BEFORE HITTING THE ROAD
If you´ve ever been to Búzios, all i have to say is that I´m going to spend two weeks there – that will be enough for you to understand that for some time I´ll be in paradise. If you haven´t, an explanation is required. Many years ago Buzios was a fishing village, a place that God made so beautiful that other people decided to take hold of it; it´s now a resort for people on holidays, but it´s still fantastic.
More than that, I´m going to spend some days in Rio de Janeiro before getting to Buzios and participate in the great New Years´s Eve celebration which is one of the most crowded in the world. I must say I don´t like crowds, but we have a new person in the family who hasn´t seen it yet. It´s so great an event that we´re eager to take her to see it personally.
Well, what I mean by announcing my trip is that I´ll probably write about it soon, unless nothing interesting comes up. You bet I will.
Sunday, December 26, 2004
Thursday, December 09, 2004
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN
I may be writing about Christmas because today is the day I settled to decorate the house with all the ornaments we already had and the ones we bought recently, planning to make the atmosphere a bit more vivid than the last years. It´s funny how your mood has a definite influence in your decoration for Christmas - Christmases I´ve had with no trees at all, some with many lights and colors and others with just a little golden angel on the door to greet neighbors who might take our moody disposition as an offense.
Christmas in Brazil happens to be in the Summer, when the temperature is high and everybody has already got a tan. What is worse, it´s the very beginning of Summer, which makes you feel like you´re getting ready for something, for a time of change. We go shopping wearing colorful clothes, most people showing off sensual bodies and a healthy attitude. Sex is in the air, I must say, wherever you go. More people go to cafés after work, to talk about how busy they are with their Christmas shopping. They pretend to exchange opinions and tips on where to buy things, they boast of where they´re going to travel right after Christmas, and, they also make new acquaintances more easily and more quickly. In fact, they allow themselves to be bolder and unprejudiced. This is Summer. Christmas just happens to be in the middle of it, restraining many people from doing what they feel like doing driven by the effects of the sun and the lively atmosphere. It´s a break in our attitudes, making us think about family, friends and morals. For about two weeks we live this dramatic contrast, and then, after New Year`s Eve, the quiet is over. The storm comes back with vacations, generally, or a continuation of Summer itself, with all its sensual factors. A sense of freedom usually prevails above other feelings in the month of January, as a strong determination to be happy, even if you just have a short time to do that.
A funny thing is the decoration itself, so influenced by the movies and magazines, and so on. We put up pine trees that emerge from snow (!) and we have our men dressed as Santas who can´t help but perspiring and longing for the moment they´ll be wearing their bermudas again ... Many people have, at least, changed their Christmas menu, but many others still buy those dry fruits which are so expensive and inadequate to our climate. It´s Christmas. It´s Brazil.
.
I may be writing about Christmas because today is the day I settled to decorate the house with all the ornaments we already had and the ones we bought recently, planning to make the atmosphere a bit more vivid than the last years. It´s funny how your mood has a definite influence in your decoration for Christmas - Christmases I´ve had with no trees at all, some with many lights and colors and others with just a little golden angel on the door to greet neighbors who might take our moody disposition as an offense.
Christmas in Brazil happens to be in the Summer, when the temperature is high and everybody has already got a tan. What is worse, it´s the very beginning of Summer, which makes you feel like you´re getting ready for something, for a time of change. We go shopping wearing colorful clothes, most people showing off sensual bodies and a healthy attitude. Sex is in the air, I must say, wherever you go. More people go to cafés after work, to talk about how busy they are with their Christmas shopping. They pretend to exchange opinions and tips on where to buy things, they boast of where they´re going to travel right after Christmas, and, they also make new acquaintances more easily and more quickly. In fact, they allow themselves to be bolder and unprejudiced. This is Summer. Christmas just happens to be in the middle of it, restraining many people from doing what they feel like doing driven by the effects of the sun and the lively atmosphere. It´s a break in our attitudes, making us think about family, friends and morals. For about two weeks we live this dramatic contrast, and then, after New Year`s Eve, the quiet is over. The storm comes back with vacations, generally, or a continuation of Summer itself, with all its sensual factors. A sense of freedom usually prevails above other feelings in the month of January, as a strong determination to be happy, even if you just have a short time to do that.
A funny thing is the decoration itself, so influenced by the movies and magazines, and so on. We put up pine trees that emerge from snow (!) and we have our men dressed as Santas who can´t help but perspiring and longing for the moment they´ll be wearing their bermudas again ... Many people have, at least, changed their Christmas menu, but many others still buy those dry fruits which are so expensive and inadequate to our climate. It´s Christmas. It´s Brazil.
.
Monday, November 29, 2004
WHY?
WHY?
The hot sun enhanced the shining golden bodies, the sea water was like a balsam that softened the heat stored in the skin and the sky, ah, the sky was so blue that it kept your eyes spellbound and made the beach a moment of collective joy. Dona Selma didn´t have to look around to see the scenery and the people. She just thought to herself how the beach had become a noisy, hectic place, a meeting point for talkative and, most of the time, drunken friends. Looking at the sea in front of her and, towards the horizon, the greatness of the sky and the mountains that outlined the bay with their sense of eternity, she considered the apparent inadequacy. So what? This is Copacabana, she thought, and this is the moment we´re living in now...
Most of the noise comes from the vendors, she thought. Iced tea, soft drinks, sandwiches, everything was being sold with bluster and repetition, as if people would not notice them. The yelling and the continuous walking of the vendors is part of the daily seaside routine. They sell everything : pizza, icecream, grilled cheese and clothes - there´s a kind of local fashion that you can only find on the beach. Only there can you find those fluttering articles of exotic colors that arouse your senses, not to mention the jewelry, delicate works of art displayed on the hands of beautiful girls. Dona Selma sometimes allowed herself to say that there were more salespeople than buyers.
Looking to her left in search of a girl who sold "pasteis", (dona Selma loves to eat the ones they sell on the beach) she saw something that was not at all ordinary - a woman who sold (believe it or not!) "parakeets". No, they were not real ones, nobody would want to imagine the cruelty of subjecting such delicate little birds to the horror of the hot January sun. They were little things made God knows how, of various colors and in great number. The woman used the frame of an umbrella as a carrier – with the cover taken off, her own head popped up among the colorful parakeets. It was not so near, but a cardboard sign could be read that said : 1 real.
Dona Selma couldn´t help thinking about the 1 real parakeets. Only a domestic production line could explain the low price. She imagined the humble house, away from the urban center and the whole family engaged in the manufacture of the parakeets. They had a base of very thin wire which was probably the task of a grandfather, for whom that was certainly easy to do. The body of the little bird was made of styrofoam, she guessed, and would have been made with the skills of a dressmaker, used to cutting and moulding so many other things. The painting required delicate , gifted hands – every family has a young girl with a taste for arts. The children would be in charge of taking away the waste generated by the speedy production.
