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.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
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".
Saturday, July 12, 2008
To be precious...e a morte (part II and final)
But it was spring. Even the lion licked the smooth head of the lioness. She looked away from the bottle. Heavy-maned, tranquil.
"But this is love, this is love". she said in rebellion.
She walked on. With her hands in her desperate face, but it was spring and the lions were in love, and her family was about to come home for dinner, and her maid was smiling with love. She looks around and finds herself surrounded by cages. The cage of her confined life. The freedom is no longer there. The love. The lions. But the bottle.
Unable to find within herself the critical of her illness, the sickest point. To go back to her old world, which saw no danger in being nude...
Still looking back in terror at the ape with outspread arms:
"Oh no, not this...God, teach me only to hate".
But she did not even know how to begin, how to dig in the earth until she would find the black water. Her body convulsed like that of someone laughing, a sensation of death, the death without warning someone, but her death, always hers. But as if she had swallowed emptiness, her heart was taken by surprise. No other beloved one could avoid that. No daughter, no mother had ever existed. Her intimate thoughts begin the tumult of a roller coaster, and feeling unable to walk much further, rested her head in the bars of the cage...she looked at him. No words were exchanged, she was never able to hate that photograph, which in the silence of its questioning form watched her. Perturbed and eyes moistened in something near to sadness...she felt silent, belonging to a world where she was the only life beneath that Spring sky. Promising herself to never feel the triumph of love...
Where she would learn to hate so as not to die of love.
"But this is love, this is love". she said in rebellion.
She walked on. With her hands in her desperate face, but it was spring and the lions were in love, and her family was about to come home for dinner, and her maid was smiling with love. She looks around and finds herself surrounded by cages. The cage of her confined life. The freedom is no longer there. The love. The lions. But the bottle.
Unable to find within herself the critical of her illness, the sickest point. To go back to her old world, which saw no danger in being nude...
Still looking back in terror at the ape with outspread arms:
"Oh no, not this...God, teach me only to hate".
But she did not even know how to begin, how to dig in the earth until she would find the black water. Her body convulsed like that of someone laughing, a sensation of death, the death without warning someone, but her death, always hers. But as if she had swallowed emptiness, her heart was taken by surprise. No other beloved one could avoid that. No daughter, no mother had ever existed. Her intimate thoughts begin the tumult of a roller coaster, and feeling unable to walk much further, rested her head in the bars of the cage...she looked at him. No words were exchanged, she was never able to hate that photograph, which in the silence of its questioning form watched her. Perturbed and eyes moistened in something near to sadness...she felt silent, belonging to a world where she was the only life beneath that Spring sky. Promising herself to never feel the triumph of love...
Where she would learn to hate so as not to die of love.
Friday, July 11, 2008
To be precious...e a morte.
It was one of those mornings that seemed to be suspended in midair...in which come closest to the feeling of misfortune.
The night before they went out to explore the garden. Soon the candles scattered, dancing in the darkness. The garden aroused from a dream, now seemed to expand, and to fade away. - This was her last dream.
Everything dissolved and had to be restored from the beginning. She alone did not continue to look for something...there was nothing to be looked for. When she has been betrayed or ignored, when someone has gone away forever, or she has lost the best of her possessions, or when learned that she's about to die - She does not talk.
"I reject the meat and it's blood"- she said
In her family they always watched her, because they knew, they did not see her. She felt ashamed of not trusting them, as they were, her father also knew and closed his eyes.
At times, while the teacher was speaking, she, intense, nebulous, drew symmetrical lines on her exercise book. If a line, which had to be both strong and delicate, went outside the imaginary circle where it belonged, would collapse: she became self-absorbed and remote, guided by the avidity of her ideal. Her own shadow was a black post. The sun outlined each man around her with a black charcoal. The journey to return home was so full of hunger, that she became impatient. In the empty house, alone with the maid, she no longer walked like a soldier, the whole family out in their business, she shouted at the maid, who did not answer. She shouted at the dog who seemed deeply concentrated in reaching a turtle's head. The afternoon was transformed into something interminable and until they all might return home to dinner and she might become a daughter, she sat down, laid, her head between her hands....feeling desperate.
"I'm well, I'm well, I'm well" - she repeated many times.
She said once more:
"I'm well."
She was no longer to the mercy of anyone. Desperate, because well and free, she had lost her faith. She went to talk with the maid. They recognized each other. The catholic maid was her hope of faith.
"She must know more than I do"
All this, certainly prolonged, there were elements missing, exhausted, the exasperation, she awoke.
No, she was not alone. Her eyes glowering with disbelief, at the far end of her street two man walking towards her, a bottle of medicine in the other side of the room.
"A person is nothing, NO"
She retorted in weak protest. Life assumed a hysterical meaning. Without knowing through which process, to be precious.
The night before they went out to explore the garden. Soon the candles scattered, dancing in the darkness. The garden aroused from a dream, now seemed to expand, and to fade away. - This was her last dream.
Everything dissolved and had to be restored from the beginning. She alone did not continue to look for something...there was nothing to be looked for. When she has been betrayed or ignored, when someone has gone away forever, or she has lost the best of her possessions, or when learned that she's about to die - She does not talk.
"I reject the meat and it's blood"- she said
In her family they always watched her, because they knew, they did not see her. She felt ashamed of not trusting them, as they were, her father also knew and closed his eyes.
At times, while the teacher was speaking, she, intense, nebulous, drew symmetrical lines on her exercise book. If a line, which had to be both strong and delicate, went outside the imaginary circle where it belonged, would collapse: she became self-absorbed and remote, guided by the avidity of her ideal. Her own shadow was a black post. The sun outlined each man around her with a black charcoal. The journey to return home was so full of hunger, that she became impatient. In the empty house, alone with the maid, she no longer walked like a soldier, the whole family out in their business, she shouted at the maid, who did not answer. She shouted at the dog who seemed deeply concentrated in reaching a turtle's head. The afternoon was transformed into something interminable and until they all might return home to dinner and she might become a daughter, she sat down, laid, her head between her hands....feeling desperate.
"I'm well, I'm well, I'm well" - she repeated many times.
She said once more:
"I'm well."
She was no longer to the mercy of anyone. Desperate, because well and free, she had lost her faith. She went to talk with the maid. They recognized each other. The catholic maid was her hope of faith.
"She must know more than I do"
All this, certainly prolonged, there were elements missing, exhausted, the exasperation, she awoke.
No, she was not alone. Her eyes glowering with disbelief, at the far end of her street two man walking towards her, a bottle of medicine in the other side of the room.
"A person is nothing, NO"
She retorted in weak protest. Life assumed a hysterical meaning. Without knowing through which process, to be precious.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Letter to Bella XV - I lost sight
Dear Bella,
I'm rigid. Like a catechist, without altering for a second the appreciation of this moment. My darling, I'm having those moments when I think they are going to look at me. Just like when at church with my parents. Catholics...going to church. Looking at me. I always felt so awkward, an unknown dog laying exposed, the landscape, children playing in the square, and I...trying to hear the scattered voices of the children. But despite the clearness of the mornings...hardly I could reach them. Someone once told me that my catholic background still keeps me from being more aware of the moments. My upbringing catholic repression. Perhaps I should've substituted the dog for a bird.
Catholic entering church...it's making the fact as visible as possible of the world beneath the sky. Of exposing oneself, a fact, and of not permitting that fact the intimate and unpunished form of a thought. Is it still happening? Such a scene. Let's now bury the dog. I'm feeling great and with no other concerns for you. My day passed by with a certain sense of futility. At times, I taught of going for a run again...but a thunderstorm gained strength by noon. And then it was time to work. I finished Phil's vest, finally!....He's been asking like an unpunished child. So, he's getting a new vest for summer tour.
I should also bury the bird. I don't want to be absorbed by these catholics thoughts. Pardon me mah lady. I've got a burying situation here. Things are happening in Gringolandia more intensely and with singularly heavy consequences. And decisions have to be made. Life has to wait longer for a meeting with my parents. For another glance at Brazilandia. I may be on my own team again by hating myself. But I've got to decide. We understand each other too well, while you made me in your image...I made you on mine. I call you Bella...to give you a name that might serve you as a soul at the same time. Because you're beautiful...and bella. How shall I ever know the name you gave me? You never pronounced..except with your insistent gaze. And now I see why. I don't deserve a name. Like a dog who was abandoned..and in one last effort proving myself a man (I know, I'm a woman...but it happens a lot to have man's thoughts).
I said to myself, pretend quickly that you're another. Arrenge a false meeting. What an idiot. It'll take sometime 'till I head toward the intimacy of my home. I love you and will always love you. It's the blood. It's the catholic repression. It's whatever you want me to say. And if it's not enough give me a glass of wine.
Each day the dog could be abandoned. One could choose. But...trustfully, wagged his tail and left me alone.
stay beautiful Bellacita.
much love
I'm rigid. Like a catechist, without altering for a second the appreciation of this moment. My darling, I'm having those moments when I think they are going to look at me. Just like when at church with my parents. Catholics...going to church. Looking at me. I always felt so awkward, an unknown dog laying exposed, the landscape, children playing in the square, and I...trying to hear the scattered voices of the children. But despite the clearness of the mornings...hardly I could reach them. Someone once told me that my catholic background still keeps me from being more aware of the moments. My upbringing catholic repression. Perhaps I should've substituted the dog for a bird.
Catholic entering church...it's making the fact as visible as possible of the world beneath the sky. Of exposing oneself, a fact, and of not permitting that fact the intimate and unpunished form of a thought. Is it still happening? Such a scene. Let's now bury the dog. I'm feeling great and with no other concerns for you. My day passed by with a certain sense of futility. At times, I taught of going for a run again...but a thunderstorm gained strength by noon. And then it was time to work. I finished Phil's vest, finally!....He's been asking like an unpunished child. So, he's getting a new vest for summer tour.
I should also bury the bird. I don't want to be absorbed by these catholics thoughts. Pardon me mah lady. I've got a burying situation here. Things are happening in Gringolandia more intensely and with singularly heavy consequences. And decisions have to be made. Life has to wait longer for a meeting with my parents. For another glance at Brazilandia. I may be on my own team again by hating myself. But I've got to decide. We understand each other too well, while you made me in your image...I made you on mine. I call you Bella...to give you a name that might serve you as a soul at the same time. Because you're beautiful...and bella. How shall I ever know the name you gave me? You never pronounced..except with your insistent gaze. And now I see why. I don't deserve a name. Like a dog who was abandoned..and in one last effort proving myself a man (I know, I'm a woman...but it happens a lot to have man's thoughts).
I said to myself, pretend quickly that you're another. Arrenge a false meeting. What an idiot. It'll take sometime 'till I head toward the intimacy of my home. I love you and will always love you. It's the blood. It's the catholic repression. It's whatever you want me to say. And if it's not enough give me a glass of wine.
Each day the dog could be abandoned. One could choose. But...trustfully, wagged his tail and left me alone.
stay beautiful Bellacita.
much love
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Experiencing Love
Before getting into bed, removing her from the danger of living she had crossed love and its hell.
"What happened?" she cried out loud.
But life made her shiver...like the cold of the winter. She's now always constant and distant. Her small hands near her pathetic face, with an expression of exhaustion.
"I don't want anything ever to happen to you" he said.
