AFTER SO MANY YEARS
I didn´t expect it to happen. Why not? Of course it might happen. We could have met at a bus stop or at a party, a birthday party, for example, as I don´t go to parties anymore. I could have seen him on the street, or browsing at the window of a shop, looking for a book or a video.
He was suddenly there. In my living room. He had come with other people, people who were busy in their conversation, laughing from their own jokes, so far from my life. We didn´t say much, as we had nothing to say or do. We were like statues of a past time, strange characters of a story that had stopped without a proper end. I asked about his daughter and he was surprised that I still remembered her name. Foolish things that didn´t mean a thing, mere words to disguise the weird feeling of looking at his eyes and being seen by them.
We probably thought of how stupid we were, or how coward. We didn´t say much, as I said, but we looked at each other and, in the middle of all the fuss that was going on around us, we tried to forgive each other for everything we didn´t live.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
SPEAKING TO NO ONE
SPEAKING TO NO ONE
The first time I saw him I found it difficult to hide my laughing; it turned into a nervous laughing, because I knew I was being even more ridiculous than the man beside me. We used to take the bus at the bus terminal near where I lived, so the following times I was careful enough not to sit near him. He wore suit and tie like a normal person going to his office downtown, clean and shaved, but he spoke aloud all the time, as if an invisible listener could attentively listen to him. I was a bit afraid of him, as we´re never comfortable with things we can´t explain.
The first time I saw a man speaking aloud while walking on the street, by himself, I turned my head and watched, curious at what might be happening. Soon after a second one did the same and I could see he was using a cell phone. For a minute I remembered the strange person who made speeches on the bus. Mobile phones can make people look a bit odd, at least for me.
This time the man was not carrying a cell phone. He just walked from one side to the other, gesturing and speaking as an actor rehearsing for a play. I was sitting at a table and watched him during his continuous trip. He spoke and spoke, his arms helping him demonstrate his claims and this friend of yours just staring and thinking about the percentage of insane people who don´t live in clinics … At last I saw the tiny black thing in his ear, but it took me quite some time to understand (…) the impossibility of seeing things as we used to see in the past. I guess there´ll be a moment in the future when we won´t be able to laugh at anything or anybody.
The first time I saw him I found it difficult to hide my laughing; it turned into a nervous laughing, because I knew I was being even more ridiculous than the man beside me. We used to take the bus at the bus terminal near where I lived, so the following times I was careful enough not to sit near him. He wore suit and tie like a normal person going to his office downtown, clean and shaved, but he spoke aloud all the time, as if an invisible listener could attentively listen to him. I was a bit afraid of him, as we´re never comfortable with things we can´t explain.
The first time I saw a man speaking aloud while walking on the street, by himself, I turned my head and watched, curious at what might be happening. Soon after a second one did the same and I could see he was using a cell phone. For a minute I remembered the strange person who made speeches on the bus. Mobile phones can make people look a bit odd, at least for me.
This time the man was not carrying a cell phone. He just walked from one side to the other, gesturing and speaking as an actor rehearsing for a play. I was sitting at a table and watched him during his continuous trip. He spoke and spoke, his arms helping him demonstrate his claims and this friend of yours just staring and thinking about the percentage of insane people who don´t live in clinics … At last I saw the tiny black thing in his ear, but it took me quite some time to understand (…) the impossibility of seeing things as we used to see in the past. I guess there´ll be a moment in the future when we won´t be able to laugh at anything or anybody.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
WHO?
It was not just because of the pictures I saw in an old family álbum. I do think about changes very often; the album was only a good reason for keeping these thoughts in my mind for hours. Whose were those smiling faces, showing in so many different ways, as if living several stories? I knew it was me, I could recognize those existing moments, just as an actress can remember unforgetable roles. But where was I, as I feel myself now? Not in those faces and smiles. Now wait a minute: I still smile a lot; I´m not a sad person, if that´s maybe what you might have understood, but, I simply cannot see myself in those pictures. What I see in fact is a parade of times gone by, with their typical characters and clothes.
Some of them remind me of the post-war, for the ample skirts, others have the scent of the golden years and many others bring up the memories of Mary Quant and Dior. Holy Goodness, how many lives will I still have to live? How much will I still have to learn (and forget) in my time? How many faces will I have to show a world that demands so many changes … I remember when I learned to use a computer, how much joy and relief to think that I could do it like everybody else! Now I hear the news about technology that will enable us to have so many things and I feel afraid.
Being old is no problem for me. Old age is lighter, more childish and less responsible. What scares me is the fear of being outdated and having to go on, just like an insane actor who keeps on looking for a character that doesn´t exist …
Some of them remind me of the post-war, for the ample skirts, others have the scent of the golden years and many others bring up the memories of Mary Quant and Dior. Holy Goodness, how many lives will I still have to live? How much will I still have to learn (and forget) in my time? How many faces will I have to show a world that demands so many changes … I remember when I learned to use a computer, how much joy and relief to think that I could do it like everybody else! Now I hear the news about technology that will enable us to have so many things and I feel afraid.
Being old is no problem for me. Old age is lighter, more childish and less responsible. What scares me is the fear of being outdated and having to go on, just like an insane actor who keeps on looking for a character that doesn´t exist …
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
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. I didn´t have to look around to see the scenery and the people. I just thought to myself 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, I considered the apparent inadequacy. So what? This is Copacabana, I thought, and this is the moment we´re living in now...
Most of the noise comes from the vendors, I 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. I sometimes allow myself to say that there were more salespeople than buyers.
Looking to my left in search of a girl who sold "pasteis", (I love to eat the ones they sell on the beach) I 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.
I couldn´t help thinking about the 1 real parakeets. Only a domestic production line could explain the low price. I 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, I 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? I 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 for 1 real. I imagined, realistically, the poor woman going back home with all those little birds. Just then I 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? I then followed the steps of the parakeet saleswoman, moving to a spot closer by and I 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. I got up from my 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. I noticed their tiny eyes, so small that I 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.” I reacted :” By no means. Blue is my favorite color,” and went for the 1 real coin.
I went back home holding the parakeet, uneasily, for I couldn´t place it in my bag. It would probably be crumpled amongst the other things and might lose its little eye. Getting home, I looked round several times before I 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 I simply didn´t have any space or purpose for.
Believe me, I often find myself thinking of why somebody buys a plastic parakeet when she doesn´t even have room for it. I 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. I didn´t understand it. No, I didn´t regret it – I could identify with the blue parakeet, so inadequate and lacking a place to be put. It was now part of my 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. I didn´t have to look around to see the scenery and the people. I just thought to myself 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, I considered the apparent inadequacy. So what? This is Copacabana, I thought, and this is the moment we´re living in now...
Most of the noise comes from the vendors, I 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. I sometimes allow myself to say that there were more salespeople than buyers.
Looking to my left in search of a girl who sold "pasteis", (I love to eat the ones they sell on the beach) I 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.
I couldn´t help thinking about the 1 real parakeets. Only a domestic production line could explain the low price. I 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, I 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? I 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 for 1 real. I imagined, realistically, the poor woman going back home with all those little birds. Just then I 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? I then followed the steps of the parakeet saleswoman, moving to a spot closer by and I 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. I got up from my 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. I noticed their tiny eyes, so small that I 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.” I reacted :” By no means. Blue is my favorite color,” and went for the 1 real coin.
I went back home holding the parakeet, uneasily, for I couldn´t place it in my bag. It would probably be crumpled amongst the other things and might lose its little eye. Getting home, I looked round several times before I 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 I simply didn´t have any space or purpose for.
Believe me, I often find myself thinking of why somebody buys a plastic parakeet when she doesn´t even have room for it. I 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. I didn´t understand it. No, I didn´t regret it – I could identify with the blue parakeet, so inadequate and lacking a place to be put. It was now part of my scenery. But what about all those women who bought yellow, green, blue and red parakeets, where are they putting their parakeets now? And why?
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Saturday, November 19, 2005
JUST LIKE THAT
JUST LIKE THAT
The place was big, a large popular restaurant in the small town where we usually go for fishing. The restaurant was crowded with people that brought their families or just came to meet acquaintances, girls wearing their best and waiters running from one place to the other.
I heard something and instinctively looked in the direction of someone speaking loud. There were two women at the table and a man was standing with a purse in his hand. One of the women was an ordinary person in her thirties, but the other one was so small, so slim that I couldn´t tell it was an adult or a child. The guy was tall, a young man like so many other strong people of his age. He threw the purse on the table and, just like that, slapped the small girl´s face with all his strength. The sound attracted everybody´s attention. I was mesmerized at the view of someone hitting a small creature so hard. I stood up, watching them as if I could do something by doing so. The owner of the restaurant came to their table and started saying things that we can easily imagine. He didn´t say much because a second slap hit the girl´s face.
I suddenly saw myself in the center of the restaurant, shouting for the police, asking somebody (I didn´t know who) to bring the police and calling the man a coward. I managed to make him afraid, because he left the table and walked cautiously away from it. All the other people in the restaurant just stared. I have no idea what they thought about it.
