautiful big dream, my love.
- So many are tricked by proposals like this. – I swallowed hard before that truth and again he agreed.
- I have heard of and witnessed many of those stories. But I don’t include myself among the rotten oranges. – I felt his fingers pull my face up in the penumbra and then the salty and humid warmth of his breath against my jaw. – You just have to close your eyes again and bet on it.
Amazingly, I really weighed my perspectives before accepting the invitation. So many things have happened to me in the past few years... I guess nothing is left of who I was before and I likely had nothing to lose. Very slowly, with his eyes very close as the last thing I saw, I shut mine, dozing off again.
And woke up on the sand, under the stars, because of the roar of the sea, and with him by my side. I don’t know how much time had passed, nor how I had gotten there, but by the man’s smile, he probably had brought me. I resolved into just trusting in what happened once in my life and only asked why the beach again.
- Because it was here that we met... And because it is from here that I come. – the man murmured, looking affectionately at the horizon ahead. He likely saw question marks in my expression, for he just shrugged and added: - I was born on those sands and come from the bottom of this sea. Literally.
I kept brief quiet and, when I thought he was gonna ask me if I was doubting him, I just asked him to take me wherever he wanted. If it was the ocean, that’s okay. Although I didn’t wish to die, if that was my time, at least I wouldn’t go alone. Before what I was witnessing at that moment, nothing seemed impossible. He sat near me on the sand and wrapped me in his arms, whilst I lowered my eyelids once more; a lot because of the comfort that came from that, of how familiar it felt.
And ever since then the sirens sing to and envy the happiness of their prince, their king... And my own. Of all the tales of salt and leaf that only he knows and tells me. Of the fierceness of the joy in his smile and the softness of his countenance when he’s with me or speaks of me. Of my honor, of my certainty, of my love. Of all that ceased to have weight in the deep.
sábado, 15 de agosto de 2020
Last passage - English version
He’s not the kind of person who makes promises he can’t keep, and neither am I. And much because of that, I was never one to make demands - all that has come from him until this day hasn’t been less than a gift for me and I’m afraid always will be, in all that kindness and warmth I’ve never ceased to love. He does things in his own manner and timing, and shows me time and again that I can do the same.
Although deep down I hoped he’d return like in the other days, if he did not, it was alright, because he never really had left. What I had was already beautiful, and a lot of it was carved as consolation upon my soul to the point of having made me cry after he went away on the previous occasion. Ah, if only he knew about all those tears that poured out of me, that pain, that clenching feeling like that of heartbreak like I had never felt before and with the addition that it wasn’t the pain of a loss, but of the much that was offered to me and left me leaking like a chalice…
But he did come back, to my surprise. I opened the kitchen window and there he was, with that shy smile, covering me with apologies for being late when it was my honor to receive him anyway, and he owed me nothing. I gave him a quick entrance to appease his degree of flusteredness and we sat across each other by the meal table. Us staying there made sense for it was an exchange like meals are and should be. I acceded lovingly and patiently to his apologizing, wondering what gift he had for me at that time when he arrived with the wildness and smell of the sea barely concealed in his body, messy hair, and phlegm in the throat. As usual, his wishes for me to be and remain well warmed me.
Once again, he had come to read to me. To share with me the jewels from his shelves, the stories, and verses, at least some of them, that moved his heart, and which he found only fair to share so that they could be beacons amidst the growing chaos… Out there and within my life, in a way. He and I know words are powerful and that, sometimes, albeit words may be all we can offer, that at least they were sincere, said the truth. And it was even more generous to be able to hear them from himself when, with the same idea, he could have just lent me the books, marked in certain passages. Poetry and good stories can really heal at least a little and I think he feels like that too.
He took out an old, yellowed volume from his pocket, saying he didn’t know if he could keep doing this more times because life was getting in the way… But he had enough time and will to read at least a short story by an author he loved. As though the gesture itself and that beautiful cadence of his were not kneaded bread and honey, even if the scene described was sad or something of the kind. None of that mattered to me, as long as he was there out of a free will and for as long as he liked. Both his presence and his absence within that life which was so his made me happy.
There were the two of us, in one way or another lamenting the mundane with its foolishness that interrupted us like it nearly always seemed to do on the surface. And, even so, he had my attention, in that voice that pulled me to itself in the elegant and dark velvet of a young widow’s dress in mourning with its particular pinch of sadness. I think it was even having noticed it on that specific day which made me, under all the rest, more feel than hear what was being read.
Perhaps even more than if I myself were reading it, it seemed so vivid, so tangible, coming from such a humble mouth that was conscious of the pauses and music in all things. Perhaps it was merely my rather naive way of becoming so easily enamored by the small details and the seasoning of my affection for the man in front of me. Whatever, to be honest. Neither is annulled, much less the merit of the work itself and of what the conjoining of it all made me feel.
I felt like the blind young woman who sees wells from the Irish poem and the also blind Spanish one who sees the city and reads novels through other people’s eyes… I don’t say it out blindness from myself, albeit it somehow did exist, but… Because as good a storyteller people said I was, and details what remained longest with me, it was different to listen to the descriptions, situations, the rhymes in the poems. Somehow I did fall in love, just like the protagonist of the short story, with the beautiful woman he admired under the golden, oniric afternoon light; same light which my hand had described having touched people I loved, both in prose and poetry. Of course, listening to him read even the phone book would be a pleasure, but...
The artificial lighting in my house grew weary of us and left us in the dark, but must have taken pity later, for it soon was back on not to deprive me of that love a wee retroceded in itself before keeping on unfolding before me like a flag or a flower that blooms by the gentleness of who read of it; similar adoration to that of the Catalan boy from the book I’d held in my hands over a decade ago like one who explores a passion as forbidden as that one. A while later, my visitor and I caught ourselves wanting the light not to go out again.
Along with the power, the rest pulled him away from me before he could finish the story, maybe mirroring what happened there; hour turned too late and without explanation. And even so, I did not wish him any less well than I did days ago, for life has of these things, although part of me, human as it is, felt a wee upset, like the young man himself, for the interruption. The sudden parting didn’t keep me from smiling in the beauty of such a company and all that. What I could not imagine was that, a few hours later, with the moon already bearing witness, I'd be hearing the wind and the waves bring my neighbor’s voice whispering the last passage of the story and a true farewell, like only he could do it.
Although deep down I hoped he’d return like in the other days, if he did not, it was alright, because he never really had left. What I had was already beautiful, and a lot of it was carved as consolation upon my soul to the point of having made me cry after he went away on the previous occasion. Ah, if only he knew about all those tears that poured out of me, that pain, that clenching feeling like that of heartbreak like I had never felt before and with the addition that it wasn’t the pain of a loss, but of the much that was offered to me and left me leaking like a chalice…
But he did come back, to my surprise. I opened the kitchen window and there he was, with that shy smile, covering me with apologies for being late when it was my honor to receive him anyway, and he owed me nothing. I gave him a quick entrance to appease his degree of flusteredness and we sat across each other by the meal table. Us staying there made sense for it was an exchange like meals are and should be. I acceded lovingly and patiently to his apologizing, wondering what gift he had for me at that time when he arrived with the wildness and smell of the sea barely concealed in his body, messy hair, and phlegm in the throat. As usual, his wishes for me to be and remain well warmed me.