She can't prevent the feeling of sadness. She remained in his arms. The afternoon passed by and she remained untouched. She remained in bed with the sound of the rain by her window amusing her tranquil monotony. In the house everything struck a tragicomic note. She's being intensively submitted to the challenge of love. And it's not her capacity of loving, but her capacity of not being loved that had exploded. Without any word for the moment in her heart, her compassion had spent itself, she had blessed the day, the night and the day that follows....with a prayer.
Humiliated, she knew that the blind man had preferred a poorer love. And, trembling, she also knew why. But she loved the blind man.
Her expressionless led to a newer feeling. Of not belonging there. Of horror. All around there was a silent..insistent life that she no longer proclaimed. The life that she no longer desired.
Being sad was easier. She possessed the missing butterflies, the cold, the ego that brakes and nothing else mattered. Later, when he left her...she laughed. Between her tiny hands...looking at the mirror, she experienced love.
"it's nothing" she said
She blew out that day's tiny flame and it was too late.
"What happened?" she cried out loud.
But life made her shiver...like the cold of the winter. She's now always constant and distant. Her small hands near her pathetic face, with an expression of exhaustion.
"I don't want anything ever to happen to you" he said.
She can't prevent the feeling of sadness. She remained in his arms. The afternoon passed by and she remained untouched. She remained in bed with the sound of the rain by her window amusing her tranquil monotony. In the house everything struck a tragicomic note. She's being intensively submitted to the challenge of love. And it's not her capacity of loving, but her capacity of not being loved that had exploded. Without any word for the moment in her heart, her compassion had spent itself, she had blessed the day, the night and the day that follows....with a prayer.
Humiliated, she knew that the blind man had preferred a poorer love. And, trembling, she also knew why. But she loved the blind man.
Her expressionless led to a newer feeling. Of not belonging there. Of horror. All around there was a silent..insistent life that she no longer proclaimed. The life that she no longer desired.
Being sad was easier. She possessed the missing butterflies, the cold, the ego that brakes and nothing else mattered. Later, when he left her...she laughed. Between her tiny hands...looking at the mirror, she experienced love.
"it's nothing" she said
She blew out that day's tiny flame and it was too late.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Portrait of Time
- "I can't help it"
"I don't really know yet" - she said.
"I miss you".
I feel nostalgic. It may not be a good time to feel it either. This is with no doubt the weirdest mood I've ever had. I lost sense of time. Of past, present and future. I left my paintings on the side to dedicate my time on the fashion business. It's painful. It's sad. I should make time for it. Forget to sleep and just make time for it.
I had a conversation with Bella the other day about time. How much longer time will take me away. She said she didn't know. I said I didn't either. We have no control of time. All I know is that old people talk about the past. Young people talk about the future. But sometimes the future is just the immediate future. But what's that anyway?. What does time mean? We can no longer really know what time it is because we're caught in between many layers of future, present and past. In a continuous and perpetual loop.
I never knew how to portrait time. It seems to me that we can never really understand it. You have an appointment at 2pm. You know that is something that's fixed, in some sense, but we don't really have an idea of that time itself.
That brings my passion for photographs. A photo is always of a moment that no longer exists, and at the same time, that moment continues to exist...eternally. Art, on the other hand, is a moment inside ourselves. That exists eternally. And continues to exist and surround us eternally in our canvas. Wall. Body. Soul. That's the only difference of time that I've found..and know of. Time inside our chaotic minds and time of the world outside. They never harmonize. But if you can live in harmony with both times...if you believe you can...you should do it.
Perhaps, but if anyone's smart enough to pull it off, it's not me.
"I don't really know yet" - she said.
"I miss you".
I feel nostalgic. It may not be a good time to feel it either. This is with no doubt the weirdest mood I've ever had. I lost sense of time. Of past, present and future. I left my paintings on the side to dedicate my time on the fashion business. It's painful. It's sad. I should make time for it. Forget to sleep and just make time for it.
I had a conversation with Bella the other day about time. How much longer time will take me away. She said she didn't know. I said I didn't either. We have no control of time. All I know is that old people talk about the past. Young people talk about the future. But sometimes the future is just the immediate future. But what's that anyway?. What does time mean? We can no longer really know what time it is because we're caught in between many layers of future, present and past. In a continuous and perpetual loop.
I never knew how to portrait time. It seems to me that we can never really understand it. You have an appointment at 2pm. You know that is something that's fixed, in some sense, but we don't really have an idea of that time itself.
That brings my passion for photographs. A photo is always of a moment that no longer exists, and at the same time, that moment continues to exist...eternally. Art, on the other hand, is a moment inside ourselves. That exists eternally. And continues to exist and surround us eternally in our canvas. Wall. Body. Soul. That's the only difference of time that I've found..and know of. Time inside our chaotic minds and time of the world outside. They never harmonize. But if you can live in harmony with both times...if you believe you can...you should do it.
Perhaps, but if anyone's smart enough to pull it off, it's not me.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Humans and Fantasmas
"Where would she learn to hate so as to die of love?"
I wanted to write about humanity. And I know I'm not a scholar or any sort of philosopher freak. But hey, I am a freak. I may confuse myself even more than usual, I may confuse you reader, or confuse all at once. Suddenly conscious of an absolute freedom, my character here present is unable either to ignore or to transcend this condition.
Memory and Family are the central themes of humanity. Or at least they should be. Even then, they remain selective, incomplete, and around major passages - birth, death, marriage. And other transitional moments. The artist infuses its work with the same human passages. And it's all in one. One piece.
Being raised catholic by the parents I devote my eternal love has changed a lot of my "character" along the latest years - I would say "non-chatolic" (according to my old church's doctrines). My non-troubled period of adolescence (a short adolescence) has brought me to a state of troubled maturity. I can't decide either to be a 22 years old normal young girl or become the super-strong woman I've been trying to reach. I found a conflict between my interior and external world (perhaps if I could at least get drunk when this conflicts appear, but here's something you should know...I cannot get drunk like a normal human being. I can't afford a liquor store).
My vision of humanity and reality gives me identity and need to speak of that which obliges us to be silent. But I'm just a Brazilian girl that hardly understands her own country...that even worse understands America. That cannot understand democracy. That cannot understand her own failures.
I learned that human condition is limited and the narrow divides us between success and failure, the mental and physical by which we struggle toward reality (reality is not always how it seems)...and our vulnerable states. Honestly, I was revealed with a terrible freakness: our insatiable hunger to possess and to be possessed. And it's all behind our masks. That society obliges us to wear. Society.... a blind man has drawn me to the worst. What makes me happy is that I'm with people that were drowned with me. Drowned to the world where right and wrong no longer matters. And if it does, who cares?. We're humans, with failures...a lot of failures, but one thing we can do right to succeed. Never allow ourselves to be tempted by perfection. Know how to accept, how to resign itself, how to ask pardon, how to pardon, and how to love, love, love.
Most people accept religion as the savior, or the solution for all our problems. Religion is the place to find peace and be closer to our spiritual needs. It's not savior. There's no savior. There's life and death, good and bad, like good songs and bad songs. It's like searching in the blindness of its hunger for it's mother's breast. We don't know what's after death...maybe it's just death...maybe spiritual life, maybe life. We don't know anything. How can they be so sure? How can the Islam say that Allah is telling them to hate westerners? No, Islam is lost in their own beliefs. But they're also alone in all this. Cause we ("westerners") all we do is say they're wrong. We're not right. That's for sure. They're not either. So who's right? Who's good and who's bad? We're all good, and we're all bad....we're humans. And as humans, we choose. We choose to live our lives according to our beliefs. We choose to fail. We choose to succeed. We choose to take off our masks. We choose to accept. We choose to possess.
As long as humanity exists, problems will exist, war, good and bad, suffering, poverty, injustice, memories.
It was always like this, not worse nor better....the same humanity failures and success. So, we should just stop asking why and accept our choices.
a.m.a.
I wanted to write about humanity. And I know I'm not a scholar or any sort of philosopher freak. But hey, I am a freak. I may confuse myself even more than usual, I may confuse you reader, or confuse all at once. Suddenly conscious of an absolute freedom, my character here present is unable either to ignore or to transcend this condition.
Memory and Family are the central themes of humanity. Or at least they should be. Even then, they remain selective, incomplete, and around major passages - birth, death, marriage. And other transitional moments. The artist infuses its work with the same human passages. And it's all in one. One piece.
Being raised catholic by the parents I devote my eternal love has changed a lot of my "character" along the latest years - I would say "non-chatolic" (according to my old church's doctrines). My non-troubled period of adolescence (a short adolescence) has brought me to a state of troubled maturity. I can't decide either to be a 22 years old normal young girl or become the super-strong woman I've been trying to reach. I found a conflict between my interior and external world (perhaps if I could at least get drunk when this conflicts appear, but here's something you should know...I cannot get drunk like a normal human being. I can't afford a liquor store).
My vision of humanity and reality gives me identity and need to speak of that which obliges us to be silent. But I'm just a Brazilian girl that hardly understands her own country...that even worse understands America. That cannot understand democracy. That cannot understand her own failures.
I learned that human condition is limited and the narrow divides us between success and failure, the mental and physical by which we struggle toward reality (reality is not always how it seems)...and our vulnerable states. Honestly, I was revealed with a terrible freakness: our insatiable hunger to possess and to be possessed. And it's all behind our masks. That society obliges us to wear. Society.... a blind man has drawn me to the worst. What makes me happy is that I'm with people that were drowned with me. Drowned to the world where right and wrong no longer matters. And if it does, who cares?. We're humans, with failures...a lot of failures, but one thing we can do right to succeed. Never allow ourselves to be tempted by perfection. Know how to accept, how to resign itself, how to ask pardon, how to pardon, and how to love, love, love.
Most people accept religion as the savior, or the solution for all our problems. Religion is the place to find peace and be closer to our spiritual needs. It's not savior. There's no savior. There's life and death, good and bad, like good songs and bad songs. It's like searching in the blindness of its hunger for it's mother's breast. We don't know what's after death...maybe it's just death...maybe spiritual life, maybe life. We don't know anything. How can they be so sure? How can the Islam say that Allah is telling them to hate westerners? No, Islam is lost in their own beliefs. But they're also alone in all this. Cause we ("westerners") all we do is say they're wrong. We're not right. That's for sure. They're not either. So who's right? Who's good and who's bad? We're all good, and we're all bad....we're humans. And as humans, we choose. We choose to live our lives according to our beliefs. We choose to fail. We choose to succeed. We choose to take off our masks. We choose to accept. We choose to possess.
As long as humanity exists, problems will exist, war, good and bad, suffering, poverty, injustice, memories.
It was always like this, not worse nor better....the same humanity failures and success. So, we should just stop asking why and accept our choices.
a.m.a.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Letter to Bella XIV - Heroism
Hi my dear,
First of all, I’ve been admitted. In the fashionland of my mocking dreams...I’ve been admitted. If we take into account that I’m a foreigner, that I started the course early, that I had no connections at all...we can be satisfied. But does not mean much, cause now it’s the most rigorous part. I feel like I’ve been working my butt off for the past two years but now I’ll need two more butts to work it off. I became more aware of the process when I began my research and if I wasn’t sure about my passion and acknowledge of all this I’d have given up. I have several reasons however to be very happy with the results.
