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?
segunda-feira, 17 de agosto de 2020
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
sexta-feira, 31 de julho de 2020
Escriturado
Teu contrato
sem papel
assinado a unha,
suspiro e mel
me é tão barato
talvez por ser mero consumado,
lua e sol do meio em testemunha
de até antes desse querer
eu já ser tua
e bendita seja a água
debaixo da tua língua
e daquele
pelo que me fere
a fazer
e dizer
que, espero, acaba em dobro prazer.
19/07/2020
sem papel
assinado a unha,
suspiro e mel
me é tão barato
talvez por ser mero consumado,
lua e sol do meio em testemunha
de até antes desse querer
eu já ser tua
e bendita seja a água
debaixo da tua língua
e daquele
pelo que me fere
a fazer
e dizer
que, espero, acaba em dobro prazer.
19/07/2020
quinta-feira, 30 de julho de 2020
Ouroboros
Primeiro, volta-se para o novo
que na verdade é velho,
ainda com peças faltando,
parafusos fora do lugar...
E o desespero de manter o mínimo
ainda ao alcance da mão.
Dentro do começo,
um final que se vira do avesso,
cheio de promessas
e de uma voz conhecida
mesmo com prazeres que acabam tão rápido...
Talvez pelas páginas viradas.
Falta de descanso perturba uns
e ninguém parece ouvir o aviso da sereia,
porque de repente se veem sem ar,
trancados aos gritos,
experimentando uma solidão
que para alguns é quase amante
em saturações baixas e específicas.
No começo parece fácil porque nada mudou -
as poucas razões se esfarelam diante de grandes medos,
mas ainda restam as canções
e orações vindas de outras mãos
que lembram de para onde não se deve olhar
e mostram um lar
que não sabia que poderia ser meu...
Até que, com o tempo,
se esquece do tempo,
ou talvez se percebe
que só o viu de relance
mas ainda pode sentir
comprovado nos nomes que se pergunta,
num verão que não foi vivido
e num inverno que abraça apertado
fazendo feridas.
Olha-se no rosto da verdade
em cada poça de lágrimas,
em cada lembrança de sol,
nas conversas retomadas,
nas que não se tem
e em cada ânsia que não se faz negar
valendo-se delas
e de dias de verso escolhido
em boca amada
para lembrar-se que está vivo.
A vida e a morte
resumidas em cores,
retorcidas em egoísmos e distâncias
e motivos (antes e talvez ainda)
desconhecidos
para os silêncios da dor
e dos galos que cantam para a lua,
mas, quem sabe, em linhas espelhadas,
cartas e na borra de mel do café.
18/07/2020
que na verdade é velho,
ainda com peças faltando,
parafusos fora do lugar...
E o desespero de manter o mínimo
ainda ao alcance da mão.
Dentro do começo,
um final que se vira do avesso,
cheio de promessas
e de uma voz conhecida
mesmo com prazeres que acabam tão rápido...
Talvez pelas páginas viradas.
Falta de descanso perturba uns
e ninguém parece ouvir o aviso da sereia,
porque de repente se veem sem ar,
trancados aos gritos,
experimentando uma solidão
que para alguns é quase amante
em saturações baixas e específicas.
No começo parece fácil porque nada mudou -
as poucas razões se esfarelam diante de grandes medos,
mas ainda restam as canções
e orações vindas de outras mãos
que lembram de para onde não se deve olhar
e mostram um lar
que não sabia que poderia ser meu...
Até que, com o tempo,
se esquece do tempo,
ou talvez se percebe
que só o viu de relance
mas ainda pode sentir
comprovado nos nomes que se pergunta,
num verão que não foi vivido
e num inverno que abraça apertado
fazendo feridas.
Olha-se no rosto da verdade
em cada poça de lágrimas,
em cada lembrança de sol,
nas conversas retomadas,
nas que não se tem
e em cada ânsia que não se faz negar
valendo-se delas
e de dias de verso escolhido
em boca amada
para lembrar-se que está vivo.
A vida e a morte
resumidas em cores,
retorcidas em egoísmos e distâncias
e motivos (antes e talvez ainda)
desconhecidos
para os silêncios da dor
e dos galos que cantam para a lua,
mas, quem sabe, em linhas espelhadas,
cartas e na borra de mel do café.
18/07/2020
quarta-feira, 29 de julho de 2020
Essencial
Na casa
nem um pouco rasa
em que o futuro pisa
em cama,
mesa
e banho
como o ditado proclama
as três partes da baliza
da certeza,
não querendo que soe tacanho,
são a brancura,
a lonjura
e do sutil a leitura
e, por mais que pareça louco
e que a vida esteja jogada às traças,
não importa a quem eu dê graças
por ter disso, agora,
mesmo com a demora,
pelo menos um pouco.
17/07/2020
nem um pouco rasa
em que o futuro pisa
em cama,
mesa
e banho
como o ditado proclama
as três partes da baliza
da certeza,
não querendo que soe tacanho,
são a brancura,
a lonjura
e do sutil a leitura
e, por mais que pareça louco
e que a vida esteja jogada às traças,
não importa a quem eu dê graças
por ter disso, agora,
mesmo com a demora,
pelo menos um pouco.
17/07/2020
terça-feira, 28 de julho de 2020
Homilia
Tão fácil parir filhos
poéticos
olhando nos teus olhos...
Versos
que não são para lábios
de homem,
mas que nos teus, meu bem,
como outros
tantos,
se transcendem...
17/07/2020
poéticos
olhando nos teus olhos...
Versos
que não são para lábios
de homem,
mas que nos teus, meu bem,
como outros
tantos,
se transcendem...
17/07/2020
segunda-feira, 27 de julho de 2020
Metodismo
Perdoa
se soa
como alarme,
mas não dorme
comigo
a menos que queira,
entre uma e outra besteira,
poesia perto do ouvido.
17/07/2020
se soa
como alarme,
mas não dorme
comigo
a menos que queira,
entre uma e outra besteira,
poesia perto do ouvido.
17/07/2020
domingo, 26 de julho de 2020
Languidness
I may sound mad
as if there was only Friday,
but I can say that if I could
spend the rest of life in bed
feeding you honey,
sure I would.
16/07/2020
as if there was only Friday,
but I can say that if I could
spend the rest of life in bed
feeding you honey,
sure I would.
16/07/2020
sábado, 25 de julho de 2020
Mise en place
I wonder if you are really aware
of how photography gets timeless
at the falling of your hair
in its elegant brown mess
or how your hands are poems
of death and life and love and folly
like an ode by Keats or a song of Cohen's
touching the dirty and making it holy
in front of my naive eye,
deep into my every bone,
cause of this sigh
that the night hears, us both alone.
14/07/2020
of how photography gets timeless
at the falling of your hair
in its elegant brown mess
or how your hands are poems
of death and life and love and folly
like an ode by Keats or a song of Cohen's
touching the dirty and making it holy
in front of my naive eye,
deep into my every bone,
cause of this sigh
that the night hears, us both alone.
14/07/2020
sexta-feira, 24 de julho de 2020
Makeover
You know me well
enough to smell
when the screen
shows the usual scene
of how easy
to the point of cheesy
I am to read,
to get enamoured,
what is my creed;
and it only serves to reinforce
that you coming into my life's course
along with them
and him
are the marrow, the bones, the muscle,
the old and new hustle,
grace
and face
of my poetry
and if that isn't artistry,
then all else is a sin.
13/07/2020
enough to smell
when the screen
shows the usual scene
of how easy
to the point of cheesy
I am to read,
to get enamoured,
what is my creed;
and it only serves to reinforce
that you coming into my life's course
along with them
and him
are the marrow, the bones, the muscle,
the old and new hustle,
grace
and face
of my poetry
and if that isn't artistry,
then all else is a sin.
13/07/2020
quinta-feira, 23 de julho de 2020
Esparrame
Corpo em si que não se contém
de ardil
e amor que não se mede em mil,
muito menos em cem...
Só cama larga recebe bem.
12/07/2020
de ardil
e amor que não se mede em mil,
muito menos em cem...
Só cama larga recebe bem.
12/07/2020
quarta-feira, 22 de julho de 2020
Resumo
Tudo pela tua boca... Tudo.
Eu bem sei que certas palavras
podem e merecem ser ditas,
bem como soam,
em pelo menos duas línguas
e que, com elas, se conquista o mundo.
12/07/2020
Eu bem sei que certas palavras
podem e merecem ser ditas,
bem como soam,
em pelo menos duas línguas
e que, com elas, se conquista o mundo.
12/07/2020
terça-feira, 21 de julho de 2020
Pose
Lábios
e garganta
que tivessem sempre a mesma voz
sensual, decidida e elegantemente atroz
que, carregada entre palma e dedos,
assim, contrafeita,
te ama, insiste e espanta
tanta gente.
12/07/2020
e garganta
que tivessem sempre a mesma voz
sensual, decidida e elegantemente atroz
que, carregada entre palma e dedos,
assim, contrafeita,
te ama, insiste e espanta
tanta gente.
12/07/2020
segunda-feira, 20 de julho de 2020
A queda e sua montanha
No esforço de não repetir outras falas
como leitura de borra,
o que tento
dizer que não temo
não é que eu morra
quando for meu tempo
e sim por dentro,
sem sustento,
das mesmas desgraças
de tantos outros poetas...
10/07/2020
como leitura de borra,
o que tento
dizer que não temo
não é que eu morra
quando for meu tempo
e sim por dentro,
sem sustento,
das mesmas desgraças
de tantos outros poetas...
10/07/2020
domingo, 19 de julho de 2020
Neo-Renaissance
Da Vinci would die
for your hands
in his next masterpiece
just like you could kill me with these
and I
would gladly go.
How do I know?
Love, there are things only the heart understands.
10/07/2020
for your hands
in his next masterpiece
just like you could kill me with these
and I
would gladly go.
How do I know?
Love, there are things only the heart understands.
10/07/2020
sábado, 18 de julho de 2020
Meia-luz
Gosto do escuro
pelo bem dos sentidos
de lábios em apuro
e dedos perdidos
a quem não se pode culpar
quando tocar-se
é uma catarse
para lembrar
que estamos vivos
e da tua mão na minha coxa,
ainda que me faça parecer trouxa.
07/07/2020
pelo bem dos sentidos
de lábios em apuro
e dedos perdidos
a quem não se pode culpar
quando tocar-se
é uma catarse
para lembrar
que estamos vivos
e da tua mão na minha coxa,
ainda que me faça parecer trouxa.
07/07/2020
sexta-feira, 17 de julho de 2020
Jornada do equilíbrio VI - Corpo-casa
Movimentos retardados,
desajeitados,
tentando ser delicados,
sem coordenação
de quem se move feito peça
tensa à beça
e no fundo tem mesmo pressa
por mais que jargão
e esquece que foi na quietude
em que ninguém espera que o mundo mude
que me vi e senti amiúde,
até o bater do meu próprio coração.
