Dirt

It wasn’t to be talked about anymore, he had decided. He was tired of words wasted so frivolously. He walked away, staring down at his heavy steps, right, left, right, left. The dirt pounded back. The dirt stormed up his legs, taking hold of the perspiration in his pores. A layer of ground scraps swarmed up his calves, residues of earth fixed to his skin, sediments of mountains and rivers and forest and cities, for that moment in time all committed to his legs. He wiped off the anger on his forehead with his left hand and shut his eyes. He would have cried, if he could only have gathered tears. He was dry. Had been for so many years, there was no way around it. Somewhere in his crowd-less chest there were long lost thoughts of his gentler days, days there was an unfathomable sky above his head. Now the stars felt like an oppressing ceiling, peeled, damaged by unscrupulous vengeance and water infiltration. He was his worst neighbor. He was his last enemy standing. He wasn’t standing. He was floating on the debris of his will. What was left of his longings? What was left of his soul? He grinned, “soul…” He spoke without moving his lips, each letter resonating silently in his ears, throat, mouth. He swallowed the sound. There were no words, just the tyrannical weight of his every step against the complex vastness of the ground. He was lost in his roads within, paths to a universe in battle with its black hole. For thirty-four years he had outlasted the dark abyss in his dreams, edge of canyons down his core, path to secrets locked in his corners. He had not gone down. And in his hidden thoughts, he was fighting that irrefutable long walk, that one last step and fall, free-fall down miles of years in few seconds. The past giving place to a future he wouldn’t have, future he had dared to plan against his own will. Future he had hid in a drawer of his head, right around the one he had just buried with his last words – or lack of them more likely. He knew he had surpassed his own worst expectations.

Mão de Irmão

Meu irmão Bruno foi minha primeira grande parceria. Ainda no berço o Bruninho já me protegia, “cobre a neném, mamãe. Os moquito vão pica.” E lá ia ele para lá e para cá, nem dois anos ainda, de fralda e avante, cuidando da neném. Lembro muito da textura da mão firme daquele pequeno menino homem andando de mão dada o quilômetro diário de ladeira até a condução, eu com três e ele com cinco anos. Ele antecipava todas as grades que cachorro latia e me trazia para bem perto dele, apertando contra o medo peregrino que transpirava na palma da minha pequena mão. Bruninho escutava “O Pedro e o Lobo” atento e repetia alto “cimento, cimento” enquanto o que o Pedro falava era “que medo, que medo.” Bruninho andava determinado com peito inflado de homem da casa e protegia eu e a mamãe só com o olhar.

Sempre lembro da tarde que a mamãe traduziu “She’s Leaving Home” para gente e depois saiu para trabalhar. A gente devia ter cinco e quase sete anos respectivamente. Deixamos o “Sargent Pepper’s” tocando alto pela casa e nos abraçamos na varanda, a vista vasta da tarde no Rio se pondo, a noite caindo, e nós dois ali, emocionados com a fuga de casa da menina rica de dinheiro e pobre de amor. O que a gente mais teve foi amor.

Nós dois choramos muito abraçados e nos confidenciamos sem pressa entre portas fechadas. Anos e anos de gargalhadas de cosquinhas e de piadas – o Bruno odiava e primeira e amava a segunda. E passamos também muitos momentos juntos calados; sem palavra, só presença.

Bruninho sempre foi generoso sem tentar e sensível sem dramaturgia. Me protegia de tudo, batia nas crianças que zoavam minha boca não tão infantil (apesar de rapidamente eu ter aprendido a me proteger – ou melhor, me vingar), tomava conta quando estávamos sozinhos e me introduzia sem perceber ao mundo dele de menino. Eu sempre fascinada.

Quando eu estava pra fazer seis anos, a mama se apaixonou pelo padrasto e o Fabinho entrou na nossa vida. Ele com a mesma idade que o Bruno, primeiro causou alvoroço. Era para gente estrangeiro de São Paulo e irmão obrigatório em uma idade cheia de singularidade. Aterrisou em meio a estranhamento e rivalidade infantil; briguinhas territoriais haviam sido antecipadas. Mas o Fabinho era piradão e figuraça, cheio de gargalhadas rasgadas e melodias em assovio, cantorias em falseto e brincadeiras louquíssimas. Fabinho chupava o polegar com furor e dormia o máximo permitido.
Fabinho era precocemente pervertido, extremamente engraçado e surpreendentemente tolerante. Eu abusava; podia mordê-lo, andar nas costas dele quando ele se deitava, apertar o peito dele que nem sanfona, cutucar... não tinha pentelhação que aborrecesse o Bifafa.

E assim, dia após dia, viramos três ­– nem que a contra gosto dos meninos: o cowboy, o bandido e a bartender(?) solta que se acoplava ao teatro infantil que aflorava toda tarde pelo nosso quinto andar. Quanto mais eles tentavam me excluir das brincadeiras masculinas mais eu insistia, não tinha jeito, a garota pentelhava até ser malvinda – malvinda mas incluída, valia a pena. Com as mil crianças do nosso prédio, o “Raposão”, jogávamos futebol, nadávamos na piscina por tardes e noites, brincávamos de pique-esconde, tubarão, queimado, ping-pong, brigávamos uns com os outros em turminhas e claro que em casa brigávamos muito também, porque nem tudo são flores.

De cumplicidade em rivalidade nossas agressividades afloravam; era briga por causa de quem comeu o Danoninho do outro, quem pega o maior bife, quem comanda o controle da tv, quem senta na janela no carro, quem não libera o banheiro, quem bate mais forte até se arrepender. De briga em briga crescíamos ainda mais irmãos. Brigamos muito, mas corremos também montanhas das dunas de Itaúnas, nadamos com cobra d’agua em rios de água doce, andamos de canoa em meio a crocodilos, fugimos de onça a cavalo. Lembram?

Com a chegada da pré-adolescência a música invadiu. Bruno no violão, Fabio na bateria, Luciano no teclado, Nuninho no Baixo e eu e as meninas no backing vocals, era demais. Rolling Stones, Beatles, Janis Joplin, Pink Floyd, Bob Marley, Legião Urbana, Barão Vermelho, tropicália, bossa nova, jazz... finais de semana inteiros de esbórnia e música e teatro e guloseimas e filmes e brincadeiras e o primeiro baseado e tal. “Tal” porque foi uma tal de experimentação tão abrangente que descrição exata não reflete a complexidade da experiência. A “casa da Chica” – como ficou conhecido o nosso apartamento sem adulto uma vez que a mama e o padrasto tinham o deles três andares abaixo do nosso – virou o antro da nossa juventude transviada e cultural no alto da ladeira de Santa Tereza; e haja estória.

Mas essa estória não é sobre esbórnia. Essa estória é sobre a cumplicidade profunda que brotou voluntariamente através da intimidade diária da vida com meus dois irmãos. E como foi bom ter irmão; podia perguntar sobre sexo e falar besteira sem falso pudor, podia ser franca sem picuinha e corajosa com certeza de backup. Podia brigar como garoto e chorar como menina. Com o Nobru e o Bifafa ouvi músicas que jamais teria conhecido, filmes que não teria visto, amigos que não teria tido se não fosse através dos enlaços de caminhos e abraços que os dois escolheram em seus respectivos percursos; nossos percursos compartilhados.

