"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.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
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.
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