07/07/2020
desajeitados,
tentando ser delicados,
sem coordenação
de quem se move feito peça
tensa à beça
e no fundo tem mesmo pressa
por mais que jargão
e esquece que foi na quietude
em que ninguém espera que o mundo mude
que me vi e senti amiúde,
até o bater do meu próprio coração.
07/07/2020
quinta-feira, 16 de julho de 2020
Verso de bilhete que escrevi
É, guri,
tenho saudade de ti,
de te contar das crianças que pari,
do vinho de mão e abraço vindo daí,
saber como está o mundo dentro em si,
porque não, eu não sumi,
mas me assusta o que li
e de nós eu não esqueci
então, quando quiser, estou aqui.
06/07/2020
tenho saudade de ti,
de te contar das crianças que pari,
do vinho de mão e abraço vindo daí,
saber como está o mundo dentro em si,
porque não, eu não sumi,
mas me assusta o que li
e de nós eu não esqueci
então, quando quiser, estou aqui.
06/07/2020
quarta-feira, 15 de julho de 2020
Names make a being
If we ever meet,
you and I,
call me the name you know me by,
for it is easier to say
and the one my soul chose
in a distant summer day
and also the one you gave
not for me to keep a pose
but maybe shine from under the wave.
06/07/2020
you and I,
call me the name you know me by,
for it is easier to say
and the one my soul chose
in a distant summer day
and also the one you gave
not for me to keep a pose
but maybe shine from under the wave.
06/07/2020
terça-feira, 14 de julho de 2020
Feito no campo II
Quem sabe deitar na grama
como se fosse cama,
de olhos fechados...
E tirar a roupa,
mera casca que mostra a polpa
nos avessos...
O negror da terra a segurar o corpo
que, ao virar-se de pouco em pouco,
o verde lhe lambe os seios...
Na mesma sensação tão bela
que devem ter flores quando da janela
recebem do sol os beijos...
06/07/2020
como se fosse cama,
de olhos fechados...
E tirar a roupa,
mera casca que mostra a polpa
nos avessos...
O negror da terra a segurar o corpo
que, ao virar-se de pouco em pouco,
o verde lhe lambe os seios...
Na mesma sensação tão bela
que devem ter flores quando da janela
recebem do sol os beijos...
06/07/2020
segunda-feira, 13 de julho de 2020
Natural habitat
I much love the feeling
of your mouth's real breeze
where you don't have to try
to alter its core timing
just to please,
even if it's rather dry.
05/07/2020
of your mouth's real breeze
where you don't have to try
to alter its core timing
just to please,
even if it's rather dry.
05/07/2020
domingo, 12 de julho de 2020
Jornada do equilíbrio V
É sempre bom ouvir o que o outro tem a propor, mesmo num caminho similar. O que me foi proposto refletir sobre nesses dias são coisas que eu venho trabalhando e é bom olhar para isso de novo com sugestão de outra pessoa, porque é um processo constante. Me fez perceber no que eu já evoluí também e o que eu ainda preciso fazer.
Acho que o meu maior problema com os meus defeitos agora é contorná-los e me perdoar pelo que eu ainda de certa forma faço só pra agradar os outros. Venho absorvendo que isso são micro (e às vezes macro) agressões contra nós mesmes e talvez justamente isso facilite a sensação de que a gente não sabe o que quer. Lidar com o mundo não apesar deles, mas com eles – a gente é assim e pronto, mas não pode esquecer do dano que causa. É fácil perceber que não se é perfeito, mas se acomodar nisso; por isso eu gosto de situações como a que eu vivi hoje porque elas me mostram isso, mas não de um jeito agressivo. Para mim é mais fácil contornar quando é assim.
Todas as relações pedem um nível de vulnerabilidade, não adianta. Se se quer ajudar o outro na dor dele tem-se que dizer olha, tá aqui a minha feridinha também. Comigo não falta isso... Mais em como lidar com o que vem do outro; o impacto que eu causo no outro. Eu tinha medo de falhar. Depois tive medo de mim, me assustei comigo. E agora tenho medo mais que tudo de falhar com os outros de uma maneira que não consiga arrumar, nas minhas relações com o outro. Sei bem o que é tentar fazer por si num processo de ganhar uma voz verdadeira e o quanto isso é importante. Mas isso se consegue se entendendo a mão para quem está ao lado, certo?
04/07/2020
Acho que o meu maior problema com os meus defeitos agora é contorná-los e me perdoar pelo que eu ainda de certa forma faço só pra agradar os outros. Venho absorvendo que isso são micro (e às vezes macro) agressões contra nós mesmes e talvez justamente isso facilite a sensação de que a gente não sabe o que quer. Lidar com o mundo não apesar deles, mas com eles – a gente é assim e pronto, mas não pode esquecer do dano que causa. É fácil perceber que não se é perfeito, mas se acomodar nisso; por isso eu gosto de situações como a que eu vivi hoje porque elas me mostram isso, mas não de um jeito agressivo. Para mim é mais fácil contornar quando é assim.
Todas as relações pedem um nível de vulnerabilidade, não adianta. Se se quer ajudar o outro na dor dele tem-se que dizer olha, tá aqui a minha feridinha também. Comigo não falta isso... Mais em como lidar com o que vem do outro; o impacto que eu causo no outro. Eu tinha medo de falhar. Depois tive medo de mim, me assustei comigo. E agora tenho medo mais que tudo de falhar com os outros de uma maneira que não consiga arrumar, nas minhas relações com o outro. Sei bem o que é tentar fazer por si num processo de ganhar uma voz verdadeira e o quanto isso é importante. Mas isso se consegue se entendendo a mão para quem está ao lado, certo?
04/07/2020
sábado, 11 de julho de 2020
Jornada do equilíbrio IV
Há um tempo abracei a minha Sombra e, dentro dela, a minha impulsividade. É doido mesmo como a gente não tem controle sobre como os outros recebem aquilo que a gente faz e diz, não importam as nossas intenções. Venho tentando não passar a mão na minha própria cabeça, o que inclui reconhecer a toxicidade dentro daquilo que as pessoas fazem comigo e do que eu faço por elas. Considerando o momento atual, acho que sei quem eu veria, quem me entregaria a mensagem... Ou pelo menos quem eu gostaria que me entregasse... Que me lembrasse disso. Porque, para dizer a verdade, eu já comecei a absorver a afirmação.
Considerando isso, experiências recentes só me provaram que isso também se aplica a mim. A pessoa não encarou o que eu fiz como algo ruim quando poderia e foi só depois que eu disse o que eu ia fazer e a pessoa não se importou que eu percebi que o que eu estava fazendo tinha um lado ruim e poderia ser encarado dessa forma. E como não foi visto assim aquilo me emocionou; chorei mesmo. Porque a princípio eu devia ter guardado para mim porque poderia dar errado – eu percebi depois que já tinha dito. Eu tirando vantagem da dor de outra pessoa. Mas a pessoa não encarar assim e até ver como curativo me comoveu. Se fosse outra pessoa, poderia ter ficado com raiva de mim e com razão, mas não foi o caso.
Claro que eu a princípio fiz de impulso uma coisa que eu depois vi que talvez não deveria ter feito, mas tenho abertura com essa pessoa para fazer o que fiz e se não tivesse gostado me falaria, mas depois de feito eu percebi que nem sempre aconteceria de receberem aquilo tão bem e foi a reação legal que me surpreendeu. Me fizeram chorar, mas porque foram legais demais comigo. Até estou meio dividida com isso porque fiz algo bom, mas ao mesmo tempo tem essa parte. Acho que nesse caso daria certo de qualquer forma, tivesse ele gostado ou não, porque tenho essa abertura. Mas foi naquela hora que eu me senti mal que percebi que não vale para todo mundo. Talvez essa sensação de divisão seja eu refletindo sobre o que eu fiz, de verdade. Talvez... Isso seja eu perceber que essa abertura não existe com todo mundo para eu ter feito o que eu fiz, qualquer que fosse a resposta; por isso a própria resposta positiva me surpreendeu... E tudo isso me serve de alerta.
Considerando isso, experiências recentes só me provaram que isso também se aplica a mim. A pessoa não encarou o que eu fiz como algo ruim quando poderia e foi só depois que eu disse o que eu ia fazer e a pessoa não se importou que eu percebi que o que eu estava fazendo tinha um lado ruim e poderia ser encarado dessa forma. E como não foi visto assim aquilo me emocionou; chorei mesmo. Porque a princípio eu devia ter guardado para mim porque poderia dar errado – eu percebi depois que já tinha dito. Eu tirando vantagem da dor de outra pessoa. Mas a pessoa não encarar assim e até ver como curativo me comoveu. Se fosse outra pessoa, poderia ter ficado com raiva de mim e com razão, mas não foi o caso.
Claro que eu a princípio fiz de impulso uma coisa que eu depois vi que talvez não deveria ter feito, mas tenho abertura com essa pessoa para fazer o que fiz e se não tivesse gostado me falaria, mas depois de feito eu percebi que nem sempre aconteceria de receberem aquilo tão bem e foi a reação legal que me surpreendeu. Me fizeram chorar, mas porque foram legais demais comigo. Até estou meio dividida com isso porque fiz algo bom, mas ao mesmo tempo tem essa parte. Acho que nesse caso daria certo de qualquer forma, tivesse ele gostado ou não, porque tenho essa abertura. Mas foi naquela hora que eu me senti mal que percebi que não vale para todo mundo. Talvez essa sensação de divisão seja eu refletindo sobre o que eu fiz, de verdade. Talvez... Isso seja eu perceber que essa abertura não existe com todo mundo para eu ter feito o que eu fiz, qualquer que fosse a resposta; por isso a própria resposta positiva me surpreendeu... E tudo isso me serve de alerta.
04/07/2020
sexta-feira, 10 de julho de 2020
Magnifying glass
There's a bit of a struggle in life
when one hand is a crooked paw
and both are seen as blades to a knife
with nothing but evil claws
for pain and inception,
but I carry my cross -
are you willing to change your perception?
04/07/2020
quinta-feira, 9 de julho de 2020
Hell of repetition
She escaped from me like sand
and now I suppose mine is the burden
to be yet another man
tying himself to the ship's pole
not to jump out with the pain
from and into the salty hole
which is her voice... That siren.
04/07/2020
and now I suppose mine is the burden
to be yet another man
tying himself to the ship's pole
not to jump out with the pain
from and into the salty hole
which is her voice... That siren.
04/07/2020
quarta-feira, 8 de julho de 2020
Laments on what never was
Love is love, I guess,
inside the heart,
even in war,
like a ribbon bow does its best
to hold neat together a raven tress
one sees only from afar
and might end up on the ground,
stepped on, torn apart,
and, by another soldier, maybe found
and returned...