E é isso aí, essa estória é sobre essa beleza de irmandade do Bruno e do Fabio; sobre dois meninos geniais que compartilharam a fundo essa nossa infância/adolescência com extraordinária criatividade e peito para lá de aberto. Essa estória é sobre esses dois homens que primeiro me ensinaram não só o masculino, mas a singularidade da diferença do meu feminino. E um grande orgulho me invade quando deixo memória lavar em torrente esse afeto saudoso que mora em mim.

Amo vocês, sua irmã, Chica

Z

In the gloominess of the fledgling dawn, she longed to see his eyes seeing her. Her reflection was softer in his mirror.

Christmas Brunch

Her hair flowed with the breeze when my eyes caught them. He held her close to his body, arms holding tight to her waist while she playfully let her weight give into his trust. She cocked her head back and smiled. I looked at my breakfast and swallowed their joy. I watched them through my cappuccino’s dissipating foam and missed you. It is Christmas morning and every random embrace reminds me of us.

They waited for their table as if hunger never mattered. They floated through the minutes, unaware of the driving by traffic and the impatient starving families on the line. They kissed softly, a long kiss disregarding spectators’ glances. She caressed his right earlobe. I could then smell you with my eyes closed. They looked at each other and there was silence. My silence was louder. My silence swayed with the cold breeze, chest filled with your presence.

It was sunny but my hands were cold. They had dived into an universe parallel to the audience, where the rain is warm and the sun soft on the skin. I swallowed caffeine to wake up from my dreams. I gulped large amounts of the liquid crack and chocked up on my longing. I blushed quietly. They blushed openly, pure naivety of young love.

I looked down and focused on the medium-rare piece of heaven on my plate, I replaced my love with gluttony, forging fullness through my emptiness. I left the couple alone to their moment and duck-dived into the yellow yolk running onto my hash browns. I ate food for the soul and licked my lips, dipped in live memories of your taste. I pounded through my meal until my cutlery was properly propped down on the right side of the plate, as you’d so well appreciate, and suddenly your slow blink sneaked back into my mind.

Man, it’s Christmas for God's sake and never again to be spent away.

Sovereignty

And his mother tacitly told her,
"You're welcome, as long as you don't come in".

Dead Cat

His cat died
It jumped from a wall too high
Or was it an electric fence?

I just know it died
It broke him into tears
Him, not the cat
The cat might have cried
But I doubt it

It probably lay in there in its last breath
Hoping there was a 9th life
“You give them a hand they want the whole arm”
Someone shouted from the skies

His cat died
Yesterday we didn’t know it was his last night
Perhaps I’d have padded it if I knew it was its time
Perhaps not

Yep, his cat died
And I should be more sympathetic
Less thankful for his mighty destiny
But isn’t it fair for all cats to die?
Eventually, I mean…

Now his cat is probably living in the sky
Or some kind of animal heaven out there in the universe
No dogs, just rats
Bunch of fat cats walking by

So don’t be sad your cat died
I show you my right boob if you stop the cry

The (Film) Industry of Broken Dreams

This is not my Business, this is not my life. This is not where I end.

The pettiness of your ultra important tasks
The snappiness of your arrogance, so caught up in your ordinary
The overbearing presence of your inflated ego
It all sickens me

I'm not one of you people, accommodated in your over-weight unhappiness while pretending this is not really your life, although you haven't taken a vacation in ten years
And I'm not talking about a freaking 4 day cruise, or your weekend in Cabo, or your 14 cities in 10 days European trip. I'm talking about the tiny little world outside the state-of-the-art movie set rolling in your head.

I watch your misery pacing across office cubicles and motorhomes
I hear your heavy tone on your uber calls
I smell the petulance in your shallow smile
I see underneath your surface

And then you tell me, "but you know, work is work, I may be an asshole sometimes around here but I'm under a lot of pressure, you know. I'm very different than this in my normal life."

So, news-flash to you, Mr. Split Personality: Your actual life is not much more than what you do with it every day. If you've been working 15hrs days, 6 days a week, for the last years of your life, this is actually what your "normal life" is. What are you going to say now? "No, no, I'm really cool and active on the 2 hours left of my day after we wrap."

Your Groundhog life is a variation of the same questions asked over and over again, "where is crafty, what time is lunch, when do we wrap?" Every day you whine about your early calls and pray for the day to go by. You watch the clock ticking and long for one less day in your life.

Wake up, my friend. You're one more slave of these gold handcuffs. You have sold your soul to dough the day you filled out that first timecard. You got blinded by dollar signs on an opaque paycheck. Time keeps slipping through your fingers while you collect wrinkles in your face and zeros in your bank account.

What's the price of your money?

Look at the mirror
You have aged, haven't you?
Your work has consumed you, swallowed your old longings
You're an empty treasure chest of broken dreams

Is this means to an end or just the end?

Remember those days when you're a kid full of will
Days you wished to be the man you have inside
Days you promised you wouldn't be one of them
Guess what? You are Them

And you're right, who am I to say I'm not?
Believe me, there are thousand hidden tears in portable parties, reassuring myself that I won't give into the evilest ways some people around me have been trying to teach me by default
There is a permanent struggle with this unyielding Success infection shouting through the media waves
I know to wash my ego out every night, patting off any vestige of contamination

I shall not forget what I'm made of

So to you, seating there on your throne of financial achievements, I say, "go eat some flowers", because smelling them is not enough. Book a real vacation as you book a job, fuck your wife more often (or grow some balls and finally divorce her, if you've been contemplating your cowardness every time you pretend you're still attracted to her), move your lazy ass out of your leather couch and get outside, stop watching games and go play them.

Live mothafucka, live!

And if you must choose to stay, at least go shoot your own dreams!

Lobo

Te penso muito, puro brilho. Te vejo sorriso aberto, gargalhada rasgada ecoando nas esquinas escuras dos meus cantos.

Menino, eu sei que o fundo do teu rio é inocência, carinho sem limite, pureza. Corre suas águas, se dá de beber, dá curso a sua correnteza. Quero nadar. Quero mergulhar em sua essência homem, cerne masculino. Quero me entornar no espelho do teu olho negro que me encara lá dentro, me pega, me come, me rompi e eu abro. Abro tudo. Me jogo de peito aberto e deixo que teu gosto me leve na sua torrente cachoeira a baixo. Nadamos juntos; nossa força muda maré. E aí vem doçura pura, afeto, ternura, abraço. Teus braços são o meu lugar preferido.

Homem Hércules, carne, corpo, pernas, mãos, torso. Atleta em cada célula, cada contorno, núcleo e avesso. Corpo fortaleza vigilante da teu vulnerável. Mas nem vem tentando te sonegar de mim, eu vejo por trás das tuas fronteiras. Vejo menino passarinho que brinca pelas minhas avenidas ainda meio despreparado e corre minhas montanhas receoso de desfiladeiro. Vejo menino calado cheio de sonho, que olha estrela cadente e re-desperta meta a conquistar.

Homem, eu sei do que é feito teu peito. Vai, anda, bola para frente, deixa o que não é para traz. Lembra daquele você que só você sabe ser. Olha lá dentro, olha que lindo o que você esconde aí. Abre teu peito. Não te imagino de outro jeito, deprimido, aborrido, esquisito. Não te imagino nada menos do que sol, pulsando, transbordando beleza para dar.