Once again, he had come to read to me. To share with me the jewels from his shelves, the stories, and verses, at least some of them, that moved his heart, and which he found only fair to share so that they could be beacons amidst the growing chaos… Out there and within my life, in a way. He and I know words are powerful and that, sometimes, albeit words may be all we can offer, that at least they were sincere, said the truth. And it was even more generous to be able to hear them from himself when, with the same idea, he could have just lent me the books, marked in certain passages. Poetry and good stories can really heal at least a little and I think he feels like that too.
He took out an old, yellowed volume from his pocket, saying he didn’t know if he could keep doing this more times because life was getting in the way… But he had enough time and will to read at least a short story by an author he loved. As though the gesture itself and that beautiful cadence of his were not kneaded bread and honey, even if the scene described was sad or something of the kind. None of that mattered to me, as long as he was there out of a free will and for as long as he liked. Both his presence and his absence within that life which was so his made me happy.
There were the two of us, in one way or another lamenting the mundane with its foolishness that interrupted us like it nearly always seemed to do on the surface. And, even so, he had my attention, in that voice that pulled me to itself in the elegant and dark velvet of a young widow’s dress in mourning with its particular pinch of sadness. I think it was even having noticed it on that specific day which made me, under all the rest, more feel than hear what was being read.
Perhaps even more than if I myself were reading it, it seemed so vivid, so tangible, coming from such a humble mouth that was conscious of the pauses and music in all things. Perhaps it was merely my rather naive way of becoming so easily enamored by the small details and the seasoning of my affection for the man in front of me. Whatever, to be honest. Neither is annulled, much less the merit of the work itself and of what the conjoining of it all made me feel.
I felt like the blind young woman who sees wells from the Irish poem and the also blind Spanish one who sees the city and reads novels through other people’s eyes… I don’t say it out blindness from myself, albeit it somehow did exist, but… Because as good a storyteller people said I was, and details what remained longest with me, it was different to listen to the descriptions, situations, the rhymes in the poems. Somehow I did fall in love, just like the protagonist of the short story, with the beautiful woman he admired under the golden, oniric afternoon light; same light which my hand had described having touched people I loved, both in prose and poetry. Of course, listening to him read even the phone book would be a pleasure, but...
The artificial lighting in my house grew weary of us and left us in the dark, but must have taken pity later, for it soon was back on not to deprive me of that love a wee retroceded in itself before keeping on unfolding before me like a flag or a flower that blooms by the gentleness of who read of it; similar adoration to that of the Catalan boy from the book I’d held in my hands over a decade ago like one who explores a passion as forbidden as that one. A while later, my visitor and I caught ourselves wanting the light not to go out again.
Along with the power, the rest pulled him away from me before he could finish the story, maybe mirroring what happened there; hour turned too late and without explanation. And even so, I did not wish him any less well than I did days ago, for life has of these things, although part of me, human as it is, felt a wee upset, like the young man himself, for the interruption. The sudden parting didn’t keep me from smiling in the beauty of such a company and all that. What I could not imagine was that, a few hours later, with the moon already bearing witness, I'd be hearing the wind and the waves bring my neighbor’s voice whispering the last passage of the story and a true farewell, like only he could do it.
sexta-feira, 14 de agosto de 2020
quinta-feira, 13 de agosto de 2020
quarta-feira, 12 de agosto de 2020
Transient - English version of Passageira
Walking downtown on a sunny afternoon to fulfill tasks familiar to any grown person who lives by themselves, she was just about to pass along the sidewalk that held one of the bank agencies. As usual, at a corner near the door was posted a flower seller. A seller of roses of all colors, with their graceful bouquets set together like children in a wooden box.
Without slowing down her pace, but lowering herself a bit to take a closer look, she noticed the red and the yellow ones, which were more at sight. She smiled to herself and, while she went on, exclaimed:
- Oh, how beautiful they look!
Despite hating leaving the house out of obligation, the day was lovely and it pleased her to see the life on the streets. It made her feel at least a little like she was part of all that. Every now and then she would stop to look at something that caught her attention – be that a shop window or the way the sun rays touched the leaves on the trees.
Having done what was necessary and making her way back paying attention to the sound of her own steps, she got surprised when she blinked and a bouquet of fresh flowers was put in her hands. Everything happened so fast that she didn’t even have time to say proper thanks or at least look at the man.
- Pink ones for you. – she heard the man murmur. All she could say was “Oh! They are lovely” towards the cold, wet and kept together with newspaper sheets roses themselves, covered in water drops that looked like dew. She hoped that the fellow had understood that the gesture had pleased her, mostly for it having never happened until then.
As she walked she glanced at her unexpected cargo... They were at the peak of their beauty, with a relatively lively color, but soft nonetheless. She maneuvered them so that the newspaper sheets wouldn’t dismantle and saw the big thorns along the long stems. A reminder that the prettiest things are the ones that needed to be treated with most care.
Came back home wishing to have a proper vase for situations such as that, but she had to make do with an improvised rounded jar. She felt sorry for having to cut off some of the leaves so that they could fit inside the coarse glass that was put over the center table in the living room. For several minutes she saw herself sat on the sofa with eyes glazed upon the roses as it used to happen when the power was gone and she had to light candles. Maybe for the beauty in it and the flames themselves; maybe to wonder until when would the charm last.
She got up thinking of brewing a cup of tea when something she wouldn’t know how to explain (maybe an instinct) made her lay eyes on the roses again with the affection of a friend and walked out the door again – without sure destination, at first. She would go wherever her legs wanted her to.
When she stopped for an instant to situate and saw herself in front of the immensity of stone that was the church in gothic style that she hasn’t attended in a long time for no longer being religious in any way. It wasn’t mass time and the half-open wine-colored door gave the impression of being a mouth open to the void; both the vacuum of a black hole as well as the emptiness of the place itself at that hour, which remains in waiting and is not exactly inviting for many. But, on sharpening her ears, she heard more than silence coming from there. Even others seemed to notice the same thing, but not with the same attention.
The stomping of boots on the cold marble floor, kind of setting a tempo. Soft humming, very quiet, sometimes accompanied by other voices, male and female. The echo of a guitar picking, some syncopated handclaps. Everything seemed to fit together so well to the point of making her smile almost without meaning to. Before she realized, she slowly entered the practically empty church trying to keep the noise to a minimum.
She chose one of the pews at the back to the same left side where those people were more to the middle, near the altar. She had already been there twice in sunny hours – not exactly by her own will... Once again the church looked different during the day because of the natural lighting that crossed through the stained glass windows on the ceiling and high parts of the walls. But it wasn’t just that...
