Friday, May 28, 2010
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Our truth
The early morning opened itself in a vacillating light. For me, the atmosphere was that of a miracle. I have reached the impossible of myself. Because I felt that Ulysses was again attached to the pain of existence.
This capacity to renew myself as time passes is what I call living and writing. Living and painting. Living and loving. Living and dieing. ... Around him, an emptiness blew, in which a man finds himself when he is going to create. Desolated, he provoked the great solitude. And, like an old man who has not learned to read, he measured the distance that separated him from the word. He lay down on my lap and flies through the solitude of a thought. A thought I can't have. It isn't mine. It isn't yours. It's his. Absolutely his.
He sometimes makes me divine. He sometimes makes me human. He sometimes makes me believe. I know what I'm doing here. I just don't admit it. It's mine. Not his.
My truth, our truth, this foreigner, this stranger whose face we were promised we would see in the end. The stranger that promised the truth. His truth. And my truth. It's ours. Nobody else's.
This capacity to renew myself as time passes is what I call living and writing. Living and painting. Living and loving. Living and dieing. ... Around him, an emptiness blew, in which a man finds himself when he is going to create. Desolated, he provoked the great solitude. And, like an old man who has not learned to read, he measured the distance that separated him from the word. He lay down on my lap and flies through the solitude of a thought. A thought I can't have. It isn't mine. It isn't yours. It's his. Absolutely his.
He sometimes makes me divine. He sometimes makes me human. He sometimes makes me believe. I know what I'm doing here. I just don't admit it. It's mine. Not his.
My truth, our truth, this foreigner, this stranger whose face we were promised we would see in the end. The stranger that promised the truth. His truth. And my truth. It's ours. Nobody else's.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Machismo
"What to make of this story? That, too, I don't know, I'm giving it as a present to whoever wants it, because I'm sick of it. And how! Sometimes people make me sick. Then it passes, and I become all curious and observant once again. That's all."
More than five years after I had my first kiss, Machismo is not a concept that was buried. The titular colloquialism refers specifically to the idea that there should be a substantial distance between the women rights and the men rights. So devoted I was to not be part of this called "Machismo" that I did.
I was right. It was impossible to not be enamored with these machos characters. It is something truly especial about them, the Latin blood? The warm heart, a wry sarcasm and the mystery. My dad repeatedly tried to raise me in a different perspective as my brother. He is a year younger than I am. At age 16 he could drive. I couldn't. When he finally got a girlfriend at age 18, they could stay in his bedroom with the door closed...I could never...EVER...have a boyfriend passing the line of my door...and the limits of my dad's eyes. I had rules. My maid was paid sometimes to give dad my hours of study. My brother never had to prove anything. The only way to keep my rights was staying in and obey. Nothing so harsh, I was never beaten..except when I opened my grandma's couch with a cutter. I was 5 or 6, can't remember. The heart beating in solitude. I remember the action, slowly and adrenaline running...the curiosity to find out what is inside the black couch. I realized it wasn't that interesting. I could go to Balls at age 18 (right after my exchanging program in America) only if my bro could come along (I taught the fact that I had lived in a different culture and country for a year could give me more freedom when I got back. Big mistake). So I crashed. And decisively anticipated my trip to Buenos Aires. This capacity to renew myself as time passes is an "existential soup opera". I felt anger against men and stupid rights.
My first boyfriend was atheist and very much like the stereotypical macho...so I struggled against that too...and he never looked me in the eyes again after I said:
- My love, you don’t believe in the God, because we made a mistake when we humanized Him. We humanized Him because we did not understand Him, then it didn’t work out. I’m certain that He is not human. But although He’s not human, He sometimes makes us divine.
He taught I was too much.
He was actually tormented with the reality of his familial drama. And I wasn't the submissive type.
To take care of the world demands also a lot of patience, and in this Latin world, to take care of yourself in a "macho" world is necessary to double that patience. Most women give up, and learn that they have different rights than man. For myself, double that double. These machos will never learn, and I understand...but do not stand. I'm kind of envious of those women who can. My mom has four sisters...they're all bosses and anti-machismo. They're all independent from their husbands and raised boys like no other. This brings to a mixed feeling, I had to understand that to become a "good-woman" my dad had to make the rules...and she let him. But, doesn't that mean she allowed him to machismo? How far we consider that machismo? Am I sexist? I think I need another life to think about it.