The restaurant owner later came to our table to say that the girl was wrong, that they had just broken, she shouldn´t have gone out, and that the second woman at the table was her mother!
We all live on the same planet, but people live in different times, I guess. I know there have been dark times in the past, but we should be living the present, with an eye in the future. Disgusting.
The place was big, a large popular restaurant in the small town where we usually go for fishing. The restaurant was crowded with people that brought their families or just came to meet acquaintances, girls wearing their best and waiters running from one place to the other.
I heard something and instinctively looked in the direction of someone speaking loud. There were two women at the table and a man was standing with a purse in his hand. One of the women was an ordinary person in her thirties, but the other one was so small, so slim that I couldn´t tell it was an adult or a child. The guy was tall, a young man like so many other strong people of his age. He threw the purse on the table and, just like that, slapped the small girl´s face with all his strength. The sound attracted everybody´s attention. I was mesmerized at the view of someone hitting a small creature so hard. I stood up, watching them as if I could do something by doing so. The owner of the restaurant came to their table and started saying things that we can easily imagine. He didn´t say much because a second slap hit the girl´s face.
I suddenly saw myself in the center of the restaurant, shouting for the police, asking somebody (I didn´t know who) to bring the police and calling the man a coward. I managed to make him afraid, because he left the table and walked cautiously away from it. All the other people in the restaurant just stared. I have no idea what they thought about it.
The restaurant owner later came to our table to say that the girl was wrong, that they had just broken, she shouldn´t have gone out, and that the second woman at the table was her mother!
We all live on the same planet, but people live in different times, I guess. I know there have been dark times in the past, but we should be living the present, with an eye in the future. Disgusting.
Monday, July 11, 2005
TO THOSE WHO SUFFER
TO THOSE WHO SUFFER
I once heard something that made me laugh at first and then try to understand. I´m not here to say that I believe in everything; to tell the truth, I don´t believe in many things. What I heard came from my niece, she had been talking to a friend for hours about her boyfriend. Crying and visibly out of control, my niece told this guy all about her unstable relationship and said repeated times that she couldn´t stand so much suffering, although she saw no solution for her problem ´cause she loved him.
Well, so what´s new? There must be millions of girls still crying for their boyfriends. What was new, my friends, absolutely new for me was his reaction. This guy told my niece that she should be happy for suffering, that such feelings, as well as any others we most humans have are the most precious gifts we possess. That, to make a long story short, we should all be glad to be able to suffer.
He then told of a distant planet where people don´t have feelings. They are highly civilized, they have all kinds of technological development and, therefore, a high standard of living but they just can´t FEEL. They don´t suffer, but they can´t love or feel happy. He also said that they´re struggling to find a way to gain our feelings. Using their advanced methods, they´re trying implantations in the brains of many people on earth, people who, inadvertently, trust these aliens for alternative medical treatment. And he said that Myriam, my niece, should be very proud of her tears …
Will that be our future, as we´re always changing? Isn´t he right to say that suffering can be a precious gift?
.
……………………….
I once heard something that made me laugh at first and then try to understand. I´m not here to say that I believe in everything; to tell the truth, I don´t believe in many things. What I heard came from my niece, she had been talking to a friend for hours about her boyfriend. Crying and visibly out of control, my niece told this guy all about her unstable relationship and said repeated times that she couldn´t stand so much suffering, although she saw no solution for her problem ´cause she loved him.
Well, so what´s new? There must be millions of girls still crying for their boyfriends. What was new, my friends, absolutely new for me was his reaction. This guy told my niece that she should be happy for suffering, that such feelings, as well as any others we most humans have are the most precious gifts we possess. That, to make a long story short, we should all be glad to be able to suffer.
He then told of a distant planet where people don´t have feelings. They are highly civilized, they have all kinds of technological development and, therefore, a high standard of living but they just can´t FEEL. They don´t suffer, but they can´t love or feel happy. He also said that they´re struggling to find a way to gain our feelings. Using their advanced methods, they´re trying implantations in the brains of many people on earth, people who, inadvertently, trust these aliens for alternative medical treatment. And he said that Myriam, my niece, should be very proud of her tears …
Will that be our future, as we´re always changing? Isn´t he right to say that suffering can be a precious gift?
.
……………………….
Monday, June 13, 2005
DEMOCRACY
DEMOCRACY
I have said something like that before. That democracy can be too expensive. Ladies and gentlemen, I´ve lived different times in my life. Times of a dictatorial regime, when there was nothing we could do but wait and pray that the minds of the men in power would be magically enlightened by some divine gift. We didn´t suffer, believe me. We simply didn´t know what was happening in the backstage of politics. We danced, played soccer and lived our lives.We were innocent: it was not our fault. We hadn´t elected them, it was something imposed , against our will.
Now it´s different. We choose the one who must do his best to improve the country. We have to face disappointment and uncertainty. The shadow of responsibility is a permanent ghost in our dreams and expectations. Once there was a president who was elected just because he was so young and determined and ended up as disaster. Then a sociologist whose main qualities were his arrogance and so called “competence”. (Yes, he was competent enough to disguise the problems) Two years ago we finally elected a self-made person, a man who could identify with the problems of the nation and guess what happens? The opposition, firmly backed by their old interests, is trying to make him incapable by charging him of corruption, their own everlasting fuel. This is Latin America, but this country happens to be the eighth economy in the world. It´s too much money at stake, too much money to be in the hands of an emerging party, they think.
Corruption in Brazil is, no doubt, the root of all evil, and it´s been like this for a long long time. We know it can´t be banished just like that. Corruption is everywhere you go. It´s in your office, at the neighbor´s, in the lives of your close friends. It´s so strong and settled that only a steady government could deal with it. We need a new mentality, something that could only be achieved through comprehensive education. If Jesus Christ were a president in Brazil he would probably be crucified again.
The foxes waited for two years after the election. They knew there was nothing they could do, in the name of democracy. Now they think it´s time to gain grounds again. To make sure that the old system will be maintained by preventing the president to be re-elected. (How dare he be successful or change things?) Who cares if the next missing two years will be a mess, nothing being accomplished due to so many charges? Who cares? They just want to preserve the old status quo that will certainly make them feel comfortable in business. For the sake of democracy, they will probably say … They have the power!
Bla …bla …bla …
…………………………………………………………………………………….
I have said something like that before. That democracy can be too expensive. Ladies and gentlemen, I´ve lived different times in my life. Times of a dictatorial regime, when there was nothing we could do but wait and pray that the minds of the men in power would be magically enlightened by some divine gift. We didn´t suffer, believe me. We simply didn´t know what was happening in the backstage of politics. We danced, played soccer and lived our lives.We were innocent: it was not our fault. We hadn´t elected them, it was something imposed , against our will.
Now it´s different. We choose the one who must do his best to improve the country. We have to face disappointment and uncertainty. The shadow of responsibility is a permanent ghost in our dreams and expectations. Once there was a president who was elected just because he was so young and determined and ended up as disaster. Then a sociologist whose main qualities were his arrogance and so called “competence”. (Yes, he was competent enough to disguise the problems) Two years ago we finally elected a self-made person, a man who could identify with the problems of the nation and guess what happens? The opposition, firmly backed by their old interests, is trying to make him incapable by charging him of corruption, their own everlasting fuel. This is Latin America, but this country happens to be the eighth economy in the world. It´s too much money at stake, too much money to be in the hands of an emerging party, they think.
Corruption in Brazil is, no doubt, the root of all evil, and it´s been like this for a long long time. We know it can´t be banished just like that. Corruption is everywhere you go. It´s in your office, at the neighbor´s, in the lives of your close friends. It´s so strong and settled that only a steady government could deal with it. We need a new mentality, something that could only be achieved through comprehensive education. If Jesus Christ were a president in Brazil he would probably be crucified again.
The foxes waited for two years after the election. They knew there was nothing they could do, in the name of democracy. Now they think it´s time to gain grounds again. To make sure that the old system will be maintained by preventing the president to be re-elected. (How dare he be successful or change things?) Who cares if the next missing two years will be a mess, nothing being accomplished due to so many charges? Who cares? They just want to preserve the old status quo that will certainly make them feel comfortable in business. For the sake of democracy, they will probably say … They have the power!
Bla …bla …bla …
…………………………………………………………………………………….
Monday, June 06, 2005
THE GAY PRIDE PARADE
THE GAY PRIDE PARADE
Cristiano was a small child when his father left his mother with three kids and came to S. Paulo to look for a job. That man never went back to where they lived, a small village in the interior of Bahia, and, after some time, his mother did the same. She came to Rio instead of S. Paulo, not because she liked it better, she didn´t know either city – it was only because she had a sister already living here, in a suburb. He didn´t remember much of that time, probably because it didn´t last long. His mother died after a short disease and his aunt just couldn´t keep them anymore. His older brother was taken to a friend´s house, a man who had a car repair business and was supposed to teach him the job. His sister was twelve then and was taken by a family to help take care of their children; Cristiano was accepted in the same house after they saw him, so unprotected for a six-year-old.