Would it be the voices, the music? Would it be the nice manner in which it broke the death in the church’s quietness, the emotion in the facial expressions of those people that didn’t seem to be from town, who sang a gospel classic? Would it be the grace with which the women in the group circled around the altar to stretch the legs and the reflection of a red and yellow stained glass staining the brown hair of the one who played guitar? Would it be the feeling that the church was lighter and brighter? Even the Madona that named the place seemed to peer down affectionately at them from where she was.
She enjoyed knowing that they were so focused on the song, on the imponent architecture, and on one another that they didn’t notice there was somebody else there. For the first time, she didn’t feel like she was intruding on something. At some point, she ended up closing her eyes and letting herself be absorbed by what she heard during what felt like a forever in which the song changed, getting more intense, but the atmosphere was the same. It was baffling that the priest hadn’t come over inquiring where it came from – he must have been at the parish house, listening...
Despite her current lack of belief, the lass had never been immune to well placed genuine words, therefore she could see poetry even in something that by itself no longer made sense to her. It was when she caught herself singing a passionate chorus along with the guitar player, as in a duet when no other harmonizations were happening. Her eyes were still closed, as though she were in her bedroom, where she sang with no inhibitions.
What was the last note of the very last chorus dissipated throughout the church like perfume and she slowly opened her eyes that were slightly foggy by small tears. For a few seconds, the church looked green-ish, but pretty nonetheless. The first thing her focused sight noticed was the singer with his guitar staring back in a direct, but very loving fashion. To her own amazement, she didn’t break the contact.
- Hello. How beautiful that was... – was all he said with a shy smile, messing with his hair.
- Hi. I thought so too. – she replied.
They bid farewell and parted ways (her, back home). Just like she would probably never see them again nor would live something remotely similar to what happened in that church, the girl knew that the roses on her table wouldn’t be there everlastingly. Watching them wither throughout the days, one petal at a time, was as magical as that present already past. Life fights for itself and keeps its beauty until the end.
Without slowing down her pace, but lowering herself a bit to take a closer look, she noticed the red and the yellow ones, which were more at sight. She smiled to herself and, while she went on, exclaimed:
- Oh, how beautiful they look!
Despite hating leaving the house out of obligation, the day was lovely and it pleased her to see the life on the streets. It made her feel at least a little like she was part of all that. Every now and then she would stop to look at something that caught her attention – be that a shop window or the way the sun rays touched the leaves on the trees.
Having done what was necessary and making her way back paying attention to the sound of her own steps, she got surprised when she blinked and a bouquet of fresh flowers was put in her hands. Everything happened so fast that she didn’t even have time to say proper thanks or at least look at the man.
- Pink ones for you. – she heard the man murmur. All she could say was “Oh! They are lovely” towards the cold, wet and kept together with newspaper sheets roses themselves, covered in water drops that looked like dew. She hoped that the fellow had understood that the gesture had pleased her, mostly for it having never happened until then.
As she walked she glanced at her unexpected cargo... They were at the peak of their beauty, with a relatively lively color, but soft nonetheless. She maneuvered them so that the newspaper sheets wouldn’t dismantle and saw the big thorns along the long stems. A reminder that the prettiest things are the ones that needed to be treated with most care.
Came back home wishing to have a proper vase for situations such as that, but she had to make do with an improvised rounded jar. She felt sorry for having to cut off some of the leaves so that they could fit inside the coarse glass that was put over the center table in the living room. For several minutes she saw herself sat on the sofa with eyes glazed upon the roses as it used to happen when the power was gone and she had to light candles. Maybe for the beauty in it and the flames themselves; maybe to wonder until when would the charm last.
She got up thinking of brewing a cup of tea when something she wouldn’t know how to explain (maybe an instinct) made her lay eyes on the roses again with the affection of a friend and walked out the door again – without sure destination, at first. She would go wherever her legs wanted her to.
When she stopped for an instant to situate and saw herself in front of the immensity of stone that was the church in gothic style that she hasn’t attended in a long time for no longer being religious in any way. It wasn’t mass time and the half-open wine-colored door gave the impression of being a mouth open to the void; both the vacuum of a black hole as well as the emptiness of the place itself at that hour, which remains in waiting and is not exactly inviting for many. But, on sharpening her ears, she heard more than silence coming from there. Even others seemed to notice the same thing, but not with the same attention.
The stomping of boots on the cold marble floor, kind of setting a tempo. Soft humming, very quiet, sometimes accompanied by other voices, male and female. The echo of a guitar picking, some syncopated handclaps. Everything seemed to fit together so well to the point of making her smile almost without meaning to. Before she realized, she slowly entered the practically empty church trying to keep the noise to a minimum.
She chose one of the pews at the back to the same left side where those people were more to the middle, near the altar. She had already been there twice in sunny hours – not exactly by her own will... Once again the church looked different during the day because of the natural lighting that crossed through the stained glass windows on the ceiling and high parts of the walls. But it wasn’t just that...
Would it be the voices, the music? Would it be the nice manner in which it broke the death in the church’s quietness, the emotion in the facial expressions of those people that didn’t seem to be from town, who sang a gospel classic? Would it be the grace with which the women in the group circled around the altar to stretch the legs and the reflection of a red and yellow stained glass staining the brown hair of the one who played guitar? Would it be the feeling that the church was lighter and brighter? Even the Madona that named the place seemed to peer down affectionately at them from where she was.
She enjoyed knowing that they were so focused on the song, on the imponent architecture, and on one another that they didn’t notice there was somebody else there. For the first time, she didn’t feel like she was intruding on something. At some point, she ended up closing her eyes and letting herself be absorbed by what she heard during what felt like a forever in which the song changed, getting more intense, but the atmosphere was the same. It was baffling that the priest hadn’t come over inquiring where it came from – he must have been at the parish house, listening...
Despite her current lack of belief, the lass had never been immune to well placed genuine words, therefore she could see poetry even in something that by itself no longer made sense to her. It was when she caught herself singing a passionate chorus along with the guitar player, as in a duet when no other harmonizations were happening. Her eyes were still closed, as though she were in her bedroom, where she sang with no inhibitions.
What was the last note of the very last chorus dissipated throughout the church like perfume and she slowly opened her eyes that were slightly foggy by small tears. For a few seconds, the church looked green-ish, but pretty nonetheless. The first thing her focused sight noticed was the singer with his guitar staring back in a direct, but very loving fashion. To her own amazement, she didn’t break the contact.
- Hello. How beautiful that was... – was all he said with a shy smile, messing with his hair.
- Hi. I thought so too. – she replied.
They bid farewell and parted ways (her, back home). Just like she would probably never see them again nor would live something remotely similar to what happened in that church, the girl knew that the roses on her table wouldn’t be there everlastingly. Watching them wither throughout the days, one petal at a time, was as magical as that present already past. Life fights for itself and keeps its beauty until the end.
terça-feira, 11 de agosto de 2020
Cookies and cream? - English version
I ran to the door after hearing the bell ring and what I saw intrigued me. It was a girl of about 8 years of age; restless eyes, her long hair pulled back into a bun secured by a hair tie more neatly done than I can or could ever do by myself. I could have felt jealous of it if I spent more time with what I’ve got, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t look pretty. She likely danced ballet and that was as natural as the passing of the hours (or not).
