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.
Monday, February 25, 2008
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.
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