Thanks again for your post card from Buenos Aires, just recently I wrote a text about Argentine artist Guillermo Kuitca, I was impressed by his work, an insistent denunciation of any political implications, families trees of all sorts and maps...yes painted maps. It’s quite amusing.
Anyway, I miss you a lot. I want you to play me some Mazzaropi’s tales. Which, sometimes I think I feel the same path on my tale. Bright isolation. Temperament is also my worst temptation. A weakness. You can well remember. The bad side of my heroic moments. And remember when I fell at the stairs when I was 5? Well, I did it again. But this time wasn’t my foot...was my back that felt ill. I need a new one. I might need a butt too. I forced myself in my heroism to try to understand and be strong. I wish I had become a superhuman. But at this point it’s impossible to remove myself from the danger living. So I’ll laugh at everything, just like you...yourself can do better than me, with warmth and humanity.
The Summer is next... that means some sun to warm this expressionless’s faces in Gringolandia. And to my legs, that oh Bella...I’m horrified. The only bad side of Summer time is sweat trickling between our breasts. And the heat burning our eyes. And Boston will burn heroic sweats of work.
What is heroism for you Bella?! I can’t stop thinking about it. Because after all this time, I feel like my parents want me to be some sort of heroic representation of a Brazilian chick. Write me. Tell me. I know you understand them better than myself. Because right now all I want is that each day should smoothly succeed the previous one, And a Blind man chewing gum destroying all this.much lov for my chica.
First of all, I’ve been admitted. In the fashionland of my mocking dreams...I’ve been admitted. If we take into account that I’m a foreigner, that I started the course early, that I had no connections at all...we can be satisfied. But does not mean much, cause now it’s the most rigorous part. I feel like I’ve been working my butt off for the past two years but now I’ll need two more butts to work it off. I became more aware of the process when I began my research and if I wasn’t sure about my passion and acknowledge of all this I’d have given up. I have several reasons however to be very happy with the results.
Thanks again for your post card from Buenos Aires, just recently I wrote a text about Argentine artist Guillermo Kuitca, I was impressed by his work, an insistent denunciation of any political implications, families trees of all sorts and maps...yes painted maps. It’s quite amusing.
Anyway, I miss you a lot. I want you to play me some Mazzaropi’s tales. Which, sometimes I think I feel the same path on my tale. Bright isolation. Temperament is also my worst temptation. A weakness. You can well remember. The bad side of my heroic moments. And remember when I fell at the stairs when I was 5? Well, I did it again. But this time wasn’t my foot...was my back that felt ill. I need a new one. I might need a butt too. I forced myself in my heroism to try to understand and be strong. I wish I had become a superhuman. But at this point it’s impossible to remove myself from the danger living. So I’ll laugh at everything, just like you...yourself can do better than me, with warmth and humanity.
The Summer is next... that means some sun to warm this expressionless’s faces in Gringolandia. And to my legs, that oh Bella...I’m horrified. The only bad side of Summer time is sweat trickling between our breasts. And the heat burning our eyes. And Boston will burn heroic sweats of work.
What is heroism for you Bella?! I can’t stop thinking about it. Because after all this time, I feel like my parents want me to be some sort of heroic representation of a Brazilian chick. Write me. Tell me. I know you understand them better than myself. Because right now all I want is that each day should smoothly succeed the previous one, And a Blind man chewing gum destroying all this.much lov for my chica.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Letter to Bella XIII - Wonderlandish
Dear Bella,
you may have received my postcard and my letter for the past few weeks. If there's a drop of bitterness in my delirious enthusiasm (among the good friends, brioches, artichokes, extremely light meals, shop windows, ravishing men, and all the other things that cannot be listed and described) it is because Mom, Dad and my bro cannot be here with me now. My brain is numb as you know, and I struggle to get out each word. So forgive my lack of phone calls....I'm not a good friend, am I? However I'm not in so bad a condition that I can't thank you for asking. I've been reading a lot and throwing things away, focused in a task at a time, and trying not to think about other things. It's so difficult to be part of my conscious on having one step at a time and not be thinking about what is my next painting gonna be? Or what should I write on my book next? Or where I'm gonna find money to afford more fabric? Or when I'll be able to take a break and have some vacation away from this land. Or what is Amanda doing next at her Wonderlandish.....oh if u could describe. It's a fine location.
My fashionland is in good shape..I published a few posts at B'aires new weblog. It's going well, and I might be writing weekly for the next (hopefully) many months. It's called southamericandesign.wordpress.com and you better check that out. I'll appreciate your criticism. I think you'll like the articles, they will soon start to come at a shorter intervals.
All the other facts are stable for now..If only I could pull myself together and get the hang of the French language. It's still a struggle, not so much that writing but speaking...I just have not yet found anyone who could speak with me. And I can't afford to take classes so I self-teach and talk with the walls. I've been to a couple of interviews and I can't say all...but something is on my way that I'm ready to accept and flip my house of cards. When my designs will come to life?...I assure you in this life. And then you can say...."I'm ready to face the world". I can draw with my finger lately, an invisible sketch in the air...and after twenty minutes lost in this insanity I can start turning into something that you've never even imagined. I can't hold a pencil in weeks now...what does it mean?...think James Bond via Hong Kong.
I'm not worried about anything for the time being, go with the flow is the dilemma, and walk around the Garden and even saying a prayer.
This morning I was invited to coffee, and last night Phil gave me a Salvador Dali's "bible". I can't wait to start taking lessons with Dali...from a book. I know that nobody else can experience this - not even Dad, despite all his goodwill. Only on my worst moments have I seen Gringolandia, the age and the people, with the eyes of a warrior examining the land before a battle. But I feel strongly that this is the only possible place for me, the only place where it wouldn't seem comical were I to stand. And I'll try to cultivate the values that elsewhere I haven't thought worthwhile even to reveal. Only Paris can be the arena for this. I could come and go like an old citizen and feel completely at home. The same applies to my room, which is entirely satisfactory.
I bestow (new word learned..YAY) my gratitude upon you for what you've done for me.
much lov.
a.
you may have received my postcard and my letter for the past few weeks. If there's a drop of bitterness in my delirious enthusiasm (among the good friends, brioches, artichokes, extremely light meals, shop windows, ravishing men, and all the other things that cannot be listed and described) it is because Mom, Dad and my bro cannot be here with me now. My brain is numb as you know, and I struggle to get out each word. So forgive my lack of phone calls....I'm not a good friend, am I? However I'm not in so bad a condition that I can't thank you for asking. I've been reading a lot and throwing things away, focused in a task at a time, and trying not to think about other things. It's so difficult to be part of my conscious on having one step at a time and not be thinking about what is my next painting gonna be? Or what should I write on my book next? Or where I'm gonna find money to afford more fabric? Or when I'll be able to take a break and have some vacation away from this land. Or what is Amanda doing next at her Wonderlandish.....oh if u could describe. It's a fine location.
My fashionland is in good shape..I published a few posts at B'aires new weblog. It's going well, and I might be writing weekly for the next (hopefully) many months. It's called southamericandesign.wordpress.com and you better check that out. I'll appreciate your criticism. I think you'll like the articles, they will soon start to come at a shorter intervals.
All the other facts are stable for now..If only I could pull myself together and get the hang of the French language. It's still a struggle, not so much that writing but speaking...I just have not yet found anyone who could speak with me. And I can't afford to take classes so I self-teach and talk with the walls. I've been to a couple of interviews and I can't say all...but something is on my way that I'm ready to accept and flip my house of cards. When my designs will come to life?...I assure you in this life. And then you can say...."I'm ready to face the world". I can draw with my finger lately, an invisible sketch in the air...and after twenty minutes lost in this insanity I can start turning into something that you've never even imagined. I can't hold a pencil in weeks now...what does it mean?...think James Bond via Hong Kong.
I'm not worried about anything for the time being, go with the flow is the dilemma, and walk around the Garden and even saying a prayer.
This morning I was invited to coffee, and last night Phil gave me a Salvador Dali's "bible". I can't wait to start taking lessons with Dali...from a book. I know that nobody else can experience this - not even Dad, despite all his goodwill. Only on my worst moments have I seen Gringolandia, the age and the people, with the eyes of a warrior examining the land before a battle. But I feel strongly that this is the only possible place for me, the only place where it wouldn't seem comical were I to stand. And I'll try to cultivate the values that elsewhere I haven't thought worthwhile even to reveal. Only Paris can be the arena for this. I could come and go like an old citizen and feel completely at home. The same applies to my room, which is entirely satisfactory.
I bestow (new word learned..YAY) my gratitude upon you for what you've done for me.
much lov.
a.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
The day after
She had an almost perfect birthday. Things got better as the day went by. She looked at them. So mute. Impersonal in their extreme beauty. With her mouth a little dry she watched them. It was necessary never to cause them alarm, especially with everything being so fresh in their minds. And, above all, to spare everyone the least anxiety and doubt. And that the attention of others should no longer be necessary. But at the same time she saw the empty glass in her hand and thought, "He said that I should not force myself to succeed, that I should not think of adopting attitutes merely to show that I am."
She no longer knows what's next. But she's happy.
She also wrote this poem in a napkin.
Quero entender o que passaria em minha mente.
Sem sabe do teu humor, da tua fe
Quero procurar aquilo que tu desejas
E encontrar o eterno em ti
Quero o saber, o sonhar, o prazer
De te amar
Quero tanto, que acima de tudo
Quero parar de querer.
Certain times of the morning struck her by being critical. At a certain hour of the afternoon the desires she had planted laughed at her. And when nothing more required her strenght, she became anxious.
a.m.a.
She no longer knows what's next. But she's happy.
She also wrote this poem in a napkin.
Quero entender o que passaria em minha mente.
Sem sabe do teu humor, da tua fe
Quero procurar aquilo que tu desejas
E encontrar o eterno em ti
Quero o saber, o sonhar, o prazer
De te amar
Quero tanto, que acima de tudo
Quero parar de querer.
Certain times of the morning struck her by being critical. At a certain hour of the afternoon the desires she had planted laughed at her. And when nothing more required her strenght, she became anxious.
a.m.a.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
The day before
The day before
Current mood: crappy
Very well,
It's almost my birthday. I had good birthdays at an early age. It's unsurprising though that it got quite uncorfortable later on.
Inevitable, back when I was fifteen my grandpa died the night before my birthday. It was the only death in my family since. I had never been to a funeral...so I refused to go. People try to explain how especial our birthdays are. I know it. I love people. I love being around them...most important I love having them around me. But birthday days...is when I become sour. The idea of having my birthday with my grandpa's death birthday is not the ideal. Like a literary cliche itself.
So, I was reading this magazine and an article called my especial attention. The artist: Christopher Ho...and his exhibition called: Happy Birthday. This exhibition takes the form of a critical essay between tales of nudism...interesting subject to be seen in Winkleman Gallery/NY. Why am I telling you this?...well, I happen to be bored at work and reading ..it felt like a message of Happy Birthday Amanda. It's not evey day that I see a exhibit with a suggestive name. It felt like a great coincidence.
It's family day here at the Boston Raquet Club where I work on Saturdays. Thanks a lot BRC. Now I have to handle 3-5 year old kids running around the club asking for a piece of pizza. And I taught I was going to have a pretty quite morning.