Menino lobo, uiva. Me faz tremer só com iminência da tua pele, com prenúncio do teu cheiro roçando em meus sentidos. Me toca magnético, me absorve, contagia, arrepia todas minhas curvas e faz em meu deserto, de miragem realidade. Vamos para um lugar deserto? Vamos que eu quero deixar meu sangue correr mais forte em minhas veias, quero que suor transpire em gotas salgadas e derrame volúpia entre minhas coxas. Vamos que eu quero encontrar teu corpo no nosso escuro e brincar com teus segredos. Quero esquecer as horas, me perder em você sem soluços nem tropeços. Quero nos beber em taça gelada que por dentro derrete quente e vira implosão que acaba por exploder teu desejo pelas minhas tetas, cara, buceta. E me jogo, me largo, me rasgo ao meio e te compartilho meu mistério, te dou um pedaço.

E aqui sentada com a minha abstinência, em frente a tua ausência, me deparo com a urgência do nosso pouco tempo e te digo, que lindo, que bom te encontrar.

EX

P.S.: Remind myself that jealousy after the relationship is done is just the ego shouting and to be (dis)regarded as a spoiled over-crying child.

Light

But every fear
All the darkness
Any shadow is also light

Morning of Forgiveness

Eyes still close, dawn of the mind

I went to sleep thorns and sparrows
Howling current of dirt
Yellowed village of dusty dreams

I dreamed vast land of volcanic islands
Hidden paths to early civilizations
Dark jungles and prehistoric mountains
Hungry birds of the heart

And there were gods and titans
Fauns and nymphs
Ancient gathering of mythological ghosts
Million thoughts in thousand whispers

I flew through the surface of the earth
Full of mud and dirt
I smelled its roots from above
I listened to the sound of nothing
And soared through intricate threads of sky

I saw infinite dunes of eternally shifting sand
Cosmic dance of complex galaxies
Boundless universe of untamable stars
roaring ecstasy of the mind

I went far into nowhere
Deep into the deepest depth
I dove head first into the whole
Baring all secrets
Undressing to the weight of light
Pure and bright

I slithered old layer of skin
And ate its protein as nutrient for my new
I re-puzzled the broken
And reset what was filled

I just opened my eyes for the day
Everything else stayed behind

The Chaser

How much one needs not to be wanted to want?

Escape

He sits across from her, two isles of desks away. She saw him the first day he showed up with his four girls crew. She saw him, looked at him broadly twice and dismissed. Not that he was dismissible, but her head had had enough to handle for years to come. Not yet. Not again.

Two days went by. She had caught him glancing at her three or four times through the mornings and lazy afternoons. She had caught his puzzled eyes wondering, but she refused to assume he wondered about her. He was just lost into thoughts, not into her. No wetting her toes into any river. She needed ground.

The third day it might have been the baseball cap. There was something about the whiteness of the cloth against his tanned skin that sucked her into his soft beard, his blue eyes, his half smile. She looked away. He answered the phone. His raspy voice echoed in her ears. No. No. Not yet. Not again. She locked her ears from any outland.

But then she spotted his calves under the desk. She spotted the roundness of that muscle riding her into sudden lust. She looked at his ankles, thin as a good dancing slave. His protuberant chest yielding surface to his shirt. His hands typing away seventy-five words per minute. She lost her eyes in him until awaken by his smile. She looked away as if she had been looking through him. But inside her blood was sprinting. She could smell his scent from miles.

She walked outside and lit a cigarette she didn’t want to smoke. She lifted her arms wishing for the wind to dry the sweat drops off her skin. She sighed heavily and asked the gray clouds to distract her intensities. Please, take them with you. Take me with you.

She walked back into the office and his eyes stared directly at her. No hide, no secret. She stared back all the way to her chair. Sat down, cocked her head expressionless while still looking at him and finally looked away at her computer screen. Still, he stared. God, help me. Let me resign from my hunger for a split second. Not yet. Not again.

That night she escaped to home without saying goodbye to anyone.

Next day she came in too early, haven’t had noticed the anxiety of her early wake up. She had sped up to work distractively, not aware of her crave.

She sat in her car reading while waiting for the office to be opened. She watched his crew arriving, one at a time. He will be the next. He always comes in after the Coordinator. She watched the minutes walking through the door, but not him.

She thought she got her mind in place, paced into the office and camped her eyes at his empty spot. He must be getting here any moment now. What? What am I saying? She typed away into her keyboard a story she didn’t want to live; a story about a girl meeting a boy without really getting to know him. A story about the hesitance of a girl persisting to avoid new storms within. She wrote about the girl and felt sad for her despair, her intransigence with herself.

She wrote for as long as she could. He was to arrive any second. But then ten o’clock came and not him. She remembered his blueness gazing at her the days before. She remembered his mystery, his mist and she felt moved. She felt moist.

She ran into the restroom and looked at the mirror. Stop. Stop. You gotta stop. Rest your breath for a second. She looked into her eyes and shut down her fantasies. This is not about him. This is not about anyone but my inability to rest alone for a split second. Stop. You don’t want to know him. I plead. She was tired of her hastiness. Tired of repetitions and the frugality of her inconsistence. The diagnosis was clear; she had been addicted to excitement, to feeling too much, to loving and desiring and engaging and diving. She was exhausted of longings. She washed her face and peed in silence. Enough. She flipped her head and fixed her hair. Not yet. Not again.

When she came out of the restroom there he was at his chair exhaling fire. He smiled at her and she grimed shyly. Run for your life. I can feel it, it’s burning again. No, it’s not any chemistry, it’s just caffeine. It gotta be.

She refrained from thinking but her hands were shaking. Mothafucking cappuccino. Perhaps, I must blame this demand-less job that allows my mind so much to drift. All I need are some tasks and my mind will be clear. Send me the infantry; I’m ready for the battle against my will.

So she got back to writing her story about the girl that didn’t want to meet the boy. She threw herself into words and disregarded her heartbeat. It kept beating. She wished to demise her evil sweat glands persisting to flow rivers under the fabric. She looked at him sitting quietly and wished to run her fingers through his still wet hair.

The day became long. Every second insisted in stretching itself. She saw everything. His dark-gray converse, his dark jeans, his hip green shirt, his attention while scribbling into the post-it, his carefulness with the taping down pictures, the kindness in his tone, the sharpness of his angles. You evil God up there. Leave my motives alone. Leave me be.

She went outside and smoke another cigarette against her will. Let me smoke away my thoughts, blur them with smolder and divert my chemical imbalance. She sat by a chair outside and drifted into bewilderment. She rested her head on her hands and found a pair of dark-gray Converse by her feet. He had sat next to her. No words just presence. They sat in silence hearing each other’s breath, feeling each other skin without needing to touch. Not yet. Not again. They kept the hum of the silence in their heads until requiring tasks pulled them back in. Uff.

The day had gone by with her searching for quietness in her mind. The clock was ticking and she had a chance to win against her overly adventurous hunger. But please, stop talking. Allow me to refrain from hearing your voice against my ears.


By five o’clock she had survived. It was Friday. By the time the weekend would be over she wouldn’t be sitting on that desk again for months to come. Her job was to end and that last Friday was the last chance to give in.

She packed her computer. Looked at him with freedom and wished for a soft kiss. She stood up, pretended to not be leaving––and left. Left alone and drove away holding her breath. It was done. It was over. She closed that chapter and rode along.

Not yet. Not again.

Carta para Marla

Marla,

Descobri seu blog ontem e pirei. Em meio de dia esquisito, cabeça nublada com possibilidade de chuvas escassas, te encontrei cibernética e mudei de cor. Abri suas páginas e mergulhei até segurar as pedrinhas no fundo. Te li mais e mais e me joguei no abismo das suas intensidades. Eu aqui despatriada do meu português, despreparada enquanto transbordando palavras inglesas e espanholas ainda adolescentes que habitam meus desertos mais áridos, me esbarro contigo na esquina da vida e me desencontro para depois me reencontrar.