His sister grew up and became a beautiful girl, of lovely white skin and curly hair. Both of them attended a public school and had a basic education that would allow them to have a modest job in the future. The future always happened as a funny thing for Cristiano – one day, all of a sudden, his sister decided she was going to live with her boyfriend and was going to take him along.
When they moved to Copacabana they started a new kind of life. His sister had her own daughters, both of them having the same white skin and beautiful curly hair. Her boyfriend didn´t show up very often, especially after their frequent fights. Cristiano now helped taking care of the girls, picking them up at school and doing the shopping. His sister was busy with courses she was taking to enable her for a better job and, most of all, the daily plight to make ends meet. Life was not easy, but Cristiano knew somehow that there would still be a future for him. He went to the beach sometimes and had a friend he had met at school. He, too, was growing up. Now and again he took a glance at himself in the mirror, while combing the little girls, and was surprised to see his own white complexion and the gray color of his eyes. Once or twice somebody had made a comment about how cute he was. He felt sorry for his sister, now; she didn´t mind her appearance anymore and looked older for her age.
That Sunday she had given him a day off, because she traveled with the girls. He had all the time in the world to get ready to go out to see the parade. He wore a cap that gave him an attractive look, something he couldn´t define, as if he could have changed just by wearing a cap. His eyes were grayer than ever after the slight make-up he used. A friend came to help him decide on his clothes for the occasion and then they rushed to see the parade. Copacabana was feverish, the broadwalk full of people who came to watch and gays who were coming to join the big event. Most of the gays wore extravagant costumes and had very heavy make-up. The parade was colorful and moved slowly but gracefully.
Cristiano couldn´t help noticing many people, men and women, staring at him. He was simply dressed but he was certainly beautiful. He, too, joined the parade with his friend. For the first time he knew he had grown up. He was going to say goodbye to his sister and start living on his own; it was about time. He felt cheerful towards the future. His future. The sky was blue, Copacabana was gorgeous, life was worth living. He was happy. He was gay.
( Cristiano was my neighbor some time ago. I never talked to him, we just usually met in the elevator, he and his two nieces. I never saw him again after the parade, I never asked his sister about him, but I couldn´t forget him … I thought of him a lot these last few days because gay parades are happening in several cities here. In Sao Paulo the parade attracted two million people. Times are changing. I hope he can be happy, very happy.)
.
.................................................................................................................................................
Cristiano was a small child when his father left his mother with three kids and came to S. Paulo to look for a job. That man never went back to where they lived, a small village in the interior of Bahia, and, after some time, his mother did the same. She came to Rio instead of S. Paulo, not because she liked it better, she didn´t know either city – it was only because she had a sister already living here, in a suburb. He didn´t remember much of that time, probably because it didn´t last long. His mother died after a short disease and his aunt just couldn´t keep them anymore. His older brother was taken to a friend´s house, a man who had a car repair business and was supposed to teach him the job. His sister was twelve then and was taken by a family to help take care of their children; Cristiano was accepted in the same house after they saw him, so unprotected for a six-year-old.
His sister grew up and became a beautiful girl, of lovely white skin and curly hair. Both of them attended a public school and had a basic education that would allow them to have a modest job in the future. The future always happened as a funny thing for Cristiano – one day, all of a sudden, his sister decided she was going to live with her boyfriend and was going to take him along.
When they moved to Copacabana they started a new kind of life. His sister had her own daughters, both of them having the same white skin and beautiful curly hair. Her boyfriend didn´t show up very often, especially after their frequent fights. Cristiano now helped taking care of the girls, picking them up at school and doing the shopping. His sister was busy with courses she was taking to enable her for a better job and, most of all, the daily plight to make ends meet. Life was not easy, but Cristiano knew somehow that there would still be a future for him. He went to the beach sometimes and had a friend he had met at school. He, too, was growing up. Now and again he took a glance at himself in the mirror, while combing the little girls, and was surprised to see his own white complexion and the gray color of his eyes. Once or twice somebody had made a comment about how cute he was. He felt sorry for his sister, now; she didn´t mind her appearance anymore and looked older for her age.
That Sunday she had given him a day off, because she traveled with the girls. He had all the time in the world to get ready to go out to see the parade. He wore a cap that gave him an attractive look, something he couldn´t define, as if he could have changed just by wearing a cap. His eyes were grayer than ever after the slight make-up he used. A friend came to help him decide on his clothes for the occasion and then they rushed to see the parade. Copacabana was feverish, the broadwalk full of people who came to watch and gays who were coming to join the big event. Most of the gays wore extravagant costumes and had very heavy make-up. The parade was colorful and moved slowly but gracefully.
Cristiano couldn´t help noticing many people, men and women, staring at him. He was simply dressed but he was certainly beautiful. He, too, joined the parade with his friend. For the first time he knew he had grown up. He was going to say goodbye to his sister and start living on his own; it was about time. He felt cheerful towards the future. His future. The sky was blue, Copacabana was gorgeous, life was worth living. He was happy. He was gay.
( Cristiano was my neighbor some time ago. I never talked to him, we just usually met in the elevator, he and his two nieces. I never saw him again after the parade, I never asked his sister about him, but I couldn´t forget him … I thought of him a lot these last few days because gay parades are happening in several cities here. In Sao Paulo the parade attracted two million people. Times are changing. I hope he can be happy, very happy.)
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Tuesday, May 24, 2005
IT WAS FUN
IT WAS FUN
We came to live in a big city after having already done so many other things. Not me, of course, I was only five when we moved, but my family was already a big family. Six children in all plus an adopted one who became my companion for everything. My oldest sister was left behind, she was married then. My father worked for the Leopoldina Railway, the British railway system that operated in many towns in Brazil. He had been sent to so many different small towns where my mother had to face difficulties of all kinds, with babies coming to life and terrible diseases that they didn´t know how to deal with.
Rio de Janeiro was a second beginning for the whole family. Surviving was of course a problem but my mother´s energy and my father´s discipline made that problem a lesson for all of us. We went to live in a big place that was very common those days and my mother kept busy renting rooms for people who came from other cities, like us. They were young men who came to go to college, to try to find a better job or something else. I grew up among those people, learning from them and from their own experiences. I didn´t know they were not my family, I just saw them as the world I had for me. All of them influenced my decisions, my hair style and my activities in general. They helped me to learn the first things and they also confided me their genuine anguish. Some are more vivid in my memory, probably because they were timid and unprepared. I watched and listened. I had all the time for that, being a child.
I had never heard the word “privacy” before being an adult. I wouldn´t have understood it. Our living room was like a stage where characters come and go after saying their lines. Nothing was so terrible that couldn´t be forgotten a few minutes later : laughter followed tears and commotion for someone, in a succession of events.
We had fun, I can remember that. We all grew up and made our own families. Was it good or bad to live like this? I don´t know. I just think it was fun.
We came to live in a big city after having already done so many other things. Not me, of course, I was only five when we moved, but my family was already a big family. Six children in all plus an adopted one who became my companion for everything. My oldest sister was left behind, she was married then. My father worked for the Leopoldina Railway, the British railway system that operated in many towns in Brazil. He had been sent to so many different small towns where my mother had to face difficulties of all kinds, with babies coming to life and terrible diseases that they didn´t know how to deal with.
Rio de Janeiro was a second beginning for the whole family. Surviving was of course a problem but my mother´s energy and my father´s discipline made that problem a lesson for all of us. We went to live in a big place that was very common those days and my mother kept busy renting rooms for people who came from other cities, like us. They were young men who came to go to college, to try to find a better job or something else. I grew up among those people, learning from them and from their own experiences. I didn´t know they were not my family, I just saw them as the world I had for me. All of them influenced my decisions, my hair style and my activities in general. They helped me to learn the first things and they also confided me their genuine anguish. Some are more vivid in my memory, probably because they were timid and unprepared. I watched and listened. I had all the time for that, being a child.
I had never heard the word “privacy” before being an adult. I wouldn´t have understood it. Our living room was like a stage where characters come and go after saying their lines. Nothing was so terrible that couldn´t be forgotten a few minutes later : laughter followed tears and commotion for someone, in a succession of events.
We had fun, I can remember that. We all grew up and made our own families. Was it good or bad to live like this? I don´t know. I just think it was fun.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
MEMORIES
MEMORIES, WHY NOT?
I heard that song and many things came to my mind. I thought of you. In fact, I could see you exactly the way you were, your habit of reading the newspaper in bed, delaying the moment for having breakfast; your afternoon walk, your way of telling stories as if they were new to me. It´s unbelievable how well I can remember your voice, your smell and your words. I myself wasn´t aware of having retained so many impressions of a single person.
I miss the way I loved you. I miss my capacity to devote my thoughts to a man in such passionate way. I miss the weeping moments before falling asleep. I miss my insecurity for the possibility of being pregnant of a baby of ours. I miss being so bold as to send you flowers after a quarrel. I miss my sensations when we kissed. I miss my feeling of protection when sleeping with you and I also miss my heartache during the days you didn´t call.