Why did they think of selling the parakeets on the beach? Dona Selma decided the enterprise was absurd and fruitless. People buy icecream, sandwiches,suntan oil or similar things; they can buy handbags or clothes, but they don´t buy parakeets, not even for1 real. She imagined, realistically, the poor woman going back home with all those little birds. Just then she saw the creature detatch one of them from the others and hand it to a woman. Why, didn´t she manage to sell one? Why did that person make such a bizarre acquisition? She then followed the steps of the parakeet saleswoman, moving to a spot closer by and she verified, rather stunned, that the saleswoman was very busy selling parakeets to several other women buyers who, in most cases, even came back for more than one. This was too much. Dona Selma got up from her comfortable chair and went closer to have a good look at the little birds. They were simple, yes, but beautiful all the same, so light and colorful. She noticed their tiny eyes, so small that she couldn´t imagine who in the family would have been able to stick them on with such delicacy. The woman sold them with authority. “- Take the yellow one,” she said. “It´s the most attractive color.” Dona Selma reacted :”- By no means. Blue is my favorite color,” and went for the 1 real coin.
She went back home holding the parakeet, uneasily, for she couldn´t place it in her bag. It would probably be crumpled amongst the other things and might lose its little eye. Getting home, dona Selma looked round several times before she found a place for the parakeet. The simple truth was that there was nowhere to hang it properly – the blue parakeet just joined some other objects that she simply didn´t have any space or purpose for.
Dona Selma, poor thing, often finds herself thinking of why somebody buys a plastic parakeet when she doesn´t even have room for it. She had already read about the power of advertising, about the choice of brands, and the fact that we always select what is in our conscious mind. She didn´t understand it. No, she didn´t regret it – she could identify with the blue parakeet, so inadequate and lacking a place to be put. It was now part of her scenery. But what about all those women who bought yellow, green, blue and red parakeets, where are they putting their parakeets now? And why?
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
The hot sun enhanced the shining golden bodies, the sea water was like a balsam that softened the heat stored in the skin and the sky, ah, the sky was so blue that it kept your eyes spellbound and made the beach a moment of collective joy. Dona Selma didn´t have to look around to see the scenery and the people. She just thought to herself how the beach had become a noisy, hectic place, a meeting point for talkative and, most of the time, drunken friends. Looking at the sea in front of her and, towards the horizon, the greatness of the sky and the mountains that outlined the bay with their sense of eternity, she considered the apparent inadequacy. So what? This is Copacabana, she thought, and this is the moment we´re living in now...
Most of the noise comes from the vendors, she thought. Iced tea, soft drinks, sandwiches, everything was being sold with bluster and repetition, as if people would not notice them. The yelling and the continuous walking of the vendors is part of the daily seaside routine. They sell everything : pizza, icecream, grilled cheese and clothes - there´s a kind of local fashion that you can only find on the beach. Only there can you find those fluttering articles of exotic colors that arouse your senses, not to mention the jewelry, delicate works of art displayed on the hands of beautiful girls. Dona Selma sometimes allowed herself to say that there were more salespeople than buyers.
Looking to her left in search of a girl who sold "pasteis", (dona Selma loves to eat the ones they sell on the beach) she saw something that was not at all ordinary - a woman who sold (believe it or not!) "parakeets". No, they were not real ones, nobody would want to imagine the cruelty of subjecting such delicate little birds to the horror of the hot January sun. They were little things made God knows how, of various colors and in great number. The woman used the frame of an umbrella as a carrier – with the cover taken off, her own head popped up among the colorful parakeets. It was not so near, but a cardboard sign could be read that said : 1 real.
Dona Selma couldn´t help thinking about the 1 real parakeets. Only a domestic production line could explain the low price. She imagined the humble house, away from the urban center and the whole family engaged in the manufacture of the parakeets. They had a base of very thin wire which was probably the task of a grandfather, for whom that was certainly easy to do. The body of the little bird was made of styrofoam, she guessed, and would have been made with the skills of a dressmaker, used to cutting and moulding so many other things. The painting required delicate , gifted hands – every family has a young girl with a taste for arts. The children would be in charge of taking away the waste generated by the speedy production.
Why did they think of selling the parakeets on the beach? Dona Selma decided the enterprise was absurd and fruitless. People buy icecream, sandwiches,suntan oil or similar things; they can buy handbags or clothes, but they don´t buy parakeets, not even for1 real. She imagined, realistically, the poor woman going back home with all those little birds. Just then she saw the creature detatch one of them from the others and hand it to a woman. Why, didn´t she manage to sell one? Why did that person make such a bizarre acquisition? She then followed the steps of the parakeet saleswoman, moving to a spot closer by and she verified, rather stunned, that the saleswoman was very busy selling parakeets to several other women buyers who, in most cases, even came back for more than one. This was too much. Dona Selma got up from her comfortable chair and went closer to have a good look at the little birds. They were simple, yes, but beautiful all the same, so light and colorful. She noticed their tiny eyes, so small that she couldn´t imagine who in the family would have been able to stick them on with such delicacy. The woman sold them with authority. “- Take the yellow one,” she said. “It´s the most attractive color.” Dona Selma reacted :”- By no means. Blue is my favorite color,” and went for the 1 real coin.
She went back home holding the parakeet, uneasily, for she couldn´t place it in her bag. It would probably be crumpled amongst the other things and might lose its little eye. Getting home, dona Selma looked round several times before she found a place for the parakeet. The simple truth was that there was nowhere to hang it properly – the blue parakeet just joined some other objects that she simply didn´t have any space or purpose for.
Dona Selma, poor thing, often finds herself thinking of why somebody buys a plastic parakeet when she doesn´t even have room for it. She had already read about the power of advertising, about the choice of brands, and the fact that we always select what is in our conscious mind. She didn´t understand it. No, she didn´t regret it – she could identify with the blue parakeet, so inadequate and lacking a place to be put. It was now part of her scenery. But what about all those women who bought yellow, green, blue and red parakeets, where are they putting their parakeets now? And why?
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Being a writer
BEING A WRITER
I still remember a famous journalist we had once here, in Brazil. She had a column in a newspaper where she wrote very good articles and she often made her articles the answers to readers who addressed to her in search of advice. One of these was an answer to a person who asked her about his or her possibilities as to being a writer. The article was called "The Message" and I cut it out and kept it for so many years that the paper became yellow. Of course it had been written for me, too. I used to read it every time I needed encouragement, every time I found that the time would never come when I would be able to write something good. ( By the way, what is good?)