Fiquei ali abismada, cheia de sensações, em uma mistura de inveja-branca e ciúminho feliz por todas as palavras que você escreveu e não eu, das suas frases não terem de mim saído. Fiquei ali admirando e querendo te saber mais, te conhecer mais, te descobrir. Senti saudades dos meus amigos nesse Brasil, dessa falta de vergonha de falar, de sentir, de viver. Te li mais e pensei em como é que nossos mundos nunca se justapuseram, aí descobri que você só chegou no meu Rio (e o tenho como propriedade sem nenhuma falsa humildade) quando eu já havia me jogado no mar. Marzão de muitas línguas e eventuais mordidas da tal da solidão e esbarrando contigo reacendi esse dia de hoje esquisito, sombra de chama que já virava cinza.

Descobri essa mulher no outro lado do mundo que de imediato quis amizade. Te li uma história atrás da outra e fiquei faminta por minhas próprias palavras. Te abri e quis mais de mim, saindo de tristeza espreguiçada e de repente transbordando em inspiração.

E agora aqui de longe sem saber quem você é, fiquei achando que a gente é amigo dos mesmos amigos, dos mesmos encontros. Compartilhando aqui contigo o meu mundo de palavras tão pequeninhas esquecidas na caixinha de jóias que eu deixei no Brasil, e achando que é tudo besteira quando em face da sua habilidade, fico quietinha, tímida da minha escrita, achando que nada é bom o bastante.

Mas sobretudo, como é lindo encontrar alguém tão distante que mesmo sem presença, só com palavras, inspira tanto e des-cobre meu entusiasmo ainda que em silêncio. E por causa de você, eu quero ler mais, escrever mais, viver mais, eu quero ser mais.

Obrigada

Francisca Libertad


*O site da Marla
www.doidademarluquices.blogspot.com

Settle!

I stay with you so you stay with me and here we are together with each other.

We’re here not because you’re the best for me, although I could claim I may be the best for you, the best of you, if it wasn’t for my grand humility. We’re here not because it feels somehow right––it really actually feels mostly wrong––but because you rather battle about me than not battle about anyone, and I rather struggle about you than not having anyone to struggle about. We are here holding hands in the dark not because your hand feels right on mine, either because my hand fits right into yours, but actually because we’re scared of not having each other’s hands to hold, not having any hands to hold, scared of not being held. And day after day, we convince our minds that we may not be exactly perfect for each other, but at least we are good enough. We live off “good enoughs”, and “as good as it gets”. We live in a safe home. We march around scattering conformism while smirking at the ones whom give into the so-called love.

Love? Which love? That love-thing they brag about, full of major intensities and blahblahblah? Leave that out to the childish ones confined to that burning hell inconsequently happy people go to––the place they’ve taught us about at the shiny temple we went to sign in for our pledge.

Let’s sit here in our throne of temperance and normalcy, sinking into quicksand land of ordinary. Let’s tell ourselves we are content for having each other no-matter-what while lying on a stagnant hammock of old wonders and abandoned yearns.

Remember the days of the great dreams? Days when we used to believe that we were to be happy; happy as those whom allow themselves to cry of hurt instead of recurrent disappointment; as those whom miss each other when they are apart, not out of habit but out of presence; happy as those whom rather die for love than spend hundred years of solitude; happy as what Happy means in that thick book of words.

Don’t be silly, Ultimate Romantic. Leave your aspirations outside and obey what love really is. Not excitement, not desire, not specialty. Love, I’ve been told, is not about compatibility, sex, satisfaction and joy; love is about companionship. It’s about partnership and being there for each other regardless how you feel––and I thought that to be called friendship.

Silly me to think that from six billion people in this planet there would be at least three or four to live what I thought love to be. Straight up illusion––you’re delusional. Love is about a kneeled down proposition, a ring, a veil, a bouquet and a white dress to represent an innocence lost long time ago. Love is about having someone to watch Fox News with, someone to nag and fight at night, someone to complain of your weight gain and point out your vices day after day over and over again. Love is there so to a have a genitalia next to you every night, not that you’d be sharing it often, either that you’ll even associate it to excitement, but it is there, and it’s yours, only yours, and that is to stay that way until you finally lay alone, not to say relieved (re-lived), on a velvet-padded wooden box.

So enough of this love shenanigans! It’s bedtime––that one with the fancy cushions just to look at and never to lie on it. Let’s orderly take them away, turn off the lights and sleep back to back with our conformism until death do us apart.

Speechless

Click on the title.

Wound

I heard time is to heal everything

I searched for it for weeks
I finally scored it from a drug store online
I got myself two bottles
Three, four pops a day
And found myself addicted
One night I even thought I might overdose on it

Fool me
Mere palliative
The wound had only gotten rawer
I read the label
Its main ingredient was Saudades

Girls, Girls, Girls...

Here we go again. Girl meets boy. Girl thinks he’s the first and last. Girl falls in a heartbeat love with boy. Boy falls for girl too. They love. They hold hands through crowds and tap dance under rainy skies. They live two worlds in one and share dreams into cloudy orgasms. Boy and girl believe. They believe in everything they can be-live. Boy and girl overflow into songs, poetry, written words and wet kisses. They meet, they learn, they grow with one another. Boy and girl get to get used to each other. Girl starts wondering if she loves him too much. Girl thinks he got too used to her. Girl finds herself often overbearing and wishes to be more mysterious, maybe even reserved. Girl is not reserved. She is out there. Spread open flesh throbbing on the table. Girl exposes everything and loves with no tomorrow. Boy loves her back without further complexity. Girl starts not feeling loved enough. There are thousands reasons. Whatever reasons. She will find reasons–or maybe just excuses. Girl looks up at the fool moon and drifts into confusion. She howls at th universe and longs for more. Her heart has been mostly beating in irregular frequencies. Boy watches but doesn’t see it. Girl has galaxies within her chest, orbiting infinite black holes. Girl wonders why she wonders so much, why she wanders. Boy moves along unaware of hurricane. Boy is content on the surface. Perhaps, boy is content within. Girl wants more. Boy is not enough. It’s never enough. Girl sheds chaos over their bed. She scatters her scars and longings over Egyptian cotton sheets, cutting its threads with her broken will. Girl gets overwhelmed with her own intensities. Girl throws all through the window and runs away. Girl always runs away. Girl sprints route-less without ever looking back.
Girl starts over.
Boy still hasn’t understood.
Has she?

And no, there is no happy ending on this one.

Acid Reflux

Don't go tasting
The Past has expired
I'm sure you don't want no indigestion

End

The glass has broken
It cut through the skin
We bled out
Dried up stream

All we have left is scar

Tequila

God, you taste like a bad memory!