It was summer, so it didn’t make sense to ask her what she was doing out of school. When I rested my hands on the doorframe, I noticed the little one was holding boxes against her body. As soon as she looked up towards me, she tried a big teethed smile.
- Awn, good day to you, miss. What can I do for you?
- How do you do, sir? – a quick change into trying a professional, persuasive tone. – I was wondering if you fancied some cookies on this fine day. – the girl indicated me the boxes, lowering her head and cutting eye contact. It’s not a usual thing to see kids selling cookies around here, but who am I to question it?
- Ah, how do YOU do? Homemade cookies, you mean? – she nodded and something said to me that it would make things easier for her, so I got closer to the edge of the step and crouched, thinking a little to myself. Since I was just about to brew some tea, I said I’d have a look and grabbed a box to peek inside.
- SOOOOOOOOOONNNNN! TEA IS READYYYYY!!! – shouted my mother from the kitchen.
- COMING, MUM. So, your cookies look delish, huh. – she giggled satisfied, tilting her head. Of course, I was being polite, but that was also the truth. I then added that I’d buy them all since she apparently had only three boxes left.
- Oh, really? – the smile I’d seen at the beginning grew wider.
- That’s right. – I checked my wallet and to my relief the amount I had was exact. I didn’t wanna bother her with change. – One for mom and dad, one for my brother and one for tea.
- Thank you, tall sir! – she took the money, walking away, and it was then that I realized I hadn’t introduced myself nor asked her name, so I just laughed it off and waved goodbye. She probably lived nearby and maybe we’d walk into each other in the streets.
- Where the devil have you been, child? Tea’s cooling off! – exclaimed my mother as she approached. I shut the door and showed her the boxes with cookies.
- It’s okay, mum. Here, let’s have some cookies. And this other box is for you.
- Ah, thank you very much... – she paused halfway through, eyeing me sideways. – But what about your father?
I shrugged with a chuckle.
- That’s up to you. You know what? I won’t give Jon the other box anymore...
- Why?
- That fucker stole my socks again.
- PFFFFTTTT come on, now. Cookies it is. – my mother gestured to the air, already leading the way back to the kitchen. – I suggest you hide that thing well. You know how sneaky your dog is and I don’t want him spreading crumbs on my floor. – she cackled.
- That’s a lie! He’s a good boy.
- That’s because you spend so long traveling and don’t see him as much. You are the good boy, not him. – my mom shook her head as she put the kettle back on the stove.
The half-bitten edge of the box and the crumbs underneath my bed the next day only confirmed my theory that dogs are the worst secret keepers in this world...
It was summer, so it didn’t make sense to ask her what she was doing out of school. When I rested my hands on the doorframe, I noticed the little one was holding boxes against her body. As soon as she looked up towards me, she tried a big teethed smile.
- Awn, good day to you, miss. What can I do for you?
- How do you do, sir? – a quick change into trying a professional, persuasive tone. – I was wondering if you fancied some cookies on this fine day. – the girl indicated me the boxes, lowering her head and cutting eye contact. It’s not a usual thing to see kids selling cookies around here, but who am I to question it?
- Ah, how do YOU do? Homemade cookies, you mean? – she nodded and something said to me that it would make things easier for her, so I got closer to the edge of the step and crouched, thinking a little to myself. Since I was just about to brew some tea, I said I’d have a look and grabbed a box to peek inside.
- SOOOOOOOOOONNNNN! TEA IS READYYYYY!!! – shouted my mother from the kitchen.
- COMING, MUM. So, your cookies look delish, huh. – she giggled satisfied, tilting her head. Of course, I was being polite, but that was also the truth. I then added that I’d buy them all since she apparently had only three boxes left.
- Oh, really? – the smile I’d seen at the beginning grew wider.
- That’s right. – I checked my wallet and to my relief the amount I had was exact. I didn’t wanna bother her with change. – One for mom and dad, one for my brother and one for tea.
- Thank you, tall sir! – she took the money, walking away, and it was then that I realized I hadn’t introduced myself nor asked her name, so I just laughed it off and waved goodbye. She probably lived nearby and maybe we’d walk into each other in the streets.
- Where the devil have you been, child? Tea’s cooling off! – exclaimed my mother as she approached. I shut the door and showed her the boxes with cookies.
- It’s okay, mum. Here, let’s have some cookies. And this other box is for you.
- Ah, thank you very much... – she paused halfway through, eyeing me sideways. – But what about your father?
I shrugged with a chuckle.
- That’s up to you. You know what? I won’t give Jon the other box anymore...
- Why?
- That fucker stole my socks again.
- PFFFFTTTT come on, now. Cookies it is. – my mother gestured to the air, already leading the way back to the kitchen. – I suggest you hide that thing well. You know how sneaky your dog is and I don’t want him spreading crumbs on my floor. – she cackled.
- That’s a lie! He’s a good boy.
- That’s because you spend so long traveling and don’t see him as much. You are the good boy, not him. – my mom shook her head as she put the kettle back on the stove.
The half-bitten edge of the box and the crumbs underneath my bed the next day only confirmed my theory that dogs are the worst secret keepers in this world...
segunda-feira, 10 de agosto de 2020
Fermata - English version
They opened their eyes and saw themself with the face turned to the left, towards the big window without curtains, from which they could see the grains of dust rise from the ground and dance against the merciless arrows of the sun rays that came in. Part of them had the impression of awakening from something. All that happened before they loosened their sore eyelids didn’t seem real, but more like that which echoes like a dream that doesn’t want to feel distant. That doesn’t exactly want to be wiped off from memory, embodied in a statement they thought they’d heard.
It was upon gazing at themself that truth didn’t allow itself to be denied – on the unbuttoned and displaced clothes (albeit still on the body), the aching back, the emptiness of the room and inside the chest. In the tears that came warmer than a last loving embrace which there never was and shouldn’t be the last one and stuck them in a place and position as a sign of disbelief and defeat written in huge font. In their heavy but also shallow breath.
Deep down, it left them imagining if there was something in the air which gave both parties away even after all those years and, had it been noticed, could have been avoided. But nothing concrete went through their mind except the remainder of a track of cologne in the library that slowly faded away for good. And it was upon trying to recap what had happened that they thought to have found a meaning to it that was no less painful.
Right above the stairs of that home office/library, they opened the house’s door to a face they knew very well, who came over to another of those visits which, even as natural and frequent as breathing, always managed to blow some fresh air on everything. As usual, both headed to the basement: the place where there lived the words, the stories, and the most beautiful silences. This time taking glasses and a bottle of wine against the cold that kept their hands inside the pockets and made their breaths visible above their eyes even in the middle of the afternoon.
The wine would slowly make both voices soft and smooth while they read maybe not so random excerpts from the books they’d choose and hold like one holds a child or a flower. To get to feel the sound and effect of another person’s words in their mouths and on the person to whom they read whilst walking dreamily around the chamber with attentive ears, gazes that meet upon rising from the page. Or even reciting things they knew by heart.
