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.

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.

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