A Few of My Favorite Things

• Waking up at five in the morning and reading in bed until I fall asleep again
• Turning on the music the second I get up
• Working out right away
• A long burning shower
• Brunch with friends in an outside patio; eggs
• Fresh squeezed orange juice any time of the day
• Writing profusely for twelve hours straight, even forgetting about hunger
• Writing even if it’s only for five minutes
• Thinking about my love, talking to him, being with him, loving him
• Skipping and twirling
• Running Runyon Canyon to Rocky Balboa-ish soundtrack
• Biking in Venice in a summer dress and high-heel sandals
• Swimming in any ocean that is warm
• Walking barefoot on dirt, sand, mud, grass, snow; walking barefoot
• Waterfalls and the hike that leads to them
• Cow poo smell
• Rain smell; thunders
• Playing soccer at the beach with friends - skillful ones only, please
• Coconut water - from an actual coconut
• A palm tree, a hammock and a book (or a Corona)
• Frescobol
• Tennis - new addiction
• Feeling lean, taken care
• Movies; watching two movies in a row alone
• Skypeing my mom and dad - separately, laughing and chatting philosophy and thoughts for hours and hours
• Dinner anywhere and everywhere; ambiance, food and company
• Gourmet food
• Macrobiotic food
• Cooking for myself or for a crazy bunch
• Fruits
• Running without a route in the late night after work, when I thought there would be no way I’d have energy left
• Masturbating without a vibrator
• Porn
• Fore playing
• Sex with love
• Fuck with love
• Being manhandled by my man
• Kissing, French kissing long and soft
• Looking at my love from so close that it seems that he has three eyes
• Cuddling, spooning, hugging
• Caressing and loving
• Intimacy
• Massage; foot massage overall
• Singing out loud
• Crying of joy
• Dancing out to Brazilian music or Soul, or really any music at all
• Traveling to any place that I’ve seen or haven’t seen; change of scenery
• Rolling and smoking my dubbies, alone or in good company
• Laughing so much that I feel like I’ve been doing crunches
• Talking, telling stories, changing perspectives, motivating, trading inspiration
• Listening
• Discussing anything
• Thinking, but not over thinking
• People, learning people as far apart from me as they can be; opening their treasure chests
• Feeling; the snow, the breeze, the sun, the rain, feeling love, happiness, anger, pain; being alive
• Sleeping as late as possible; not letting the day die

Alice's Hole

Today it rains
The raindrops deafen my hunger
My limbs refuse to get me out of bed
My mind has exhausted my body

It’s been a week
The clothes slither through the dirty floor
Piles of hair gathered into colonies of dirt
The sink is full
The glass is empty

My skin has molted
The armor has collapsed
What's left is scattered splatter
I'm paralyzed, staring at my pieces

I have contemplated contemplating suicide
I have thought about thinking about it
I have wished I could be a little bit less into living
But I have lapsed that tool in my box
I’ll cry instead

I sit on my self-sorrow and wish for the world to be compelled
I cry out loud, but there is no one around to hear
Hello, hello, hello-llo-llo echoes in my walls
Is there anyone out there to save me from my depth?

I then remember my vanity wouldn’t want to be seen like this
I comb my hair with my fingers
And wipe away the dry slobber off my mouth
Please, stop seeking attention
You must only emerge when fixed

And let me justify my excuses,
I’m not one to pretend steadiness, to forge temperance
I have never been ashamed of my darkness
But I should be reminded to not distraught what is left of my beauty reputation
I must leave something to hold on to

So don’t tell anyone
But it’s fucking dark in here
I’m in the bottom of a bottomless pond
Where a kid once fell and it was never to be found again
I've held on to the walls
And scuffed the tip of my fingers into flesh
I have lastly ceased on trying to climb back the way in

There must be some kind of way out of here
Said the joker to the thief

But let me be pathetic a little bit longer
Let me sob against the dirt until my self-criticism comes to mock me
Why do I need to want more?
Why can't I just blindly comply with what they taught me about destiny?
Why did I need to go around admitting my dreams?
Now I stare at the mirror
Ashamed of not yet being what I see

I should have lived in denial
Conformed to what was on the platter for me
I should have accepted the leftover of my will
And taken for granted the aftertaste of the wishes I haven’t fulfilled

But no, the evil drive had to step in
The fundamental ambition of self-realization broke into my glass house of conformity
And the solidly built foundation turned out to be a very thin layer of exceeded longings

Now I hold hands with the potential of fiasco
I have risked my every secret
All those great self-expectations I was so afraid of confessing to myself
Are suddenly freed to bully me
I stand already broken by the anticipation of failure
Avoiding acknowledging I’m aware that there is still track left to be run

There will always be


I’m suddenly awaken off my daze by shouts from the top of the pond
Artificial lights are trying to spot me down here
They came to rescue me

Stop, Stop!
I shall not be saved by anyone else but me

I must walk away from this sad funeral of my old soul
That one that lived off grand excuses and linearity
That one that only stepped on safe ground and empty certainties
I must leave the flowers over my coffin to dry alone

I am to dig a new tunnel
Unknown path into virgin forests
I must dive into my truth
Swim heavy current of surpassed convictions
Dodging the debris of an old identity
And let the past expire

I must give birth to my butterfly-self
The colored wings my meekness has fought so hard against its growth
I must allow my mind to heal my fears and embrace my aspiration
I must become all that I am within

Love Overall

Improvement

I have no commitment to my certainties

One more sad little plant dying in my living room

Plants seem to have suicidal tendencies around me
I'm only good on blossoming gardens within

TPM

E se tudo estiver perdido, e se não houver amor que resolva diferença? E se simplicidade for só uma artimanha da monotonia, e conflito seja fundamental para desenvolvimento?

Será que não posso estar feliz demais para estar bem, e felicidade só vale a pena em doses homeopáticas, doses as quais a gente chora e sente saudade e luta a vida inteira para sentir de novo, mas quando sente não sabe direito o que fazer com ela?

E se esse amor for amor passageiro com gosto de eterno, mais um no caminho, mas uma história, mais uma preparação? Nããããão, eu não aguento mais!

Só de pensar em andar por aí atrás de amor-para-sempre, date after date, sexo sem intimidade, solteirice divertidíssima-uhuuuu... nossa, ninguém merece. Aí, olho esse mundão vasto cheio de desesperados por amor e me deparo com meu amor lindo bem aqui do meu lado, olhando no meu olho, transbordando paciência, assistindo meu pequeno ataque de precariedade enquanto me faz carinho em silêncio.

Quinze minutos atrás, lá estava eu, deitada toda tranqüila nos braços desse homem que tanto amo e num ataque repentino de paranóia, comecei a questionar a profundidade da reciprocidade, me revirando de um lado para o outro, cabeça correndo a mil kilômetros por hora nessa estrada esburacada por insegurança, borbulhando lágrimas desnecessárias, cheia de duvidas, jogando pela janela tudo o que vínhamos alimentando à primeira sombra de incerteza.

E se eu for mais uma mulherzinha idiota que uma vez por mês entra em crise hormonal e numa cajadada só mata o único coelho que eu quero e sempre quis? E se eu calar minha boca, minha cabeça animal, minhas sinapses direitistas ignorantes cheias de formatos e convenções, e aceitar esse mistério do que é simples, insegurança desse mundo novo dos namoros fáceis de amar, Terra dos Seres Felizes, e parar de neurotizar cada pensamentozinho possível?

Sossega, leoa. Sossega e vai para cama amar o homem que você tanto ama!

PS: E reza para essa TPM maldita passar logo.