After sitting on an armchair near the stairways with one leg crossed over the other, the owner of the house closed their eyes rather sleepy by the alcohol and, like in a meditation, tried to pay attention solely on the sound of the other person’s voice and their own breathing; perhaps in an attempt to stop time and remain there, under that golden half-light forever… Their companion was the kind of lover who would say they admired such capacity to focus on the present and nothing more - which made them smile from within.
The kind of trance they were in was deep enough not to let them notice that the other party was approaching until they felt their weight on the legs and a light nibble on the jawline, close to the mouth. Something like an instinct whispered for them to wrap the arms around whom looked at them and hold against the heart as tight as possible, and that’s what they did.
It felt like before - like the times when it happened by custom even if just to rest being close, to hear the breathing. Or to have a place where to cry without saying anything and with the bonus of not feeling so alone. But those who looked at it from the outside would know that the pair of hands on the waist and the one around the neck were no longer the same, as much as they’d like to deny it. Despair, however unconscious, always reveals us.
After a few minutes like this and within an aura of near-deadly silence, the one who occupied the armchair pulled the other’s face away from their shoulder a few centimeters so as to look them in the eyes. They tilted their head and almost got scared of the raspiness of their own voice.
“That story… Your story… Tell me that one again, my love.”
Still with the arms around those shoulders like children tend to do with the adults, the interlocutor exposed the arch of the throat in an almost pensive fashion, blinking slowly, until they took a deep breath and nodded, also very slowly. They got up in their languid manner and began the story with hands behind the back and gaze fixed on the other’s gaze.
Perhaps because of the very content of what they were saying, who told it behaved with a rather specific body language, almost like in a choreography. But doesn’t it always happen like this? However, to the audience, what mattered most was not the words (even though they were quite sad and beautiful in their sadness), but how they were enunciated.
Despite having seen and heard all of it thousands of times, both in public and in private, it never seemed like the same thing. Their sharp eye and soul that could still be easily moved was able to notice the subtle changes on each occasion - and this only made the whole thing look more and more attractive. It wasn’t for nothing that they had fallen hopelessly in love for that being.
On that day, in particular, there was something beautifully ethereal and painful, but at the same time magnetic and dirty in those gestures and smiles which, more than before, brought a moan to their voice that they could not hide. That conjoined being struck by a sudden slow pain and a wave of pleasure right after, but that were not related. It was hard to explain.
Just like it had happened some other times, a thing or two made the one who was listening to rise from where they were and walk around the chamber so as to follow who told the story as if also being part of the “dance” (albeit the gestures and words spoke of the loneliness of no longer recognizing oneself, knowing it is a bad thing, and yet even so much as a little, clinging to it because the feeling on the surface is good).
The one telling the story noticed the other part was following them very close. Probably deliberately they made everything feel more intense than ever before. Before anyone realized it, there they were with the fingertips pressed on the curve of the loved one’s waist, who ended up leaning against the bookshelves with rather weakened legs.
The speaker’s bangs would lightly brush that face due to the closeness to the ear of a warm, soft, smooth, and airy voice. As time went by, the more both bodies shortened the distance between each other and, during the brief pauses between one sentence and the next, one could hear one of the voices ask for a kiss from under intersected draws of breath. That the mouth wanted, but which was denied at first, in the teasing gesturing of sticking to the cheek closest nearby.
Feeling the books’ spines pressure against the skin from over the clothes, they shut the eyes for an instant so as to deviate from those that pulled them in. They tried concentrating on the words they were hearing; something about the emotion in the words made their eyelids burn as the other beautiful hand of their opposite gently held up their chin. And in their head echoed broken hearts and faces that no longer looked the same…
Until the fingers upon their chin relax and slide down, quite cold, towards their neck, but the temperature difference doesn’t bother. The anticipation in it wouldn’t let them move, even wanting to throw themself in those arms. Those hands moved from where they were after staying in place for a while; palms full of hair and with fast heartbeats under them, slowly granting to one side what the other desired. What seemed to intoxicate the one being kissed even more was not what they had drunk but instead the aftertaste they could feel in between the commissures. It was like being knocked out of one’s self.
Both pulling apart for a millisecond allowed the one being kissed to see their movement by reflex of pulling the collar of the kisser’s long coat rather bruskly, making it slide away from the shoulder. Then both came closer for another slow, long, and hungry kiss, which seemed to suck the air from the receiving end’s lungs and make them sweat. They heard themself begging for more upon feeling as though many other pairs of hands devoured them.
It had never crossed their mind to enquire whether the story they heard was something made up, fished from somewhere else, or a piece of the past. In a way, it didn’t really matter if it was a bluff. All of it was sad and beautiful by itself; even the tired, deep and needy sigh from the other person after the last word and last kiss, reverberating on the walls and against the skin. They caught themself trembling from the cold upon sliding down a little, with the impression that the steps that walked away were just a trick from the arousal that was fading. Only later they would understand everything and also nothing… That in so many words one can also say “There was nothing left to be done”.
It was upon gazing at themself that truth didn’t allow itself to be denied – on the unbuttoned and displaced clothes (albeit still on the body), the aching back, the emptiness of the room and inside the chest. In the tears that came warmer than a last loving embrace which there never was and shouldn’t be the last one and stuck them in a place and position as a sign of disbelief and defeat written in huge font. In their heavy but also shallow breath.
Deep down, it left them imagining if there was something in the air which gave both parties away even after all those years and, had it been noticed, could have been avoided. But nothing concrete went through their mind except the remainder of a track of cologne in the library that slowly faded away for good. And it was upon trying to recap what had happened that they thought to have found a meaning to it that was no less painful.
Right above the stairs of that home office/library, they opened the house’s door to a face they knew very well, who came over to another of those visits which, even as natural and frequent as breathing, always managed to blow some fresh air on everything. As usual, both headed to the basement: the place where there lived the words, the stories, and the most beautiful silences. This time taking glasses and a bottle of wine against the cold that kept their hands inside the pockets and made their breaths visible above their eyes even in the middle of the afternoon.
The wine would slowly make both voices soft and smooth while they read maybe not so random excerpts from the books they’d choose and hold like one holds a child or a flower. To get to feel the sound and effect of another person’s words in their mouths and on the person to whom they read whilst walking dreamily around the chamber with attentive ears, gazes that meet upon rising from the page. Or even reciting things they knew by heart.
After sitting on an armchair near the stairways with one leg crossed over the other, the owner of the house closed their eyes rather sleepy by the alcohol and, like in a meditation, tried to pay attention solely on the sound of the other person’s voice and their own breathing; perhaps in an attempt to stop time and remain there, under that golden half-light forever… Their companion was the kind of lover who would say they admired such capacity to focus on the present and nothing more - which made them smile from within.
The kind of trance they were in was deep enough not to let them notice that the other party was approaching until they felt their weight on the legs and a light nibble on the jawline, close to the mouth. Something like an instinct whispered for them to wrap the arms around whom looked at them and hold against the heart as tight as possible, and that’s what they did.