I don´t miss you, honestly. I miss my innocence, my faith in love …
I heard that song and many things came to my mind. I thought of you. In fact, I could see you exactly the way you were, your habit of reading the newspaper in bed, delaying the moment for having breakfast; your afternoon walk, your way of telling stories as if they were new to me. It´s unbelievable how well I can remember your voice, your smell and your words. I myself wasn´t aware of having retained so many impressions of a single person.
I miss the way I loved you. I miss my capacity to devote my thoughts to a man in such passionate way. I miss the weeping moments before falling asleep. I miss my insecurity for the possibility of being pregnant of a baby of ours. I miss being so bold as to send you flowers after a quarrel. I miss my sensations when we kissed. I miss my feeling of protection when sleeping with you and I also miss my heartache during the days you didn´t call.
I don´t miss you, honestly. I miss my innocence, my faith in love …
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
LIKE AN ANGEL
LIKE AN ANGEL
She was born in Rio. It was after all that mess, mom and dad fighting and finally, oh finally getting a divorce, that she moved to Sao Paulo. She liked Sao Paulo, maybe because she could have peace and an organized life. Those last few years had been a hard time, her father absent from home and her mother making their place a living hell. She couldn´t understand why things had to be like that, her mother sobbing or screaming, taking sleeping pills or speaking on the phone. Never a quiet routine with calm breakfasts and TV programes.
The first years in S. Paulo were nice. She was very busy at school, she made new friends, attended an English course and had lots of things to do to keep up with the new environment. She could even see more of her father – he now came for weekends or holidays to meet her and they talked on the phone almost everyday. She got to know him better this way and when she was seventeen he gave her a present that made her delirious : he gave her an apartment so that she could live alone. He knew she wanted it, so why not make her happy, now that she was starting university? She was making him happy, too. The thought of his child entering university had made him so proud that he wanted her closer to him on the weekends. He felt like having more of this responsible young girl, so pretty and happy. He knew that she loved Copacabana, where she grew up. And that he could buy her a small apartment there, just for the weekends. He also bought her some furniture for the small place and then left her alone with her happiness.
At first she couldn´t believe she was back to Copacabana for the weekends, for the sea that she loved so much and for the easygoing way of spending the hours. The evenings were nice, too, but it was in the morning that she could realize the greatness of being there. Walking along the beach, the heat of the sun on her shoulders, hearing laughter from people passing by, she enjoyed every minute of looking at people, those wonderful people in their bathing suits, so tanned and healthy.
Then she saw him. She saw the tanned skin, the slim figure of a young man in his early twenties. He had blond hair, in contrast with his dark skin. (Was his hair dyed?, she thought when she first looked at him) He had funny curly hair, which gave him the air of an angel. An angel here, coming from the sea, in the hot sun of Copacabana? The thought of his being an angel amused her and they immediately started a conversation. “My name, your name, where do you live”, he didn´t say much about himself except for the comments about playing soccer on the beach; he said he loved playing soccer, that when he was a kid he wanted to be a soccer player.He spoke like so many other people of his age and condition, a broken language with a lot of slang and half bad words that he tried to avoid. She did her best to make him feel at ease – she talked about herself and he seemed to enjoy listening.
“You say you have an apartment here in Copacabana? How come you bought it? You´re no more than a chick! Hey, what …” He laughed with his eyes.
“My dad gave it to me.
“Oh, you have a dad!”
She learned after that that he didn´t have a family or a home. Not even a job – he earned his living looking after cars in a parking lot or doing some other things according to the opportunities. She looked at him and saw the angel face with the blue sky behind it – the white sand and the sea completed the scenery, making the picture unforgettable.
They met several times on the beach before she took him to her apartment, one day. He was good company, in every moment of the day. He helped in the kitchen doing the dishes or even making sandwiches; he knew what to do when something was out of order and, most of all, he cheered her up when she was lazy, not willing to go out . He had energy for both of them, waking up at the right time not to miss the best spot on the beach, or having sex at the moments she thought she was dead tired to do it. Every weekend in Rio was tiring and relaxing, making her ready for the university routine in Sao Paulo. A few times they changed schedules – he came to Sao Paulo by bus and spent the weekend going to the movies and watching TV with her, but she could feel him growing a bit restless.
Her father met him once when he came to see her about something. “What do you think?’ she asked. “Well, if you like him, there isn´t much I can say. Just try to know him well, as not to be disappointed later.” She already did it, most of the time. She looked at her angel with his curly blonde hair and thought of how hard his life must have been so far. She tried to imagine him, as a child, living in the slum, not having a mother or a father to take care of him. Not having decent food to eat, either. Later, living on the streets, all by himself, asking for money or doing God knows what to be able to buy food and find shelter to sleep the nights.The beach, however, was the perfect frame for his figure now – he was happy, he looked happy, so tanned and beautiful, so quick with his legs running after the ball, his smile always ready for a joke.
Sometimes he stayed in her apartment for a few days, after she had left for S. Paulo. And one day he said he wanted to live there, to stay there everyday while she was out. Why not? The apartment would be vacant and he didn´t have a place, she knew that. Yes, she knew that, and she felt uncomfortable when she had to say yes. Something was beginning to deteriorate in their relationship, and she couldn´t understand. They went to the beach everyday on their weekends, they laughed and had sex, but somehow things were different. He was comfortable, too comfortable and bossy, he sounded like a different person, not like the one she had met. She then spent the whole week at the university thinking of the last events. She had been happy for seven months, she liked him in spite of his poverty, (she had to pay for everything) she knew he was a nice person, but she was not happy anymore. She would have to change a few things; maybe she should have her privacy back – she decided to talk to him, he would understand and it would be better for both of them. They could be together most of the time, but not all the time, and she could have her Copacabana apartment for herself, being able to take other girl friends or something like that.
They were in the small kitchen of the Copacabana apartment when she explained to him what she wanted. She said she loved him, she didn´t want to part from him, they could have a future together if they preserved what they already had. She said she felt sorry for being so much used to living alone, but she loved him . She saw his angel face coming closer to her and she tried to read his eyes but she couldn´t … She felt a bit dizzy, the angel was now standing before her and she was so small, she could only see his legs. She tried to hold his leg but her arms wouldn´t obey her. She felt her head on the floor and the last thing she could see was the blooded knife in his hand …
She was born in Rio. It was after all that mess, mom and dad fighting and finally, oh finally getting a divorce, that she moved to Sao Paulo. She liked Sao Paulo, maybe because she could have peace and an organized life. Those last few years had been a hard time, her father absent from home and her mother making their place a living hell. She couldn´t understand why things had to be like that, her mother sobbing or screaming, taking sleeping pills or speaking on the phone. Never a quiet routine with calm breakfasts and TV programes.
The first years in S. Paulo were nice. She was very busy at school, she made new friends, attended an English course and had lots of things to do to keep up with the new environment. She could even see more of her father – he now came for weekends or holidays to meet her and they talked on the phone almost everyday. She got to know him better this way and when she was seventeen he gave her a present that made her delirious : he gave her an apartment so that she could live alone. He knew she wanted it, so why not make her happy, now that she was starting university? She was making him happy, too. The thought of his child entering university had made him so proud that he wanted her closer to him on the weekends. He felt like having more of this responsible young girl, so pretty and happy. He knew that she loved Copacabana, where she grew up. And that he could buy her a small apartment there, just for the weekends. He also bought her some furniture for the small place and then left her alone with her happiness.
At first she couldn´t believe she was back to Copacabana for the weekends, for the sea that she loved so much and for the easygoing way of spending the hours. The evenings were nice, too, but it was in the morning that she could realize the greatness of being there. Walking along the beach, the heat of the sun on her shoulders, hearing laughter from people passing by, she enjoyed every minute of looking at people, those wonderful people in their bathing suits, so tanned and healthy.
Then she saw him. She saw the tanned skin, the slim figure of a young man in his early twenties. He had blond hair, in contrast with his dark skin. (Was his hair dyed?, she thought when she first looked at him) He had funny curly hair, which gave him the air of an angel. An angel here, coming from the sea, in the hot sun of Copacabana? The thought of his being an angel amused her and they immediately started a conversation. “My name, your name, where do you live”, he didn´t say much about himself except for the comments about playing soccer on the beach; he said he loved playing soccer, that when he was a kid he wanted to be a soccer player.He spoke like so many other people of his age and condition, a broken language with a lot of slang and half bad words that he tried to avoid. She did her best to make him feel at ease – she talked about herself and he seemed to enjoy listening.
“You say you have an apartment here in Copacabana? How come you bought it? You´re no more than a chick! Hey, what …” He laughed with his eyes.
“My dad gave it to me.
“Oh, you have a dad!”
She learned after that that he didn´t have a family or a home. Not even a job – he earned his living looking after cars in a parking lot or doing some other things according to the opportunities. She looked at him and saw the angel face with the blue sky behind it – the white sand and the sea completed the scenery, making the picture unforgettable.