She said that everybody has a message to deliver. Some people do it through their work, like painters and singers. Even people who are not artists, like waiters, doctors, nurses and so many others are in fact delivering a message. What makes a person a writer is the fact that he (or she) is not satisfied with what he (or she) does. It´s simply not enough.Writers are people who may have a happy family, a pleasant work to do, a successful career to pursue, but still need to write. She said that if everything is all right, if all the others are sleeping quietly and you just "have to" sit at your computer and write, then you´re a writer.
She ended her article saying that it was important to develop the tool writers use, which is the knowledge of the language. And practicing. And living.
I still remember a famous journalist we had once here, in Brazil. She had a column in a newspaper where she wrote very good articles and she often made her articles the answers to readers who addressed to her in search of advice. One of these was an answer to a person who asked her about his or her possibilities as to being a writer. The article was called "The Message" and I cut it out and kept it for so many years that the paper became yellow. Of course it had been written for me, too. I used to read it every time I needed encouragement, every time I found that the time would never come when I would be able to write something good. ( By the way, what is good?)
She said that everybody has a message to deliver. Some people do it through their work, like painters and singers. Even people who are not artists, like waiters, doctors, nurses and so many others are in fact delivering a message. What makes a person a writer is the fact that he (or she) is not satisfied with what he (or she) does. It´s simply not enough.Writers are people who may have a happy family, a pleasant work to do, a successful career to pursue, but still need to write. She said that if everything is all right, if all the others are sleeping quietly and you just "have to" sit at your computer and write, then you´re a writer.
She ended her article saying that it was important to develop the tool writers use, which is the knowledge of the language. And practicing. And living.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
THE WALL
THE WALL
There are many things I haven´t done. Many things that I haven´t seen yet, or will never see. You can´t have it all, that´s what I say , trying to convince myself that I´m not worse than other people just because it seems to me that everything happens so quickly nowadays. There have been so many movies, important ones, that I missed to see. There are places, obviously famous, that I haven´t visited. There is so much music, good one, that I haven´t had the chance to listen, and so many people whom I would like to have met …
No, I don´t intend to catch up with all these things. Or some of them. You do with your time what you think you should do, and that´s it. Maybe I´ve spent most of my time doing nothing, which is supposed to be healthily creative. A bit too late for judging or regreting. So what´s all this fuss about? I´ll tell you.
It happened last Sunday, when my grandson insisted for the third time that I should see a video. I finally said OK, I´ll watch some of it, because I don´t have time to see it all.(Why? I don´t know the answer) I sat on the couch and started watching “The wall” (Pink Floyd). Well, I couldn´t get up from my seat until the end. It was one of the most beautiful and yet sad things I´ve ever seen. The fact that the movie is so updated, so true, so “here and now” struck me like nothing else had done before. I then thought of talking about it. If you have seen it, see it again – you probably need it, you can´t forget about it. If, by any chance, you haven´t had the opportunity, please do. Make it happen. See it now, or maybe tomorrow – don´t miss it.
There are many things I haven´t done. Many things that I haven´t seen yet, or will never see. You can´t have it all, that´s what I say , trying to convince myself that I´m not worse than other people just because it seems to me that everything happens so quickly nowadays. There have been so many movies, important ones, that I missed to see. There are places, obviously famous, that I haven´t visited. There is so much music, good one, that I haven´t had the chance to listen, and so many people whom I would like to have met …
No, I don´t intend to catch up with all these things. Or some of them. You do with your time what you think you should do, and that´s it. Maybe I´ve spent most of my time doing nothing, which is supposed to be healthily creative. A bit too late for judging or regreting. So what´s all this fuss about? I´ll tell you.
It happened last Sunday, when my grandson insisted for the third time that I should see a video. I finally said OK, I´ll watch some of it, because I don´t have time to see it all.(Why? I don´t know the answer) I sat on the couch and started watching “The wall” (Pink Floyd). Well, I couldn´t get up from my seat until the end. It was one of the most beautiful and yet sad things I´ve ever seen. The fact that the movie is so updated, so true, so “here and now” struck me like nothing else had done before. I then thought of talking about it. If you have seen it, see it again – you probably need it, you can´t forget about it. If, by any chance, you haven´t had the opportunity, please do. Make it happen. See it now, or maybe tomorrow – don´t miss it.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
IT´S RAINING AGAIN
IT´S RAINING AGAIN
After a draught that made our throats hurt and our eyes long for something wet, something less bright than those clear sunny days, the rains have come. The grass is proudly green, so green that you think it has been painted by some crazy entity during our sleep. The fruit trees show off their great number of leaves and blossons; the fruits already in course have gained weight and shape, like women who became pregnant. The birds seem to be very busy, flying here and there, changing their places and types of food. Nature is vigorous, renewed and stronger than before.
What about me? What do I need to feel renewed and stronger? And what is it that makes me feel so small and unimportant? I should be happy and gay, now that I don´t have to complain of the desertlike atmosphere. I should be starting projects, having new ideas, filling my days with optimistic thoughts, but I´m not. I try to look inside me, and all I can see is a melancholic scenery of nothingness. I feel like … waiting. Wait for what? I don´t know, I just know that I have to wait. I think it´s raining inside of me, too; that´s why I have to wait . Wait for the rain to wash down the false hopes, the exaggerated optimism caused by the brightness of the clear days with beautiful sunrises … Then I´ll probably be ready for real life.
After a draught that made our throats hurt and our eyes long for something wet, something less bright than those clear sunny days, the rains have come. The grass is proudly green, so green that you think it has been painted by some crazy entity during our sleep. The fruit trees show off their great number of leaves and blossons; the fruits already in course have gained weight and shape, like women who became pregnant. The birds seem to be very busy, flying here and there, changing their places and types of food. Nature is vigorous, renewed and stronger than before.
What about me? What do I need to feel renewed and stronger? And what is it that makes me feel so small and unimportant? I should be happy and gay, now that I don´t have to complain of the desertlike atmosphere. I should be starting projects, having new ideas, filling my days with optimistic thoughts, but I´m not. I try to look inside me, and all I can see is a melancholic scenery of nothingness. I feel like … waiting. Wait for what? I don´t know, I just know that I have to wait. I think it´s raining inside of me, too; that´s why I have to wait . Wait for the rain to wash down the false hopes, the exaggerated optimism caused by the brightness of the clear days with beautiful sunrises … Then I´ll probably be ready for real life.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Who´s going to do it?
Who´s going to do it?
Reading Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley, was a good surprise for me. First of all, the name sounded like the monster´s name, not the cientist, I mean, I thought Frankenstein was the monster. And then the fact that the monster was at first a creature in search of love who became a monster because everybody rejected his ugly appearance. All this was new to me. I had seen the monster so many times in movies, killing and frightening people, that I could never conceive his painful existence.