It felt like before - like the times when it happened by custom even if just to rest being close, to hear the breathing. Or to have a place where to cry without saying anything and with the bonus of not feeling so alone. But those who looked at it from the outside would know that the pair of hands on the waist and the one around the neck were no longer the same, as much as they’d like to deny it. Despair, however unconscious, always reveals us.
After a few minutes like this and within an aura of near-deadly silence, the one who occupied the armchair pulled the other’s face away from their shoulder a few centimeters so as to look them in the eyes. They tilted their head and almost got scared of the raspiness of their own voice.
“That story… Your story… Tell me that one again, my love.”
Still with the arms around those shoulders like children tend to do with the adults, the interlocutor exposed the arch of the throat in an almost pensive fashion, blinking slowly, until they took a deep breath and nodded, also very slowly. They got up in their languid manner and began the story with hands behind the back and gaze fixed on the other’s gaze.
Perhaps because of the very content of what they were saying, who told it behaved with a rather specific body language, almost like in a choreography. But doesn’t it always happen like this? However, to the audience, what mattered most was not the words (even though they were quite sad and beautiful in their sadness), but how they were enunciated.
Despite having seen and heard all of it thousands of times, both in public and in private, it never seemed like the same thing. Their sharp eye and soul that could still be easily moved was able to notice the subtle changes on each occasion - and this only made the whole thing look more and more attractive. It wasn’t for nothing that they had fallen hopelessly in love for that being.
On that day, in particular, there was something beautifully ethereal and painful, but at the same time magnetic and dirty in those gestures and smiles which, more than before, brought a moan to their voice that they could not hide. That conjoined being struck by a sudden slow pain and a wave of pleasure right after, but that were not related. It was hard to explain.
Just like it had happened some other times, a thing or two made the one who was listening to rise from where they were and walk around the chamber so as to follow who told the story as if also being part of the “dance” (albeit the gestures and words spoke of the loneliness of no longer recognizing oneself, knowing it is a bad thing, and yet even so much as a little, clinging to it because the feeling on the surface is good).
The one telling the story noticed the other part was following them very close. Probably deliberately they made everything feel more intense than ever before. Before anyone realized it, there they were with the fingertips pressed on the curve of the loved one’s waist, who ended up leaning against the bookshelves with rather weakened legs.
The speaker’s bangs would lightly brush that face due to the closeness to the ear of a warm, soft, smooth, and airy voice. As time went by, the more both bodies shortened the distance between each other and, during the brief pauses between one sentence and the next, one could hear one of the voices ask for a kiss from under intersected draws of breath. That the mouth wanted, but which was denied at first, in the teasing gesturing of sticking to the cheek closest nearby.
Feeling the books’ spines pressure against the skin from over the clothes, they shut the eyes for an instant so as to deviate from those that pulled them in. They tried concentrating on the words they were hearing; something about the emotion in the words made their eyelids burn as the other beautiful hand of their opposite gently held up their chin. And in their head echoed broken hearts and faces that no longer looked the same…
Until the fingers upon their chin relax and slide down, quite cold, towards their neck, but the temperature difference doesn’t bother. The anticipation in it wouldn’t let them move, even wanting to throw themself in those arms. Those hands moved from where they were after staying in place for a while; palms full of hair and with fast heartbeats under them, slowly granting to one side what the other desired. What seemed to intoxicate the one being kissed even more was not what they had drunk but instead the aftertaste they could feel in between the commissures. It was like being knocked out of one’s self.
Both pulling apart for a millisecond allowed the one being kissed to see their movement by reflex of pulling the collar of the kisser’s long coat rather bruskly, making it slide away from the shoulder. Then both came closer for another slow, long, and hungry kiss, which seemed to suck the air from the receiving end’s lungs and make them sweat. They heard themself begging for more upon feeling as though many other pairs of hands devoured them.
It had never crossed their mind to enquire whether the story they heard was something made up, fished from somewhere else, or a piece of the past. In a way, it didn’t really matter if it was a bluff. All of it was sad and beautiful by itself; even the tired, deep and needy sigh from the other person after the last word and last kiss, reverberating on the walls and against the skin. They caught themself trembling from the cold upon sliding down a little, with the impression that the steps that walked away were just a trick from the arousal that was fading. Only later they would understand everything and also nothing… That in so many words one can also say “There was nothing left to be done”.
domingo, 9 de agosto de 2020
Última passagem
Ele não é do tipo que faz promessa que não pode cumprir, nem eu. E muito por isso, nunca fiz cobrança - tudo que veio dele até hoje não foi menos do que presente para mim e acho que sempre há de ser, em toda aquela gentileza e calor que nunca deixei de amar. Ele faz as coisas do seu próprio jeito e no seu tempo, e me mostra vez após vez que eu também posso.
Embora eu no fundo esperasse que ele voltasse como dos outros dias, se não voltasse, tudo bem, porque no fundo nunca foi embora. O que eu tinha já era lindo, e muito daquilo já estava cravado como consolo da minha alma a ponto de ter me feito chorar depois que ele me deixou na ocasião interior. Ah, se soubesse de todas aquelas lágrimas que saíram de mim, aquela dor, aquele aperto como que de coração partido como nunca senti antes e com o adendo de que não era a dor de uma perda, mas pelo tanto que me foi ofertado e que me deixou transbordando como um cálice...
Mas ele voltou, para minha surpresa. Abri a janela da cozinha e lá estava ele, com aquele sorriso tímido, me enchendo de desculpas pelo atraso quando a honra é minha em recebê-lo de qualquer forma, e ele não me devia nada. Fi-lo entrar rapidamente para aplacar-lhe o grau de nervosismo e sentamo-nos à mesa de refeição de frente um para o outro. Ficarmos ali fez sentido por ser uma troca, como refeições são e deveriam ser. Anuí carinhosa e pacientemente a suas repetidas desculpas, perguntando-me que presente ele teria para mim naquela hora em que vinha com a selvageria e cheiro do mar mal contida no corpo, cabelo bagunçado e pigarro da garganta. Como de costume, seus desejos de que eu estivesse e permanecesse bem me aqueceram.
De novo, ele tinha vindo para ler para mim. Dividir comigo as jóias de suas estantes, as histórias e versos, pelo menos alguns deles, que lhe moviam o coração, e que achava justo compartilhar para que fossem talvez pontos de luz em meio ao caos crescente… Lá de fora e da minha vida, ainda, de certa forma. Eu e ele sabemos que as palavras são poderosas e que, às vezes, ainda que palavras sejam tudo o que se possa oferecer, que pelo menos dissessem a verdade, que fossem sinceras. E era ainda mais generoso poder ouvi-las dele próprio quando com a mesma ideia poderia ter simplesmente me emprestado os livros, marcados em certas passagens. Poesia e boas histórias podem mesmo curar pelo menos um pouco e acho que ele sente isso também.
