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.
Monday, July 28, 2008
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
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