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?

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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.

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.