Tirou do bolso um exemplar velho, amarelado, dizendo que não sabia se poderia fazer aquilo mais vezes porque a vida estava entrando no caminho… Mas que tinha tempo e vontade de ler nem que fosse um conto curto de um autor que gostava. Como se naquele gesto em si e naquela linda cadência uma única linha não fosse pão sovado e mel, ainda que a cena descrita fosse triste ou algo parecido. Nada daquilo me importava, contanto que ele estivesse ali por vontade própria e pelo tempo que desejasse. Tanto a presença como a ausência dentro daquela vida tão dele me alegravam à sua maneira.
Lá estávamos os dois, de um modo ou outro lamentando o mundano que nos interrompia com tolices como quase sempre parecia fazer em superfície. E mesmo assim ele tinha minha atenção, naquela voz que me puxava para si e me embrulhava no veludo elegante e escuro de um vestido de viúva jovem e enlutada em sua particular pitada de tristeza. Acho que foi até ter notado isso naquele dia em específico que fez com que, por baixo de todo o resto, eu mais sentisse do que ouvisse o que era lido.
Talvez mais do que se eu própria estivesse lendo, aquilo parecia tão tangível, tão vívido, vindo de uma boca tão humilde e tão consciente das pausas e da música nas coisas. Ou talvez só fosse meu jeito um tanto ingênuo de me enamorar tão fácil pelos pequenos detalhes e o tempero do meu afeto e admiração pelo homem que estava comigo. Tanto faz, na verdade. Nada se anula, muito menos o mérito do texto em si e do que a junção de tudo me fez sentir.
Eu me sentia como a mulher cega que vê poços do poema irlandês e a moça espanhola também cega que vê a cidade e lê os romances pelos olhos dos outros… Não digo que por cegueira minha, embora ela de certa forma exista, mas… Porque por melhor contadora de histórias que dissessem que eu fosse e os pormenores o que mais permanecesse comigo, era diferente ouvir as descrições, situações, as rimas dos poemas. De certa forma me apaixonei, assim como o protagonista do conto, pela mulher linda que ele admirava sob a luz dourada e onírica da tarde; mesma luz que a minha mão já havia descrito tocar pessoas que eu amava, tanto em prosa como em poesia. Claro que ouvi-lo ler até a lista telefônica seria um prazer, mas…
A luz artificial da minha casa cansou-se de nós e nos deixou no escuro, mas deve ter se apiedado depois, porque logo voltou para não me privar daquele amor retrocedido um tantinho em si mesmo antes de seguir desenrolando-se diante de mim como uma bandeira ou flor que desabrocha pela gentileza de quem lia; similar adoração do menino do livro catalão que segurei nas mãos há mais de uma década como quem explora uma paixão tão proibida e improvável quanto. Dali um tempo eu e minha visita nos pegamos desejando que a luz não se fosse outra vez.
Junto com a energia, o resto o puxou para longe de mim antes que ele pudesse terminar o conto, talvez em espelho ao que acontecia lá; hora que se faz tardia demais e sem explicação. E, mesmo assim, não o quis menos bem do que queria dias atrás, pois a vida tem dessas, embora parte de mim, humana que é, se chateasse como o próprio moço pela interrupção em si. A partida repentina não impediu o meu sorriso na beleza da companhia e tudo mais. O que eu não imaginava era, algumas horas depois, já com a lua como testemunha, ouvir o vento e as ondas trazerem consigo a voz do meu vizinho murmurar a última passagem da história e uma verdadeira despedida, como só ele poderia fazê-lo.
Embora eu no fundo esperasse que ele voltasse como dos outros dias, se não voltasse, tudo bem, porque no fundo nunca foi embora. O que eu tinha já era lindo, e muito daquilo já estava cravado como consolo da minha alma a ponto de ter me feito chorar depois que ele me deixou na ocasião interior. Ah, se soubesse de todas aquelas lágrimas que saíram de mim, aquela dor, aquele aperto como que de coração partido como nunca senti antes e com o adendo de que não era a dor de uma perda, mas pelo tanto que me foi ofertado e que me deixou transbordando como um cálice...
Mas ele voltou, para minha surpresa. Abri a janela da cozinha e lá estava ele, com aquele sorriso tímido, me enchendo de desculpas pelo atraso quando a honra é minha em recebê-lo de qualquer forma, e ele não me devia nada. Fi-lo entrar rapidamente para aplacar-lhe o grau de nervosismo e sentamo-nos à mesa de refeição de frente um para o outro. Ficarmos ali fez sentido por ser uma troca, como refeições são e deveriam ser. Anuí carinhosa e pacientemente a suas repetidas desculpas, perguntando-me que presente ele teria para mim naquela hora em que vinha com a selvageria e cheiro do mar mal contida no corpo, cabelo bagunçado e pigarro da garganta. Como de costume, seus desejos de que eu estivesse e permanecesse bem me aqueceram.
De novo, ele tinha vindo para ler para mim. Dividir comigo as jóias de suas estantes, as histórias e versos, pelo menos alguns deles, que lhe moviam o coração, e que achava justo compartilhar para que fossem talvez pontos de luz em meio ao caos crescente… Lá de fora e da minha vida, ainda, de certa forma. Eu e ele sabemos que as palavras são poderosas e que, às vezes, ainda que palavras sejam tudo o que se possa oferecer, que pelo menos dissessem a verdade, que fossem sinceras. E era ainda mais generoso poder ouvi-las dele próprio quando com a mesma ideia poderia ter simplesmente me emprestado os livros, marcados em certas passagens. Poesia e boas histórias podem mesmo curar pelo menos um pouco e acho que ele sente isso também.
Tirou do bolso um exemplar velho, amarelado, dizendo que não sabia se poderia fazer aquilo mais vezes porque a vida estava entrando no caminho… Mas que tinha tempo e vontade de ler nem que fosse um conto curto de um autor que gostava. Como se naquele gesto em si e naquela linda cadência uma única linha não fosse pão sovado e mel, ainda que a cena descrita fosse triste ou algo parecido. Nada daquilo me importava, contanto que ele estivesse ali por vontade própria e pelo tempo que desejasse. Tanto a presença como a ausência dentro daquela vida tão dele me alegravam à sua maneira.
Lá estávamos os dois, de um modo ou outro lamentando o mundano que nos interrompia com tolices como quase sempre parecia fazer em superfície. E mesmo assim ele tinha minha atenção, naquela voz que me puxava para si e me embrulhava no veludo elegante e escuro de um vestido de viúva jovem e enlutada em sua particular pitada de tristeza. Acho que foi até ter notado isso naquele dia em específico que fez com que, por baixo de todo o resto, eu mais sentisse do que ouvisse o que era lido.
Talvez mais do que se eu própria estivesse lendo, aquilo parecia tão tangível, tão vívido, vindo de uma boca tão humilde e tão consciente das pausas e da música nas coisas. Ou talvez só fosse meu jeito um tanto ingênuo de me enamorar tão fácil pelos pequenos detalhes e o tempero do meu afeto e admiração pelo homem que estava comigo. Tanto faz, na verdade. Nada se anula, muito menos o mérito do texto em si e do que a junção de tudo me fez sentir.