If it's really the end,
maybe a wave of bad luck,
does it matter that much
whose is the fault?
03/07/2020
inside the heart,
even in war,
like a ribbon bow does its best
to hold neat together a raven tress
one sees only from afar
and might end up on the ground,
stepped on, torn apart,
and, by another soldier, maybe found
and returned...
If it's really the end,
maybe a wave of bad luck,
does it matter that much
whose is the fault?
03/07/2020
terça-feira, 7 de julho de 2020
Intentions
If I never get to see you, then
may I feel god
through a worthy man
who strikes me just as awed.
Either that or...
Your taste in sweet fruit that I eat,
your touch in certain breaths of wind.
Your kiss from the sun and the rain
that I go back to time and again.
And if I never lay on the forest floor,
may I find another way to still adore.
03/07/2020
may I feel god
through a worthy man
who strikes me just as awed.
Either that or...
Your taste in sweet fruit that I eat,
your touch in certain breaths of wind.
Your kiss from the sun and the rain
that I go back to time and again.
And if I never lay on the forest floor,
may I find another way to still adore.
03/07/2020
segunda-feira, 6 de julho de 2020
Cantadora
deixa-me deitar no teu colo,
me aquecer na tua pele,
dar à luz no teu solo
e conceber outra vez nele.
seja pai desses meus filhos,
faça-os comigo...
filhos em versos
e rostos ambíguos.
assiste-me nos meus partos,
ampara essas cabeças
nas tuas mãos santas
de meninas altas, espertas
e meninos às vezes minguados
sempre alimentados em seios fartos.
é meu destino ser essa mãe e cantar
como o senhor também é pai,
mesmo que puxando outro ar
em outra dor, mas... ai!
crias do éter,
do vento e do fogo,
tantas, com ânsia de chegar logo,
cheias de amor e prazer
e também no tempo que tem que ser.
outra bruxa que se abre,
quem sabe,
entre aquelas que o senhor queira
e nelas deixe bosque em carne.
mas talvez nesta era,
com esta serva,
seja diversa a primavera -
mais sutil,
mas não menos fértil.
02/07/2020
me aquecer na tua pele,
dar à luz no teu solo
e conceber outra vez nele.
seja pai desses meus filhos,
faça-os comigo...
filhos em versos
e rostos ambíguos.
assiste-me nos meus partos,
ampara essas cabeças
nas tuas mãos santas
de meninas altas, espertas
e meninos às vezes minguados
sempre alimentados em seios fartos.
é meu destino ser essa mãe e cantar
como o senhor também é pai,
mesmo que puxando outro ar
em outra dor, mas... ai!
crias do éter,
do vento e do fogo,
tantas, com ânsia de chegar logo,
cheias de amor e prazer
e também no tempo que tem que ser.
outra bruxa que se abre,
quem sabe,
entre aquelas que o senhor queira
e nelas deixe bosque em carne.
mas talvez nesta era,
com esta serva,
seja diversa a primavera -
mais sutil,
mas não menos fértil.
02/07/2020
domingo, 5 de julho de 2020
Roleta russa
O universo
parece gostar de brincadeira
de tortura
por nos dar verso
e tremedeira
na secura
e colocar no processo
mais que simples fronteira
que fácil se fura
quando se quer nem que seja un beso
e não nos importa dar bandeira
da quentura...
02/07/2020
parece gostar de brincadeira
de tortura
por nos dar verso
e tremedeira
na secura
e colocar no processo
mais que simples fronteira
que fácil se fura
quando se quer nem que seja un beso
e não nos importa dar bandeira
da quentura...
02/07/2020
sábado, 4 de julho de 2020
Jornada do equilíbrio III
No inverno, o frio nos força a nos cobrirmos para reter o calor; em nos fazer em mais camadas exteriores do que já possuímos numa situação geral e até ideal. Também nos induz, ou pelo menos induzia, a ficarmos mais perto uns dos outros, a nos resguardarmos e encontrarmos outras maneiras de sentir o tempo que passa. Dependendo da situação, parece que nenhuma roupa ou coberta consegue aquecer... Nem por fora, e, às vezes, nem por dentro, e honestamente não sei dizer o que é mais triste.
Somos feitos de muitas camadas, tanto no corpo como na psique e, assim como os selkies, conforme se faz necessário ou dita nosso desejo, nos desfazemos temporariamente de alguma ou algumas delas para que outras partes de nós possam ser mostradas. Mas o povo selkie sabe que sua camada talvez menos óbvia é também a mais importante para si e a mais preciosa em si mesma e até como valor de mercado, pois os faz aquilo que são simplesmente sendo, acima de qualquer outra coisa, e também moldada de acordo com o jeito de cada um... E nunca esquece onde a deixou antes de voltar para casa, porque não há como estar em casa sem ser tudo o que se é e escolhe ser – seja essa casa um lugar ou o sagrado templo do corpo.
Mas essa casa também pode não ser onde pensamos que é, ainda que tenha sido por escolha nossa ou falta dela. Escolha de experimentar algo que parece bom e que com o tempo nos mostra que merecemos mais... Ou uma mais inconsciente, talvez, e eu diria dormente, de ficar onde não há a luz estalada do fogo em conjunto porque dizem que certas peles bastam... Ainda que ela não seja a nossa pele em primeiro lugar, talvez nos escondendo de nós mesmos e do mundo. Que não seja a do animal que vive em cada um. Da foca que uma linda moça e rapaz selkie nunca deixa de ser.
Nos vestem seja com o que está ao alcance, com o que acham que nos convém... E a gente acredita naquilo, seja a vida toda, seja só por um tempo, porque, querendo ou não, contanto que nos cubra, não mostre aquilo que temos ou julgamos ruim (ou mesmo que os outros julgam assim) e cumpra sua função mínima no inverno e verão, não nos importamos muito ou de jeito nenhum. Mesmo que fique talvez mais largo ou apertado do que deveria, seja de uma cor que não exatamente gostamos ou nos favoreça e/ou seja de um tecido que incomode de alguma forma – coisa que muitos demoram ou nunca chegam a perceber e em alguns casos percebem, porém não modificam, por medo da mágoa do outro.
Mas tem coisa melhor do que estar em casa? A casa que se tem, a casa que se fez, a casa que se é? Com tudo o que se gosta, com tudo o que se sabe, quer e precisa? Olhando pra si, no corpo e na psique, e nos reconhecendo na beleza serena talvez não das nossas imperfeições em si, mas no fato de elas estarem ali por serem normais. E nos reconhecer na nossa forma debaixo de qualquer camada – seja na pele exposta pelo verão que nos descasca e quando nos vestimos de céu quem sabe em mais de um sentido perante o divino e o amor verdadeiro, seja na que temos de que às vezes só a lua sabe, seja a nível ainda mais profundo... E uma roupa que reflita por fora, de verdade, um pouquinho do que somos por dentro. Que nos caia bem, que valorize o que nos foi dado, que não nos aprisione. Às vezes tudo começa por aí, e todos merecem essa chance. Eu bem espero pela minha.
Somos feitos de muitas camadas, tanto no corpo como na psique e, assim como os selkies, conforme se faz necessário ou dita nosso desejo, nos desfazemos temporariamente de alguma ou algumas delas para que outras partes de nós possam ser mostradas. Mas o povo selkie sabe que sua camada talvez menos óbvia é também a mais importante para si e a mais preciosa em si mesma e até como valor de mercado, pois os faz aquilo que são simplesmente sendo, acima de qualquer outra coisa, e também moldada de acordo com o jeito de cada um... E nunca esquece onde a deixou antes de voltar para casa, porque não há como estar em casa sem ser tudo o que se é e escolhe ser – seja essa casa um lugar ou o sagrado templo do corpo.
Mas essa casa também pode não ser onde pensamos que é, ainda que tenha sido por escolha nossa ou falta dela. Escolha de experimentar algo que parece bom e que com o tempo nos mostra que merecemos mais... Ou uma mais inconsciente, talvez, e eu diria dormente, de ficar onde não há a luz estalada do fogo em conjunto porque dizem que certas peles bastam... Ainda que ela não seja a nossa pele em primeiro lugar, talvez nos escondendo de nós mesmos e do mundo. Que não seja a do animal que vive em cada um. Da foca que uma linda moça e rapaz selkie nunca deixa de ser.
Nos vestem seja com o que está ao alcance, com o que acham que nos convém... E a gente acredita naquilo, seja a vida toda, seja só por um tempo, porque, querendo ou não, contanto que nos cubra, não mostre aquilo que temos ou julgamos ruim (ou mesmo que os outros julgam assim) e cumpra sua função mínima no inverno e verão, não nos importamos muito ou de jeito nenhum. Mesmo que fique talvez mais largo ou apertado do que deveria, seja de uma cor que não exatamente gostamos ou nos favoreça e/ou seja de um tecido que incomode de alguma forma – coisa que muitos demoram ou nunca chegam a perceber e em alguns casos percebem, porém não modificam, por medo da mágoa do outro.
Mas tem coisa melhor do que estar em casa? A casa que se tem, a casa que se fez, a casa que se é? Com tudo o que se gosta, com tudo o que se sabe, quer e precisa? Olhando pra si, no corpo e na psique, e nos reconhecendo na beleza serena talvez não das nossas imperfeições em si, mas no fato de elas estarem ali por serem normais. E nos reconhecer na nossa forma debaixo de qualquer camada – seja na pele exposta pelo verão que nos descasca e quando nos vestimos de céu quem sabe em mais de um sentido perante o divino e o amor verdadeiro, seja na que temos de que às vezes só a lua sabe, seja a nível ainda mais profundo... E uma roupa que reflita por fora, de verdade, um pouquinho do que somos por dentro. Que nos caia bem, que valorize o que nos foi dado, que não nos aprisione. Às vezes tudo começa por aí, e todos merecem essa chance. Eu bem espero pela minha.
01/07/2020
sexta-feira, 3 de julho de 2020
Retrato antigo
Como vieste,
tu ficarás,
o gesto é justo,
este
que não te deixa para trás,
no tempo parada
e enterrada
no escuro
e sim onde o olho alcança
como ao teu e o eu criança
e a minha última lembrança
com seu custo
e se foi honra dourada
que me deste
mesmo tão pequenina
contra a parede,
que tu, mão olguina
permaneça onde estás,
até onde se estende
o que fizeste.
01/07/2020
tu ficarás,
o gesto é justo,
este
que não te deixa para trás,
no tempo parada
e enterrada
no escuro
e sim onde o olho alcança
como ao teu e o eu criança
e a minha última lembrança
com seu custo
e se foi honra dourada
que me deste
mesmo tão pequenina
contra a parede,
que tu, mão olguina
permaneça onde estás,
até onde se estende
o que fizeste.