They met several times on the beach before she took him to her apartment, one day. He was good company, in every moment of the day. He helped in the kitchen doing the dishes or even making sandwiches; he knew what to do when something was out of order and, most of all, he cheered her up when she was lazy, not willing to go out . He had energy for both of them, waking up at the right time not to miss the best spot on the beach, or having sex at the moments she thought she was dead tired to do it. Every weekend in Rio was tiring and relaxing, making her ready for the university routine in Sao Paulo. A few times they changed schedules – he came to Sao Paulo by bus and spent the weekend going to the movies and watching TV with her, but she could feel him growing a bit restless.
Her father met him once when he came to see her about something. “What do you think?’ she asked. “Well, if you like him, there isn´t much I can say. Just try to know him well, as not to be disappointed later.” She already did it, most of the time. She looked at her angel with his curly blonde hair and thought of how hard his life must have been so far. She tried to imagine him, as a child, living in the slum, not having a mother or a father to take care of him. Not having decent food to eat, either. Later, living on the streets, all by himself, asking for money or doing God knows what to be able to buy food and find shelter to sleep the nights.The beach, however, was the perfect frame for his figure now – he was happy, he looked happy, so tanned and beautiful, so quick with his legs running after the ball, his smile always ready for a joke.
Sometimes he stayed in her apartment for a few days, after she had left for S. Paulo. And one day he said he wanted to live there, to stay there everyday while she was out. Why not? The apartment would be vacant and he didn´t have a place, she knew that. Yes, she knew that, and she felt uncomfortable when she had to say yes. Something was beginning to deteriorate in their relationship, and she couldn´t understand. They went to the beach everyday on their weekends, they laughed and had sex, but somehow things were different. He was comfortable, too comfortable and bossy, he sounded like a different person, not like the one she had met. She then spent the whole week at the university thinking of the last events. She had been happy for seven months, she liked him in spite of his poverty, (she had to pay for everything) she knew he was a nice person, but she was not happy anymore. She would have to change a few things; maybe she should have her privacy back – she decided to talk to him, he would understand and it would be better for both of them. They could be together most of the time, but not all the time, and she could have her Copacabana apartment for herself, being able to take other girl friends or something like that.
They were in the small kitchen of the Copacabana apartment when she explained to him what she wanted. She said she loved him, she didn´t want to part from him, they could have a future together if they preserved what they already had. She said she felt sorry for being so much used to living alone, but she loved him . She saw his angel face coming closer to her and she tried to read his eyes but she couldn´t … She felt a bit dizzy, the angel was now standing before her and she was so small, she could only see his legs. She tried to hold his leg but her arms wouldn´t obey her. She felt her head on the floor and the last thing she could see was the blooded knife in his hand …
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
OH, CAMILLA!
Oh, Camilla!
It was not for the everlasting love that you can proudly expose for everybody to see.
It was not for being loved by a prince.
It was not, either, for having rivaled such charming a princess.
It was not, I must add, for becoming the king´s wife in the future.
It was for Cornwall.
That was the most precious gift you could have been given. That someone could have been given. Sorry to say that the news about the title was a shock to me. I always thought of Cornwall as something magic, a place where my soul could meet other souls and make it a private rendez-vous for dreamers. A place where I could still talk to Daphne (we´re close friends) and hear her stories. A scenery to enchant my eyes and take my mind to distant plagues.
I hope you deserve the title. And if you ever go there, and, being there, you take a long walk in the morning, try to find the castle of my dreams: it may be old by now, a bit decayed but still standing. Still there. Please don´t touch it. Leave as it is. You see, my dreams are sensitive …
It was for Cornwall that I envied you so much.
It was not for the everlasting love that you can proudly expose for everybody to see.
It was not for being loved by a prince.
It was not, either, for having rivaled such charming a princess.
It was not, I must add, for becoming the king´s wife in the future.
It was for Cornwall.
That was the most precious gift you could have been given. That someone could have been given. Sorry to say that the news about the title was a shock to me. I always thought of Cornwall as something magic, a place where my soul could meet other souls and make it a private rendez-vous for dreamers. A place where I could still talk to Daphne (we´re close friends) and hear her stories. A scenery to enchant my eyes and take my mind to distant plagues.
I hope you deserve the title. And if you ever go there, and, being there, you take a long walk in the morning, try to find the castle of my dreams: it may be old by now, a bit decayed but still standing. Still there. Please don´t touch it. Leave as it is. You see, my dreams are sensitive …
It was for Cornwall that I envied you so much.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
THE GIRL WHO WAS GOING AWAY
THE GIRL WHO WAS GOING AWAY
He didnt´mean to overhear the conversation. The girl had arrived some time before and was talking to his daughter , both of them sitting on the sofa in the living room. He didn´t know who she was and he wouldn´t have even paid attention if it weren´t for the melancoly, yet detailed tone in which she spoke. There are times when your interest is aroused without a clear recognition of why - it may have been the tone of her voice or else the facts she exposed.
The girl was saying that she was leaving Brazil, that she was going to New York, where a friend was going to help her in her first days. Because she was not qualified to get a job in Brazil she decided that her only way out was the airport. She had managed to get the money from her brother, the only person who was interested in the adventure. " What about the documents, the passport?", his daughter asked. " There´s a man who takes care of everything, for five hundred dollars - work papers in Brazil, salary receipts, an address of a hotel in the United States, some tips on how to fill out the form, everything. He says it´s safe, I have to try."
The girl was goodlooking. The man´s daughter seemed worried. " But, don´t you think it´s dangerous to travel with false documents? What if you happen to spend all the money your brother gave you ...?" The girl answered all the questions very calmly; she was tragically calm like someone who has nothing else to consider. "The man is trustworthy, he has done it for many people. All you got to do is to have the five hundred dollars. If you don´t have the five hundred there´s no deal, he won´t do it for less. My brother bought me the ticket and also gave me the five hundred because he knows he can get rid of me for good. All I need now is to have some money to spend in the first days, before beginning to work there."
" Do you think you can find work right away?" " I think so. You know what my friend told me? She said that since she´s been there she´s never failed to have money for her expenses. She says it can be very cold, you have to walk a long way to save, but it´s worth it. It will be like that for me, too. I can´t stay here the way I´m living. I can´t afford to pay for a place to live. I live at the moment in a lady´s house who lets me stay there for free, but I can´t have a bed of my own. Very often I spend the night sitting on a chair, waiting for someone to get up so I can rest in an empty bed."
The other girl was sympathetic. " What if you don´t adapt, what if it doesn´t work out?" The girl went on : "It will work out. My friend said I can even find a husband. She did. She got married there, can you believe it?"
That´s when he heard his daughter buy a leather top for ten dollars. There was little to sell : just a few leather tops and golden sandals, but, according to the girl, it would probably be enough for her first few sandwiches. The man felt restless and uncomfortable continuing the work he was doing even after the girl said goodbye and left. Her words remained there in the living room, repeating themselves like a sad song. He turned on the TV and fetched a book; he always did that when he turned the TV on.
Many times he asked about the girl. Each time he feared he would be told that she had come back, that she had failed. After some months he confirmed, with great relief, that she hadn´t been heard of anymore. It was very likely that she had managed to stay there, just like she wished. That was good., very good. Maybe she could really be happy there. Maybe she could even find a husband. And maybe, one day, he would finally rid her words from the living room ...
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He didnt´mean to overhear the conversation. The girl had arrived some time before and was talking to his daughter , both of them sitting on the sofa in the living room. He didn´t know who she was and he wouldn´t have even paid attention if it weren´t for the melancoly, yet detailed tone in which she spoke. There are times when your interest is aroused without a clear recognition of why - it may have been the tone of her voice or else the facts she exposed.
The girl was saying that she was leaving Brazil, that she was going to New York, where a friend was going to help her in her first days. Because she was not qualified to get a job in Brazil she decided that her only way out was the airport. She had managed to get the money from her brother, the only person who was interested in the adventure. " What about the documents, the passport?", his daughter asked. " There´s a man who takes care of everything, for five hundred dollars - work papers in Brazil, salary receipts, an address of a hotel in the United States, some tips on how to fill out the form, everything. He says it´s safe, I have to try."
The girl was goodlooking. The man´s daughter seemed worried. " But, don´t you think it´s dangerous to travel with false documents? What if you happen to spend all the money your brother gave you ...?" The girl answered all the questions very calmly; she was tragically calm like someone who has nothing else to consider. "The man is trustworthy, he has done it for many people. All you got to do is to have the five hundred dollars. If you don´t have the five hundred there´s no deal, he won´t do it for less. My brother bought me the ticket and also gave me the five hundred because he knows he can get rid of me for good. All I need now is to have some money to spend in the first days, before beginning to work there."
" Do you think you can find work right away?" " I think so. You know what my friend told me? She said that since she´s been there she´s never failed to have money for her expenses. She says it can be very cold, you have to walk a long way to save, but it´s worth it. It will be like that for me, too. I can´t stay here the way I´m living. I can´t afford to pay for a place to live. I live at the moment in a lady´s house who lets me stay there for free, but I can´t have a bed of my own. Very often I spend the night sitting on a chair, waiting for someone to get up so I can rest in an empty bed."