Eu me sentia como a mulher cega que vê poços do poema irlandês e a moça espanhola também cega que vê a cidade e lê os romances pelos olhos dos outros… Não digo que por cegueira minha, embora ela de certa forma exista, mas… Porque por melhor contadora de histórias que dissessem que eu fosse e os pormenores o que mais permanecesse comigo, era diferente ouvir as descrições, situações, as rimas dos poemas. De certa forma me apaixonei, assim como o protagonista do conto, pela mulher linda que ele admirava sob a luz dourada e onírica da tarde; mesma luz que a minha mão já havia descrito tocar pessoas que eu amava, tanto em prosa como em poesia. Claro que ouvi-lo ler até a lista telefônica seria um prazer, mas…
A luz artificial da minha casa cansou-se de nós e nos deixou no escuro, mas deve ter se apiedado depois, porque logo voltou para não me privar daquele amor retrocedido um tantinho em si mesmo antes de seguir desenrolando-se diante de mim como uma bandeira ou flor que desabrocha pela gentileza de quem lia; similar adoração do menino do livro catalão que segurei nas mãos há mais de uma década como quem explora uma paixão tão proibida e improvável quanto. Dali um tempo eu e minha visita nos pegamos desejando que a luz não se fosse outra vez.
Junto com a energia, o resto o puxou para longe de mim antes que ele pudesse terminar o conto, talvez em espelho ao que acontecia lá; hora que se faz tardia demais e sem explicação. E, mesmo assim, não o quis menos bem do que queria dias atrás, pois a vida tem dessas, embora parte de mim, humana que é, se chateasse como o próprio moço pela interrupção em si. A partida repentina não impediu o meu sorriso na beleza da companhia e tudo mais. O que eu não imaginava era, algumas horas depois, já com a lua como testemunha, ouvir o vento e as ondas trazerem consigo a voz do meu vizinho murmurar a última passagem da história e uma verdadeira despedida, como só ele poderia fazê-lo.
08/08/2020
sábado, 8 de agosto de 2020
sexta-feira, 7 de agosto de 2020
Em roda
Qual a minha sorte
de por um lado não ser mais menina
e, sabendo que outra morte
se aproxima,
ter mestre
campestre
que me conduz
com gentileza
de dança,
a da natureza,
para luz
e abundância.
01/08/2020
de por um lado não ser mais menina
e, sabendo que outra morte
se aproxima,
ter mestre
campestre
que me conduz
com gentileza
de dança,
a da natureza,
para luz
e abundância.
01/08/2020
quarta-feira, 5 de agosto de 2020
Agape
Love is a building
where each ramification of love
is a room.
Each one
with its own mess,
light and darkness.
They all deserve to be explored
fully,
and many I have barely scratched
the surface of,
barely touched
its gloom.
Yet I know what I
am here learning,
and that is its great beauty -
if that is the human's nothing more
to be here for,
may we look at it for what it is
and value the caress and cut
of every yes and every but
in its breeze.
where each ramification of love
is a room.
Each one
with its own mess,
light and darkness.
They all deserve to be explored
fully,
and many I have barely scratched
the surface of,
barely touched
its gloom.
Yet I know what I
am here learning,
and that is its great beauty -
if that is the human's nothing more
to be here for,
may we look at it for what it is
and value the caress and cut
of every yes and every but
in its breeze.
27/07/2020
terça-feira, 4 de agosto de 2020
Other heartbreaks
If there is a heaven,
it might have touched me
in how much lower
and softer
the voice of a lover
can be.
In how I was humbled
to a fool,
to a pool,
to a blade of grass
as I crumbled,
falling
into rain,
crying,
at the edge of my breath
and I sighed
in relief
at such depth
as though I was in pain,
and in a way, I was.
I was broken,
yet full
and flooding,
once again ready and open,
and hopefully always so shall
it be, and that is all.
26/07/2020
it might have touched me
in how much lower
and softer
the voice of a lover
can be.
In how I was humbled
to a fool,
to a pool,
to a blade of grass
as I crumbled,
falling
into rain,
crying,
at the edge of my breath
and I sighed
in relief
at such depth
as though I was in pain,
and in a way, I was.
I was broken,
yet full
and flooding,
once again ready and open,
and hopefully always so shall
it be, and that is all.
26/07/2020
segunda-feira, 3 de agosto de 2020
He knows me not
He knows me not.
he knows the name
he has given me,
but maybe not its higher joy,
not my tears,
not the longings and fears
upon the years
that move my heart,
he knows not art,
not the flame he has sired upon the earth,
not to be seen as a toy
thrown to the sea.
He knows not of the poet under his roof,
his flesh's daughter,
and even if the first I were not,
he knows not how much I try
to swallow the knot
and the beautiful ache
of every good,
harsh truth
bestowed upon me to be understood
for the better,
for my own and everybody's sake,
so there might be another
in whose bosom, as I cry,
it stays between him and I,
maybe as the soul's father,
it seems,
for this one might know what I've got,
what bursts me at the seams...
26/07/2020
he knows the name
he has given me,
but maybe not its higher joy,
not my tears,
not the longings and fears
upon the years
that move my heart,
he knows not art,
not the flame he has sired upon the earth,
not to be seen as a toy
thrown to the sea.
He knows not of the poet under his roof,
his flesh's daughter,
and even if the first I were not,
he knows not how much I try
to swallow the knot
and the beautiful ache
of every good,
harsh truth
bestowed upon me to be understood
for the better,
for my own and everybody's sake,
so there might be another
in whose bosom, as I cry,
it stays between him and I,
maybe as the soul's father,
it seems,
for this one might know what I've got,
what bursts me at the seams...
26/07/2020
domingo, 2 de agosto de 2020
Pure dialect
Out there it is way fouler,
but as you know,
in my soul
I never sink too low,
so
in your ear it has its own law
that wasn't written,
sounds sweet
and raw
in word
in time with my heartbeat
of bird
like a kitten
held on by its claw
and even its rare dirt
is an ominous sign from the owls
of my respect,
of what is honest and correct.
25/07/2020
but as you know,
in my soul
I never sink too low,
so
in your ear it has its own law
that wasn't written,
sounds sweet
and raw
in word
in time with my heartbeat
of bird
like a kitten
held on by its claw
and even its rare dirt
is an ominous sign from the owls
of my respect,
of what is honest and correct.
25/07/2020
sábado, 1 de agosto de 2020
Return
show me the way...
to the forest
I carry in my name,
be it west
or east,
master
of every beast,
feeder of this flame.
that takes me
closer
to you
and my destiny
in what I do,
sower
of every old tree.
which is enough of a reason
not to sound like treason,
much less to you, crown prince,
who moves each season
with pure
gesture,
sound and glance.
am I better than I was yesterday?
20/07/2020
to the forest
I carry in my name,
be it west
or east,
master
of every beast,
feeder of this flame.
that takes me
closer
to you
and my destiny
in what I do,
sower
of every old tree.
which is enough of a reason
not to sound like treason,
much less to you, crown prince,
who moves each season
with pure
gesture,
sound and glance.
am I better than I was yesterday?
20/07/2020
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