01/07/2020
quinta-feira, 2 de julho de 2020
As it should be
I would rather bleed into the earth
having you sing to me like a bird.
I would rather be wrapped in your furs,
on your lap, a kitten that just purrs.
I would rather be shown my real pelt,
as free as the child me had never felt.
I would rather be a bee inside a flower
than a maiden locked up in a broken tower.
01/07/2020
having you sing to me like a bird.
I would rather be wrapped in your furs,
on your lap, a kitten that just purrs.
I would rather be shown my real pelt,
as free as the child me had never felt.
I would rather be a bee inside a flower
than a maiden locked up in a broken tower.
01/07/2020
quarta-feira, 1 de julho de 2020
Allowance
I love hands
and what they can do...
Yours during nows and thens
in the enough I know...
Maybe keys to a spell
birthing storms anew...
Out of which beauties burst
like a fruit...
Always treated as the first
and last things to ever be touched and built...
Oh well.
There's no such thing as mercy with you...
30/06/2020
and what they can do...
Yours during nows and thens
in the enough I know...
Maybe keys to a spell
birthing storms anew...
Out of which beauties burst
like a fruit...
Always treated as the first
and last things to ever be touched and built...
Oh well.
There's no such thing as mercy with you...
30/06/2020
terça-feira, 30 de junho de 2020
Jornada do equilíbrio II
As vozes dos outros fazem a nossa, muitas vezes. Tanto aquela que de fato temos, como a que achamos que temos e a que sabemos que deveríamos ter. A voz que cobra, a que julga e culpa a si mesma e aos outros... Que nos põe na zona de conforto com mensagens um tanto contraditórias que são para ser de aceitação e acabam como crítica ao mesmo tempo e aponta muito mais o dedo para os nossos relapsos, talvez encarando conquistas como obrigações ou coisas maiores do que realmente são... E que, de uma forma ou outra, talvez correspondam àquilo que esperam de nós, que é muitas vezes algo idealizado e fixo.
Vozes que alimentam os nossos padrões de comportamento e de percepção de si e do mundo... Que nos paralisam justamente diante daquilo dentro de nós que foi desenvolvido por causa delas porque absorvemos absolutamente tudo como uma verdade e/ou como uma verdade que não é maleável. Que de qualquer forma nos machucam e são difíceis de ignorar.
E às vezes, para nos livramos disso, sentimos que temos de provar o contrário – que conseguimos fazer diferente, que não estamos destinados a viver e morrer ou pensar daquela forma. Mas será que não é só para nos desfazermos de um peso? Estamos levando em consideração as nossas aptidões, aquilo que realmente queremos, ou só a satisfação temporária de eles verem que estavam errados? Ou até para conosco mesmos, que somos capazes de chegar em algum lugar... E no fim das contas esse não ser aquele para onde deveríamos ter ido.
E a voz que mais importa, será que escutamos de verdade? Será que deixamos que o que as outras dizem nos impeça de pelo menos tentar de novo, ou, como talvez Bentinho Santiago, que nos ensurdeçam para aquelas que realmente nos desejem a felicidade que merecemos, à nossa maneira? É possível encontrar o limite entre frouxidão e excesso de rigidez, sendo que certas coisas nunca poderão ser curadas totalmente?
Vozes que alimentam os nossos padrões de comportamento e de percepção de si e do mundo... Que nos paralisam justamente diante daquilo dentro de nós que foi desenvolvido por causa delas porque absorvemos absolutamente tudo como uma verdade e/ou como uma verdade que não é maleável. Que de qualquer forma nos machucam e são difíceis de ignorar.
E às vezes, para nos livramos disso, sentimos que temos de provar o contrário – que conseguimos fazer diferente, que não estamos destinados a viver e morrer ou pensar daquela forma. Mas será que não é só para nos desfazermos de um peso? Estamos levando em consideração as nossas aptidões, aquilo que realmente queremos, ou só a satisfação temporária de eles verem que estavam errados? Ou até para conosco mesmos, que somos capazes de chegar em algum lugar... E no fim das contas esse não ser aquele para onde deveríamos ter ido.
E a voz que mais importa, será que escutamos de verdade? Será que deixamos que o que as outras dizem nos impeça de pelo menos tentar de novo, ou, como talvez Bentinho Santiago, que nos ensurdeçam para aquelas que realmente nos desejem a felicidade que merecemos, à nossa maneira? É possível encontrar o limite entre frouxidão e excesso de rigidez, sendo que certas coisas nunca poderão ser curadas totalmente?
30/06/2020
segunda-feira, 29 de junho de 2020
domingo, 28 de junho de 2020
Jornada do equilíbrio I
É engraçado quando a gente vê padrão nas coisas porque comigo aconteceu mais ou menos na mesma época, que também é quando a ciência diz que o nosso corpo já está todo formado – mas ao mesmo tempo ainda faltava tanta coisa em mim e ainda falta... Já escrevi sobre isso outras vezes. No meu caso nem foram oportunidades que eu enxergava de forma destorcida, mas eu tomando decisões que no fim não me fizeram feliz e que fizeram com que o meu caminho fosse mais longo do que eu gostaria e que me encheram de culpa, me deixaram perdida.
Foi muito doloroso, mas o reverberar dessa ruptura em outras áreas da minha vida fez com que, por mais que algumas vezes eu quisesse desistir e que tenha sentido muita solidão, eu voltasse pra mim. Parasse de verdade para olhar para mim mesma e para quem eu sou desde lá de dentro, até para as coisas que eu apenas conjeturava – seja o que o meio fez de mim e o que eu mesma deixei acontecer – e percebi cada vez mais que esse é um processo que vai durar pelo resto da minha vida. Eventualmente, achei um caminho por onde recomeçar; sempre me apoiando naquilo que sempre foi minha cura, minha marca, minha maneira para poder lembrar da verdade. E cada vez mais estou sendo conduzida em direção a isso.
Mesmo hoje eu me questiono, se o que quero é o que realmente quero, se mesmo naquilo que eu mesma decido e que sei que é meu ainda existem resquícios daquele eu adormecido e rendido às circunstâncias que vive da forma como os outros esperam e não consegue se expressar completamente, se aquilo que eu escolhi me basta ou se preciso de mais nesse sentido como sei que preciso de mais na vida. Se ainda estou fugindo de alguma forma. Se o que eu quero que aconteça vai mesmo acontecer, se eu vou ter disciplina e paciência na vida geral e profissional para conseguir viver da maneira que acho melhor.
Quando tem tanta coisa à minha volta que parece não mudar, é fácil esquecer do meu progresso, do meu amadurecimento, e até do poder das minhas habilidades; do risco que vale correr para viver a partir delas; da única e talvez mais bela oferta que eu tenho para deixar para os outros, que é aquilo que eu penso e que vivo, minha maneira sempre disposta a evoluir de ver o mundo, que existe na latência da minha consciência talvez há mais tempo do que imagino, ainda mais para quem tem uma voz, e ao mesmo tempo não. E eu mesma, com o meu senso de lealdade, entrega e devoção.
Acho que o mais interessante nisso é esse processo de FAZER quem nós somos de verdade, a partir da experimentação das coisas que parte principalmente da nossa própria vontade e utilizar cada uma delas como ferramenta para nos manter aqui, para nos curarmos a nós mesmos e aos outros, talvez... E nos sentirmos vivos, nos levar adiante, seja em pequenez ou grandeza ou na grandeza da pequenez. Se permitimos, algumas se cristalizam – que essas sejam as que nos preenchem de forma verdadeira; que elas nos encham de sabedoria. Eu, pelo menos, estou tentando.
Tentando não pensar nos obstáculos e sim no que eu mesma posso fazer. Perdendo o medo de pedir ajuda e de aprender com os meus erros. Me agarrando cada vez mais ao que sei que faz parte de mim e que não me foi dado por ninguém (pelo menos não de carne, vá saber...) e reconhecendo padrões que não quero repetir, situações em que não quero me envolver. Aceitando os presentes, aprendendo a ler as sutilezas. Procurando me respeitar mais e também ao tempo das coisas, estabelecer limites e me abraçar pela pessoa que sou. Ainda e sempre dando o melhor de mim – não o que dizem que posso dar, mas onde sei que posso. Focando naquilo e naqueles que me inspiram e me fazem pensar; me abrindo cada vez mais para quem está aberto para mim e para cada milímetro de independência. Não esquecendo que aquilo que eu mais almejo é apenas um começo que agora sei ser possível, e um feito de pequenas grandes partes que me ajudarão a não ir embora daqui com mais arrependimentos do que plenitude. Tentando recuperar, cada vez mais acordada, o tempo que passei dormindo dentro de mim mesma, porque é tudo relativo.
Se não sei quem sou e talvez nunca saiba de todo, sei que sou mais do que os outros e eu mesma imaginavam, sei exatamente qual é o meu destino e de que caixa vem o fósforo que causa e causará o incêndio que não me consome e sim me alimenta. Se for para morrer, que seja deixando alguma coisa para trás. E que seja amor pelos outros e pela mulher que estou construindo, cinzas num jardim... E boas palavras de presente, quem sabe. Não para massagear meu ego solitário, mas pelo bem das conexões saudáveis e da capacidade que um gesto genuíno tem de trazer alegria e até laetitia, que descobri há pouco ser a alegria etérea, a nível divino e que está no meu nome, que, ainda que eu mesma não tenha escolhido, não deixo de assinar com orgulho por ser apenas o início da camada mais superficial do que mais importa, que sou eu mesma. Já o nome da minha alma... Esse ela mesma pegou para si e isso basta.
Foi muito doloroso, mas o reverberar dessa ruptura em outras áreas da minha vida fez com que, por mais que algumas vezes eu quisesse desistir e que tenha sentido muita solidão, eu voltasse pra mim. Parasse de verdade para olhar para mim mesma e para quem eu sou desde lá de dentro, até para as coisas que eu apenas conjeturava – seja o que o meio fez de mim e o que eu mesma deixei acontecer – e percebi cada vez mais que esse é um processo que vai durar pelo resto da minha vida. Eventualmente, achei um caminho por onde recomeçar; sempre me apoiando naquilo que sempre foi minha cura, minha marca, minha maneira para poder lembrar da verdade. E cada vez mais estou sendo conduzida em direção a isso.
Mesmo hoje eu me questiono, se o que quero é o que realmente quero, se mesmo naquilo que eu mesma decido e que sei que é meu ainda existem resquícios daquele eu adormecido e rendido às circunstâncias que vive da forma como os outros esperam e não consegue se expressar completamente, se aquilo que eu escolhi me basta ou se preciso de mais nesse sentido como sei que preciso de mais na vida. Se ainda estou fugindo de alguma forma. Se o que eu quero que aconteça vai mesmo acontecer, se eu vou ter disciplina e paciência na vida geral e profissional para conseguir viver da maneira que acho melhor.