I wanted to write a good blog. But let's pass the day, maybe the week and I'll come back with a missile story.
lov
Current mood: crappy
Very well,
It's almost my birthday. I had good birthdays at an early age. It's unsurprising though that it got quite uncorfortable later on.
Inevitable, back when I was fifteen my grandpa died the night before my birthday. It was the only death in my family since. I had never been to a funeral...so I refused to go. People try to explain how especial our birthdays are. I know it. I love people. I love being around them...most important I love having them around me. But birthday days...is when I become sour. The idea of having my birthday with my grandpa's death birthday is not the ideal. Like a literary cliche itself.
So, I was reading this magazine and an article called my especial attention. The artist: Christopher Ho...and his exhibition called: Happy Birthday. This exhibition takes the form of a critical essay between tales of nudism...interesting subject to be seen in Winkleman Gallery/NY. Why am I telling you this?...well, I happen to be bored at work and reading ..it felt like a message of Happy Birthday Amanda. It's not evey day that I see a exhibit with a suggestive name. It felt like a great coincidence.
It's family day here at the Boston Raquet Club where I work on Saturdays. Thanks a lot BRC. Now I have to handle 3-5 year old kids running around the club asking for a piece of pizza. And I taught I was going to have a pretty quite morning.
I wanted to write a good blog. But let's pass the day, maybe the week and I'll come back with a missile story.
lov
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Letter to Bella XII - Taboo desire
Hey Bella dona....
This morning is cold. Even knowning Spring is here.
I'm not going to explain your last questions for the matter of understanding.
So here I am to write you some good and bad, love and tragedy from this land.
You know I have a very long-standing fascination, an absolute obsession with love stories. It has to do with an ongoing interest in the larger act of understanding. I'm reading a Tolstoy's story. It's a heartbreaking love but not as mellow and cheesy as they usually are. It's tragedy. And you know better than mama how I love tragedies. The smell of female vanity and desperation which coexists with the beauty. Remember professor Carlos from portuguese literature? He was the first to describe love according with Clarice Linspector in a way that touched my heart. He said love is pain. If there's no pain there's no love. He said our ego that protects us from hurting ourselves breaks...as soon as love breaks. There are many kinds of love. Not all the missives on display are amorous or romantic. The ego goes...and hurts not to be able to understand the pain. Taboo desire...of exploration. Frida Kahlo said that as a woman she was able to give him love more than any other. What could be more than love?
I got into the train this morning, headed to work...waiting for a phone call. The other day I started a work of art. The other day I had the most amazing kiss. The other day I needed you. The other night I felt sober. The other day I called him. The other day I wanted to be gone. The other day I wrote letters. The other day I felt so sad. The other day I felt right. And wrong. And loved.
The sun is finally leaving ...shining and burning my skin...I'm so pale that you could write a letter on me. I can't wait to see you.
Now that I have settled down a bit I'm relaxed enough to send you a gift. As far as apartments are concerned I'm still living at the same old one, so write me soon. I want to find a good restaurant this weekend and a good wine.
Thank you ever so much for your love and care.
dame de chez
This morning is cold. Even knowning Spring is here.
I'm not going to explain your last questions for the matter of understanding.
So here I am to write you some good and bad, love and tragedy from this land.
You know I have a very long-standing fascination, an absolute obsession with love stories. It has to do with an ongoing interest in the larger act of understanding. I'm reading a Tolstoy's story. It's a heartbreaking love but not as mellow and cheesy as they usually are. It's tragedy. And you know better than mama how I love tragedies. The smell of female vanity and desperation which coexists with the beauty. Remember professor Carlos from portuguese literature? He was the first to describe love according with Clarice Linspector in a way that touched my heart. He said love is pain. If there's no pain there's no love. He said our ego that protects us from hurting ourselves breaks...as soon as love breaks. There are many kinds of love. Not all the missives on display are amorous or romantic. The ego goes...and hurts not to be able to understand the pain. Taboo desire...of exploration. Frida Kahlo said that as a woman she was able to give him love more than any other. What could be more than love?
I got into the train this morning, headed to work...waiting for a phone call. The other day I started a work of art. The other day I had the most amazing kiss. The other day I needed you. The other night I felt sober. The other day I called him. The other day I wanted to be gone. The other day I wrote letters. The other day I felt so sad. The other day I felt right. And wrong. And loved.
The sun is finally leaving ...shining and burning my skin...I'm so pale that you could write a letter on me. I can't wait to see you.
Now that I have settled down a bit I'm relaxed enough to send you a gift. As far as apartments are concerned I'm still living at the same old one, so write me soon. I want to find a good restaurant this weekend and a good wine.
Thank you ever so much for your love and care.
dame de chez
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Fashionista
She refused to be boring, chiefly because she wasn't boring"
So, for years now I've proved myself a passion for fashion. In terms of art and psychology. Yes...I love to understand people's personality according with their garments. It tells you a lot. Maybe everything you should know about them. Or maybe everything you should not know about them.
Most women will admit to having a subversive side. But at the end of the day very few can deny that we love to wear something uncompromisingly pretty.
Most men don't admit anything about fashion. Not everyone needs to be as crisp and tailored as the Brits...or stylish as the frenchs, but Uncle Sam is extremely damaged.
I say it because it's sad. God's honest truth. And being more aware of what's on the streets it gets worse. I'll be starting a fashion blog in a few days. And preparing to impress people is not as easy as I taught. I'll be talking about streets, lifestyle, guys who don't mind being stylish (and not gay) and girls who actually are or want to be iconoclasts. And about the fashion company I'll be working for, and currently working...B'Aires. You'll find out what's out on streets of Sao Paulo and Buenos Aires that inspires me so much. And delight yourself with those latin beats.
I'm ready to take the next step in life. And confident enough to teach bostonians how to dress. It'll be a separate blog prepared by B'Aires and written by me. Yes, I'm definitely excited!!! I hate the term "bad taste"...the feeling can't last. I can't say exactly how it will look like, so I think it's safe to say...I want you to look beautiful...cherie!
So, for years now I've proved myself a passion for fashion. In terms of art and psychology. Yes...I love to understand people's personality according with their garments. It tells you a lot. Maybe everything you should know about them. Or maybe everything you should not know about them.
Most women will admit to having a subversive side. But at the end of the day very few can deny that we love to wear something uncompromisingly pretty.
Most men don't admit anything about fashion. Not everyone needs to be as crisp and tailored as the Brits...or stylish as the frenchs, but Uncle Sam is extremely damaged.
I say it because it's sad. God's honest truth. And being more aware of what's on the streets it gets worse. I'll be starting a fashion blog in a few days. And preparing to impress people is not as easy as I taught. I'll be talking about streets, lifestyle, guys who don't mind being stylish (and not gay) and girls who actually are or want to be iconoclasts. And about the fashion company I'll be working for, and currently working...B'Aires. You'll find out what's out on streets of Sao Paulo and Buenos Aires that inspires me so much. And delight yourself with those latin beats.
I'm ready to take the next step in life. And confident enough to teach bostonians how to dress. It'll be a separate blog prepared by B'Aires and written by me. Yes, I'm definitely excited!!! I hate the term "bad taste"...the feeling can't last. I can't say exactly how it will look like, so I think it's safe to say...I want you to look beautiful...cherie!
Thursday, April 17, 2008
I think all the ugly things
I kind of think all the ugly things.
I can be playful, whimsical, mannered, even speak charmingly about my close relationships with my family and friends, and laugh frequently and contagiously. I kind of seem like a fun person to hang out with at a College party or something. But what is there to be? What am I doing to be so distant from my friends. What have I done since high school that made them forget? Forget that the enthusiastic Amanda is never going to come back and find her crowd.
I also feel unimportant in a land of strangers. Which doesn't bother me. But naturally I expect people to embrace my steps. And also that's the reason why I left. I was done with society. Done with manners. ... not to myself, but everybody else. I think about calling friends. But I don't. Family...only. I like to be a stranger.
My name at my hometown is not my real name. They call me "filha do Edisinho" which means...Edisinho's daughter. I don't have a name basically, they know me because of my dad. And they think I'm just like him...but with no "third leg". And no facial hair. And some other things.
I've always wanted to be a rock star. Not anymore. Now I just want to play one.
Dreamy...is the particular word for me. I dream. I dream far. I dream about spending my life in a boat. Riding my bike through the city. Wake up and make love. About a career. About making people wear what I tell them to. About opening an art gallery. About living one year in France. About getting married even. But with no ceremony. Just me and whoever is there for me..and God. Maybe Phil. I love him so much. It's not just a relationship. It's love. It's so intense that I don't know if it was my choice or not. When you've got another language between a relation, it gives you strangely more freedom. I feel English is closer to emotions in a way than Portuguese. English approaches me more like a craft, like something you can actually touch and work on...with Portuguese I can talk for ages. It's nice.
I'm going home in October, and the feeling of not coming back scares me. I want to. I'm coming back no matter what. But I'm afraid. I'm not allowed to tell friends when I'm going home. When I knock their doors I'll see them...but before...my parents don't want me to. It's so strange how my society is different from Phil's. He can tell his friends if he's coming home. I can't? Well... . fortunately his friends seem to be more conscious about their own lives.
I was almost kidnapped once (it's actually kind of normal in Brazil..don't think I'm special). It's a long story but nobody really knows except my parents and maybe some other members of the family and my dad's closest friend, I don't even know...not a conversation I have had since then. It scared shit out of me. My parents didn't allow me to go out for weeks. And if I did only with a group or my brother...that was even more scared than me. And all because he's a politician. I kind of wanted him to be someone that could change the way things are. He could...but Politicians are sick...with a few exceptions, like dad. Or grandpa...or a few others I know that have no strength. The good has no power in this political world. I learned that, and lived it. Anyway, I hate talking about that. I hate talking about society and political issues. I hate the government and the system. I hate my town. Oh dear...I hate my town. How many times I was home and would go downstairs to the guest room and see my dad discussing people's problem. How many times he woke up in the middle of the night because of a phone call. How many #$%^&%$& times he didn't sleep because of so much stress. He never noticed me watching him cry. He's the most amazing human being I know (and mom)... Sometimes I think they should all leave that city. Forget it existed. Sometimes I miss it.
My friends probably think I'm having fun. That I'm living good life. Yes..on my way. A way with no money and who knows what else. I'm starting to make choices and it feels weird sometimes not having to worry about anybody else. But not the way they think of me. It depresses me to realize how much they don't know me. They just want the "filha do Edisinho". Amanda....is someone else. I can count in one hand how many people really knows me (three fingers maybe?). How many of my friends I had real conversations with. And my family filled this space. It was not always like that.
I could be living with my parents and having the comfort I need, food, love....all for free. Good deal. For a reason I think I don't want this choice any longer.
That's why I'm writing a book. Maybe someday...when I get old...they'll find out who this Filha do Edisinho is. Who is she? What does she like? What is her goal in life? Who are the people that enchanted her? Who is the love of her life? What's her favorite food? What is her favorite movie or song? WHAT'S HER FAVORITE SENTENCE?
It's going to be in Portuguese tough. This blog is my escape from them. Hope they can't translate.
Amanda's favorite sentence:
I paint self-portraits because I am so often alone, because I am the person I know best. (frida kahlo)
I can be playful, whimsical, mannered, even speak charmingly about my close relationships with my family and friends, and laugh frequently and contagiously. I kind of seem like a fun person to hang out with at a College party or something. But what is there to be? What am I doing to be so distant from my friends. What have I done since high school that made them forget? Forget that the enthusiastic Amanda is never going to come back and find her crowd.