The other girl was sympathetic. " What if you don´t adapt, what if it doesn´t work out?" The girl went on : "It will work out. My friend said I can even find a husband. She did. She got married there, can you believe it?"
That´s when he heard his daughter buy a leather top for ten dollars. There was little to sell : just a few leather tops and golden sandals, but, according to the girl, it would probably be enough for her first few sandwiches. The man felt restless and uncomfortable continuing the work he was doing even after the girl said goodbye and left. Her words remained there in the living room, repeating themselves like a sad song. He turned on the TV and fetched a book; he always did that when he turned the TV on.
Many times he asked about the girl. Each time he feared he would be told that she had come back, that she had failed. After some months he confirmed, with great relief, that she hadn´t been heard of anymore. It was very likely that she had managed to stay there, just like she wished. That was good., very good. Maybe she could really be happy there. Maybe she could even find a husband. And maybe, one day, he would finally rid her words from the living room ...
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Sunday, April 03, 2005
ONE OF THOSE DAYS
One of those days
No, don´t make me laugh, I´m not speaking about menstruation, I´m just trying to say that I feel awful. Nanny left home in the morning with my son and my daughter-in-law; they went to a friend´s house and she was bitten by their son-of-a-bitch-of-a-dog for the second time! The first time happened when Nanny was five months old – she was sitting in her carriage when the door of the apartment opened and, without so much, she was attacked. Today, nine months later, the dog´s owner decided to let him walk in the living room and say hello to the guests. He only took a few seconds to reach Nanny´s legs.
The lady who owns the dog says: “Oh, he´s just kidding! He likes children so much!” Yes, I told my son, that is true. He likes children as I like chicken or Italian food… At this moment I hate her. My son said that Nanny cried so much and was very frightened. She loves dogs and she treats them so well … She doesn´t know that dogs are like people – some of them are bad guys and act like bandidos.
The owners are the ones who should think about it. They should be able to face the truth about their pets. Dogs, I must repeat, are like humans – they have different characters, different attitudes and most of the times, a background to influence them.The lady in question is the one to be blamed, I think. Even her mother has a broken finger caused by the dog she thinks is the sweetest little thing on earth. Will she ever understand that her pet is not welcome at all?
As to Nanny, she will never go back there, and I´m eager to say that aloud, for many people to hear. Oh, I´m sorry. I´m mad at that woman. And today is Sunday …
No, don´t make me laugh, I´m not speaking about menstruation, I´m just trying to say that I feel awful. Nanny left home in the morning with my son and my daughter-in-law; they went to a friend´s house and she was bitten by their son-of-a-bitch-of-a-dog for the second time! The first time happened when Nanny was five months old – she was sitting in her carriage when the door of the apartment opened and, without so much, she was attacked. Today, nine months later, the dog´s owner decided to let him walk in the living room and say hello to the guests. He only took a few seconds to reach Nanny´s legs.
The lady who owns the dog says: “Oh, he´s just kidding! He likes children so much!” Yes, I told my son, that is true. He likes children as I like chicken or Italian food… At this moment I hate her. My son said that Nanny cried so much and was very frightened. She loves dogs and she treats them so well … She doesn´t know that dogs are like people – some of them are bad guys and act like bandidos.
The owners are the ones who should think about it. They should be able to face the truth about their pets. Dogs, I must repeat, are like humans – they have different characters, different attitudes and most of the times, a background to influence them.The lady in question is the one to be blamed, I think. Even her mother has a broken finger caused by the dog she thinks is the sweetest little thing on earth. Will she ever understand that her pet is not welcome at all?
As to Nanny, she will never go back there, and I´m eager to say that aloud, for many people to hear. Oh, I´m sorry. I´m mad at that woman. And today is Sunday …
Friday, March 25, 2005
The building is still there, but I´m sure nobody would take the trouble to stop and take a look at it. It´s old, so old-fashioned, even ridiculous after it has been painted green and granted a title. “Blue Sea Hotel”, that´s what it says. It looks like a beggar whose clothes are too colorful and inadequate. We moved into its third floor when I was five or six years old – at the time it was a charming beige building and we were very excited about living there.
I remember my mother giving orders, boxes being opened and all the noise of heavy packages taking their places. For us, the children, everything was fun, a lot of fun. Old toys emerging from boxes, schedules being broken, and more than anything else, improvisation. Why do we always try to make our lives so permanently organized , when improvised meals taste so good?
We lived there for 13 years. Rio de Janeiro was a different city at the time, full of immigrants. Different languages were spoken in the houses of the girls I used to make friends with. And, there was a war going on. We were very far from it, but it was in the movies, in the newspapers, on the radio, in people´s conversation and in the heart of the families. Young men were being drafted and sent to distant places where they should perform actions they were certainly not prepared to perform. I saw them going and coming, I heard their fears and their jokes, I had my share of everything that happened , as if it were part of my education.
I was twelve years old when the end of the war was announced. I will never forget that moment, people looking at each other to believe it was true. And I will never forget, either, how long it took to erase the stains of the war. Maybe I can say that I grew up in the backstage of a war …
I remember my mother giving orders, boxes being opened and all the noise of heavy packages taking their places. For us, the children, everything was fun, a lot of fun. Old toys emerging from boxes, schedules being broken, and more than anything else, improvisation. Why do we always try to make our lives so permanently organized , when improvised meals taste so good?
We lived there for 13 years. Rio de Janeiro was a different city at the time, full of immigrants. Different languages were spoken in the houses of the girls I used to make friends with. And, there was a war going on. We were very far from it, but it was in the movies, in the newspapers, on the radio, in people´s conversation and in the heart of the families. Young men were being drafted and sent to distant places where they should perform actions they were certainly not prepared to perform. I saw them going and coming, I heard their fears and their jokes, I had my share of everything that happened , as if it were part of my education.
I was twelve years old when the end of the war was announced. I will never forget that moment, people looking at each other to believe it was true. And I will never forget, either, how long it took to erase the stains of the war. Maybe I can say that I grew up in the backstage of a war …
Sunday, March 20, 2005
BLUE SUNDAYS
I´ve felt like this for a long, long time. I don´t mean I don´t like Sundays, they´re the days I can do a little of everything, which is very important for me. I can rest, I can work on some new (or not) handicraft, I can talk on the telephone, I can even go out to eat something different … But Sundays make me down. Sundays smell like my mother´s cooking, the white linen tablecloth on the living room table, guests for lunch and finally, at the end of the evening, my father coming home from his fishing trip.
Chris Christopherson says:
“There is something on a Sunday that makes everybody feel alone.”
That´s exactly how I feel. Alone. Nanny is screaming outside, my son is laughing, there´s a couple watching TV and talking to my daughter-in-law,the dogs are barking now and then, but I feel as if I were standing in a square, people passing carrying their umbrellas, rushing to get somewhere because it´s drizzling in the late afternoon and I, standing there, nowhere to go and nothing waiting for me. Of course it´s not reality, ´cause I´ve always had somewhere to go (!?), but that´s how I feel.
Why is it so? Because I miss my childhood? It would be hard to understand, because my childhood was far from being pleasant and easy. I´ve already given some thought to finding some work to do on Sundays, like baby-sitting in hotels or reading to old people. Thank god none of them became real, for I guess I would have felt worse. I´d probably have missed my melancholy moments , my invisible reality. Sundays may be our invisible reality, the one we try to disrupt all week long. The day we have left for the truth.
Anyway, as you must have guessed, today is Sunday. Another blue Sunday. Tomorrow will be another day. Tomorrow is Monday!!!
Chris Christopherson says:
“There is something on a Sunday that makes everybody feel alone.”
That´s exactly how I feel. Alone. Nanny is screaming outside, my son is laughing, there´s a couple watching TV and talking to my daughter-in-law,the dogs are barking now and then, but I feel as if I were standing in a square, people passing carrying their umbrellas, rushing to get somewhere because it´s drizzling in the late afternoon and I, standing there, nowhere to go and nothing waiting for me. Of course it´s not reality, ´cause I´ve always had somewhere to go (!?), but that´s how I feel.
Why is it so? Because I miss my childhood? It would be hard to understand, because my childhood was far from being pleasant and easy. I´ve already given some thought to finding some work to do on Sundays, like baby-sitting in hotels or reading to old people. Thank god none of them became real, for I guess I would have felt worse. I´d probably have missed my melancholy moments , my invisible reality. Sundays may be our invisible reality, the one we try to disrupt all week long. The day we have left for the truth.
Anyway, as you must have guessed, today is Sunday. Another blue Sunday. Tomorrow will be another day. Tomorrow is Monday!!!
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Still on the subject
STILL ON THE SUBJECT
What´s happening to women? Are they just taking revenge against men´s behavior or are they adapting to a new order that is frightening but is, in fact, a glimpse of the future we dare not look into yet?