Long Distance (No Distance)

Disregard the ticking clock
Time is just a dusty trap scheming against our longings

Forget any given concept about hours
Seconds tend to get selfish in their loneliness
Trying to over-expand their splatter of importance
When we are apart

Ignore the geographical gap
Distance stretches its arms in a thug of war
Pulling both sides to its center

We meet in the middle
Tectonic plates sliding in together like God-made matching enzymes
Counter parts of a two-piece puzzle
Together complete

And every morning
I wake up drinking what reminisces of your taste in my mouth
I find in the breeze the whiff of your armpit
I touch your hands through the prints you left on my skin
I hear your laughter in every madly barking dog
Every tanned man over 6 feet tall wears your face for a second

You ask me about the empty space between our bodies
Don’t you see? It’s filled up with air
We’ve never ceased rubbing each other’s surfaces

The only geography I know
Is the vastness of your Land
My only concept of Time
Is what slips between our threads when I'm lost in your abyss

Nothing can come between us

I'm here
I'm yours
I'll wait

Nuestros Abismos

Dirigiste sin destino
Directo para el centro de todos mis secretos
Y alocaste dentro de mi pecho
Nadando mis mares mediterráneos

Yo, sin pensar, desavisada, deje entrar
Y aquí esta
Molestando la calmaría del monótono
Bañando me con tu tormenta de entusiasmo
Ah, como me haces borracha de felicidad

Miro lo escuro de mi miente
Y te vejo bien en frente de mi cara
Tu mirada atravesando mis ojos
Viendo me por detrás de todas las cortinas

No hay humo
Todo esta bien claro
No hay nada a ser dicho
Nada a programar se
Apenas la libertad del momento
Y que se sea infinito mientras dure
(Y mejor que dure para siempre, si aún queda alguna esperanza en Dios)

Ahora, aquí mi encuentro lejos de ti
Pero totalmente pertenecida de tu carne
Cada poro transpirando tu olor
Cada gota sudando tu sumo
Cada entrada recordando tus extremidades

Tetas, coxas, buceta
Mi rompes con toda la fuerza
Sonríes ríos entre mis piernas
Y yo desaguo mi flujos en tu cuerpo melado
Corriendo nuestras fronteras
Muriendo todos los segundos en raciones homeopáticas

Soy tuya
Tu cabrita danada safada sapeca
Buceando en tu cama
Rolando en tus sabanas
Y implorando en susurros tu mercy-turn-into-nectar

Seriamente
(Y para eso até junto dos deditos de mi manos para enfatizar)
Creyó, que for safety reasons, and that reason only
No debemos parar

Quiero proseguir sucumbiendo a nuestros abismos
Para el siempre de todos los siempres
Amor de todos los amores

Venga acá
Vengas me amar

USA

For seven years I have tried to fit in

Little child longing for the class’ acceptance

Struggling with inadequacy

Either explaining or fighting in the loneliness of my weirdness

But I’m not weird

I’m just not them

I’ve never been

I will never be

Genesis

They have opened the golden gates
They tangle their glory in front of my face
They offer me the status of the rich, the nectar of the Gods
They invite me in with promises of fame and fortune
Selling their acclaimed format of happiness

I stand motionless
I don’t want their happiness
Whose dream am I supposed to live?

Conformity had confused me
I had adapted to what they told me about success
I had forged a Master Plan of way of living that was never mine
I had surrendered to their army of compliance
And accepted a fate written down prior to my own will

But wait
There was hope left
I didn’t know but I still knew better

So there I went blindfolded by my innocent ignorance
Crossing continents
Searching for something
I didn’t know exactly what

I closed my eyes
And flew unintentionally into my destine
Just to hit face first against my shallowness

God, I’d been wrong!
How the hell had I been living?

I found myself landing in Joy
Thick smoke immediately dissipating
And a forgotten humanity squeezed epiphany out of my chest

It was all so clear
There it was
Me

And by Me, I mean the Me that I most like out of myself
That Amazonian identity of woman that jumps head first into the world
That has no fear of downfalls
And no hesitation towards happiness

Fuck precaution
Life is a sip of light in the vastness of this universe
Throw me into the black hole
Stir galaxies within me
Pare o mundo que eu quero descer!

I jumped in
And swam my mediterranean Sea
I ran across my borders
I biked the streets of my depth
To finally reawaken my Titan within

Life was blown into my nostrils

And in the seven night
After founding my own Genesis
And resting on my Sun-day
I climbed the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil
I caressed softly the Serpent skin
And took a full bite of the succulent Apple
Unaware of having invited my Adam in

I opened my eyes and there He was
Tribal Man-giant smiling at me
Palpable mirage watering my desert
Offering freely his bare heart to my hunger
No fig’s leaves needed
No shame welcomed

Go ahead and throw us out of the Garden
We will build our own

I’d be happy to bear the pain of childbirth over and over again
And live 930 years
As long as my Adam is with me

Close your golden gates
Our land has no fences

I rather swim my oceans than climb your mounts

I have found Home in the land and chest of my lover
Home sweet home

And here we are
Full of life and
Filled with love

Here I am
Libertad

A Day

That moment right before falling asleep
When the eyelids succumb to its weight
And the body verges numbness
Reality blends with subconscious
And I get saddened by the eminence of the next day

Morning Afternoon Night
Past Present Future
Beginning Middle End

One less day of life
One day closer to death
Fuck that

Eyes, open up
Shake off the dreams
Brush away the urgency of the cycle to come
Steer me back into consciousness, Please
Awake awake!

Come back, my dear Day
I urge you to stay for at least a few more minutes
Let me taste you one last time

Hold my hands tight
And cease later

Overflow

Throw me the life-vest
I've been drowning in emotions

NY

New York New York
Wait for me

I'm about to catch up with you

Mothafucking You, Again

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Where is my teacup?

I know, I know
One is made to be self-sufficient
Independent
Happy in their ultimate loneliness

I’ve been told to be ashamed of needing
Never long for a man, little girl
You can take the world alone

Copy that
I learned that lesson
I’m very good standing on my feet
Could run across mountains and rivers, storms and deserts
Without grasping for air

That’s not the point
Yes, I am self-sufficient
But it's not about what is sufficient, is it?
I want more

Cheer to the ones that stand happy alone
Never longing for a family
Believing that love is distraction

Distract me all you want
Call me dependent
Call me even needy (argh)
All I know
And I know it for fact
Is that I want to share

So blow away the ego smoke
Stop pretending I’m better off on my own

I’m here bored in my single-dome
Often wondering how do you look like
How does your body weight over mine
Where is the meeting place they’ve written down for us

Let me clear my throat:
I can’t wait to meet You

Half of myself, said Plato’s in his Symposium
All humans were hermaphrodite
Cut in gender halves just past creation
To perpetually wander around aimlessly
Searching for their respective concaves or convexes

Bring me my convex, please

I’ve disregarded the description list
I have accepted the damn fate to introduce me to you

Forget the exact qualities
Stereotypes
And close calls to perfection
Reveal the flaws
I have quite a few of my own, too (not that many)

The hell with seeking the right ingredients
I don’t want to know the recipe
Just bring me my meal!

I’m not here praying for surface
I wish for the depth of a parallel universe where two people forget all rules
Land where all Past is left behind
Past that only handcuffs me to yellow memories and shallow longings

I want to move forward

I’m tired of chasing the rabbit through a bottomless hole
I want the fantasy
Where is my teacup?

I just want to share it

LA Emptiness

Don't like walking in LA
The emptiness of the streets makes me uncomfortable

If I must
I rather run

Run away

Modern World

I know, I know
You don't have time for feelings.

One Man Land

More and more I know
Life with you would be lonely

Your world is too small
All the countries and seasons you go through in a day
Do not widen your margins

Your land is one man and one man only

You swim alone
Stuck under water
Filling up your minutes with pressure
You suffocate

I watch from far
You don’t want to be saved

I see you there at the corner
Walled in great commitments
Wishing I could crack you open and awaken your eyes

Turn off the AC and open the window
Look at the world outside
Forget the accomplishments and start living them

Still, I watch you quietly

I’ve longed you for days and days
And here I stand on our last hour
Sitting on your couch
Your presence pulsing quietly on the table
Five miles across the room

We are going to break

Magical Bubble (Why Can't We Be Friends?)