I also feel unimportant in a land of strangers. Which doesn't bother me. But naturally I expect people to embrace my steps. And also that's the reason why I left. I was done with society. Done with manners. ... not to myself, but everybody else. I think about calling friends. But I don't. Family...only. I like to be a stranger.
My name at my hometown is not my real name. They call me "filha do Edisinho" which means...Edisinho's daughter. I don't have a name basically, they know me because of my dad. And they think I'm just like him...but with no "third leg". And no facial hair. And some other things.
I've always wanted to be a rock star. Not anymore. Now I just want to play one.
Dreamy...is the particular word for me. I dream. I dream far. I dream about spending my life in a boat. Riding my bike through the city. Wake up and make love. About a career. About making people wear what I tell them to. About opening an art gallery. About living one year in France. About getting married even. But with no ceremony. Just me and whoever is there for me..and God. Maybe Phil. I love him so much. It's not just a relationship. It's love. It's so intense that I don't know if it was my choice or not. When you've got another language between a relation, it gives you strangely more freedom. I feel English is closer to emotions in a way than Portuguese. English approaches me more like a craft, like something you can actually touch and work on...with Portuguese I can talk for ages. It's nice.
I'm going home in October, and the feeling of not coming back scares me. I want to. I'm coming back no matter what. But I'm afraid. I'm not allowed to tell friends when I'm going home. When I knock their doors I'll see them...but before...my parents don't want me to. It's so strange how my society is different from Phil's. He can tell his friends if he's coming home. I can't? Well... . fortunately his friends seem to be more conscious about their own lives.
I was almost kidnapped once (it's actually kind of normal in Brazil..don't think I'm special). It's a long story but nobody really knows except my parents and maybe some other members of the family and my dad's closest friend, I don't even know...not a conversation I have had since then. It scared shit out of me. My parents didn't allow me to go out for weeks. And if I did only with a group or my brother...that was even more scared than me. And all because he's a politician. I kind of wanted him to be someone that could change the way things are. He could...but Politicians are sick...with a few exceptions, like dad. Or grandpa...or a few others I know that have no strength. The good has no power in this political world. I learned that, and lived it. Anyway, I hate talking about that. I hate talking about society and political issues. I hate the government and the system. I hate my town. Oh dear...I hate my town. How many times I was home and would go downstairs to the guest room and see my dad discussing people's problem. How many times he woke up in the middle of the night because of a phone call. How many #$%^&%$& times he didn't sleep because of so much stress. He never noticed me watching him cry. He's the most amazing human being I know (and mom)... Sometimes I think they should all leave that city. Forget it existed. Sometimes I miss it.
My friends probably think I'm having fun. That I'm living good life. Yes..on my way. A way with no money and who knows what else. I'm starting to make choices and it feels weird sometimes not having to worry about anybody else. But not the way they think of me. It depresses me to realize how much they don't know me. They just want the "filha do Edisinho". Amanda....is someone else. I can count in one hand how many people really knows me (three fingers maybe?). How many of my friends I had real conversations with. And my family filled this space. It was not always like that.
I could be living with my parents and having the comfort I need, food, love....all for free. Good deal. For a reason I think I don't want this choice any longer.
That's why I'm writing a book. Maybe someday...when I get old...they'll find out who this Filha do Edisinho is. Who is she? What does she like? What is her goal in life? Who are the people that enchanted her? Who is the love of her life? What's her favorite food? What is her favorite movie or song? WHAT'S HER FAVORITE SENTENCE?
It's going to be in Portuguese tough. This blog is my escape from them. Hope they can't translate.
Amanda's favorite sentence:
I paint self-portraits because I am so often alone, because I am the person I know best. (frida kahlo)
Saturday, April 12, 2008
My soul
Can art save our souls?
I represent the human figure in my pieces. I can't even say most of them. But, all of them. If I make art, there's human. Even knowing it could be anomalies.
People have a spiritual need and mostly physical need. The spiritual I chose to pursue through the practice of art. I don't even care sometimes if it's good or not. It just fills my need. I don't think I can ever be happy without it. So, I think my little figures are the artistic element of my personal identity. Other people use religion or philosophy as the element. Or sex. Or music...which I include as art. Music is art. And I truly believe that. More than my own little figures. Because it effects me emotionally in a way that I cry ... that reminds of my childhood...or when I loved for the first time.
But how much freedom art can obtain? Can you do whatever and say it's art???? "Bull shit". I say.
Artists throw themselves in and out of it. This is the freedom I know. This is the freedom my grandpa showed me, shortly....and sadly. But today art is subjected to economy....actually what isn't?
Is there any preparation to be??? Can you become an artist? or you born like that...PUFF!
I just realized that there's art and products of art. It's not possible to recognize the phenomenon of the creator outside of his universe. What is this f...universe ? If somehow I manage to transport that universe....I can die happy.
I can look into my parents eyes and say that being away for all these years was worth the pain.
I can look into my own self and say that I'm worth existing.
I can look into my Lindo's eyes and say I'm worth being chosen.
a.
I represent the human figure in my pieces. I can't even say most of them. But, all of them. If I make art, there's human. Even knowing it could be anomalies.
People have a spiritual need and mostly physical need. The spiritual I chose to pursue through the practice of art. I don't even care sometimes if it's good or not. It just fills my need. I don't think I can ever be happy without it. So, I think my little figures are the artistic element of my personal identity. Other people use religion or philosophy as the element. Or sex. Or music...which I include as art. Music is art. And I truly believe that. More than my own little figures. Because it effects me emotionally in a way that I cry ... that reminds of my childhood...or when I loved for the first time.
But how much freedom art can obtain? Can you do whatever and say it's art???? "Bull shit". I say.
Artists throw themselves in and out of it. This is the freedom I know. This is the freedom my grandpa showed me, shortly....and sadly. But today art is subjected to economy....actually what isn't?
Is there any preparation to be??? Can you become an artist? or you born like that...PUFF!
I just realized that there's art and products of art. It's not possible to recognize the phenomenon of the creator outside of his universe. What is this f...universe ? If somehow I manage to transport that universe....I can die happy.
I can look into my parents eyes and say that being away for all these years was worth the pain.
I can look into my own self and say that I'm worth existing.
I can look into my Lindo's eyes and say I'm worth being chosen.
a.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
The keyhole
She stole the keys. She walked down the stairs with the most silent moves. She stole the car. It was maybe too late. Maybe too early. Or too soon. She didn’t care. "I’ll take my chances" she said.
Two years ago I stole my dad’s car for a day. But my conscience didn’t allow me to go away for real. I needed time. That was all. I love them too much (Is it actually ever too much?). I get attached too much. But it was so heartbreaking to watch the engineers leaving home. I taught about Ruth, our housekeeper and my best friend at the moment. She works at my house four days a week and during the weekends she was working at my first ex-boyfriend’s grandmother’s house. "Sweet" I thought. I was also a "wanna be" spy. The pain was too great to bear. I was also romanticized (is this word right? I don’t even know...I’m just guessing by now). That sweet smile trying to understand what I meant when I explained my thoughts about love. She’s extremely catholic (roman catholic). I was a "wanna be" gypsy. Her catholic background didn’t allow me to talk about love as attraction. So I did. Why? Well, I wanted to understand from a catholic point of view. Even knowing I grew up catholic, but not really. I actually understood why my parents got Ruth. Since I spent most of the time at home, Ruth was my source of spirituality during youth. Which was fine with me.
The car was short on gas. "Shit!". I didn’t have a good plan, so gas was not in it. I don’t remeber the sensation. But I do remember quietly talking to myself saying "Okay, you don’t have to tell anybody"..."They don’t have to find out what you’re thinking"..."You’re never, ever doing this again".
When I have too much free time, that’s when things start to get a little messy.
The way to the road I was thinking what should I do with my life. It was the best sensation ever. I decided. It’s extraordinary to think that stealing my dad’s car brought me back to the eastcoast.
Stop the car, stop the clock, the bossa nova song. Let’s go back and look through the keyhole from the other side and see things as they were...before leave again
Monday, March 31, 2008
French Spirit
I’d like to reassure Mom : Neither have I lost weight, nor have I gotten out of hand. - a.m.a.
Life has become threateningly expensive. As I suppose, I’m realizing my plans might have a long break. However, it would be a mistake to assume that all the months I’ve spent here have been wasted time. There is indeed, an abundance of things that demands one’s attention here, particularly for a person like me, who’s intrigued by every particle of this living monster, its outside, its inside, the way it breathes, lives and moves. The monuments, pictures, sounds, will not pass without a trace, nor will the characters who pass before me, for a moment, be forgotten. I want go to Paris. I want to live there. For years...maybe many years. My french is getting suitable. I’ve been practicing with my mother’s friend back home. She is wonderful and a good speaker of any kind. Particularly especial.
Americans are nice to me. Gringolandia is nice to me. One especially. Who knows what’s my time here. I’ll feel it when it’s over.
Why Paris? It’s obviously only in Paris that the French spirit can be observed in its thousand manifestations. Political perspectives, and thoughts are as narrow and close as the flats, as random and momentary as life, decorated with a thousand pleasures, with art dragged down to the earth, beautiful and indolent. Now I’m like a cat in shop windows slumbering in the sunshine or prettifying myself complacently, I lap up life with a carefree, bohemian, and oblivious smile, giving all the beauty to the eye, the stomach, and the other senses - and my perspective ends here. I cannot free myself from the thought that all I see is autumn sunshine - without denying my empathy. I proclaim that I love. But I proclaim that I need to enjoy life once again...the last drop, gild it with sauce, wine and love. I’m fearless to start over again.
I have never paid such meticulous attention to my hair, hands or face. I shave almost everyday indeed, I’m invited to do so by the new good soap I got and the hot water running. As long as I live I’ll try to do so.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Letter to Bella XI - diary
Hi my friend,
I realized how much I owe you from my days. Angered by the negative response I apologize and here are some entries from my diary to your enjoyment and laugh. Things like this are written only by hopeless arctic explorers.
Good Friday - April 21st
up to the castle with a pound of bread. I also buy an orange. Breakfast. Post office. Stare at photos. Slaving to Starbucks and myself. In the evening I meet Franz Hals on books. He takes off. I get in the car heading to Nova Yorque (NY) and get there hungry, with a place by the fireplace and meeting with a boyfriend's ex girlfriend. Mood: far from perfect, but good enough to stay sane and smoke a sweet cigar.
I put on my new skirt with suspenders that I made in class. I don't eat anything all day for no reason. It will be several more days before I receive any money. Nothing from you.What is going to happen? (My soap ran out). In the car I think about the beautiful russian woman. The boy from Vienna. I wish they could be there, sharing their wine (Energy for this!!!) By the way, today is good Friday. The idea, however ridiculous, calms me down. I miss my mom and call her.
Easter - Sunday 23rd
Bright sunshine. I sleep feverishly. I'm tormented by a dream. My dream: I've purchased the wrong train ticket but I'm sure the cashier is at fault. I'm so angry that i go back to the station and make a row. Cars are honking terribly. I assure it's already noon but it's only ten. I don't dare to draw. Post office. I take a walk and want to draw. I draw a gentleman. I step up and show it to him. He laughs and goes away. End of a dream.