Mary Shelley herself is a strong character, being the wife of a famous writer who became eternal, after all, for being her husband. She must have been special, sensitive and clever. The book made me think of many things, like inadequacy, prejudice, loneliness, but it led me to some odd reflections on Mary Shelley´s intentions. Strange or absurd as it may seem, I think that she didn´t tell the true story of doctor Frankenstein, or maybe she did, in a symbolic way. She described sensations and feelings that were the most important things in the story and disguised the situations that wouldn´t count. I dare say that she did it on purpose, leaving the true story for some to understand, not for all. Or maybe she couldn´t even do it, at that time.
Frankenstein was gay, he was in love with his school friend, (remember that the guy´s father didn´t allow him to go to college with Frankenstein when he left home?), he never really cared about Elizabeth because he didn´t love her , and, in my opinion, the monster was a symbol of his struggle against the current prejudice of his time. If you take a good look at the story you can see that everything fits.
I think the story could be re-written, just as an exercise, just to honor Mary Shelley´s memory and importance and to demonstrate that we got the message. Who´s going to do it? Who´s going to hang the bell …?
Reading Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley, was a good surprise for me. First of all, the name sounded like the monster´s name, not the cientist, I mean, I thought Frankenstein was the monster. And then the fact that the monster was at first a creature in search of love who became a monster because everybody rejected his ugly appearance. All this was new to me. I had seen the monster so many times in movies, killing and frightening people, that I could never conceive his painful existence.
Mary Shelley herself is a strong character, being the wife of a famous writer who became eternal, after all, for being her husband. She must have been special, sensitive and clever. The book made me think of many things, like inadequacy, prejudice, loneliness, but it led me to some odd reflections on Mary Shelley´s intentions. Strange or absurd as it may seem, I think that she didn´t tell the true story of doctor Frankenstein, or maybe she did, in a symbolic way. She described sensations and feelings that were the most important things in the story and disguised the situations that wouldn´t count. I dare say that she did it on purpose, leaving the true story for some to understand, not for all. Or maybe she couldn´t even do it, at that time.
Frankenstein was gay, he was in love with his school friend, (remember that the guy´s father didn´t allow him to go to college with Frankenstein when he left home?), he never really cared about Elizabeth because he didn´t love her , and, in my opinion, the monster was a symbol of his struggle against the current prejudice of his time. If you take a good look at the story you can see that everything fits.
I think the story could be re-written, just as an exercise, just to honor Mary Shelley´s memory and importance and to demonstrate that we got the message. Who´s going to do it? Who´s going to hang the bell …?
Thursday, September 30, 2004
EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD
EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD
That´s how old he is. Tall, slim, not different from the others on what concerns to appearance. He doesn´t talk much - in fact, he doesn´t talk. He just does what he seems to think is extremely necessary. He embraces me when we meet, kisses me very lightly but slowly, as to reinforce what he´s doing. He always answers my questions with a smile to follow his voice, maybe worried about his own speech.
He lives alone with his own family. He never does what the others are doing or intend to do; it´s no use to invite him for this or for that - he´ll always say no. He watches movies that he doesn´t seem to enjoy and he reads books that most people wouldn´t feel like reading - philosophy, religion, yoga ... He also draws pictures of strange characters, prophets maybe of a different world. When he writes, he writes stories of worlds that end and a God who comes to start something new. He listens to music, too. Sometimes he plays the guitar, although with less frequency than he used to. And he prays many times a day, unaware of where he is or what people may think.
The fact that he´s not going to school doesn´t worry me. I know he´ll have plenty of time to study and, besides, I don´t think much of schools.But my heart sinks when I think of his own history - playing with his toys, apart from what happened in his house, his father coming home drunk and aggressive, his sister and mother so afraid, when he was a kid. At that time he didn´t seem to be affected by the problems - he just played with his toys.
Now , everybody does what they´re supposed to do - they go to school, they date, they make friends, etc and he ... he plays with his toys, I think. Maybe I shouldn´t be talking about this, it´s nobody´business, but I can´t help it. I can´t keep it all for myself, it´s just too heavy and too sad. Especially when he happens to say what he said yesterday: -"Grandma, won´t you come over one of these days and tell us some of your stories?"
That´s how old he is. Tall, slim, not different from the others on what concerns to appearance. He doesn´t talk much - in fact, he doesn´t talk. He just does what he seems to think is extremely necessary. He embraces me when we meet, kisses me very lightly but slowly, as to reinforce what he´s doing. He always answers my questions with a smile to follow his voice, maybe worried about his own speech.
He lives alone with his own family. He never does what the others are doing or intend to do; it´s no use to invite him for this or for that - he´ll always say no. He watches movies that he doesn´t seem to enjoy and he reads books that most people wouldn´t feel like reading - philosophy, religion, yoga ... He also draws pictures of strange characters, prophets maybe of a different world. When he writes, he writes stories of worlds that end and a God who comes to start something new. He listens to music, too. Sometimes he plays the guitar, although with less frequency than he used to. And he prays many times a day, unaware of where he is or what people may think.
The fact that he´s not going to school doesn´t worry me. I know he´ll have plenty of time to study and, besides, I don´t think much of schools.But my heart sinks when I think of his own history - playing with his toys, apart from what happened in his house, his father coming home drunk and aggressive, his sister and mother so afraid, when he was a kid. At that time he didn´t seem to be affected by the problems - he just played with his toys.
Now , everybody does what they´re supposed to do - they go to school, they date, they make friends, etc and he ... he plays with his toys, I think. Maybe I shouldn´t be talking about this, it´s nobody´business, but I can´t help it. I can´t keep it all for myself, it´s just too heavy and too sad. Especially when he happens to say what he said yesterday: -"Grandma, won´t you come over one of these days and tell us some of your stories?"
Monday, September 20, 2004
THE SWEET AND THE SOUR
THE SWEET AND THE SOUR
When Bryan said to David - "I know the sour, which allows me to appreciate the sweet", he was trying to show him a contrast in their lives. Remember the movie? Vanilla Sky, of course. I like the script of this movie so much that sometimes I keep thinking of those statements, like this sweet and sour thing, for example.
Everybody knows there´s a great distance between the sweet ------------------- and the sour. But, how far is it? What about the variations? Very sweet, sweet, less sweet ----- a bit sour, sour, too sour. No, I´m not kidding. The sensations we experience are like that, somehow, with a wide range to cover. Besides, who can measure them?
Something very important too is how we feel them. An icecream could be the sweet when I was six. A dance that my father didn´t allow me to go could be the sour when I was 15. Later the sweet became more scarce, not because I was too demanding, but because people didn´t want to be happy. The sour then showed more often, most people trying to make it frequent in my routine.