The fact is that more and more women are doing sex for money. Some do it because the´re very poor, (a minority in the interior), some because they live in big cities and they feel the need of climbing in their projects – a woman has to reach the prototype to succeed and to be asked out : she´ll need big silicone breasts, sensual lips, abundant hair, a perfect figure and probably a tan all over the body. All that, my darlings, costs an arm and a leg, and without it, according to the media, you can´t be happy.
I should have said that I didn´t intend to generalize, that they´re not the majority of our population, but, honestly, I can´t be sure. That´s all I can see when I look around. University girls making money to travel, older women having all kinds (all kinds!) of plastic surgeries to look good, everybody rushing towards beauty and seduction. They want to be happy. They want it now, they won´t consider waiting until they can afford to do things. Women need a top model figure to be asked out by a well-off man. Pleasure is nowadays the look of envy of friends when you have a “big shot” date. Pleasure is the touch of silk or leather in your skin. Pleasure is the amount of your bank account. I wonder if they care about an orgasm …
Men are simply taking advantage of what is being offered to them. If they ´re allowed some luxuries, I mean, if they can pay for that, they act like consumers, browsing here and there, enjoying the quality of new products.
In small towns you hear about many girls who left for Spain to make money as prostitutes. Their families are proud of them, these girls have sent them money to build houses and have a better life.
It´s a trend, my friends, what is happening is something important because it has to do with the world´s new order. “Money makes the world go round”, we all know, but maybe we have here something that will change relationships and behavior forever. Don´t be so naïve as to think that this is happening in Brazil, that maybe that´s because we´re half Indians or uneducated. Don´t. Brazilians are very intelligent and sensitive, and being sensitive makes them capable of seeing things that other people can´t see Remember the story of “The king´s new clothes”? Something like that, maybe.
I don´t know what´s happening in the other countries, but I know about mine, because, among other things, I live.
What´s happening to women? Are they just taking revenge against men´s behavior or are they adapting to a new order that is frightening but is, in fact, a glimpse of the future we dare not look into yet?
The fact is that more and more women are doing sex for money. Some do it because the´re very poor, (a minority in the interior), some because they live in big cities and they feel the need of climbing in their projects – a woman has to reach the prototype to succeed and to be asked out : she´ll need big silicone breasts, sensual lips, abundant hair, a perfect figure and probably a tan all over the body. All that, my darlings, costs an arm and a leg, and without it, according to the media, you can´t be happy.
I should have said that I didn´t intend to generalize, that they´re not the majority of our population, but, honestly, I can´t be sure. That´s all I can see when I look around. University girls making money to travel, older women having all kinds (all kinds!) of plastic surgeries to look good, everybody rushing towards beauty and seduction. They want to be happy. They want it now, they won´t consider waiting until they can afford to do things. Women need a top model figure to be asked out by a well-off man. Pleasure is nowadays the look of envy of friends when you have a “big shot” date. Pleasure is the touch of silk or leather in your skin. Pleasure is the amount of your bank account. I wonder if they care about an orgasm …
Men are simply taking advantage of what is being offered to them. If they ´re allowed some luxuries, I mean, if they can pay for that, they act like consumers, browsing here and there, enjoying the quality of new products.
In small towns you hear about many girls who left for Spain to make money as prostitutes. Their families are proud of them, these girls have sent them money to build houses and have a better life.
It´s a trend, my friends, what is happening is something important because it has to do with the world´s new order. “Money makes the world go round”, we all know, but maybe we have here something that will change relationships and behavior forever. Don´t be so naïve as to think that this is happening in Brazil, that maybe that´s because we´re half Indians or uneducated. Don´t. Brazilians are very intelligent and sensitive, and being sensitive makes them capable of seeing things that other people can´t see Remember the story of “The king´s new clothes”? Something like that, maybe.
I don´t know what´s happening in the other countries, but I know about mine, because, among other things, I live.
Monday, March 07, 2005
A LITTLE OF BRAZIL
A LITTLE OF BRAZIL
"- Yes, I have two, a boy and a girl. The boy lives with my sister in Maricá. It doesn´t make any difference to my sister, for she has two children - if she has to look after two, why not three...?" She pulls her long hair backwards. Her hair is almost red, gleamy and abundant, preserved from the sun and the sea water - she never goes to the beach. "The girl lives with me. I pay a woman to take care of her while I go out. I got to work ..."
"The boy is big now, he doesn´t give my sister too much trouble, he can take care of himself. Look, that guy is staring at me. I´m going to smile at him; men always prefer women who smile. He´s not bad at all, he must be German or something like that. Maybe he´ll start by paying our check."
"Me? I live near here, on Barata Ribeiro, but I´m not staying there too long. Oh, no, not me - I want to have my own place, my dear. I can´t stand living with other people : at the beginning it´s ok, everything is fine, but after some time ..."
"My little girl is just like her father, who happens to be a big ugly German. But he´s nice. He´s crazy about her, believe me, I never saw anything like that. Look, this is a letter he sent me. He didn´t write it himself, cause he doesn´t know a word in Portuguese. He asks somebody else to write for him."
"Do you know Katia? A tall, blonde girl ...I can´t understand why, she always gets more money from the guys. Remember Jim? Of course you remember Jim, everybody was after him last summer. Well, he gave her one thousand reais! The most I got from him one day was three hundred, and that was because he was drunk, my dear, because when he´s sober it´s just a hundred note and no more. And I still have to wait until 10 o´clock in the morning when he wakes up ..."'
"The guy smiled at me now! I think I´m going to invite him for a drink. With elegance, of course. I´m usually very lucky with Germans. My girl´s father is coming to Rio next month. He´s crazy about the girl. I think it´s because she looks like him - the same big round face with those big blue eyes ... The only problem is he´s going to stay a whole month and I can´t work during this time. Of course he doesn´t know I still work the night."
"A hundred per week, that´s how much I have to pay the woman who looks after the girl. It´s not so easy. My money simply has to provide for everything. I have to make money. Last week I was down, with no money at all, the woman was complaining because I had no money for her ... She just can´t understand that you can´t be lucky all the time, and then you have to wait ... you know what happened? I met an old client who gave me five hundred, just like that, as a Christmas gift. God, I paid the damn woman and then I could finally breathe ... Yeah, you better believe it."
This week looks like it´s going to be cool. Summer is here, Christmas is over ...I would like to get a haircut. No, I´m not going to have it cut short - on the contrary, just to change it a little bit. My daughter has funny hair, so strange, but I think that in time it will get better. Many people ask me if her father is a foreigner. Yeah, I tell them, her dad is German ..."
I had the hell of a time when I was pregnant, but I didn´t stay at home all the time. I used to go to the disco with the other girls, just to see people and listen to the music. How could I stay at home thinking about problems? You can always get lucky and find someone who´ll buy you dinner or something like that. There was an American, one day, who spent a long time caressing my belly, and do you know how much he gave me? Three hundred dollars!"
"I think I´m going to have something to eat; I can´t go on just drinking beer. What am I going to eat? Look, the son of a bitch of a German is asking for the check. There are three others just arriving. The heavy one looks friendlier ..."
"Do you know a good fortune teller? One who works with cards or something? I´ve been thinking of taking a good look into my future. I used to know a wonderful one, but I think she died - well, she was a very old woman, the poor thing! Her time came. I believe that everybody has their own time ..."
"I´m not going to eat here. I think this place is not "the" place today. Say, wouldn´t you like to go somewhere else? Then we can share a pizza ... Last week I met a guy, you won´t believe me, I didn´t think much of him in the beginning, he being a Brazilian, but it was very nice ...When you gotta get lucky it just happens ..."
"Are you going to stay? Well, it´s up to you. I´m going for a walk. We gotta keep moving ..."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
"- Yes, I have two, a boy and a girl. The boy lives with my sister in Maricá. It doesn´t make any difference to my sister, for she has two children - if she has to look after two, why not three...?" She pulls her long hair backwards. Her hair is almost red, gleamy and abundant, preserved from the sun and the sea water - she never goes to the beach. "The girl lives with me. I pay a woman to take care of her while I go out. I got to work ..."
"The boy is big now, he doesn´t give my sister too much trouble, he can take care of himself. Look, that guy is staring at me. I´m going to smile at him; men always prefer women who smile. He´s not bad at all, he must be German or something like that. Maybe he´ll start by paying our check."
"Me? I live near here, on Barata Ribeiro, but I´m not staying there too long. Oh, no, not me - I want to have my own place, my dear. I can´t stand living with other people : at the beginning it´s ok, everything is fine, but after some time ..."
"My little girl is just like her father, who happens to be a big ugly German. But he´s nice. He´s crazy about her, believe me, I never saw anything like that. Look, this is a letter he sent me. He didn´t write it himself, cause he doesn´t know a word in Portuguese. He asks somebody else to write for him."
"Do you know Katia? A tall, blonde girl ...I can´t understand why, she always gets more money from the guys. Remember Jim? Of course you remember Jim, everybody was after him last summer. Well, he gave her one thousand reais! The most I got from him one day was three hundred, and that was because he was drunk, my dear, because when he´s sober it´s just a hundred note and no more. And I still have to wait until 10 o´clock in the morning when he wakes up ..."'