Church goes well. Beautiful and makes me cry. I haven't eaten. This i Lent. Easter eggs...what' hell happened with my chocolate eggs? No chocolate. No coffee. But eggs. I'm surprised that I can endure so much. I watch soccer with Lindo. I can't stop thinking about the internship I just got. I watch Six Feet Under all afternoon. Gosh...it's so f... depressing!!! It's getting dark. My mood is good.
Easter Monday - 24th
I drew a big question mark in my diary this day. I forgot to buy me soap. Instead of being thrown out... an invitation to a splendid dinner. Can't make it. I have already written about that. I wanted to draw a woman at the subway....she was splendid. But stumbled. I pack this diary. May it rest in peace.
Sorry I don't have much Bellacita. Please, read them with as much indifference as I am now. All this is memory by now. And thanks to heaven, everything, even the worst things, lose their sting when they migrate to our memories.
lov
I realized how much I owe you from my days. Angered by the negative response I apologize and here are some entries from my diary to your enjoyment and laugh. Things like this are written only by hopeless arctic explorers.
Good Friday - April 21st
up to the castle with a pound of bread. I also buy an orange. Breakfast. Post office. Stare at photos. Slaving to Starbucks and myself. In the evening I meet Franz Hals on books. He takes off. I get in the car heading to Nova Yorque (NY) and get there hungry, with a place by the fireplace and meeting with a boyfriend's ex girlfriend. Mood: far from perfect, but good enough to stay sane and smoke a sweet cigar.
I put on my new skirt with suspenders that I made in class. I don't eat anything all day for no reason. It will be several more days before I receive any money. Nothing from you.What is going to happen? (My soap ran out). In the car I think about the beautiful russian woman. The boy from Vienna. I wish they could be there, sharing their wine (Energy for this!!!) By the way, today is good Friday. The idea, however ridiculous, calms me down. I miss my mom and call her.
Easter - Sunday 23rd
Bright sunshine. I sleep feverishly. I'm tormented by a dream. My dream: I've purchased the wrong train ticket but I'm sure the cashier is at fault. I'm so angry that i go back to the station and make a row. Cars are honking terribly. I assure it's already noon but it's only ten. I don't dare to draw. Post office. I take a walk and want to draw. I draw a gentleman. I step up and show it to him. He laughs and goes away. End of a dream.
Church goes well. Beautiful and makes me cry. I haven't eaten. This i Lent. Easter eggs...what' hell happened with my chocolate eggs? No chocolate. No coffee. But eggs. I'm surprised that I can endure so much. I watch soccer with Lindo. I can't stop thinking about the internship I just got. I watch Six Feet Under all afternoon. Gosh...it's so f... depressing!!! It's getting dark. My mood is good.
Easter Monday - 24th
I drew a big question mark in my diary this day. I forgot to buy me soap. Instead of being thrown out... an invitation to a splendid dinner. Can't make it. I have already written about that. I wanted to draw a woman at the subway....she was splendid. But stumbled. I pack this diary. May it rest in peace.
Sorry I don't have much Bellacita. Please, read them with as much indifference as I am now. All this is memory by now. And thanks to heaven, everything, even the worst things, lose their sting when they migrate to our memories.
lov
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Virgin
I was born in 1986. I'm not bragging about the times I lived through. I'm simply trying to convey what it felt like living through that age, and the fact that there was something special about it.
I strikes me now that most of the girls of my generation - the moderates, you might designate them - whether virgins or not, agonized over the whole issue of sex. They didn't insist that virginity was such a precious thing, nor denounce it as some stupid relic of the past. So what actually happened? What is this all about?
And I'm not just talking about virginity...but what I'm saying applies to many issues I have with people. Like every generation, there were all kinds of people, all kinds of values. Like every country, all kinds of people, all kinds of values. Like every family, all kinds of people, all kinds of values.
She's so tired. Tired of being sick. Tired of values. Tired of behavior. Tired of her paintings. Tired of trying so hard. She's so sorry to write this pure moldy blog in such circunstances.
Last night it was my day to ask a old friend about her life, whether she had children, where she lived. I had no idea if her e-mail address was the same. She's moving from London to Swiss. So that's what we talked about, changes. Sometimes I felt a bit awkward, but enjoyed talking with her again. We chatted like two old friends who'd said goodbye long ago and who were now walking two separate lives (we shared the same classroom for 10 years). Once we said everything there was to say, silence. A very deep silence. The kind of silence where, if you close your eyes, all sorts of images start to pop up in your mind like you're high or something. It had been a long time since I'd spoken so openly, so honestly, to anybody...and it made me feel old.
I feel old. Old in terms of understanding. Understanding this world. Why do people think a sign will come and save us? Sorry to tell you but ain't no sign. No sign to tell you what to do. To tell you that virgins are more right or wrong. To tell you that you're a natural-born leader. That you're natural born artist. Or a natural-born perfect. I suppose I have to listen elder people, cause I suppose they know more about life. More about living life. I've been trying to do very well for myself. I'm out in this world. Not waiting for a sign...but throwing myself in it. I'm easily seen as a kid to many people. Because easily nobody listens to a kid.
She should pray more. She should listen more.
I'm staring at my own coffee cup and thinking how things changed. Even my coffee, no longer with sugar.
I strikes me now that most of the girls of my generation - the moderates, you might designate them - whether virgins or not, agonized over the whole issue of sex. They didn't insist that virginity was such a precious thing, nor denounce it as some stupid relic of the past. So what actually happened? What is this all about?
And I'm not just talking about virginity...but what I'm saying applies to many issues I have with people. Like every generation, there were all kinds of people, all kinds of values. Like every country, all kinds of people, all kinds of values. Like every family, all kinds of people, all kinds of values.
She's so tired. Tired of being sick. Tired of values. Tired of behavior. Tired of her paintings. Tired of trying so hard. She's so sorry to write this pure moldy blog in such circunstances.
Last night it was my day to ask a old friend about her life, whether she had children, where she lived. I had no idea if her e-mail address was the same. She's moving from London to Swiss. So that's what we talked about, changes. Sometimes I felt a bit awkward, but enjoyed talking with her again. We chatted like two old friends who'd said goodbye long ago and who were now walking two separate lives (we shared the same classroom for 10 years). Once we said everything there was to say, silence. A very deep silence. The kind of silence where, if you close your eyes, all sorts of images start to pop up in your mind like you're high or something. It had been a long time since I'd spoken so openly, so honestly, to anybody...and it made me feel old.
I feel old. Old in terms of understanding. Understanding this world. Why do people think a sign will come and save us? Sorry to tell you but ain't no sign. No sign to tell you what to do. To tell you that virgins are more right or wrong. To tell you that you're a natural-born leader. That you're natural born artist. Or a natural-born perfect. I suppose I have to listen elder people, cause I suppose they know more about life. More about living life. I've been trying to do very well for myself. I'm out in this world. Not waiting for a sign...but throwing myself in it. I'm easily seen as a kid to many people. Because easily nobody listens to a kid.
She should pray more. She should listen more.
I'm staring at my own coffee cup and thinking how things changed. Even my coffee, no longer with sugar.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
La Influenza
"Of course I miss masses, because nobody's got a life that can do all this".brassai
When a kid I was influenced by people like Frida Kahlo. I surrounded her on books. I surrounded her on prayers. I still do. She was talking with honesty and trying to get all the truth. And now I got a Bob Dylan's speech saying "You don't have to be like your parents". It's true. I don't.
We are made by influences right? We get our actual shape by external influences. This sum up with our truly selves. It's like a cake, we're the flour, but who can eat flour by itself? Like I'm one little creature now, but in five years another someone will come out of myself and show her face, and maybe in ten more years I'll get the shape I want. Maybe.
I met a little boy when I was ten, playing soccer. He and his friends lived in the ghetto where you're supposed to listen to gangster rap and pose in a certain way. They were trying different identities and being kids. Which they had to fight to do.
I came home after that game singing hip hop. Never again. My dad almost collapsed.
I go through fases. I'm in really good behavior at this moment, besides a hangover from last night. But nerveless my moments of dandysh time-traveling protagonist of a gay adventure novel is about to happen. I read about these painters in Nova Iorque (NY) that susteined me a camping fascination with series of painted television sets. I have to see it this time. The name is marvelous "Because of him". Oh yeah, because of him I do stupid things. So, here's another influence...him. And the same duo of painters had a exhibition called " A true story based on lies"....now I truly want meet these guys.
So, I'm trying to learn how to play Regina Spektor on piano. I've been watching these videos on youtube (great by the way) called "how to play". I have no idea what's in my mind...but guess I can't stop singing her songs, so learning I'd stop sing along and just shut up. And maybe just forget a childhood trauma with keyboards. Another influence in my life, when two guys robbed my house back in Brazil and stole my keyboards. I was thirteen. Never played again. I didn't want new keyboards. I wanted mine. I wanted my room untouched. I also slept between my parents for the next 3 months.
Sometimes I buy things because it looks nice. Like the title of an exhibition captured me for a name. I may not even like the art "per se"...but well, who cares. Or even cheap wines that come to a brilliant label. Usually spanish labels are the best. I happen to like them too. Cause this time I care. My palate is very influential. That's why I want kiss my Lindo all the time...I know it bothers him sometimes...but who told him to date a latin?
In general, I'm visually influenced
But learned from a little one.
When a kid I was influenced by people like Frida Kahlo. I surrounded her on books. I surrounded her on prayers. I still do. She was talking with honesty and trying to get all the truth. And now I got a Bob Dylan's speech saying "You don't have to be like your parents". It's true. I don't.
We are made by influences right? We get our actual shape by external influences. This sum up with our truly selves. It's like a cake, we're the flour, but who can eat flour by itself? Like I'm one little creature now, but in five years another someone will come out of myself and show her face, and maybe in ten more years I'll get the shape I want. Maybe.
I met a little boy when I was ten, playing soccer. He and his friends lived in the ghetto where you're supposed to listen to gangster rap and pose in a certain way. They were trying different identities and being kids. Which they had to fight to do.
I came home after that game singing hip hop. Never again. My dad almost collapsed.
I go through fases. I'm in really good behavior at this moment, besides a hangover from last night. But nerveless my moments of dandysh time-traveling protagonist of a gay adventure novel is about to happen. I read about these painters in Nova Iorque (NY) that susteined me a camping fascination with series of painted television sets. I have to see it this time. The name is marvelous "Because of him". Oh yeah, because of him I do stupid things. So, here's another influence...him. And the same duo of painters had a exhibition called " A true story based on lies"....now I truly want meet these guys.
So, I'm trying to learn how to play Regina Spektor on piano. I've been watching these videos on youtube (great by the way) called "how to play". I have no idea what's in my mind...but guess I can't stop singing her songs, so learning I'd stop sing along and just shut up. And maybe just forget a childhood trauma with keyboards. Another influence in my life, when two guys robbed my house back in Brazil and stole my keyboards. I was thirteen. Never played again. I didn't want new keyboards. I wanted mine. I wanted my room untouched. I also slept between my parents for the next 3 months.
Sometimes I buy things because it looks nice. Like the title of an exhibition captured me for a name. I may not even like the art "per se"...but well, who cares. Or even cheap wines that come to a brilliant label. Usually spanish labels are the best. I happen to like them too. Cause this time I care. My palate is very influential. That's why I want kiss my Lindo all the time...I know it bothers him sometimes...but who told him to date a latin?