I never gave up the sweet, and, believe me, I know the sour. If you enjoy living you can always find the sweet in many things. What about you? What is the sweet for you and what is the sour?
When Bryan said to David - "I know the sour, which allows me to appreciate the sweet", he was trying to show him a contrast in their lives. Remember the movie? Vanilla Sky, of course. I like the script of this movie so much that sometimes I keep thinking of those statements, like this sweet and sour thing, for example.
Everybody knows there´s a great distance between the sweet ------------------- and the sour. But, how far is it? What about the variations? Very sweet, sweet, less sweet ----- a bit sour, sour, too sour. No, I´m not kidding. The sensations we experience are like that, somehow, with a wide range to cover. Besides, who can measure them?
Something very important too is how we feel them. An icecream could be the sweet when I was six. A dance that my father didn´t allow me to go could be the sour when I was 15. Later the sweet became more scarce, not because I was too demanding, but because people didn´t want to be happy. The sour then showed more often, most people trying to make it frequent in my routine.
I never gave up the sweet, and, believe me, I know the sour. If you enjoy living you can always find the sweet in many things. What about you? What is the sweet for you and what is the sour?
Friday, September 17, 2004
YOU TALK TOO MUCH
YOU TALK TOO MUCH
Does anybody have a friend who talks too much? I believe we all do, at least one, but if you don´t have any you probably have no idea of how uncomfortable it is to relate to them. They´re the kind of people you never call on the phone - if you must talk to them, you simply delay your call, you never do it, because just answering their calls is already the greatest punishment you can bear.
A friend of mine is exactly the kind I´m talking about. When I answer the phone and I hear her voice asking me how I am, I feel like I took the wrong rocket to a faraway planet where I won´t have a ghost of a chance to be back before Christmas. After she asks me how I am, which I can answer in a few words,nothing else will I be able to say, except for some ohs, and ahs, and maybe hum-hum. And she talks about people I never saw or have any desire to see; she puts me uptodate with her family problems, all of them, it seems to me, and she also , out of politeness, favors me with some comments about my own family.
I do try to hang up, I know there´s always something we can do, something we can say, but ... who can say it? It usually takes me one hour to be able to say -"Sorry, I can´t talk at the moment." Different thoughts and feelings occur to me during these agonies. Sometimes I pity her - a person nobody wants to talk to; it must be terrible. Sometimes I hate her for being so harmful. Yes, harmful. And I also think of the people who "have" to talk with her - her son, her sisters and nieces ... I don´t know. Maybe they don´t. Maybe they have found a way to get rid of her.
Does anybody have a friend who talks too much? I believe we all do, at least one, but if you don´t have any you probably have no idea of how uncomfortable it is to relate to them. They´re the kind of people you never call on the phone - if you must talk to them, you simply delay your call, you never do it, because just answering their calls is already the greatest punishment you can bear.
A friend of mine is exactly the kind I´m talking about. When I answer the phone and I hear her voice asking me how I am, I feel like I took the wrong rocket to a faraway planet where I won´t have a ghost of a chance to be back before Christmas. After she asks me how I am, which I can answer in a few words,nothing else will I be able to say, except for some ohs, and ahs, and maybe hum-hum. And she talks about people I never saw or have any desire to see; she puts me uptodate with her family problems, all of them, it seems to me, and she also , out of politeness, favors me with some comments about my own family.
I do try to hang up, I know there´s always something we can do, something we can say, but ... who can say it? It usually takes me one hour to be able to say -"Sorry, I can´t talk at the moment." Different thoughts and feelings occur to me during these agonies. Sometimes I pity her - a person nobody wants to talk to; it must be terrible. Sometimes I hate her for being so harmful. Yes, harmful. And I also think of the people who "have" to talk with her - her son, her sisters and nieces ... I don´t know. Maybe they don´t. Maybe they have found a way to get rid of her.
Monday, September 13, 2004
IT´S SPRING!
IT´S SPRING!
Brazil is a tropical country; I´m not sure you know what it means. Well, it means that it´s NEVER too cold or uncomfortable to go out. Every child is taught about the four seasons, but they are so similar (the seasons) that you can hardly tell one from the others. Summer is usually TOO hot and Winter is never really cold. Spring is a good time for planting - I know that because I have a garden, but people who live in apartments don´t take notice of being Spring or not. As to FALL, I never recognized it in my country.
But then you may say: -"Oh, New York is also very hot in the Summer, and the same thing happens in many towns in Italy. It´s hot in Summer, you can´t help it, so what? What makes your country different and so "tropical"?
I know it´s not polite to answer a question with another question, but let me ask you one thing: -How long does Summer last in your country? I don´t know exactly, especially because I don´t know where you are, but in Brazil it lasts much more ... It can be very hot here for six months in succession, and then change for a little less hot during about three or four months. When is it a little cold? A few days. And when is it very cold? Never. This is possibly a good definition for a tropical country.
It´s hot now. We´re having beautiful weather and we´re wearing shorts and colorful clothes. We drink iced beer and talk at the cafés. It´s Spring!
Brazil is a tropical country; I´m not sure you know what it means. Well, it means that it´s NEVER too cold or uncomfortable to go out. Every child is taught about the four seasons, but they are so similar (the seasons) that you can hardly tell one from the others. Summer is usually TOO hot and Winter is never really cold. Spring is a good time for planting - I know that because I have a garden, but people who live in apartments don´t take notice of being Spring or not. As to FALL, I never recognized it in my country.
But then you may say: -"Oh, New York is also very hot in the Summer, and the same thing happens in many towns in Italy. It´s hot in Summer, you can´t help it, so what? What makes your country different and so "tropical"?
I know it´s not polite to answer a question with another question, but let me ask you one thing: -How long does Summer last in your country? I don´t know exactly, especially because I don´t know where you are, but in Brazil it lasts much more ... It can be very hot here for six months in succession, and then change for a little less hot during about three or four months. When is it a little cold? A few days. And when is it very cold? Never. This is possibly a good definition for a tropical country.
It´s hot now. We´re having beautiful weather and we´re wearing shorts and colorful clothes. We drink iced beer and talk at the cafés. It´s Spring!
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
INDEPENDENCE DAY
INDEPENDENCE DAY
Yes, it´s Independence Day here in my country. It´s a beautiful day, the sky is so blue, the sun is hot, you are not going to work (it´s a holiday, of course), so you invite friends to join you for lunch and drinks around the pool.Watching the morning news on TV makes you sad and revolted. So many children dying in Russia just because some people can be so cruel and stupid. It makes you think that we´re living World War 3, which is worse than the previous ones, because innocent people are killed. Instead of trained soldiers, they aim at children and working people.I feel like crying, but I have to cook lunch. Soon my folks will be here and I´ll probably get better keeping busy in the kitchen. My son suggested some pasta with spinach cream - it´s a good idea. Then I look at the sky that is painfully blue ... Oh, my God, why? I know I´ll be better in a moment. But the moment is not now. I need to cry ...