Quando tem tanta coisa à minha volta que parece não mudar, é fácil esquecer do meu progresso, do meu amadurecimento, e até do poder das minhas habilidades; do risco que vale correr para viver a partir delas; da única e talvez mais bela oferta que eu tenho para deixar para os outros, que é aquilo que eu penso e que vivo, minha maneira sempre disposta a evoluir de ver o mundo, que existe na latência da minha consciência talvez há mais tempo do que imagino, ainda mais para quem tem uma voz, e ao mesmo tempo não. E eu mesma, com o meu senso de lealdade, entrega e devoção.
Acho que o mais interessante nisso é esse processo de FAZER quem nós somos de verdade, a partir da experimentação das coisas que parte principalmente da nossa própria vontade e utilizar cada uma delas como ferramenta para nos manter aqui, para nos curarmos a nós mesmos e aos outros, talvez... E nos sentirmos vivos, nos levar adiante, seja em pequenez ou grandeza ou na grandeza da pequenez. Se permitimos, algumas se cristalizam – que essas sejam as que nos preenchem de forma verdadeira; que elas nos encham de sabedoria. Eu, pelo menos, estou tentando.
Tentando não pensar nos obstáculos e sim no que eu mesma posso fazer. Perdendo o medo de pedir ajuda e de aprender com os meus erros. Me agarrando cada vez mais ao que sei que faz parte de mim e que não me foi dado por ninguém (pelo menos não de carne, vá saber...) e reconhecendo padrões que não quero repetir, situações em que não quero me envolver. Aceitando os presentes, aprendendo a ler as sutilezas. Procurando me respeitar mais e também ao tempo das coisas, estabelecer limites e me abraçar pela pessoa que sou. Ainda e sempre dando o melhor de mim – não o que dizem que posso dar, mas onde sei que posso. Focando naquilo e naqueles que me inspiram e me fazem pensar; me abrindo cada vez mais para quem está aberto para mim e para cada milímetro de independência. Não esquecendo que aquilo que eu mais almejo é apenas um começo que agora sei ser possível, e um feito de pequenas grandes partes que me ajudarão a não ir embora daqui com mais arrependimentos do que plenitude. Tentando recuperar, cada vez mais acordada, o tempo que passei dormindo dentro de mim mesma, porque é tudo relativo.
Se não sei quem sou e talvez nunca saiba de todo, sei que sou mais do que os outros e eu mesma imaginavam, sei exatamente qual é o meu destino e de que caixa vem o fósforo que causa e causará o incêndio que não me consome e sim me alimenta. Se for para morrer, que seja deixando alguma coisa para trás. E que seja amor pelos outros e pela mulher que estou construindo, cinzas num jardim... E boas palavras de presente, quem sabe. Não para massagear meu ego solitário, mas pelo bem das conexões saudáveis e da capacidade que um gesto genuíno tem de trazer alegria e até laetitia, que descobri há pouco ser a alegria etérea, a nível divino e que está no meu nome, que, ainda que eu mesma não tenha escolhido, não deixo de assinar com orgulho por ser apenas o início da camada mais superficial do que mais importa, que sou eu mesma. Já o nome da minha alma... Esse ela mesma pegou para si e isso basta.
28/06/2020
sábado, 27 de junho de 2020
Lightness
Light cannot exist without shadow.
May we remember the little happinesses
even within the greatest sorrows.
May our souls
and Selves
be so at peace they don't forget
they transcend themselves...
But also have a home in the body, in the now.
11/03/2020
May we remember the little happinesses
even within the greatest sorrows.
May our souls
and Selves
be so at peace they don't forget
they transcend themselves...
But also have a home in the body, in the now.
11/03/2020
sexta-feira, 26 de junho de 2020
2001
I confess I miss
my time at the garden
with its bliss
of unawareness of the burden.
Sitting by, working and eating
on the same table,
wishes alone determined my walking,
much lighter,
much higher
and in a sense more stable,
a ballerina in motion.
Welcomed by peers
and loved by teachers,
things were not always even,
but there was always an option.
There I first heard of heaven
and tasted of kin.
Yet that was my Eden
without a single sin.
26/06/2020
my time at the garden
with its bliss
of unawareness of the burden.
Sitting by, working and eating
on the same table,
wishes alone determined my walking,
much lighter,
much higher
and in a sense more stable,
a ballerina in motion.
Welcomed by peers
and loved by teachers,
things were not always even,
but there was always an option.
There I first heard of heaven
and tasted of kin.
Yet that was my Eden
without a single sin.
26/06/2020
quinta-feira, 25 de junho de 2020
Obelisco
Vivo momentos históricos
e ao mesmo tempo, não.
Não porque sejam irrisórios
ou sem nenhuma ligação,
mas, dói dizer, parecem distantes aos olhos
e à mão.
Talvez porque lá fora
e aqui dentro
se viva mais de um tempo
e o que eu possa fazer agora
embora pareça muda
seja pedir,
me redimir
e oferecer ajuda.
E, por mais que só meus
e talvez mera retórica
em que me pus,
certos momentos de falha e glória
são tratados assim na minha memória,
com digna estatuária
que caída
permanece erguida
e que não é feita de pedra, metal, gesso ou fórmica.
24/06/2020
e ao mesmo tempo, não.
Não porque sejam irrisórios
ou sem nenhuma ligação,
mas, dói dizer, parecem distantes aos olhos
e à mão.
Talvez porque lá fora
e aqui dentro
se viva mais de um tempo
e o que eu possa fazer agora
embora pareça muda
seja pedir,
me redimir
e oferecer ajuda.
E, por mais que só meus
e talvez mera retórica
em que me pus,
certos momentos de falha e glória
são tratados assim na minha memória,
com digna estatuária
que caída
permanece erguida
e que não é feita de pedra, metal, gesso ou fórmica.
24/06/2020
quarta-feira, 24 de junho de 2020
De momento
Está bom,
e se não ficar, pode ficar,
se a gente trabalhar
e também aproveitar
cada vista,
forma, toque e som,
ainda que não exista
fechada norma
nem óbvia pista.
24/06/2020
e se não ficar, pode ficar,
se a gente trabalhar
e também aproveitar
cada vista,
forma, toque e som,
ainda que não exista
fechada norma
nem óbvia pista.
24/06/2020
terça-feira, 23 de junho de 2020
segunda-feira, 22 de junho de 2020
22/06/2020
Não tem como saber se a pessoa foi embora de vez
ou se o tempo pode trazer de volta num outro contexto.
Não anula o vácuo entre uma coisa e a outra.
domingo, 21 de junho de 2020
21/06/2020
Do jeito que tiverem que vir,
as palavras honestas sempre vêm,
e é assim que a gente enfrenta as coisas –
chamando-as pelo nome correto,
sábado, 20 de junho de 2020
Instagram reformulado
Olá, leitores! Uma pausa rápida nos textos para avisar vocês que reformulei minha página no Instagram! Os textos lá postados ainda virão daqui do blog, mas aparecerão com uma roupagem diferente, criada e sugerida pela minha maravilhosa prima e parceira Eduarda Silva, e outras coisinhas mais... Adorei a ideia, há de ficar mais divertido e arrumado para mim e para vocês. Se já segue, é só passar lá e dar um conferes no primeiro post; e se não segue e tem interesse, clique aqui ou siga a tag de nome que está na imagem abaixo diretamente pelo app. Um abraço!
P.S.: Duda, tu é demais. Muito obrigada, marqueteira!
P.S.: Duda, tu é demais. Muito obrigada, marqueteira!
sexta-feira, 19 de junho de 2020
Oath
God of gods,
King of kings,
prince of the woods
and all ancient things...
I want your weight upon me
and in the air.
I want your mouth to feed me
and bite off dispair,
I want your fiery tongue
to quench this dry thirst
for love in beyond a man's song,
lest I die slow after I burst.
I want your body to dress
me, your hand to guide
me in all I desire and confess,
as your subject, as your bride,
anything you may want, even your child
that one day might build you an altar,
for for every hour I am not beguiled
you have my grace, you never falter.
19/06/2020
King of kings,
prince of the woods
and all ancient things...
I want your weight upon me
and in the air.
I want your mouth to feed me
and bite off dispair,
I want your fiery tongue
to quench this dry thirst
for love in beyond a man's song,
lest I die slow after I burst.
I want your body to dress
me, your hand to guide
me in all I desire and confess,
as your subject, as your bride,
anything you may want, even your child
that one day might build you an altar,
for for every hour I am not beguiled
you have my grace, you never falter.
19/06/2020
quinta-feira, 18 de junho de 2020
31/01/2015
(...)
Escrever pode estar
no meu destino
também porque, ao fazê-lo,
posso estar ouvindo meu coração
e a parte de mim
que não quer desistir.
(...)
- trecho do meu diário
quarta-feira, 17 de junho de 2020
Tipos
Acho que tentar não faz mal
e seja possível
ser a mulher ideal
e claro que ela é incrível,
mas isso só vale
se ninguém mais te fale
qual é essa definição
e se possa ser muitas,
as caras mulheres, anciãs,
gurias,
que se é
e pode ser,
de quinhão
justamente desigual.
e seja possível
ser a mulher ideal
e claro que ela é incrível,
mas isso só vale
se ninguém mais te fale
qual é essa definição
e se possa ser muitas,
as caras mulheres, anciãs,
gurias,
que se é
e pode ser,
de quinhão
justamente desigual.
17/06/2020
terça-feira, 16 de junho de 2020
Latente
Acho que é no vulnerável
que a mais especial
das belezas aparece...
E eu gosto de achar
que consigo enxergar.
A gente se importe
demais em parecer "mais forte"
ou coisa parecida
do que é capaz e do que deveria;
de fingir que as coisas não nos afetam.
Mas quem a gente seria
se não fosse isso?
Quando importa
fica tudo na minha cara,
eu não consigo.
16/06/2020
que a mais especial
das belezas aparece...
E eu gosto de achar
que consigo enxergar.
A gente se importe
demais em parecer "mais forte"
ou coisa parecida
do que é capaz e do que deveria;
de fingir que as coisas não nos afetam.
Mas quem a gente seria
se não fosse isso?
Quando importa
fica tudo na minha cara,
eu não consigo.