In general, I'm visually influenced
But learned from a little one.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Letter to Bella X - Dame de chez
Dearest Bella,
You're right to think I'm a wench for not even writing you when I got to this amazing period of my mood. But you mustn't imagine it was just laziness on my part, because when I realized I had a pile of things to arrange in my room. Which was absolutely filthy and in a mess. This time my bad mood lasted more than two weeks, when Phil made me feel comfortable again with his marvelous patience and gave me his songs I began to like Gringolandia again. He's with me when I say Gringolandia sometimes drives me insane. For the simple reason that there are more stupid and malleable, and here everyone goes around picking fights/ except when they're not. Than it's marvelous. On the other hand, lately, it has been different, even in the case of the Rockefellers one could struggle against them without back-stabbing. That would disillusion anyone, as you can well understand. I also have been not able to go back home, to you, to my parents, to all for all their qualities and defects, which they also have plenty of, their Catholic homilies, their boundless pretension, and disgusting puritanism, the fact that one has to be "very decent" and "very proper" for everything. Especially my family. And then I can't bear their way of life, at least they know how to live with good taste. And I think my dad is running again...political life is not for me.
When I first told you about Gringolandia I taught the most important thing for everyone is to be "somebody", and frankly these people are everywhere, I'm damn lucky with what I've met. So now the situation is completely different and I'm going to explain why. I'm not trying to compare anything or anyone, but it's fact that where we are from my dear they wanted to take care of my life in a way I never allowed them to. I spoke to my parents about, and they can't completely understand, I wish they could, but I just want them to think of me.
I spent a couple of extremely beautiful days this weekend, and I'm ready for more this week and determined to go through with Dame de chez as well, until the middle of October, when I leave to go home visit you and my "remarried parents", at their 25th anniversary. I miss our portuguese language. I hate speaking English sometimes. So I rather stare at people and stand wherever I am like a "russian doll". I miss speaking good/bad/dirty portuguese words. I miss everything about our language. So, when I can;t find someone portuguese speaking I go to Pedro and shout some spanish "Papacito, hablas com tua amiga pelo amor di dios". It calms me down. I even miss our history, and making fun of Portugal.
I often feel sympathy for carpenters and shoemakers.
Search for love dear.
Goodbye now, I promiss to write you a long letter (longer than this? yesss) telling you about my hoof, if that happens to interest you, and other little-tattle related to Gringolandia and its inhabitants and hope you're happy.
lov.
You're right to think I'm a wench for not even writing you when I got to this amazing period of my mood. But you mustn't imagine it was just laziness on my part, because when I realized I had a pile of things to arrange in my room. Which was absolutely filthy and in a mess. This time my bad mood lasted more than two weeks, when Phil made me feel comfortable again with his marvelous patience and gave me his songs I began to like Gringolandia again. He's with me when I say Gringolandia sometimes drives me insane. For the simple reason that there are more stupid and malleable, and here everyone goes around picking fights/ except when they're not. Than it's marvelous. On the other hand, lately, it has been different, even in the case of the Rockefellers one could struggle against them without back-stabbing. That would disillusion anyone, as you can well understand. I also have been not able to go back home, to you, to my parents, to all for all their qualities and defects, which they also have plenty of, their Catholic homilies, their boundless pretension, and disgusting puritanism, the fact that one has to be "very decent" and "very proper" for everything. Especially my family. And then I can't bear their way of life, at least they know how to live with good taste. And I think my dad is running again...political life is not for me.
When I first told you about Gringolandia I taught the most important thing for everyone is to be "somebody", and frankly these people are everywhere, I'm damn lucky with what I've met. So now the situation is completely different and I'm going to explain why. I'm not trying to compare anything or anyone, but it's fact that where we are from my dear they wanted to take care of my life in a way I never allowed them to. I spoke to my parents about, and they can't completely understand, I wish they could, but I just want them to think of me.
I spent a couple of extremely beautiful days this weekend, and I'm ready for more this week and determined to go through with Dame de chez as well, until the middle of October, when I leave to go home visit you and my "remarried parents", at their 25th anniversary. I miss our portuguese language. I hate speaking English sometimes. So I rather stare at people and stand wherever I am like a "russian doll". I miss speaking good/bad/dirty portuguese words. I miss everything about our language. So, when I can;t find someone portuguese speaking I go to Pedro and shout some spanish "Papacito, hablas com tua amiga pelo amor di dios". It calms me down. I even miss our history, and making fun of Portugal.
I often feel sympathy for carpenters and shoemakers.
Search for love dear.
Goodbye now, I promiss to write you a long letter (longer than this? yesss) telling you about my hoof, if that happens to interest you, and other little-tattle related to Gringolandia and its inhabitants and hope you're happy.
lov.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
The other
I'm sentimental about many things: the metallic smell of the air after the first snow, the first day of your period, that book that you can't finish because will break your heart immensally for no reason, a day to forget.
A day to forget.
I want it. The day I read someone's intimacy. That I felt apart for not being in it. The day I felt sober after my first breakup. The day I didn't feel sober at all. The day my parents bought my flight tickets. The day I crushed at that strange foreign language High School. The day they made me speak. The day I scaped from my first kiss going down the fire exit. The day I felt not belonging anywhere. The day I promissed to never fall in love again. The day I did. The day I declared myself. The day I exposed my privacy. The day I asked to return. The day I wanted. The day I ignored. The day I thought nothing was wrong. The day I understood.
For many of us, celebrate what we like about life is love. But what if love means let someone's life interfer? On the other hand, the idea of forgetting about something that really interfers in your relation with someone makes the object of the sentence become the subject. Confusion. There's nothing wrong. But there's a friendship, an interfering love. Where I can't see myself included.
I'm left feeling that the only choices are being violently idealistic, and you can't tell which is worst. The day to forget.
A day to forget.
I want it. The day I read someone's intimacy. That I felt apart for not being in it. The day I felt sober after my first breakup. The day I didn't feel sober at all. The day my parents bought my flight tickets. The day I crushed at that strange foreign language High School. The day they made me speak. The day I scaped from my first kiss going down the fire exit. The day I felt not belonging anywhere. The day I promissed to never fall in love again. The day I did. The day I declared myself. The day I exposed my privacy. The day I asked to return. The day I wanted. The day I ignored. The day I thought nothing was wrong. The day I understood.
For many of us, celebrate what we like about life is love. But what if love means let someone's life interfer? On the other hand, the idea of forgetting about something that really interfers in your relation with someone makes the object of the sentence become the subject. Confusion. There's nothing wrong. But there's a friendship, an interfering love. Where I can't see myself included.
I'm left feeling that the only choices are being violently idealistic, and you can't tell which is worst. The day to forget.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
A male's voice.
My grandmother was said to be the most beautiful woman in my hometown. Not too tall, not too short, black-haired, warm colored skin and big dark eyes, she was smart as well and started her first job with a communication company - her voice was as beautiful indeed. She felt in love with a male's voice. She had never seen his face, but his voice captured hers...and there begins their love story.
My grandfather was as likely, funny man, but he was also a possessive husband with his beautiful wife. They met at a phone call. And after his calls, permissions to talk to her, they finally set a date. He was the youngest brother of a ten children family. He also played soccer at a state college team and painted stories from the bible...until he could paint her.
She lived out on a farm, but somehow she always did what must be done regarding hair, cosmetics, clothing. Her sister could sew like devil. So then, they could be their own stylists. She married my grandfather and moved out of farm. She wanted to get out of there, so marring him was the perfect situation. They had a bohemian life. They loved go out to balls. Dancing the salons all night long, with the most unique dresses spinning around the floor dance. And the crowd would watch stunned. My grandfather became a local politician, participating of social causes and business. He taught he could change the way things were. But his passion for art had to be left behind. And so he did. And he pursuid his political career adding the biggest impact on me...that he couldn't be alive to see.
These are my grandparents stories: that I use to love for their fairy-tale logic. I also loved the glamour that they lived their lives, and that I was the grandaughter of a beautiful grandmother. But gradually I began to grow and live my own fairy tale. When he died I stopped trusting in happy ends and every time my mother would talk me into "be or not to be" I would change the subject.
My gradma survived strong enough to teach me how to dance at balls. And I followed her on journeys nobody ever wanted, and would be her company at parties. My grandpa died from depression, not because he failed....but because people failed on him. Because he knew that a beautiful wife, and family could not stop him from death. Because he was too discreet to recognize his own beauty. And might have needed more attention.
My mother thinks I'm being silly. She's only partly right.
My grandfather was as likely, funny man, but he was also a possessive husband with his beautiful wife. They met at a phone call. And after his calls, permissions to talk to her, they finally set a date. He was the youngest brother of a ten children family. He also played soccer at a state college team and painted stories from the bible...until he could paint her.
She lived out on a farm, but somehow she always did what must be done regarding hair, cosmetics, clothing. Her sister could sew like devil. So then, they could be their own stylists. She married my grandfather and moved out of farm. She wanted to get out of there, so marring him was the perfect situation. They had a bohemian life. They loved go out to balls. Dancing the salons all night long, with the most unique dresses spinning around the floor dance. And the crowd would watch stunned. My grandfather became a local politician, participating of social causes and business. He taught he could change the way things were. But his passion for art had to be left behind. And so he did. And he pursuid his political career adding the biggest impact on me...that he couldn't be alive to see.
These are my grandparents stories: that I use to love for their fairy-tale logic. I also loved the glamour that they lived their lives, and that I was the grandaughter of a beautiful grandmother. But gradually I began to grow and live my own fairy tale. When he died I stopped trusting in happy ends and every time my mother would talk me into "be or not to be" I would change the subject.
My gradma survived strong enough to teach me how to dance at balls. And I followed her on journeys nobody ever wanted, and would be her company at parties. My grandpa died from depression, not because he failed....but because people failed on him. Because he knew that a beautiful wife, and family could not stop him from death. Because he was too discreet to recognize his own beauty. And might have needed more attention.
My mother thinks I'm being silly. She's only partly right.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
The go forward
To be happy you have to find variety in repetition; that to go forward you have to come back where you began (Jeffrey Eugenides)
This is something I'm allucinated about. I needed, for many reasons, write a blog about what you just read.
Yet again, I have provided a wonderful entertaining (to myself) with letters to my dear friends and especially Bella. Bella is a breath of fresh air and does not have the God complex that seems to afflict so many of us. She's my "come back home to go forward". If I had to physically come back home I'd never again leave. But honestly not to come back is what finds variety in life. Does that make sense? Probably not.
I found variety in starting over again. Pleasure that assures me to be strong. I've changed houses, homes, lovers, wind, frames, landscape...but no dreams. I've got back home once...to take another look, to see it again, to make it disappear, to watch them carefully, until I understood.
My boyfriend decided to start a blog with good things, so he can find hope and growth. I've decided to find my variety without start all over again. To learn how to deal with repetition...without being bored. Knowing that I have a boyfriend for a year is already a good start. Since I started dating, relationships were never my safe point (and no, it's not because of my latin blood). Lindo is just different. It makes me feel safe in a Land of Strangers. And love even when I don't. I'm struck by how comfort he makes me feel. But I'll write about him later.