Yes, it´s Independence Day here in my country. It´s a beautiful day, the sky is so blue, the sun is hot, you are not going to work (it´s a holiday, of course), so you invite friends to join you for lunch and drinks around the pool.Watching the morning news on TV makes you sad and revolted. So many children dying in Russia just because some people can be so cruel and stupid. It makes you think that we´re living World War 3, which is worse than the previous ones, because innocent people are killed. Instead of trained soldiers, they aim at children and working people.I feel like crying, but I have to cook lunch. Soon my folks will be here and I´ll probably get better keeping busy in the kitchen. My son suggested some pasta with spinach cream - it´s a good idea. Then I look at the sky that is painfully blue ... Oh, my God, why? I know I´ll be better in a moment. But the moment is not now. I need to cry ...
Sunday, August 29, 2004
THE RIGHT GUY
THE RIGHT GUY
I will never forget the day I met him. I was sitting at a café in Copacabana, having beer and trying to have some fun. It was one of those summer evenings when you just "have" to go out, otherwise you feel like you´re not living. My friends were laughing at something when I noticed the three men.
Two of them were staring at me, smiling as if they had found what they had been looking for. Five minutes later the waiter brought me a message, something silly saying they wanted to talk to me. I hated it from the very beginning. Why me? Why not one of the other girls at my table? I knew the answer, and it made me sick. They were probably a bit heavier than the stereotype they always pursued. I had the measures, the right outfit, I was the prototype.
Why do people need to act so obvious? Why don´t they allow themselves the right to discover, the capacity of inventing, of being different, maybe? My girl friends were, by the way, very interesting people, the kind of people who have something to say.
Later on I had to go to the restroom, and one of them grabbed me by the arm when I passed. They introduced themselves and, trying to be nice, invited me to a disco that was the hit of the moment.I just watched, recalling my previous thoughts. Only then I noticed that one of them was not trying to be persuasive, was not insisting, was just waiting, as if he himself was sorry for what was happening. He seemed, in fact, to be eager to re-take some conversation they might have been having before I passed them. He was different. He was not interested in a girl for her right measures. Suddenly, I heard myself saying: -“Yes, I´ll go if Daniel goes.” Daniel was his name.
The disco was crowded, the music playing loud as usual, too much smoke in the air and many people dancing. We sat at a small table, Daniel and I, had our drinks, smoked, danced and kissed. I must confess I was eager to find out some more about him.
I remember one moment when he said: -“I can´t see you. “ Of course he couldn´t see me very well. In the darkness of the disco one couldn´t tell the color of your eyes or the shape of your lips. A bit intoxicated by the drinks, the cigarettes and the heavy atmosphere, we then left for my apartment. We had moments of warm sex and little talk. We were both too tired.
In the morning, near the window of my small apartment, he took my arm and said again : -“I can´t see you.” I couldn´t understand, but he explained: -“I´m blind.”
.....................................................................................................
I will never forget the day I met him. I was sitting at a café in Copacabana, having beer and trying to have some fun. It was one of those summer evenings when you just "have" to go out, otherwise you feel like you´re not living. My friends were laughing at something when I noticed the three men.
Two of them were staring at me, smiling as if they had found what they had been looking for. Five minutes later the waiter brought me a message, something silly saying they wanted to talk to me. I hated it from the very beginning. Why me? Why not one of the other girls at my table? I knew the answer, and it made me sick. They were probably a bit heavier than the stereotype they always pursued. I had the measures, the right outfit, I was the prototype.
Why do people need to act so obvious? Why don´t they allow themselves the right to discover, the capacity of inventing, of being different, maybe? My girl friends were, by the way, very interesting people, the kind of people who have something to say.
Later on I had to go to the restroom, and one of them grabbed me by the arm when I passed. They introduced themselves and, trying to be nice, invited me to a disco that was the hit of the moment.I just watched, recalling my previous thoughts. Only then I noticed that one of them was not trying to be persuasive, was not insisting, was just waiting, as if he himself was sorry for what was happening. He seemed, in fact, to be eager to re-take some conversation they might have been having before I passed them. He was different. He was not interested in a girl for her right measures. Suddenly, I heard myself saying: -“Yes, I´ll go if Daniel goes.” Daniel was his name.
The disco was crowded, the music playing loud as usual, too much smoke in the air and many people dancing. We sat at a small table, Daniel and I, had our drinks, smoked, danced and kissed. I must confess I was eager to find out some more about him.
I remember one moment when he said: -“I can´t see you. “ Of course he couldn´t see me very well. In the darkness of the disco one couldn´t tell the color of your eyes or the shape of your lips. A bit intoxicated by the drinks, the cigarettes and the heavy atmosphere, we then left for my apartment. We had moments of warm sex and little talk. We were both too tired.
In the morning, near the window of my small apartment, he took my arm and said again : -“I can´t see you.” I couldn´t understand, but he explained: -“I´m blind.”
.....................................................................................................
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
woman in the well
Mariana is still sick. Is the world moving? I thought everything had stopped. I don´t know very well what´s going on outside, but I know that here in Brasilia it´s very hot and too dry. It´s so dry that sometimes you feel like drinking buckets of water. You can´t, so just have a glass of it.
Why is so complicated to cure a baby that is sick? The days are beautiful now, but they are too bright and too blue. You simply don´t know what to do with them. What do we do with blue skies and too much luminosity?
No, I had no drinks, except water. By the way, where is tomorrow? I need it.ref="http://yesmydear.blogspot.com/">woman in the well
Sunday, August 22, 2004
Too busy
I ´ve been too busy the last few days; I couldn´t write a word or even think about it. And when I finished what I had to do, Mariana surprised me with a very high fever.
It´s something hard to understand that such a delicate and lovely new person of only seven months of age can have high fever ,,, And feel so badly, so out of this world.
She´s sleeping now, resting, and I hope the fever has ceased for good. She can´t speak yet, but I try to guess every signal from her. I´m going to have some rest, too. Hush ...
It´s something hard to understand that such a delicate and lovely new person of only seven months of age can have high fever ,,, And feel so badly, so out of this world.
She´s sleeping now, resting, and I hope the fever has ceased for good. She can´t speak yet, but I try to guess every signal from her. I´m going to have some rest, too. Hush ...
Saturday, August 07, 2004
Things I miss
THINGS I MISS
Today I found myself thinking of the things I miss , things that I can´t have now, simple things that I used to have in Rio. Yes, Rio de Janeiro, the city where I lived most of my life.
