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

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!

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)

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.

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