I acted as a child, starting at age seven, and this artistic outlet probably helped me survive in places which I felt so out of sync. Before I had no real understanding of the cute, the coy, the bad. I may not be entirely even though I should. I consider everything as cute...having multilingual skills makes it easier.
My mother saw the world as a scary place. But she taught me how to deal with. She took me down to the ghettos at age 10 to understand people's struggle to survive. She bought me sex's manuals (I found out babies don't just pop up out of nowhere at age 6) just in case I needed. And had regularly gynecologist's appointments. She shared with me my first glass of wine at age 15. I hated it. I got drunk for the first time at age 19. And never again. She helped me to be the best math student in class. Of course she was a master in calculus. She couldn't draw or paint but she gave me pencils and paintings when I first asked. She worked her ass out to be an example. I guess I work my ass out now. It worked mom. My dad, in the other hand, made me love books. And be honest with myself. I was a tomboy near him. He'd have to talk me into girly stuff. I loved soccer and play in the streets instead. I had countless barbies that were never touched. And my room had its pink walls covered with my paintings. Now, I don't wear pink...by choice.
At age 13 I asked them for therapy. They stared at me for minutes before the word "No". I guess they knew what they were doing. And of course, there are mothers and fathers, and lovers and children, all trying to figure out how to live in a way that is true to themselves.
I find it embarrassing to talk about how much I love a sentence. Like the first you read. I find unseemly and vulgar to talk about how much I love Lindo. It makes me feel revealed. If anything has slowed me down, it was the fear of being all in. Of being exposed - not in terms of people watch me or what they think of me - but in revealing to myself how much I care. That I care so deeply. That it all matters so much.
This is something I'm allucinated about. I needed, for many reasons, write a blog about what you just read.
Yet again, I have provided a wonderful entertaining (to myself) with letters to my dear friends and especially Bella. Bella is a breath of fresh air and does not have the God complex that seems to afflict so many of us. She's my "come back home to go forward". If I had to physically come back home I'd never again leave. But honestly not to come back is what finds variety in life. Does that make sense? Probably not.
I found variety in starting over again. Pleasure that assures me to be strong. I've changed houses, homes, lovers, wind, frames, landscape...but no dreams. I've got back home once...to take another look, to see it again, to make it disappear, to watch them carefully, until I understood.
My boyfriend decided to start a blog with good things, so he can find hope and growth. I've decided to find my variety without start all over again. To learn how to deal with repetition...without being bored. Knowing that I have a boyfriend for a year is already a good start. Since I started dating, relationships were never my safe point (and no, it's not because of my latin blood). Lindo is just different. It makes me feel safe in a Land of Strangers. And love even when I don't. I'm struck by how comfort he makes me feel. But I'll write about him later.
I acted as a child, starting at age seven, and this artistic outlet probably helped me survive in places which I felt so out of sync. Before I had no real understanding of the cute, the coy, the bad. I may not be entirely even though I should. I consider everything as cute...having multilingual skills makes it easier.
My mother saw the world as a scary place. But she taught me how to deal with. She took me down to the ghettos at age 10 to understand people's struggle to survive. She bought me sex's manuals (I found out babies don't just pop up out of nowhere at age 6) just in case I needed. And had regularly gynecologist's appointments. She shared with me my first glass of wine at age 15. I hated it. I got drunk for the first time at age 19. And never again. She helped me to be the best math student in class. Of course she was a master in calculus. She couldn't draw or paint but she gave me pencils and paintings when I first asked. She worked her ass out to be an example. I guess I work my ass out now. It worked mom. My dad, in the other hand, made me love books. And be honest with myself. I was a tomboy near him. He'd have to talk me into girly stuff. I loved soccer and play in the streets instead. I had countless barbies that were never touched. And my room had its pink walls covered with my paintings. Now, I don't wear pink...by choice.
At age 13 I asked them for therapy. They stared at me for minutes before the word "No". I guess they knew what they were doing. And of course, there are mothers and fathers, and lovers and children, all trying to figure out how to live in a way that is true to themselves.
I find it embarrassing to talk about how much I love a sentence. Like the first you read. I find unseemly and vulgar to talk about how much I love Lindo. It makes me feel revealed. If anything has slowed me down, it was the fear of being all in. Of being exposed - not in terms of people watch me or what they think of me - but in revealing to myself how much I care. That I care so deeply. That it all matters so much.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Letter to Bella IV - Need for values
Hey Bellacita,
Here I am in Boston at last. My temporary "life-style"...where I'm in right now is taking the next level. As I woke this morning I caught sight of my "new" resolutions...that are not as new as I taught. I haven't been able to paint lately...and don't know why. I have only roamed around my room, my bed, my pencils and my front porch (when it's not 5 degrees out there). I even smoked...smoked cigars to dare myself to death. Or smell my grandpa from the air....so he could tell me what to do. Whoever I talk to, everything is nice, charming and, indeed, captivating. But I see no way to go. Which is absolutely not normal for me...
I'm in a state of glass....I can see where but just feels unreal and frozen. After some searching I'll be able to tell you more. I've classes starting this month which I'm suppost to be excited about....but hell no. I may need to be frank and tell my mom I'm frozen and need some time off. From everyone maybe.
Last night there was hot water running and steaming room where I work and I enjoyed like it was my last day. Or my first. First and Last are always the best. Rhyme. Pause. Got a phone call.
There's a huge window from the floor to the ceiling that looks onto the street...where've been spending my stretching hours. And thinking. Sometimes not thinking at all. Many mirrors...I can see thirty copies of myself if I wish.
It's true that it's not the best time for letter writing, but I'm hard pressed for your letters. I owe you two letters though. But in this initial period of the year I cannot, and will not, do any differently, and I'm doing my best to put aside what I had in mind when I came here. I'm definitely not interested in exhibitions. The few I have seen in art dealer's galleries were enough to make me realize something that is not new and has long haunted me like a nightmare...how life there is in these pictures and how little they have to do with today's life. There's nothing but decorations in nicely furnished salons. I'm envious of those who can paint the way others repair shoes or write business letters.
I have developed such high expectations of life and of my own values, that my life will loose its goals and all its meanings if I cannot make these values manifest. I never say what I think when I need...even to my own love.
But let's drop these thoughts, which are not exactly carnival-like, and also those, even less carnivalesque, that I've been trying to brush this carnival atmosphere. Besides all...I feel completely at home.
much love.
and cheers to a new year.
Here I am in Boston at last. My temporary "life-style"...where I'm in right now is taking the next level. As I woke this morning I caught sight of my "new" resolutions...that are not as new as I taught. I haven't been able to paint lately...and don't know why. I have only roamed around my room, my bed, my pencils and my front porch (when it's not 5 degrees out there). I even smoked...smoked cigars to dare myself to death. Or smell my grandpa from the air....so he could tell me what to do. Whoever I talk to, everything is nice, charming and, indeed, captivating. But I see no way to go. Which is absolutely not normal for me...
I'm in a state of glass....I can see where but just feels unreal and frozen. After some searching I'll be able to tell you more. I've classes starting this month which I'm suppost to be excited about....but hell no. I may need to be frank and tell my mom I'm frozen and need some time off. From everyone maybe.
Last night there was hot water running and steaming room where I work and I enjoyed like it was my last day. Or my first. First and Last are always the best. Rhyme. Pause. Got a phone call.
There's a huge window from the floor to the ceiling that looks onto the street...where've been spending my stretching hours. And thinking. Sometimes not thinking at all. Many mirrors...I can see thirty copies of myself if I wish.
It's true that it's not the best time for letter writing, but I'm hard pressed for your letters. I owe you two letters though. But in this initial period of the year I cannot, and will not, do any differently, and I'm doing my best to put aside what I had in mind when I came here. I'm definitely not interested in exhibitions. The few I have seen in art dealer's galleries were enough to make me realize something that is not new and has long haunted me like a nightmare...how life there is in these pictures and how little they have to do with today's life. There's nothing but decorations in nicely furnished salons. I'm envious of those who can paint the way others repair shoes or write business letters.
I have developed such high expectations of life and of my own values, that my life will loose its goals and all its meanings if I cannot make these values manifest. I never say what I think when I need...even to my own love.
But let's drop these thoughts, which are not exactly carnival-like, and also those, even less carnivalesque, that I've been trying to brush this carnival atmosphere. Besides all...I feel completely at home.
much love.
and cheers to a new year.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Letter to Bella III - One song at a time
Hi Bellacita,
Life. For the first time in my life Bella I had the most challenging year. Nevertheless, I don't take a dim view of my future. It's almost Christmas and in ten years' time (or perhaps less) my Mom and Dad will get use to me as the wench I am now. I sent them postcards and little figures of my last work. You'll get them as well...be patient. You know I'm a "MULA" with time and get things done. This, of course, does not mean that I want to do something consciously on time. I had to reformulate my own conception for making art. I came to the conclusion that art is one "song" at a time. I see its true value. Just like when we were 15 years old singing "Samba de verao" by caetano...and thinking how that one song became part of that one moment and will die with us. Isn't amazing? Music....songs....art. The good art. The pure and essential. I hope that someday I'll play piano...so could follow the dreamings of my little figures. All we need is time...time...time...(gosh...Theory of relativity...why Einstein?) time...time..tempo! But so far...after so much adversity and so many unexpected obstacles I still cannot believe I'm back in Gringolandia. I have always felt, that something would come up at the last moment making my departure impossible. It has been a year. A year of crazy dilemmas. If I want it...if I don't. Do...don't.
I'm a bit upset, while I believe I've a reason to rejoice. However it's about life. I can see numerous examples here of how difficult it is to succeed in art ( I mean in terms of making a living). Sometimes I wish I'd listen my parents. I will suffer the songs of my long years....and dance Samba whenever I feel like doing it. And lift a broom instead of a pencil.
Soon I'll see you again. And tell your mama I love her to death.
Cheers to our next long year.
much love.
Life. For the first time in my life Bella I had the most challenging year. Nevertheless, I don't take a dim view of my future. It's almost Christmas and in ten years' time (or perhaps less) my Mom and Dad will get use to me as the wench I am now. I sent them postcards and little figures of my last work. You'll get them as well...be patient. You know I'm a "MULA" with time and get things done. This, of course, does not mean that I want to do something consciously on time. I had to reformulate my own conception for making art. I came to the conclusion that art is one "song" at a time. I see its true value. Just like when we were 15 years old singing "Samba de verao" by caetano...and thinking how that one song became part of that one moment and will die with us. Isn't amazing? Music....songs....art. The good art. The pure and essential. I hope that someday I'll play piano...so could follow the dreamings of my little figures. All we need is time...time...time...(gosh...Theory of relativity...why Einstein?) time...time..tempo! But so far...after so much adversity and so many unexpected obstacles I still cannot believe I'm back in Gringolandia. I have always felt, that something would come up at the last moment making my departure impossible. It has been a year. A year of crazy dilemmas. If I want it...if I don't. Do...don't.
I'm a bit upset, while I believe I've a reason to rejoice. However it's about life. I can see numerous examples here of how difficult it is to succeed in art ( I mean in terms of making a living). Sometimes I wish I'd listen my parents. I will suffer the songs of my long years....and dance Samba whenever I feel like doing it. And lift a broom instead of a pencil.
Soon I'll see you again. And tell your mama I love her to death.
Cheers to our next long year.
much love.
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