To love the truth of what is alive, that which seems ungrateful to Narcissus eyes, to love the origin, to be personally interested in the impersonal, in the animal, in the thing...man and woman must be one.
More than five years after I had my first kiss, Machismo is not a concept that was buried. The titular colloquialism refers specifically to the idea that there should be a substantial distance between the women rights and the men rights. So devoted I was to not be part of this called "Machismo" that I did.
I was right. It was impossible to not be enamored with these machos characters. It is something truly especial about them, the Latin blood? The warm heart, a wry sarcasm and the mystery. My dad repeatedly tried to raise me in a different perspective as my brother. He is a year younger than I am. At age 16 he could drive. I couldn't. When he finally got a girlfriend at age 18, they could stay in his bedroom with the door closed...I could never...EVER...have a boyfriend passing the line of my door...and the limits of my dad's eyes. I had rules. My maid was paid sometimes to give dad my hours of study. My brother never had to prove anything. The only way to keep my rights was staying in and obey. Nothing so harsh, I was never beaten..except when I opened my grandma's couch with a cutter. I was 5 or 6, can't remember. The heart beating in solitude. I remember the action, slowly and adrenaline running...the curiosity to find out what is inside the black couch. I realized it wasn't that interesting. I could go to Balls at age 18 (right after my exchanging program in America) only if my bro could come along (I taught the fact that I had lived in a different culture and country for a year could give me more freedom when I got back. Big mistake). So I crashed. And decisively anticipated my trip to Buenos Aires. This capacity to renew myself as time passes is an "existential soup opera". I felt anger against men and stupid rights.
My first boyfriend was atheist and very much like the stereotypical macho...so I struggled against that too...and he never looked me in the eyes again after I said:
- My love, you don’t believe in the God, because we made a mistake when we humanized Him. We humanized Him because we did not understand Him, then it didn’t work out. I’m certain that He is not human. But although He’s not human, He sometimes makes us divine.
He taught I was too much.
He was actually tormented with the reality of his familial drama. And I wasn't the submissive type.
To take care of the world demands also a lot of patience, and in this Latin world, to take care of yourself in a "macho" world is necessary to double that patience. Most women give up, and learn that they have different rights than man. For myself, double that double. These machos will never learn, and I understand...but do not stand. I'm kind of envious of those women who can. My mom has four sisters...they're all bosses and anti-machismo. They're all independent from their husbands and raised boys like no other. This brings to a mixed feeling, I had to understand that to become a "good-woman" my dad had to make the rules...and she let him. But, doesn't that mean she allowed him to machismo? How far we consider that machismo? Am I sexist? I think I need another life to think about it.
To love the truth of what is alive, that which seems ungrateful to Narcissus eyes, to love the origin, to be personally interested in the impersonal, in the animal, in the thing...man and woman must be one.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
"Rebellion" - part I
It was the Portuguese language which influenced my spiritual life and innermost thoughts, and this was the language I used to utter words of love. I began to write as soon as I could read and write and, needless to say, I wrote them in Portuguese. I spent my childhood in Salto de Pirapora and I firmly believe that living in the Southern or Southeastern provinces of Brazil brings one into closer contact with Brazilian life at isn't most authentic because there the country is cultivated with
outside influences. My beliefs were nurtured in Sao Paulo.
And from our housemaids I absorbed the rich folklore of those regions. I was already in my teens when we moved to SP , this vast metropolis I soon began to think of as Brazilian globalized.
As for the way in which I roll my r's, as if I were speaking French or some other foreign language, this is simply because of a speech defect. A defect which I have never succeeded in correcting. A defect which my good friend tells me can be overcome. He has offered to help me but I am lazy and I know perfectly well I would never do the exercises once I was on my own. And besides my rolled r's are not doing anyone any harm. So that should clear up yet another mystery.
Much more difficult to explain, however, is the path my life has taken. If my family had emigrated to the United States along with me, would I still have become an english-lover? Is to say, a brazilian writing in English?
In all probability I would get married to an American and have American children. And my life would be completely different. I wonder what I would have written about? What I would have supported? What sort of friends I would have cultivated? There is a real mystery.
But I'm not married, I don't live with my family, and I still love the English language as my own. And of course, I don't have children....and by the way, I'm only 22. In the other side, I imagine what would have happened If I had stayed in Brazil, with my family. I wonder what I would have written about? What I would have supported? What sorts of friends I would have cultivated?
It's a mystery.