First of all, the smell from the sea, together with the breese that seemed part of it.
Then the iced beer that rolled down my throat like a balsam.
The beat of "pandeiros" and little drums played by popular musicians.
The young people who passed, making you think that the whole world is young and beautiful. And happy.
The old people who walk along the beach, tanned and vigorous, showing their sense of opportunity.
The calls from friends, always asking - "What the hell are you doing at home on a Friday night?"
All right, I won´t cry.
Today I found myself thinking of the things I miss , things that I can´t have now, simple things that I used to have in Rio. Yes, Rio de Janeiro, the city where I lived most of my life.
First of all, the smell from the sea, together with the breese that seemed part of it.
Then the iced beer that rolled down my throat like a balsam.
The beat of "pandeiros" and little drums played by popular musicians.
The young people who passed, making you think that the whole world is young and beautiful. And happy.
The old people who walk along the beach, tanned and vigorous, showing their sense of opportunity.
The calls from friends, always asking - "What the hell are you doing at home on a Friday night?"
All right, I won´t cry.
Sunday, August 01, 2004
MAKING THINGS HAPPEN
MAKING THINGS HAPPEN
A good friend of mine has just e-mailed to tell that she´s going to leave the country to do a yatch-master course and start a new kind of life, taking boats to places and, most of all, earning her living in an adventurous way.
I feel happy for her. Why do so many people live a lifetime doing the same old thing, even if they don´t like it, just because they think they can´t change it? That´s something I´ll never understand.
Living is a miracle in itself. It´s something so great and so intense that we cannot imprison within our fears. It´s too beautiful a planet we live on. Why not enjoy it? Why not discover our own potential in sharing with the rest of the world? Let´s all sail, if not in a boat, but in our thoughts, in our words, in our attitude ...
Goodbye, Katie. Be happy. The world will never be too big for you, because your soul can reach the stars.
A good friend of mine has just e-mailed to tell that she´s going to leave the country to do a yatch-master course and start a new kind of life, taking boats to places and, most of all, earning her living in an adventurous way.
I feel happy for her. Why do so many people live a lifetime doing the same old thing, even if they don´t like it, just because they think they can´t change it? That´s something I´ll never understand.
Living is a miracle in itself. It´s something so great and so intense that we cannot imprison within our fears. It´s too beautiful a planet we live on. Why not enjoy it? Why not discover our own potential in sharing with the rest of the world? Let´s all sail, if not in a boat, but in our thoughts, in our words, in our attitude ...
Goodbye, Katie. Be happy. The world will never be too big for you, because your soul can reach the stars.
Friday, July 23, 2004
DRIVING AGAIN
DRIVING AGAIN
Once I thought I would never drive a car again. I had gone back to Rio, where I didn´t really need a car, with so many buses and so much danger when you´re driving. Fourteen years later, fourteen years older too, here I am, coming back to Brasilia, a city where everybody needs a car.
At first I was insecure about my driving skills. What happens when you´re over sixty and you haven´t been using those skills for 14 years? “I have to renew my driving license”, I claimed, trying to gain time. I needed to take a breath before facing the traffic and the new roads. To tell you the truth, I only had time for a short breath – renewing the license was a quick action and then there I was behind the wheel, having my granddaughter in the back seat. Just the thought of my precious passenger made me tense and a bit afraid. It was too much of a responsibility for an unexperienced elderly driver.
Then, just like magic, it happened. After a short prayer I found myself driving the car, using my hands and feet as if they were the ones who knew how to do it. It was a strange experience. I didn´t have to think. My hands and feet did the job, and my eyes helped them, watching attentively, of course.
I expect to drive better and better – “practice makes perfect”, but for now, I feel I was able to overcome a challenge . Very good for a grandmother.
Once I thought I would never drive a car again. I had gone back to Rio, where I didn´t really need a car, with so many buses and so much danger when you´re driving. Fourteen years later, fourteen years older too, here I am, coming back to Brasilia, a city where everybody needs a car.
At first I was insecure about my driving skills. What happens when you´re over sixty and you haven´t been using those skills for 14 years? “I have to renew my driving license”, I claimed, trying to gain time. I needed to take a breath before facing the traffic and the new roads. To tell you the truth, I only had time for a short breath – renewing the license was a quick action and then there I was behind the wheel, having my granddaughter in the back seat. Just the thought of my precious passenger made me tense and a bit afraid. It was too much of a responsibility for an unexperienced elderly driver.
Then, just like magic, it happened. After a short prayer I found myself driving the car, using my hands and feet as if they were the ones who knew how to do it. It was a strange experience. I didn´t have to think. My hands and feet did the job, and my eyes helped them, watching attentively, of course.
I expect to drive better and better – “practice makes perfect”, but for now, I feel I was able to overcome a challenge . Very good for a grandmother.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Twelve years ago
TWELVE YEARS AGO
Yes, it was twelve years ago, when I visited Rio and decided to call Noemia. Rio de Janeiro is a wonderful city – you go to the beach in the morning and feel like doing things for the rest of the day. The hot sun and the sea water influence your spirits in a way that you just keep moving, eager to enjoy whatever possible.
“- Noemia, my dear, how are things?”
“- Not very well. You see, I lost my job, I`m not a qualified professional, as you know, so it´s not easy for me to find a new one. But it´s wonderful to hear from you! Are you in Rio?”
“-Yes, I just came for a few days.
“-Really? What have you been doing?”
“- I´ve been going to the beach , to restaurants ...
“-We should meet for a drink, maybe a nice place to dance. I know one which is fabulous ...
We did. The place was nice, the music was superb. The middle-aged gentleman at a table next to us invited me to dance and in a few seconds was telling me about his recent misfortune: his wife had died and left him alone after a twenty-four-year old marriage. I saw my beer getting warm at the table and gained courage to interrupt him.(I´m not usually a bad listener, but I hate warm beer) Then he invited Noemia for a dance. For a long time they danced and talked, I mean, he talked. I could guess Noemia learned everything about him during their walk on the dance floor. Back at the table, they continued their acquaintance sipping their drinks and dancing a bit more, my friend listening quietly as if she were the older person. I could never understand how Noemia could be so patient and quiet, never in a hurry to live and let live.When we said goodbye I took a taxi to my hotel and saw the gentleman was giving Noemia a ride.
The next day we talked:
“-Did he take you home?”
“-Well, no, he took me to his home.”
“-Oh, so now you´re back to your apartment.”
“-Just to pick my things. He invited me for the weekend; he´s a nice person, and what am I going to do here, just thinking about the bills I have to pay?”
After my trip, back in Brasilia, engaging into my work routine, I heard from her.
“-I had to tell you the news.”
“- You got a job!”