16/06/2020
domingo, 14 de junho de 2020
sábado, 13 de junho de 2020
Reportagem na coluna Primeiro Plano
Ontem, para minha grata surpresa, fui avisada por um dos meus colegas da pós-graduação que uma breve referência a mim e ao meu trabalho como escritora e futura tradutora, como prometido pelo próprio, foi feita na coluna Primeiro Plano dentro do blog Professor com Prazer do Prof. Mestre Leunam Gomes, natural do Ceará, assim como o meu colega no estudo da tradução Antonio Reinaldo, que fez a divulgação. O texto da coluna em que me faço presente refere-se ao dia de ontem, 12 de junho de 2020 e pode ser lido no link acima referido. Agradeço nova e efusivamente ao colega e por extensão ao Prof. Leunam.
sexta-feira, 12 de junho de 2020
10/06/2020
Eu como produtora de "coisa inútil" que sou, já cansei de tentar achar uma única função pra isso. Acho que a arte tem a função que cada um que faz atribui a ela, bem como o público quando tem acesso a ela e por isso está em outro patamar. A gente perde o controle dos critérios usados quando não são nossos e acho que parte da graça está aí, mesmo hoje quando se tem tanto do "mais do mesmo" já que todo mundo bebe de fontes.
quinta-feira, 11 de junho de 2020
quarta-feira, 10 de junho de 2020
Patinho feio
E de repente,
eu quis tanto ir pra casa...
Onde quer que isso esteja,
o que quer que isso seja
e mesmo que a minha definição
dentro do meu coração
seja até rasa
na ânsia urgente.
E se for no bosque,
talvez entre poetas
ou um colo onde me enrosque
despida de arestas?
Acho que tanto faz
se algum conforto do velho
esteja lá como um espelho,
contanto que me dê paz.
10/06/2020
eu quis tanto ir pra casa...
Onde quer que isso esteja,
o que quer que isso seja
e mesmo que a minha definição
dentro do meu coração
seja até rasa
na ânsia urgente.
E se for no bosque,
talvez entre poetas
ou um colo onde me enrosque
despida de arestas?
Acho que tanto faz
se algum conforto do velho
esteja lá como um espelho,
contanto que me dê paz.
10/06/2020
terça-feira, 9 de junho de 2020
Colorblind
What is the valor
in my saying
that my favourite color
is black and also blue
if I am still blind
upon seeing what happens to you
and in being kind
when you are still dying
because of cruel, narrow thought
and your eyes burn
since some don't seem to learn
from what they have got?
I know prejudice
but also privilege,
I just hope you don't mind
the bunch you may have to teach
to yet another white bitch.
09/06/2020
#blacklivesmatter
in my saying
that my favourite color
is black and also blue
if I am still blind
upon seeing what happens to you
and in being kind
when you are still dying
because of cruel, narrow thought
and your eyes burn
since some don't seem to learn
from what they have got?
I know prejudice
but also privilege,
I just hope you don't mind
the bunch you may have to teach
to yet another white bitch.
09/06/2020
#blacklivesmatter
segunda-feira, 8 de junho de 2020
08/06/2020
olhar para as outras partes do meu passado
e pro meu presente no futuro com a mesma gentileza
com que eu olho para o meu eu adolescente
e o meu eu com depressão.
domingo, 7 de junho de 2020
Trilha de migalhas
Quem não sabe se logo
descubro que muito antes dos meus pais
algum dos meus verdadeiros ancestrais
da minha adormecida memória
também não se fez contando história
e curando
e morrendo
do mesmo fogo?
E quem sabe se não sou
ciclo que se quebra
pelo menos um pouco
de filhos só de carne
e mulher submissa
em neta que no fundo não segue a premissa,
sabe do errado o certo
e forja e forjou
com as mesmas unhas
compridas
e senso de ferida aberta
milhares de crias do intelecto
para cura
feitas de palavras
como quem escolheu linha de costura
e sabe do açúcar a medida?
07/06/2020
descubro que muito antes dos meus pais
algum dos meus verdadeiros ancestrais
da minha adormecida memória
também não se fez contando história
e curando
e morrendo
do mesmo fogo?
E quem sabe se não sou
ciclo que se quebra
pelo menos um pouco
de filhos só de carne
e mulher submissa
em neta que no fundo não segue a premissa,
sabe do errado o certo
e forja e forjou
com as mesmas unhas
compridas
e senso de ferida aberta
milhares de crias do intelecto
para cura
feitas de palavras
como quem escolheu linha de costura
e sabe do açúcar a medida?
07/06/2020
sábado, 6 de junho de 2020
Fardos
Talvez, apesar dos planos,
nem sempre seja com os anos
que venham as respostas
e por isso permaneça o peso nas costas,
das escolhas...
Mesmo que não tenham sido nossas.
Que não importa a roupa que se vista
ou que se chame de artista -
não se acha toda pista
e ninguém é feito de aço
mas merece nem que seja espaço
para descascar o próprio bagaço.
06/06/2020
nem sempre seja com os anos
que venham as respostas
e por isso permaneça o peso nas costas,
das escolhas...
Mesmo que não tenham sido nossas.
Que não importa a roupa que se vista
ou que se chame de artista -
não se acha toda pista
e ninguém é feito de aço
mas merece nem que seja espaço
para descascar o próprio bagaço.
06/06/2020
sexta-feira, 5 de junho de 2020
Serene plea
I am a woman, raw,
teeth sharp like a saw,
but also just a scared child
even when the pain is mild.
sire of every tree
and of this love in me,
my dear lord,
open up my heart...
open my eyes
to what ahead lies
and grant me the serenity
to understand what I see.
as small as it seems,
as big as it feels,
a soul knows what it wants,
it wants relief!
a space to breathe
and look over the hills
and work as hard as bees and ants
that may not have all the answers
to what shall remain sore
but certainly know the means
to perform the right chore
to build a world from the core.
let me not give up on it all
and even if I fall,
may it be on your lap,
just for a bit, a sweet, refreshing nap...
05/06/2020
teeth sharp like a saw,
but also just a scared child
even when the pain is mild.
sire of every tree
and of this love in me,
my dear lord,
open up my heart...
open my eyes
to what ahead lies
and grant me the serenity
to understand what I see.
as small as it seems,
as big as it feels,
a soul knows what it wants,
it wants relief!
a space to breathe
and look over the hills
and work as hard as bees and ants
that may not have all the answers
to what shall remain sore
but certainly know the means
to perform the right chore
to build a world from the core.
let me not give up on it all
and even if I fall,
may it be on your lap,
just for a bit, a sweet, refreshing nap...
05/06/2020
quinta-feira, 4 de junho de 2020
Deja vu - English version
Border between a mile of open field and a dark forest, at sunset, the sunlight peeking dreamily through the leaves. Me, laid upon an ancient tree root, covered in pine needles, with no clue as to how I ended up there and the heart racing because there seemed to be nobody around who could help me go back home. Some kind of survival instinct made me want to cry for help, albeit it was quite unlikely I’d be heard.
However, what amazed me most in all of it was noticing what my body would do right next – still in quite the disbelief, suddenly I saw myself leaning on the tree and standing up with the wobbly balance of a child learning how to walk, which in truth surpassed by a long shot the abilities I had when I was younger. And instead of staggering to the other side in order to get out of there, the sensitive soles of my bare feet took me further into the woods, feeling as though they obeyed me only partially. That scared me not just due to what was happening, but because it was new to walk by myself, feeling the legs much lighter than before, with the dress that slipped off one shoulder tapping over them, my chin up.
Even though everything told me to stop right there, refocus and try to find the way back since it was darkening, I went on as if at least part of me knew exactly what it was doing. Except for a stone or another, I cared nothing for the creatures on the ground, even if it could be a snake ready to attack. A while later I saw myself across from what looked like a clearing and began to think of what to do, focusing only on the sound of some birds chirping on the trees nearby. As usual, concentration left me in a state of relaxation that resembled sleep. Feeling a tickle on one of my arms, opened the eyes slowly and spotted a tiny yellow butterfly landed on it. I tried not to scare it.
- Hi there, pretty one! I swear I’m trying to be brave... – it was when I heard what sounded like steps and again adrenaline ran through my veins, making the butterfly fly away and myself to look around expecting to meet death or something like that. I blinked in the gloom and caught sight of him a few meters ahead.
Graceful like a prince, more than two heads of wild hair taller than me and feet also on the ground, the being with hands behind his back and body at ease who vaguely resembled a man I loved very much sighed with what seemed like relief, opening the most beautiful smile in the world. That smile was like a gift, a gift meant only for me, albeit until then it was something I had claimed from the other person solely from afar. Something clicked in my mind and I knew who that man who had a not-exactly-human aura was. I’d already met him; and seeing him this close, at my eyes’ and hand’s reach, as my equal and at the same time so beyond me, as I knew it would be like with the other one, clouded my sight with tears and bent my knees when he approached the spot where I was with his face battered by the wind.
- Mo thiarna, mo Prionsa, grá mo chroí... - my lord, my prince, my darling. That was all I could say over and over between sobs while I stared at my own hands that held the soil as if I was made of it, which maybe was true. When I dared to look up, I saw my mentor's majestic head cover the moon rays that had begun to peek from behind a cloud, leaving him with something of a halo. He shrugged, casual like a young man only a few years older than myself, came a little closer and streched his hand to me.
Without much thought for I felt a little groggy like when he came to me for the first time, in a dream, and overall I wouldn’t dare touch him even if he allowed me to, I let him help me. I almost fell again, tripping over myself, but he held me up with strength and gentleness; with me limping from my old hip problem, we walked pending a bit to the right and he insisted lovingly and without words that I sat next to him and not on the ground at his feet. I still could feel the chill at the base of the spine that would occur to show me his presence, except now what would give just the delightful and quite vivid impression of an affectionate gesture came from the solid and amorous hand of a friend, a good lover and maybe a father, all at once. It’s always been hard to describe how was it to know that he was around, and at that moment... Him wanting to appear to me, show himself to me, was much more than I thought myself worthy of.
- Sire... I wish neither to doubt nor to question this, just like I didn’t question for itself what I felt when you first came to me, nor your council, company and guidance ever since, but... Is it really you? Whom I talk to before sleep as much as possible, who had and sometimes still does make me feel excited, given in and silly like a woman in love, who comforts me when I cry in the dark, whom I waited for thinking you would not come back anymore because I wanted to know you and honor you, for whom I nowadays put down the tarot cards as means of communication, to whom I perhaps cannot give faith, but trust? – since I was talking faster by the minute and in every language of which I knew at least a little, he just nodded in agreement and stroke my head until my breathing leveled.
- You are... Beautiful. Beautiful like I always thought you would be. Maybe even more so. – he laughed a big, musical laughter that sounded like running water and even blushed a bit. I don’t know if it was for being there with him, the hungers of which only women understand, me noticing the full moon on the sky or all of it, but the longer that hand remained on me, the more I wanted it not to move away, not to leave me. I knew he fancied as much quiet as possible, so I took the effort of not letting myself get carried away by the rest, stand still and focus only on the noises out there... And on his eyes.
After I don’t know how long, just like another time, I heard something like a whistle, but inside my head. I knew it came from him, who was of little words, but it seemed louder, clearer, because my mind felt emptier. I saw him smile in pleasure, like I smiled right after I woke up from that dream trying to understand what I had felt and that to this day it hurts me that it was interrupted. The whistle happened again and again until it became a delicate and unintelligible whisper. My mentor blinked once and I heard another whistle and another whisper. It came and went and I was so quiet that any louder sound, even if just a little, could scare me to death, distressed like a little bird, but he managed to keep me calm.