"Rebellion!":
"When love is too great it becomes futile; it can no longer be put to use and not even the person loved has the capacity for so much love. I became as bemused as any child when I realized that even in love we must be sensible and show restraint. Our emotional life, alas, is extremely mediocre."
"I said to a friend:
—Life has always asked too much of me.
She replied:
—But don't forget that you also ask too much of life.
That is true."
outside influences. My beliefs were nurtured in Sao Paulo.
And from our housemaids I absorbed the rich folklore of those regions. I was already in my teens when we moved to SP , this vast metropolis I soon began to think of as Brazilian globalized.
As for the way in which I roll my r's, as if I were speaking French or some other foreign language, this is simply because of a speech defect. A defect which I have never succeeded in correcting. A defect which my good friend tells me can be overcome. He has offered to help me but I am lazy and I know perfectly well I would never do the exercises once I was on my own. And besides my rolled r's are not doing anyone any harm. So that should clear up yet another mystery.
Much more difficult to explain, however, is the path my life has taken. If my family had emigrated to the United States along with me, would I still have become an english-lover? Is to say, a brazilian writing in English?
In all probability I would get married to an American and have American children. And my life would be completely different. I wonder what I would have written about? What I would have supported? What sort of friends I would have cultivated? There is a real mystery.
But I'm not married, I don't live with my family, and I still love the English language as my own. And of course, I don't have children....and by the way, I'm only 22. In the other side, I imagine what would have happened If I had stayed in Brazil, with my family. I wonder what I would have written about? What I would have supported? What sorts of friends I would have cultivated?
It's a mystery.
"Rebellion!":
"When love is too great it becomes futile; it can no longer be put to use and not even the person loved has the capacity for so much love. I became as bemused as any child when I realized that even in love we must be sensible and show restraint. Our emotional life, alas, is extremely mediocre."
"I said to a friend:
—Life has always asked too much of me.
She replied:
—But don't forget that you also ask too much of life.
That is true."
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
The first blog. english version.
In this imaginary and pleasurable scene which made her smile devoutly, she addressed herself as "Bella", as if speaking in a third person.
A train that had already departed started all that. I remember when I was younger, solitary and amused by everything and everyone, I decided to write a diary. And as the technology advances and my life is sucked into a computer I began to think of a way to write my blogs. This blog is about a blog. Does that make sense? Probably not.
A part of a primitive rhythm of a ritual. This morning I woke up, went down the stairs... as I walked the hall I heard Peter (my roommate) taking a shower, looked around and noticed there were elements missing... and I waited. Started off the coffee pot... my Colombian coffee running down the glass and my mug excited to be filled with fantastic-magical-caffeine... to, of course, wake me up. All this, certainly... prolonged, exhausted, the exasperation. But on the following hours, I awoke.
She pretended to be distracted and, conversing, she avoided conversation. Part of the rhythm. And she wrote a blog.
This is my ritual. I write from lack of conversation. Like this morning. I'm here... in this house ... with my coffee.
"Not to move is what matters" she thought from afar "not to move".
The first time I wrote a blog.. happened this way (I may change real names):
Then the day broke. Slowly she retrieved her books scattered on the ground. Further ahead lay her open exercise books. When she bent over to pick it up, she saw the large round handwriting which until this morning had been hers. Then she left, without knowing how she had filled in the time, she arrived at school more than two hours late. Since she had thought about nothing, she did not realized how the time had slipped by. From the presence of the Latin master she discovered with polite surprise that in class they had already started on the third hour.
"What happened to you?"
"Why"
"You look pale"
"I am pale"
"No"
She got up and said in a loud voice "Excuse me!"
She was standing there, also missing the third class in the long library bench in front of several trees.
I must take more care of myself. She did not know how to...
So she wrote a letter:
Dear Bella,
Confronted with this situation, I'm writing you to ask you for my pardon. In fact, I must have been drunk last night and do not remember a word I said to you. So here goes my apologies and love to you. There was no need to lower oneself in the eyes of another chap for whom a session at the movies could only be improved by being with a boy. I ruined everything.
I'm sorry.
Relieved, I must say that Arthur was a jerk. He leaned back against his seat and touched my legs.
But I love you. Very much.
yours.
I never gave this letter to her. She died in a car accident after the movie session. I posted this on my blog, virtually connection with no one...that one day...had been someone.
now You know.