“-No. Walter and I are living together. He´s such a nice person, he said I don´t have to worry about money anymore. He even paid my debts!”
“-That sounds really good.”
A few days ago, twelve years later, Noemia called.
“-It´s been a long time, Noemia! How are things?”
“-Well, Walter died. He was a good man, he helped me in everything. I miss him.”
“-Yes, but now you must face things and think of your future ...”
“-That´s the problem. Walter left me some money, he even tried to teach me how to use it, but I spent everything gambling at the Bingo casino. I guess I felt lonely and sad after his death, that´s why. He would die again if he knew what I did with the money he left me.
“-I feel sorry about it, but now, Noemia, it´s no use to cry over it ...
“- It´s easier said than done, my dear.”
“-Look, I´m going to Rio this weekend. We can meet and maybe, who knows, I can help you to think it over.
“- That´s very good. You just can´t imagine how happy I am to know that you´ll be here in a few days. We can go out together, listen to some good music.I know a fabulous place where we can go to have a drink and dance ...
.
..............................................................................................................................................
Yes, it was twelve years ago, when I visited Rio and decided to call Noemia. Rio de Janeiro is a wonderful city – you go to the beach in the morning and feel like doing things for the rest of the day. The hot sun and the sea water influence your spirits in a way that you just keep moving, eager to enjoy whatever possible.
“- Noemia, my dear, how are things?”
“- Not very well. You see, I lost my job, I`m not a qualified professional, as you know, so it´s not easy for me to find a new one. But it´s wonderful to hear from you! Are you in Rio?”
“-Yes, I just came for a few days.
“-Really? What have you been doing?”
“- I´ve been going to the beach , to restaurants ...
“-We should meet for a drink, maybe a nice place to dance. I know one which is fabulous ...
We did. The place was nice, the music was superb. The middle-aged gentleman at a table next to us invited me to dance and in a few seconds was telling me about his recent misfortune: his wife had died and left him alone after a twenty-four-year old marriage. I saw my beer getting warm at the table and gained courage to interrupt him.(I´m not usually a bad listener, but I hate warm beer) Then he invited Noemia for a dance. For a long time they danced and talked, I mean, he talked. I could guess Noemia learned everything about him during their walk on the dance floor. Back at the table, they continued their acquaintance sipping their drinks and dancing a bit more, my friend listening quietly as if she were the older person. I could never understand how Noemia could be so patient and quiet, never in a hurry to live and let live.When we said goodbye I took a taxi to my hotel and saw the gentleman was giving Noemia a ride.
The next day we talked:
“-Did he take you home?”
“-Well, no, he took me to his home.”
“-Oh, so now you´re back to your apartment.”
“-Just to pick my things. He invited me for the weekend; he´s a nice person, and what am I going to do here, just thinking about the bills I have to pay?”
After my trip, back in Brasilia, engaging into my work routine, I heard from her.
“-I had to tell you the news.”
“- You got a job!”
“-No. Walter and I are living together. He´s such a nice person, he said I don´t have to worry about money anymore. He even paid my debts!”
“-That sounds really good.”
A few days ago, twelve years later, Noemia called.
“-It´s been a long time, Noemia! How are things?”
“-Well, Walter died. He was a good man, he helped me in everything. I miss him.”
“-Yes, but now you must face things and think of your future ...”
“-That´s the problem. Walter left me some money, he even tried to teach me how to use it, but I spent everything gambling at the Bingo casino. I guess I felt lonely and sad after his death, that´s why. He would die again if he knew what I did with the money he left me.
“-I feel sorry about it, but now, Noemia, it´s no use to cry over it ...
“- It´s easier said than done, my dear.”
“-Look, I´m going to Rio this weekend. We can meet and maybe, who knows, I can help you to think it over.
“- That´s very good. You just can´t imagine how happy I am to know that you´ll be here in a few days. We can go out together, listen to some good music.I know a fabulous place where we can go to have a drink and dance ...
.
..............................................................................................................................................
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
IMPOSSIBLE LOVE
IMPOSSIBLE LOVE
The last night will fall upon us,
And we´ll be just shadows, nothing more ...
I´ll find you among the others
And you´ll see me in the dark.
We´ll embrace tenderly for long,
And no words will be said in the end.
Silently our love will rest
Because we´ll be just shadows, nothing more ...
The last night will fall upon us,
And we´ll be just shadows, nothing more ...
I´ll find you among the others
And you´ll see me in the dark.
We´ll embrace tenderly for long,
And no words will be said in the end.
Silently our love will rest
Because we´ll be just shadows, nothing more ...
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
STILL ABOUT GETTING OLD
You know you´re getting old when ...
Men are not insisting to buy you a drink.
Your son calls everyday and asks: "You sure you´re well?"
An old friend asks: "Do you still work?"
Your hairdresser doesn´t ask about your affairs.
The saleswoman recommends larger dresses.
Etc etc etc etc etc
Men are not insisting to buy you a drink.
Your son calls everyday and asks: "You sure you´re well?"
An old friend asks: "Do you still work?"
Your hairdresser doesn´t ask about your affairs.
The saleswoman recommends larger dresses.
Etc etc etc etc etc
Friday, July 09, 2004
Being young, being old
this morning I was taking a look at my clothes hanging in the closet when the question suddenly came up as a complaint: "Why do we have to behave old if we don´t feel old? Why do we have to be "conservative" in appearance, as if trying to hide our imperfection? why do we have to be so different?"
The greatest difference between being young and being old is not what you do, but what people do to you. In this particular case society demands too much from us, especially if we´re healthy and willing to live. I´m sure there are millions of people who would like to act young, wearing the same clothes, going to the same places, listening to the same music, having the same drinks, making the same mistakes ...
Things change, all right. They do. New trends appear in the market, with new material, different fabric; unthinkable ideas are put into action to make people live better and happier; concepts once thought eternal fall down like sand castels ... But not for us. Oh, ok, some of them can be shared by young and old. Some. About 80% of them cannot. Other people would say we´re "ridiculous" or "inadequate". Old people must look virtuous full time. And wise, too. And, most of all, very reserved.
The greatest difference between being young and being old is not what you do, but what people do to you. In this particular case society demands too much from us, especially if we´re healthy and willing to live. I´m sure there are millions of people who would like to act young, wearing the same clothes, going to the same places, listening to the same music, having the same drinks, making the same mistakes ...
Things change, all right. They do. New trends appear in the market, with new material, different fabric; unthinkable ideas are put into action to make people live better and happier; concepts once thought eternal fall down like sand castels ... But not for us. Oh, ok, some of them can be shared by young and old. Some. About 80% of them cannot. Other people would say we´re "ridiculous" or "inadequate". Old people must look virtuous full time. And wise, too. And, most of all, very reserved.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)