"The guy smiled at me now! I think I´m going to invite him for a drink. With elegance, of course. I´m usually very lucky with Germans. My girl´s father is coming to Rio next month. He´s crazy about the girl. I think it´s because she looks like him - the same big round face with those big blue eyes ... The only problem is he´s going to stay a whole month and I can´t work during this time. Of course he doesn´t know I still work the night."
"A hundred per week, that´s how much I have to pay the woman who looks after the girl. It´s not so easy. My money simply has to provide for everything. I have to make money. Last week I was down, with no money at all, the woman was complaining because I had no money for her ... She just can´t understand that you can´t be lucky all the time, and then you have to wait ... you know what happened? I met an old client who gave me five hundred, just like that, as a Christmas gift. God, I paid the damn woman and then I could finally breathe ... Yeah, you better believe it."
This week looks like it´s going to be cool. Summer is here, Christmas is over ...I would like to get a haircut. No, I´m not going to have it cut short - on the contrary, just to change it a little bit. My daughter has funny hair, so strange, but I think that in time it will get better. Many people ask me if her father is a foreigner. Yeah, I tell them, her dad is German ..."
I had the hell of a time when I was pregnant, but I didn´t stay at home all the time. I used to go to the disco with the other girls, just to see people and listen to the music. How could I stay at home thinking about problems? You can always get lucky and find someone who´ll buy you dinner or something like that. There was an American, one day, who spent a long time caressing my belly, and do you know how much he gave me? Three hundred dollars!"
"I think I´m going to have something to eat; I can´t go on just drinking beer. What am I going to eat? Look, the son of a bitch of a German is asking for the check. There are three others just arriving. The heavy one looks friendlier ..."
"Do you know a good fortune teller? One who works with cards or something? I´ve been thinking of taking a good look into my future. I used to know a wonderful one, but I think she died - well, she was a very old woman, the poor thing! Her time came. I believe that everybody has their own time ..."
"I´m not going to eat here. I think this place is not "the" place today. Say, wouldn´t you like to go somewhere else? Then we can share a pizza ... Last week I met a guy, you won´t believe me, I didn´t think much of him in the beginning, he being a Brazilian, but it was very nice ...When you gotta get lucky it just happens ..."
"Are you going to stay? Well, it´s up to you. I´m going for a walk. We gotta keep moving ..."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, February 28, 2005
Two Ladies
TWO LADIES
They used to meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays, at two o´clock, and theirs was the quiet and delighting hour they spent together in the large parlor of the apartment on Atlantica avenue. The teacher was never late, so righteous and kind, bringing with her smiles and phrases from everyday life.
They spoke in English, since that´s what they were there for - the student wanted to practice the language. Soon into the beginning of each class a silent maid brought them coffee in small cups without interrupting the flow of conversation of precious stories. Their talks were pleasant, that was clear, phrases bringing up accounts, comments reinforcing memories that the short time did its best to cover ...
The teacher looked around her and rejoiced with the magnificent view of the sea offered by the large windows. Everything was ample, free to the looking, personal and beautiful. The grand piano held a dignified place in the room, imposing its importance to whomever saw it there. The teacher couldn´t help but imagine the music taking over the big parlor and then escaping through the open window, towards the sea.
The student watched the teacher, thinking of a distant time in the past when she used to work and follow schedules. She was not really young, the teacher, but she was certainly a woman of her time, as if she were part of a catalog of the year´s young ladies. She was always in fashion, clothes and hairdo, she had up-to-date words on her lips and seemed to live intensively the time of her life. The student was a bit frightened at the start when she confirmed the contrasts with herself, but soon she realized the convenience of such differences.
The student was a lonely woman, very rich, at peace, with solidly defined targets. She had a husband and two sons but never had anyone around, like it had been before. Her life was now isolated, serene, with no ups nor downs. No turbulences, she said of her life. She had even given up traveling. " I have traveled a lot," she told the teacher. Music was now her only companion in the big apartment.
The teacher of English was her most sincere link with the world. It was from her that she heard selected news, comments ever so spiced with updated remarks and all those stories about new events, parties and deliciously unimportant things. That´s what she liked the most. Nothing could be more interesting than the account of the little things that happened to a person who still had the need to face the world.
They used to read, too. Both of them were fond of literature and so they shared their favorite texts, discovering interesting passages and also finding out about themselves in the contexts.The teacher enjoyed listening to her student, her story, her marriage, the way she started her adult life. The time they had was not long but the two women, both so sensitive and intelligent, made it a valuable piece of time.
They seemed to study each other all the time. They reflected on their differences without the weight of envy or despise : a quiet contemplation was the tone of their atmosphere. Their main concern was the study of existence itself, and its universal characteristics. They respected each other in their different routes, one being rich and secluded and the other being in need of material (and emotional) stability.
The student still remembers the time lost in the past, the hours of so much chit-chat and so many stories. The teacher, in turn, keeps listening to the music filling the big parlor of the Atlantica avenue ...Could they have remained friends forever, or is it that life is like a patchwork quilt?...
...................................................................................................
They used to meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays, at two o´clock, and theirs was the quiet and delighting hour they spent together in the large parlor of the apartment on Atlantica avenue. The teacher was never late, so righteous and kind, bringing with her smiles and phrases from everyday life.
They spoke in English, since that´s what they were there for - the student wanted to practice the language. Soon into the beginning of each class a silent maid brought them coffee in small cups without interrupting the flow of conversation of precious stories. Their talks were pleasant, that was clear, phrases bringing up accounts, comments reinforcing memories that the short time did its best to cover ...
The teacher looked around her and rejoiced with the magnificent view of the sea offered by the large windows. Everything was ample, free to the looking, personal and beautiful. The grand piano held a dignified place in the room, imposing its importance to whomever saw it there. The teacher couldn´t help but imagine the music taking over the big parlor and then escaping through the open window, towards the sea.
The student watched the teacher, thinking of a distant time in the past when she used to work and follow schedules. She was not really young, the teacher, but she was certainly a woman of her time, as if she were part of a catalog of the year´s young ladies. She was always in fashion, clothes and hairdo, she had up-to-date words on her lips and seemed to live intensively the time of her life. The student was a bit frightened at the start when she confirmed the contrasts with herself, but soon she realized the convenience of such differences.
The student was a lonely woman, very rich, at peace, with solidly defined targets. She had a husband and two sons but never had anyone around, like it had been before. Her life was now isolated, serene, with no ups nor downs. No turbulences, she said of her life. She had even given up traveling. " I have traveled a lot," she told the teacher. Music was now her only companion in the big apartment.
The teacher of English was her most sincere link with the world. It was from her that she heard selected news, comments ever so spiced with updated remarks and all those stories about new events, parties and deliciously unimportant things. That´s what she liked the most. Nothing could be more interesting than the account of the little things that happened to a person who still had the need to face the world.
They used to read, too. Both of them were fond of literature and so they shared their favorite texts, discovering interesting passages and also finding out about themselves in the contexts.The teacher enjoyed listening to her student, her story, her marriage, the way she started her adult life. The time they had was not long but the two women, both so sensitive and intelligent, made it a valuable piece of time.
They seemed to study each other all the time. They reflected on their differences without the weight of envy or despise : a quiet contemplation was the tone of their atmosphere. Their main concern was the study of existence itself, and its universal characteristics. They respected each other in their different routes, one being rich and secluded and the other being in need of material (and emotional) stability.
The student still remembers the time lost in the past, the hours of so much chit-chat and so many stories. The teacher, in turn, keeps listening to the music filling the big parlor of the Atlantica avenue ...Could they have remained friends forever, or is it that life is like a patchwork quilt?...
...................................................................................................
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Things I love
Smell of coffee coming up the stairs from the kitchen, at seven in the morning. The idea of a breakfast table with bread, butter and jam , my cup and some cookies waiting for me …
Nanny smiling, looking up, trying to understand the beauty of the clouds …
My fifty-year-old son laughing so loud that I can hardly hear what the movie actors are saying …
A song that I used to know so well, that I liked so much, and now, what a surprise, they´re playing it on the radio …
A student who e-mailed to say that she would like to finish reading a book we had started discussing in class. She also says that she misses our chit-chats …
My younger son surprising me with his knowledge of philosophy …
Birds beginning to sing very early in the morning …
Dark clouds with a silver lining …
Chocolate icecream …
A friend who called just because he missed me…
Flowers in my garden …
Nanny smiling, looking up, trying to understand the beauty of the clouds …
My fifty-year-old son laughing so loud that I can hardly hear what the movie actors are saying …
A song that I used to know so well, that I liked so much, and now, what a surprise, they´re playing it on the radio …
A student who e-mailed to say that she would like to finish reading a book we had started discussing in class. She also says that she misses our chit-chats …
My younger son surprising me with his knowledge of philosophy …
Birds beginning to sing very early in the morning …
Dark clouds with a silver lining …
Chocolate icecream …
A friend who called just because he missed me…
Flowers in my garden …
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