At the tempo of a slow, deep and consistent draw of breath, the whispered whistle went on and it was like I was in a trance. Along with the known chill, at some point the hand on my head slided towards the space my dress let show and stopped where my heart would be, which I almost asked to be ripped out right there. He already knew how sensitive I was, both in flesh and probably also in spirit, and therefore didn’t get surprised with the sigh he heard from me. I closed my eyes... And my name came. It had already happened to me once, however here the voice was strong and warm like black tea, it was a male voice... His voice. When I opened them again, he repeated my name and I noticed that his lips moved and I could understand him from beyond intuition.
- Welcome! Pleasure to meet you. I am so glad you came. I heard your steps, felt you nearby. You know I already know your tracks. – hearing that left my face warm for a few moments.
- My lord, my mentor, my love... You came to take me because I died? Otherwise, I see no reason why I’d suddenly be... Walking and able to see you aside from feeling you... Not that the opportunity doesn’t flatter me. It’s a pleasure to be here with you... Like this. – I humbly leaned over and rested my forehead on his knee, but soon he pushed me up and lightly pressed my navel and lower back in so as to straighten my posture, slowly and with a minuscule amount of hesitation for someone like him. With a respect I wasn’t used to seeing. My body immediately responded to the touch and now I was looking straight at him while the feeling spread.
He smoothly explained to me that in truth I was more alive than ever. That he thought it was the right time for us to talk in a new way, in a situation where there would be no one else around and he could appear in a form more convenient to my understanding. That if at least there I could walk by myself, it was so because he wanted my body near him as free of its borders as he encouraged my mind and spirit to be. As free and open for something more as I was in the moment I was raptured because that was mine by right.
- The woman who greeted me with affection, as though she has known me for a long time, who received me with her with wisdom and abnegation and wanted me and what I had to offer not out of fear, obligation or duty, but out of free will, curiosity, love, longing for love and had no weight in my arms, so generous in body and soul, there in the moment as much as me... This woman begs for nothing and knows that. She looks at nobody from below and is a slave to nobody, not even herself; she finds her way and takes what is hers. That is the woman I summoned here.
- Yes, sir. Go raibh maith agat, prionsa. – Thank you, prince. – You called for me and I came. And even if I couldn’t have come, this is what I would have desired in my heart.
At some point I was cold and he lit a bonfire. We watched the stars like I haven’t in a long while and this time I didn’t feel that which me and a friend called inverted vertigo, where looking straight at the sky gave me an odd impression of drowning. I felt loved, in good hands. The same ones that took my right hand with a child’s curious gaze.
- Oh, what is this white scar here? – he was referring to one I have at the back of the hand.
- That’s a cat scratch. I had a cat who got scared once and jumped on me, scratching my hand. It scarred because there was a bit of blood. – I gestured with the index finger of the same hand without letting go of his. – The cat also scratched me there almost between the fingers, you see.
- Oh...
- I thought you’d never notice these. They are so subtle. – sometimes even I forget about them unless I look at myself from a certain angle and/or under a certain lighting.
- I see everything. Mostly what is subtle.
- I know. – not everybody cares about what is not easy to see. And not even the most sensitive of men could know it all. But the one by my side was more than just a man and had seen a lot. I said I wanted to hate the cat for making me bleed, but the truth is, it was no one’s fault.
- That’s right. You know you bear your claws too, when you feel cornered. And in some cases, rightfully so. – the first thing that popped into my mind was my reaction to the footsteps I had heard in the woods. I looked at him and all I saw was the fire’s reflection. The reflection of its good side.
- Yeah... I just wish cats didn’t get scared so easily... – the prince laughed with me.
He murmured that I might be a lot like them, because a lioness is a cat, after all. That cats possibly see what other animals might not, just like I was curious enough to wander about the borders of the mundane... As well as getting startled easy.
- Well, then. You don’t scare me, however. I like that. – he agreed sweetly. There was no reason to play victim because I had recognized him and he would never harm me. He lowered his eyes and turned my palm over.
- Oh, a lot of lines here... – I inquired him whether it could be wrinkles out of dry skin. The lord suggested that they might as well be all the crossroads along my way, the bifurcations of my life, even in love, and stroke it smiling. I didn’t question him. What a beautiful paradox he was, that the person he echoed was... That we were. Even a mole shaped like a half moon I had in the inner side of a fingertip didn’t escape him. Who was I to do the same, be it from him or my own destiny?
Time made no sense, got quite suspended when the Mentor was with me or I spoke to him without expecting a reply. Mornings felt like middle of the night, afternoons stretched out, the sun seemed too lazy to rise. Time, of which I still felt afraid sometimes. Without needing to say anything, I was allowed to stay a little longer in the woods. The Lord gave me his arm when it was time for me to go and we walked back to the border exchanging silent delicacies. Upon arriving there, I turned over to him.
- You can’t imagine the pleasure given to me, nor my gratitude for everything, mainly your patience with my questions. I know there’s a lot beyond my understanding, but... – the prince looked me sideways with a mischievous, serene expression and sighed a second time that day. – If you are a deity and I feel that I lack in faith... Why did you come to me, of all people?
- I am what I am, regardless of what one likes to call me. I am for each one what they need me to be, as well. And I know I was very well welcomed into your life no matter what the young woman might say, because you want to grow and you shall grow up from the inside out when it’s due time. We know what makes you stronger and that in this case it doesn’t really have to do with a closed definition of faith. I am in front of a woman who is freer than she imagines, forged in the flames of her instincts. – again he made me blush.
- Who am I to turn down love and help when they come to me? It’s just that... When I think of you and even of that person, the concept and image of a king worthy of his post simply for his existence, deeds and personality is the first thing that pops into my head, more than anything and since forever. Time has shown me there’s no sense in simply submitting to one who doesn’t carry themselves with a nobility that is inspiring to me and which justifies their apparent authority and power over me. They may have my respect as an act of humanity, but not my loyalty, albeit it might be put in the wrong place. Much less so nowadays.
- If that’s it and we own what is befitting to us... I guess a king knows another, like I hear you say it happens to the poets, right? – his voice was so soft, low, calculated and firm that I blinked slowly and at the same time I felt as though I’d break in half with the next word.
- Ah, my liege... Even emperors crumbled when they looked into the eyes of the divine and felt either full or empty of it.
I almost fell to the ground again when His Lordship bent over and decided to mutter into my ear in a little more than a whisper that maybe someone’s nobility and the spark of the divine were two sides of the same coin. I kissed the hand he had offered me in formal greeting and in exchange I was embraced, involved in something from which I would not exit if I could. However, I knew that wasn’t a final farewell.
- Stay with me, sire. Even if I grow weak and think that I’ve disappointed you, that this honor isn’t mine. I am my own and am yours. Please, keep on talking to me however and whenever you see fit. I swear I’ll pay attention. I swear, I swear, I swear... And forgive my talkative manners; I know that a few words sometimes say a lot.
- Your prayers in quietness always get to me, wherever I am, and above my shyness. I’ll stay. I know your affection. – with slight reluctance, we parted and when I looked over my shoulder, there he was with his hands put together and straight back bowing with a wave of the head. I waved goodbye back. He really was a king.
I returned to where I had come from with the feeling that part of that conversation had already happened a few months earlier, before he approached me directly. I smiled at the idea. Deja vu? A small glimpse of the future? Who knows...
However, what amazed me most in all of it was noticing what my body would do right next – still in quite the disbelief, suddenly I saw myself leaning on the tree and standing up with the wobbly balance of a child learning how to walk, which in truth surpassed by a long shot the abilities I had when I was younger. And instead of staggering to the other side in order to get out of there, the sensitive soles of my bare feet took me further into the woods, feeling as though they obeyed me only partially. That scared me not just due to what was happening, but because it was new to walk by myself, feeling the legs much lighter than before, with the dress that slipped off one shoulder tapping over them, my chin up.
Even though everything told me to stop right there, refocus and try to find the way back since it was darkening, I went on as if at least part of me knew exactly what it was doing. Except for a stone or another, I cared nothing for the creatures on the ground, even if it could be a snake ready to attack. A while later I saw myself across from what looked like a clearing and began to think of what to do, focusing only on the sound of some birds chirping on the trees nearby. As usual, concentration left me in a state of relaxation that resembled sleep. Feeling a tickle on one of my arms, opened the eyes slowly and spotted a tiny yellow butterfly landed on it. I tried not to scare it.
- Hi there, pretty one! I swear I’m trying to be brave... – it was when I heard what sounded like steps and again adrenaline ran through my veins, making the butterfly fly away and myself to look around expecting to meet death or something like that. I blinked in the gloom and caught sight of him a few meters ahead.
Graceful like a prince, more than two heads of wild hair taller than me and feet also on the ground, the being with hands behind his back and body at ease who vaguely resembled a man I loved very much sighed with what seemed like relief, opening the most beautiful smile in the world. That smile was like a gift, a gift meant only for me, albeit until then it was something I had claimed from the other person solely from afar. Something clicked in my mind and I knew who that man who had a not-exactly-human aura was. I’d already met him; and seeing him this close, at my eyes’ and hand’s reach, as my equal and at the same time so beyond me, as I knew it would be like with the other one, clouded my sight with tears and bent my knees when he approached the spot where I was with his face battered by the wind.
- Mo thiarna, mo Prionsa, grá mo chroí... - my lord, my prince, my darling. That was all I could say over and over between sobs while I stared at my own hands that held the soil as if I was made of it, which maybe was true. When I dared to look up, I saw my mentor's majestic head cover the moon rays that had begun to peek from behind a cloud, leaving him with something of a halo. He shrugged, casual like a young man only a few years older than myself, came a little closer and streched his hand to me.
Without much thought for I felt a little groggy like when he came to me for the first time, in a dream, and overall I wouldn’t dare touch him even if he allowed me to, I let him help me. I almost fell again, tripping over myself, but he held me up with strength and gentleness; with me limping from my old hip problem, we walked pending a bit to the right and he insisted lovingly and without words that I sat next to him and not on the ground at his feet. I still could feel the chill at the base of the spine that would occur to show me his presence, except now what would give just the delightful and quite vivid impression of an affectionate gesture came from the solid and amorous hand of a friend, a good lover and maybe a father, all at once. It’s always been hard to describe how was it to know that he was around, and at that moment... Him wanting to appear to me, show himself to me, was much more than I thought myself worthy of.