A train that had already departed started all that. I remember when I was younger, solitary and amused by everything and everyone, I decided to write a diary. And as the technology advances and my life is sucked into a computer I began to think of a way to write my blogs. This blog is about a blog. Does that make sense? Probably not.
A part of a primitive rhythm of a ritual. This morning I woke up, went down the stairs... as I walked the hall I heard Peter (my roommate) taking a shower, looked around and noticed there were elements missing... and I waited. Started off the coffee pot... my Colombian coffee running down the glass and my mug excited to be filled with fantastic-magical-caffeine... to, of course, wake me up. All this, certainly... prolonged, exhausted, the exasperation. But on the following hours, I awoke.
She pretended to be distracted and, conversing, she avoided conversation. Part of the rhythm. And she wrote a blog.
This is my ritual. I write from lack of conversation. Like this morning. I'm here... in this house ... with my coffee.
"Not to move is what matters" she thought from afar "not to move".
The first time I wrote a blog.. happened this way (I may change real names):
Then the day broke. Slowly she retrieved her books scattered on the ground. Further ahead lay her open exercise books. When she bent over to pick it up, she saw the large round handwriting which until this morning had been hers. Then she left, without knowing how she had filled in the time, she arrived at school more than two hours late. Since she had thought about nothing, she did not realized how the time had slipped by. From the presence of the Latin master she discovered with polite surprise that in class they had already started on the third hour.
"What happened to you?"
"Why"
"You look pale"
"I am pale"
"No"
She got up and said in a loud voice "Excuse me!"
She was standing there, also missing the third class in the long library bench in front of several trees.
I must take more care of myself. She did not know how to...
So she wrote a letter:
Dear Bella,
Confronted with this situation, I'm writing you to ask you for my pardon. In fact, I must have been drunk last night and do not remember a word I said to you. So here goes my apologies and love to you. There was no need to lower oneself in the eyes of another chap for whom a session at the movies could only be improved by being with a boy. I ruined everything.
I'm sorry.
Relieved, I must say that Arthur was a jerk. He leaned back against his seat and touched my legs.
But I love you. Very much.
yours.
I never gave this letter to her. She died in a car accident after the movie session. I posted this on my blog, virtually connection with no one...that one day...had been someone.
now You know.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Letter to Bella XVI - Mon enfance
Dear Bella,
When your letter arrived I was feeling violated. Desperately trying to discover the seeds of its existence. Perhaps I shall succeed before finishing my story. It's much too early to say, but I'm hopeful.
There are certain words whose meaning I can't understand yet. Like last night, I found the word ephemeris altogether mysterious. I feel enamoured of the word now. So what?! So nothing.
Speaking for myself, the author of this human character, I cannot stand repetition: routines divides me from potential novelties within my reach. So here I find myself enamoured of a different word every week. I don't struggle no more my bella. It's futile trying to struggle. How can one disguise the simple fact that the entire world is somewhat sad and lonely with it's own routine? Languages are the only escape from this boring routine. Forbidden to touch...but to be heard and sang. And with all my affection I write you this in my poor but intimate francais:
"Je crois que non domestiques restants je maintiennent mon enfance intact"
Please darling, let yourself confront the pleasure that you have never before experienced and take full advantage of this well-earned solitude, at the radio...which should be played at full volume, of the room spaciousness, some instant coffee, additional flavor or a especial affair.
My hair is growing longer again. My character hasn't changed either. Quite stupid, and damn sentimental.Sometimes I think that is because I'm sick, but of course that is only a very good pretext.
To my surprise, Julia wrote me a letter, saying that somebody talked to her about my paintings and wants me to contact a curator in Sao Paulo. I'm frustated with her, so I won't do it. And besides, I'm dedicated to my new project with Proxy apparel. We have many things to talk about this business, but I'm not going to bother you now with such differences of opinion. In September we will talk for hours, now I only can tell you that me coming to America has been the swellest thing ever happened to my life.
Here goes my love to you, let me know the sex of your baby as soon as you find out. I'll send a present for the future citizen of the world.
much love from your amada
beijos.
When your letter arrived I was feeling violated. Desperately trying to discover the seeds of its existence. Perhaps I shall succeed before finishing my story. It's much too early to say, but I'm hopeful.
There are certain words whose meaning I can't understand yet. Like last night, I found the word ephemeris altogether mysterious. I feel enamoured of the word now. So what?! So nothing.