I know your tricks
You’re trying to erase me again
Hide me in that little cave you shoved me when we first met

Your reasoning has been well exposed
I get it
But it's just that thing you do about trying to hate me
(You can’t hate me, no way)
I can't understand

We had our magical bubble
Fairy-dust and twilight
The ocean in your eyes was my escape

Your narrative
The poetry of your thoughts
The gentleness of your ways
It kept hovering me

The taste of dream left in my mouth
Turned every feeling into tenderness

But my care for you is parallel to reality
Not a slight intention to be intrusive
It hears you from afar
And shares secret in whispers

There is no space for future
For reliving what we had
The Present has swallowed it
It froze in the Past

The bubble has popped

But Why can't we be friends?
Why can't we be friends?

Lust?

I woke up one day in my late twenties
And the warm body by my side
Was just a hollow reminisce of my old ways

Friends with benefits had no more profit

I sat there
Staring at my longing
Wishing my cure was a kiss away
But my emptiness felt even fuller

And I prayed
I prayed and prayed

Oh Lord, let me fuck
Let me fuck just for the sake of it

But no, romanticism turned off all the intentions
Love
Eros whispered in my ear

I yelled at my brain:
What kind of fuckery is this?
It stared right back at me
Unaffected by my plead

I try to insist

I wander around double looking at men
Measuring them by inch
Perversion in every pore
I transpire fire

Come closer and you’ll see
It’s all bullshit
Love has hit me

No exclusivity on the longing
Forget the perfect-lover list I wrote that Saturday afternoon
It's just the idea
The concept of sharing intimacy with complicity
Nakedness that’s not only skin
Much more
All the stuff within

And it only frustrates me to know better
To watch myself watching them
The men
Wishing their taste could be my medicine

That bottle is empty
If I were to head their direction
I’d walk right through them

You grew up little girl
Look at the woman in the mirror

Just Friends?

While here I was, sitting by my table, thinking about you.

I spent the whole morning a bit lost in your land, emerged in your mismatched pupils while wondering the taste of your tongue.

I sat there with your warm hands rubbing my fingers and I longed your delicacy more than ever. I wanted to touch you, to hold you, to hug you so tight so to forget our margins and disregard the boundaries of matter. I listened to your soft voice while watching you being you, laughing, talking, gesturing, and I couldn’t help but drifting into your vulnerability. I saw your eyes fill up with salty tears and all I wanted was to swim on them, to float on your secrets and duck dive into your abyss, to later peacefully sleep in your nest.

I want to hear more, to know more, to learn you from cover to current always craving the next chapter.

You are very magical to me.

You are this ocean of tides clashing into my shore, pulling me closer and close. I see a broken little bird within and all I want is to nurture it, to rock you in my arms and breast feed you with the golden nectar love is.

With care comes fear, comes the ghosts of shattered possibilities and potential lost. I have the same wonders and hesitations about getting too close, too lost in each other, afraid of, later on, losing you. And I must remind myself that fear is so paralyzing, and really only destructive to the brewing intensities that usually tend to seem easier to deny than to live. Fear is that twisted defense mechanism that overall stops one from living instead of simply existing. Fear is the stupid ego fighting hard the gut feeling we learn so hard to disregard.

And when I finally come to find myself fulfilled with the fundamental liberty whole feelings require, I realize that overall life it’s to be lived more, and anticipated less. So, with that in mind, I won’t attempt to abruptly change our dynamic. I’ll simply let it be, I’ll let us keep playing this song we’ve been subtly making, without trying to set the pace, to set the tone, the course. I’ll sing along our slow tune and let time work out our longing paths, always wishing to never be too far to forget your texture, and maybe one day, closer than just enough.

Doing Great

Since your name, coming out of your mouth, gets bigger every day
And your self-sorrow has overcome any consciousness left
I accept your self-proclamation of grandiosity
As the only way to undermine your insecurities

I just wish you could only admit how afraid you are
I see fear in your eyes
And I wish to long to care for you

But you’ve been long jaded

If there was a splash of self-criticism left
We might have had better luck as accomplices
But, no
I watch your sad reflection in the mirror
I hear your everyday bullshit about how great you’ve been doing
And I want to grab you by the shoulders
And shake up the foundation to your lies

I know better
I know you enough to easily identify your hypocrisy
You lay there pretending it's all right
I pretend I believe

And there are days that I want to hold your hand and bring you back
Days that I’m immersed in salvation
The cure

Who am I to cure?

Yes, yes
You could be my project
But I see through it
I see your whole theatrics of perfection buried in flaws

I let it go
Immersed in sympathy
Fuck sympathy

I want the truth
It lies beneath your one inch layer of depth
It stenches what remained of your purity

Your innocence has been broken
But I have my own pieces to pick up
The hell with empty shells

If you could only want it more than me
I got to save myself first

Small Death

I suck his tongue
He bites my lip
I spread wide open my secret

He slips inside
Drums my walls
Pounds waves through my every layer
I quiver

He hammers into my core
Streams melt down my inner thighs
spilling over my margins
He overflows me

He plays free through my convexes
He conquers my concaves
I submit

I’m his hostage and refugee
Naughty whore and little girl
Shy student and sexy mistress
We are free

He pulls my hair
Rides his little ponyhoe
Whipping my round ass with his bare hand
He dominates me

I supplicate release
He says please
I succumb to a colossal implosion
I surrender

I want to taste him
I long his milk
I plead for his nectar over my surface
We let it be

I feel his body tightening
He holds my hips
He kisses my lips
The tide grows
He shakes
I can hear his heart beat

He holds for a second
Constringes preceding eruption
And in the most delicious moan
Gives in

Small death within

One

The horizon is clear and the wind insists:
I’m ready. I’m ready. I’m ready.

Send the troops.
I just want one in six billion.

Foreign

In a culture in which success is material and tangible; where career comes prior to relationships and joy and happiness are rewards never path; in a society in which off-days should be taken in secret and relationships are weight, since you better choose work over love - priorities are priorities -, Love is underrated.

In a land where intelligence is brain, is logic, is being rational and practical, sentimentalism is drama and sensitiveness is weakness. A land where bad experiences are turn into trauma instead of growth, while people go through life closing themselves in their hard shells full of old scars instead of opening their minds to fill up with new understandings; in which you should be appropriate and polite, and never ask, never tell, never show what you truly feel; where people are full of hollow “how are yous” and “luv yas” but real Love brings a storm of “unwelcome” emotions, and any latent change of landscape in one’s heart is potentially the worst nightmare of every man, once anything out of the comfort zone may be severely dangerous to the habitual heart-frequency and may lead to serious evolution. In a society in which happiness is a linear road of consequent events: get the job/buy the house/find the girl/propose /get marry/have little ones/live-how-they-told-you-to-ever-after; Life is underrated.

In a culture where the words “psycho-somatic” and “intuition” must come straight from a “tree-hugger-talk” and if you do therapy you might as well get used to being asked: “what happened?” A culture where emotions are disposable, discarded and unvalued and mostly to be hidden and disregarded; where detachment and individualism are positive traits and “having a life” is a privilege; I finally come to ask myself what happened to our humanity? What happened to the ability of living instead of existing? What happened to not trying to map out so perfectly the present and future so to leave some room for the unimaginable, intangible, and unexpected serendipity to naturally unveil?

I stand here with myself, walking around the room full of longings and wonders. I stand on the notion that life is to be flexibly lived, full of spontaneity and risk, and I know so well to let life happen while I make my uberly important plans.