- Sire... I wish neither to doubt nor to question this, just like I didn’t question for itself what I felt when you first came to me, nor your council, company and guidance ever since, but... Is it really you? Whom I talk to before sleep as much as possible, who had and sometimes still does make me feel excited, given in and silly like a woman in love, who comforts me when I cry in the dark, whom I waited for thinking you would not come back anymore because I wanted to know you and honor you, for whom I nowadays put down the tarot cards as means of communication, to whom I perhaps cannot give faith, but trust? – since I was talking faster by the minute and in every language of which I knew at least a little, he just nodded in agreement and stroke my head until my breathing leveled.
- You are... Beautiful. Beautiful like I always thought you would be. Maybe even more so. – he laughed a big, musical laughter that sounded like running water and even blushed a bit. I don’t know if it was for being there with him, the hungers of which only women understand, me noticing the full moon on the sky or all of it, but the longer that hand remained on me, the more I wanted it not to move away, not to leave me. I knew he fancied as much quiet as possible, so I took the effort of not letting myself get carried away by the rest, stand still and focus only on the noises out there... And on his eyes.
After I don’t know how long, just like another time, I heard something like a whistle, but inside my head. I knew it came from him, who was of little words, but it seemed louder, clearer, because my mind felt emptier. I saw him smile in pleasure, like I smiled right after I woke up from that dream trying to understand what I had felt and that to this day it hurts me that it was interrupted. The whistle happened again and again until it became a delicate and unintelligible whisper. My mentor blinked once and I heard another whistle and another whisper. It came and went and I was so quiet that any louder sound, even if just a little, could scare me to death, distressed like a little bird, but he managed to keep me calm.
At the tempo of a slow, deep and consistent draw of breath, the whispered whistle went on and it was like I was in a trance. Along with the known chill, at some point the hand on my head slided towards the space my dress let show and stopped where my heart would be, which I almost asked to be ripped out right there. He already knew how sensitive I was, both in flesh and probably also in spirit, and therefore didn’t get surprised with the sigh he heard from me. I closed my eyes... And my name came. It had already happened to me once, however here the voice was strong and warm like black tea, it was a male voice... His voice. When I opened them again, he repeated my name and I noticed that his lips moved and I could understand him from beyond intuition.
- Welcome! Pleasure to meet you. I am so glad you came. I heard your steps, felt you nearby. You know I already know your tracks. – hearing that left my face warm for a few moments.
- My lord, my mentor, my love... You came to take me because I died? Otherwise, I see no reason why I’d suddenly be... Walking and able to see you aside from feeling you... Not that the opportunity doesn’t flatter me. It’s a pleasure to be here with you... Like this. – I humbly leaned over and rested my forehead on his knee, but soon he pushed me up and lightly pressed my navel and lower back in so as to straighten my posture, slowly and with a minuscule amount of hesitation for someone like him. With a respect I wasn’t used to seeing. My body immediately responded to the touch and now I was looking straight at him while the feeling spread.
He smoothly explained to me that in truth I was more alive than ever. That he thought it was the right time for us to talk in a new way, in a situation where there would be no one else around and he could appear in a form more convenient to my understanding. That if at least there I could walk by myself, it was so because he wanted my body near him as free of its borders as he encouraged my mind and spirit to be. As free and open for something more as I was in the moment I was raptured because that was mine by right.
- The woman who greeted me with affection, as though she has known me for a long time, who received me with her with wisdom and abnegation and wanted me and what I had to offer not out of fear, obligation or duty, but out of free will, curiosity, love, longing for love and had no weight in my arms, so generous in body and soul, there in the moment as much as me... This woman begs for nothing and knows that. She looks at nobody from below and is a slave to nobody, not even herself; she finds her way and takes what is hers. That is the woman I summoned here.
- Yes, sir. Go raibh maith agat, prionsa. – Thank you, prince. – You called for me and I came. And even if I couldn’t have come, this is what I would have desired in my heart.
At some point I was cold and he lit a bonfire. We watched the stars like I haven’t in a long while and this time I didn’t feel that which me and a friend called inverted vertigo, where looking straight at the sky gave me an odd impression of drowning. I felt loved, in good hands. The same ones that took my right hand with a child’s curious gaze.
- Oh, what is this white scar here? – he was referring to one I have at the back of the hand.
- That’s a cat scratch. I had a cat who got scared once and jumped on me, scratching my hand. It scarred because there was a bit of blood. – I gestured with the index finger of the same hand without letting go of his. – The cat also scratched me there almost between the fingers, you see.
- Oh...
- I thought you’d never notice these. They are so subtle. – sometimes even I forget about them unless I look at myself from a certain angle and/or under a certain lighting.
- I see everything. Mostly what is subtle.
- I know. – not everybody cares about what is not easy to see. And not even the most sensitive of men could know it all. But the one by my side was more than just a man and had seen a lot. I said I wanted to hate the cat for making me bleed, but the truth is, it was no one’s fault.
- That’s right. You know you bear your claws too, when you feel cornered. And in some cases, rightfully so. – the first thing that popped into my mind was my reaction to the footsteps I had heard in the woods. I looked at him and all I saw was the fire’s reflection. The reflection of its good side.
- Yeah... I just wish cats didn’t get scared so easily... – the prince laughed with me.
He murmured that I might be a lot like them, because a lioness is a cat, after all. That cats possibly see what other animals might not, just like I was curious enough to wander about the borders of the mundane... As well as getting startled easy.
- Well, then. You don’t scare me, however. I like that. – he agreed sweetly. There was no reason to play victim because I had recognized him and he would never harm me. He lowered his eyes and turned my palm over.
- Oh, a lot of lines here... – I inquired him whether it could be wrinkles out of dry skin. The lord suggested that they might as well be all the crossroads along my way, the bifurcations of my life, even in love, and stroke it smiling. I didn’t question him. What a beautiful paradox he was, that the person he echoed was... That we were. Even a mole shaped like a half moon I had in the inner side of a fingertip didn’t escape him. Who was I to do the same, be it from him or my own destiny?
Time made no sense, got quite suspended when the Mentor was with me or I spoke to him without expecting a reply. Mornings felt like middle of the night, afternoons stretched out, the sun seemed too lazy to rise. Time, of which I still felt afraid sometimes. Without needing to say anything, I was allowed to stay a little longer in the woods. The Lord gave me his arm when it was time for me to go and we walked back to the border exchanging silent delicacies. Upon arriving there, I turned over to him.
- You can’t imagine the pleasure given to me, nor my gratitude for everything, mainly your patience with my questions. I know there’s a lot beyond my understanding, but... – the prince looked me sideways with a mischievous, serene expression and sighed a second time that day. – If you are a deity and I feel that I lack in faith... Why did you come to me, of all people?
- I am what I am, regardless of what one likes to call me. I am for each one what they need me to be, as well. And I know I was very well welcomed into your life no matter what the young woman might say, because you want to grow and you shall grow up from the inside out when it’s due time. We know what makes you stronger and that in this case it doesn’t really have to do with a closed definition of faith. I am in front of a woman who is freer than she imagines, forged in the flames of her instincts. – again he made me blush.
- Who am I to turn down love and help when they come to me? It’s just that... When I think of you and even of that person, the concept and image of a king worthy of his post simply for his existence, deeds and personality is the first thing that pops into my head, more than anything and since forever. Time has shown me there’s no sense in simply submitting to one who doesn’t carry themselves with a nobility that is inspiring to me and which justifies their apparent authority and power over me. They may have my respect as an act of humanity, but not my loyalty, albeit it might be put in the wrong place. Much less so nowadays.
- If that’s it and we own what is befitting to us... I guess a king knows another, like I hear you say it happens to the poets, right? – his voice was so soft, low, calculated and firm that I blinked slowly and at the same time I felt as though I’d break in half with the next word.
- Ah, my liege... Even emperors crumbled when they looked into the eyes of the divine and felt either full or empty of it.
I almost fell to the ground again when His Lordship bent over and decided to mutter into my ear in a little more than a whisper that maybe someone’s nobility and the spark of the divine were two sides of the same coin. I kissed the hand he had offered me in formal greeting and in exchange I was embraced, involved in something from which I would not exit if I could. However, I knew that wasn’t a final farewell.
- Stay with me, sire. Even if I grow weak and think that I’ve disappointed you, that this honor isn’t mine. I am my own and am yours. Please, keep on talking to me however and whenever you see fit. I swear I’ll pay attention. I swear, I swear, I swear... And forgive my talkative manners; I know that a few words sometimes say a lot.
- Your prayers in quietness always get to me, wherever I am, and above my shyness. I’ll stay. I know your affection. – with slight reluctance, we parted and when I looked over my shoulder, there he was with his hands put together and straight back bowing with a wave of the head. I waved goodbye back. He really was a king.
I returned to where I had come from with the feeling that part of that conversation had already happened a few months earlier, before he approached me directly. I smiled at the idea. Deja vu? A small glimpse of the future? Who knows...
quarta-feira, 3 de junho de 2020
On the real jewels
I know pearls
are fit for a queen,
but you don't need to spend energy
or money,
because I'm sorry, honey,
I'm not most girls,
they don't suit me.
However,
I know they aren't to be thrown away,
I know another,
another muse,
I'd say,
who wears them like no other I've seen -
I'd give him those
and as for you, the rest of the worlds.
To ensure my many needs
I was never on my knees
despite having pink beads
with the bottom of the cross bitten off,
hanging by the thread
really used only once
with words
that until then I had no idea of
and now I speak always from the heart
instead.
But don't worry -
for like the bees
in their flower dance
just as I still have mine,
as we dine
we might find some use
for those jewels
of yours...
03/06/2020
are fit for a queen,
but you don't need to spend energy
or money,
because I'm sorry, honey,
I'm not most girls,
they don't suit me.
However,
I know they aren't to be thrown away,
I know another,
another muse,
I'd say,
who wears them like no other I've seen -
I'd give him those
and as for you, the rest of the worlds.
To ensure my many needs
I was never on my knees
despite having pink beads
with the bottom of the cross bitten off,
hanging by the thread
really used only once
with words
that until then I had no idea of
and now I speak always from the heart
instead.
But don't worry -
for like the bees
in their flower dance
just as I still have mine,
as we dine
we might find some use
for those jewels
of yours...
03/06/2020
terça-feira, 2 de junho de 2020
01/06/2020
Se nossos pensamentos
são os pensamentos de deus...
Por que ele esconderia de nós
a verdade
de nossa perfeita
imperfeição?
segunda-feira, 1 de junho de 2020
Súplica
Sei lá que mão te leva embora
e num estalo de dedos
de volta te traz
por causa dos apelos,
mas será que é pedir demais
que com mãos despertas
e olhos fechados
me ensinas a viver o agora
em todo o seu caos e terras desertas?
31/05/2020
e num estalo de dedos
de volta te traz
por causa dos apelos,
mas será que é pedir demais
que com mãos despertas
e olhos fechados
me ensinas a viver o agora
em todo o seu caos e terras desertas?
31/05/2020
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