Speaking for myself, the author of this human character, I cannot stand repetition: routines divides me from potential novelties within my reach. So here I find myself enamoured of a different word every week. I don't struggle no more my bella. It's futile trying to struggle. How can one disguise the simple fact that the entire world is somewhat sad and lonely with it's own routine? Languages are the only escape from this boring routine. Forbidden to touch...but to be heard and sang. And with all my affection I write you this in my poor but intimate francais:
"Je crois que non domestiques restants je maintiennent mon enfance intact"
Please darling, let yourself confront the pleasure that you have never before experienced and take full advantage of this well-earned solitude, at the radio...which should be played at full volume, of the room spaciousness, some instant coffee, additional flavor or a especial affair.
My hair is growing longer again. My character hasn't changed either. Quite stupid, and damn sentimental.Sometimes I think that is because I'm sick, but of course that is only a very good pretext.
To my surprise, Julia wrote me a letter, saying that somebody talked to her about my paintings and wants me to contact a curator in Sao Paulo. I'm frustated with her, so I won't do it. And besides, I'm dedicated to my new project with Proxy apparel. We have many things to talk about this business, but I'm not going to bother you now with such differences of opinion. In September we will talk for hours, now I only can tell you that me coming to America has been the swellest thing ever happened to my life.
Here goes my love to you, let me know the sex of your baby as soon as you find out. I'll send a present for the future citizen of the world.
much love from your amada
beijos.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Searching on my diary ...
I was bored the other day and happened to me this particular blog with pieces of me. My diary translated from Portuguese. Things I wrote when I was fifteen, sixteen...eighteen. Justify my words doesn't make me a better person. But I read Tolstoy's sonata the other day and it said: "If there's a purpose in life, it's clear that life ought to end when the purpose is attained".
"All my life I had to deal with ghosts of one sort or another. This means my sources of inspiration are varied because, as you know, there are many kinds of ghosts".
"Now that I'm older and trying to concentrate on things that makes me feel complete as a person..and opposing myself to things that make me feel empty. But it's difficult not to feel empty. Being human is difficult. Everything I do has to be visually appealing to me. My emotions are tiring".
"A lot of things makes me sad. It's almost easier to be sad".
"The ghost of love, where does not depend on moral qualities but on the physical closeness".
"I didn't look at a fashion magazine until a year ago..and never taught of what I'm putting on..I probably look awful most of the time".
"We are very close. We're extremely close".
"I do actually believe in all this?"
"I'm a fascinated nonbeliever. I don't want to destroy the pleasure and enchantment".
"I think as you get older, you narrow down what makes you happy..."
"I'm learning things about myself..that I didn't want to know"..."or die with it".
"I don't know what to do with the horrifying freedom that can destroy myself".
"He's cheating on me. He's cheating on me, and I don't really care".
"I burned a photograph today, and felt released".
"My story consists of words, that form phrases, from which there emanates a secret meaning"
"woman don't have to sacrifice being sexy"
"Take me home, or go away"
"What I don't know how to express in words is more important than what I actually say".
"I love the ugly...equally"
"It's the least favor I do for myself: acceptance".
"All my life I had to deal with ghosts of one sort or another. This means my sources of inspiration are varied because, as you know, there are many kinds of ghosts".
"Now that I'm older and trying to concentrate on things that makes me feel complete as a person..and opposing myself to things that make me feel empty. But it's difficult not to feel empty. Being human is difficult. Everything I do has to be visually appealing to me. My emotions are tiring".
"A lot of things makes me sad. It's almost easier to be sad".
"The ghost of love, where does not depend on moral qualities but on the physical closeness".
"I didn't look at a fashion magazine until a year ago..and never taught of what I'm putting on..I probably look awful most of the time".
"We are very close. We're extremely close".
"I do actually believe in all this?"
"I'm a fascinated nonbeliever. I don't want to destroy the pleasure and enchantment".
"I think as you get older, you narrow down what makes you happy..."
"I'm learning things about myself..that I didn't want to know"..."or die with it".
"I don't know what to do with the horrifying freedom that can destroy myself".
"He's cheating on me. He's cheating on me, and I don't really care".
"I burned a photograph today, and felt released".
"My story consists of words, that form phrases, from which there emanates a secret meaning"
"woman don't have to sacrifice being sexy"
"Take me home, or go away"
"What I don't know how to express in words is more important than what I actually say".
"I love the ugly...equally"
"It's the least favor I do for myself: acceptance".
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