I don’t want to not risk it. I’m not afraid of getting hurt.

I here open my arms and offer my chest to the storm. I bare my soul from fears and allow my body to fly into all my indefinite corners. I strip all the darkness and joy I have in my abyss. I accept to fall, to break into million crumbs. I’m okay with getting hurt and cut and smashed by all the forces I’m here exposing. I yearn major implosions and inner tornados on my vast oceans. I’m unafraid. I'm fearless. And all the silly walls that my arms can build, all the guards and self-consciousness is to be buried in elation.

And here seating with my heart in my chest, I realize how much fiber I have in my muscles, how much air I breathe into my lungs; I feel my warm blood swimming its stream and my cells throbbing in expansion. I am developing, overflowing, transforming. I am a new muscle that keeps ripping apart to consequently grow. I am to wonder, to change, to improve. Bring me the earthquake. Shake my entire ground. Break me apart and I reborn again. I survive. I relive. I evolve. I am to go through life fully, embracing every intensity that in my way arises. I am to jump in, duck dive, get on the ride.
I am to venture into my virgin lands, wandering through secret jungles and forests. I am to encounter the secrets of my infinite and to venture into my every concealed cave.
I am. And I am to Live.

Ultra-Passado

Miguel. Road, Salgado. Doce, muito doce. Memória que não apaga nem depois de dezesseis anos passados. Passado que volta e meia escorrega no presente e voa embora de novo sem notícias de retorno. Menino que viveu em segredo até aquela noite que eu o vi atrás da minha porta, queimado, pretinho, olho brilhando, cachinhos cheios de idéias fumegantes dentro de cabeça brilhante. Miguel que foi meu primeiro grande amor. Amor contra corrente que esperou o tempo certo, esperou, persistiu, insistiu, mas que acabou por ser a hora errada. Nunca foi a nossa hora. Miguel de tantos encontros desencontrados, de tantas estórias. Haja história. Miguel que cresceu, casou, deu cria. Miguel que virou homem do outro lado do mundo em que eu vim a virar mulher. E eu daqui, saindo de um namoro e já quase que caindo em outro, guardando o coração sem querer o dar desavisado, eu depois das minhas tantas viagens e estórias ainda tenho você guardado em alguma gaveta em mim. E no meio de dia apertado me deparo com sua foto, filha no colo e me choco com como memória pode ter cheiro, gosto, textura. Te olho aí, cheio de presente e vejo como o passado é antigo. Ultrapassado. Te olho de longe e fico feliz pelo teu caminho. Contemplo sua vida e sorrio imaginando seu momento. Te deixo ir embora da cabeça sem antes deixar de te escrever esse pequeno tributo a sua importância em mim. Não sei se o tempo vai levar, se a vida vai desenrolar, degringolar, mas a verdade é que de tempo e tempo me deparo contigo e nunca é vazio. Sento aqui na minha mesa ao som de Novos Baianos e a menina dança, deixa a menina dançar.

Love and Pain

What is love worth if not for a power of creation? Isn’t the internal wheel overall turned so to switch the course of the every day ordinary? Isn’t love a tide of new, in which the old can be re-seen with newborn eyes? Isn’t love to awaken the soul and open the heart and rip it out of the glass box our chest is and let it throb lively on the table?

So, love is not just about happiness and comfort but also about pain and transformation. It’s about breaking the old into a tsunami of new intensities and inspirations, and in that light the outcome really doesn’t matter but the courage to put the core into the process and allow the flesh to be raw. It’s about vulnerability to offer the open chest and when the wound opens, only big balls can afford to go through it without running away overwhelmed by fear.

Love is there to create heartfelt poetry and transformational books and remarkable movies and powerful art. Love is here for me so I can write better letters and cry denser tears and crack old concepts and step humbly into what I don’t know.

Love, and now pain, is here so I can grow out of the mediocrity of the normality and touch the land of the uncertain. And I see my insecurities and face my self-esteem and bump into my fears and touch my rejection complex and all the obscurity hidden inside my soul. Pain is here so I change my course and rethink what I thought so well that I knew for sure. Love and pain are here so to transpire sweat and blood and tears to then turn it all into gardens in my brain and life.

So let the pain come in and flush the still water, turn my swamp into running river, turn my lazy blood into splashing waterfalls of flux sprinting through my bloodstream. Love and pain are here so to prove that I’m alive.

The Woods

Little girl is lost in the woods
The sun has set and she suddenly woke up from her daze
She is surprised to be scared of the dark
But there she is full of fear

Little girl sits in a tree hole haunted by the forest inside her head
She has been lonely for too long
She has walked three times the length of the earth
And lived thousand lives in six years
But she is tired of the quest
Her heart has imposed her a rest
And she wishes for a tender embrace from the long branched tree

Little girl feeds her soul with salty tears and deep sighs
She has longed for so long
She has raised herself for that moment
She is ready but the moment haven’t arrived

Little girl is a mere statue of her being
She has tried to play and laugh and distract the earthquake cracking her head in half
But the earth doesn’t stop moving
There is a blizzard in her soul
She avoids looking at the hole in her chest
She can’t bear walking her tiny feet through the snow anymore
She wants to run from her own thoughts
But her strength is drained by her sadness

Little girl feels hollow as an old fallen tree
She lies on the ground buried in dry leaves
Yearning the comfort of her wholeness back to her breath
But she has lost the rhythm
She is paralyzed by the inertia of her emptiness

Little girl disregards her own margins and turns into air
She is cold breeze that has forgotten how to grip the heat of the sun
She flies through arctic mountains and gets overwhelmed by their depth
She looks down into her abyss and feels vertigo in her soul

Little girl misses the warmth within
She misses running the green grass fields freely
And skipping to the singing birds
But she can’t forge happiness
She stares at the water and sees heavy clouds as her reflection
She collapses into the river and melts into stream

Little girl is cold current running aimlessly through rough rocks
She lets herself go
Wishing for the river to choose her path
She can’t fight the flow anymore
She floats instead of swimming

Little girl misses home
She misses the comfort of the old textures
She closes her eyes and remembers her mother soft embrace
Her dad strong hand holding tight to her little one
She misses belonging to them but mostly to herself

Little girl knows that she is not alone
But man, she has been lonely
She misses living in the daylight
But now all she has is grieve inside
There are thousand deaths in her chest
Every inch of her body mourns what it isn’t anymore
The old still lives within
And she quietly prays for the space to vacate

Her heart has been broken in tiny parts
And it rips as a growing muscle
Her devastation burns every bush that she walks by
And her desolation turns blue into gray
Her world has been black and white

Little girl lays in the tree hole and hugs her own self
She keeps repeating out loud that she’s going to be okay
She will eventually turn her pain into gardens
And bounce around a bed of colored flowers
But it all feels still far from blossoming
It’s winter in her land

Little girl longs for spring
But for now the tree hole is where she is

The Boy and His Wings

The boy rode his flying horse galloping through snow trails turn into soft clouds full of foreign dreams. He traveled out of his farmland into boarding schools and Ivy League disciplines. He talked Economics in the big city to then change paths fulfilled by painted dreams. He flew his heart to colorful Barcelona to later find romance in Florence and end up in academical London always longing for more, always longing for change. He moved into filming thoughts into images in New York and overwhelmed by the old, found his new self in LA.

So here the boy-turn-into-this-massive-giant-man is, in LA.
Thirty-five years later for the first time longing for solid grounds.

The man traveled the universe and found the world in his chest.