terça-feira, 15 de dezembro de 2015

Uma fábrica abandonada na estrada


Vou apagar as luzes. Deixa o sapato ali, não faz mal, contanto que se faça à dois. Ambíguo. Ora meu, ora teu. E agora mais de ninguém. Queríamos tanto conversar. mas foi na falta da necessidade de fazer-lo mesmo, que não o fizemos propriamente. O próprio. O jeito como o teu olhar fugia do meu, eu já lia tudo. Pára o mundo. Queria era escutar em bom português, queria tropeçar em um sinal de dois metros escrito "PÁRA!". Mas se fui eu mesma quem tirou o sinal dali, quem eu ia culpar? Culpa o vento. Culpa. Até chegar a uma desculpa que te apeteça a dor, a falta. Algo que ocupe o espaço de tudo isso. Um grito. Um cimento nessas paredes quebradiças, dessa fábrica esquecida na estrada. Passa gente o tempo inteiro, o dia inteiro e nem a vê. Já é noite e não há nada mais do ontem que foi nosso. 

Lembra. Te contei de tudo. Você escutou mais da metade. Li teus livros e reli tuas dores. Nunca quis flores. Senti de tudo um pouco. Medi, perdi a medida, criei calos de andar atrás de algo que me pertencesse. Atrás de algo verde. Eu desviava e você me puxava de volta para a calçada. Andei demais. Nem senti frio. Quis te dar a mão para que você não se sentisse só, não porque eu quisesse dar a mão, mas só para que você soubesse que a minha mão é uma terra gigante, que queria te receber. Acolher. Eu nunca disse não. Você, sim, tinha toda a razão. Quisemos de tudo muito pouco.

Não me odeie só por quase ter se tratado de amor. Eu sei a resposta, mas não sei como te responder. Deixa o silêncio falar sozinho, deixa o Tejo levar tudo isso embora, e lá do outro lado do Atlântico vai cair nas areias da minha praia, e vai estar tão longe de mim.

Não sinto raiva, não sinto nada. Sinto saudade, de vez em quando. Quando penso que poderia ter sido diferente. Saudade do que poderia ter sido e não foi.

Nessas de não-amor e amor eu mergulhei de peito, me deixei levar, ali mesmo aprendi a nadar. Preciso desaprender (você).

A porta está aberta, e minha janela dá para o mar.

Инфекции: прошлое, настоящее, будущее.



“Будьте виросологами, и вы без работы точно не останьтесь”, были слова голландского доктора медицинских наук, вирусолог, изучающий вирус гриппа, Альберт Остерхаус, во время своей лекции на конференции iMed в 2014 году в Лиссабоне. Сначала аудитория реагировала смехом, а сами знали что поводов смеяться нет никаких. Согласно Всемирной Организации Здравоохранения (ВОЗ) инфекционные заболевания являются причиной 12% смертей среди населения всего мира. Даже в военное время, возьмем пример второй мировой войны, люди погибают в удивительных количествах от инфекционных заболеваний, неужели во время сражений — около полмиллиона солдатов войск США заразились малярией во время второй мировой войны. Остается вопрос: кто же врач? Ответа проще не бывает: инфекционные невидимые невооруженным глазом патогены. В настояще время человечество избавилось полность от всего лишь одной инфекции: натуральная оспа. Мы создали вакцины, безусловно, но часто некоторые привывки приходятся повторять во взрослом возрасте, должность которую многие игнорируют, то из-за времени, то из-за того, что считают, что такие актуальные проблемы как туберкулеза, их не касается. Это огромная ошибка. Причем наша с Вами, а не чья-та. Проблема такова, что уже пришлось сгруппировать три инфекции под термином “социально значимые инфекции” — ВИЧ, гепатит, туберкулез. Реагировать против них профилактическими мерами бывает поздно, а на самом дело нередно задачи решения вопросов социальной значимости, как таковы, падают на плеча ученых и врачей. Единичных. Еще недавный пример: Эбола. Весь мир ждался не дождался волшебного средства от геморрагической лихорадки Эболы, а ученые с другой стороны сами не знали с чем имели дело. И до сих пор вопрос остается открытым — вот сосвем недавно узнали мы, что вирус сохраняется в сперме до 9 месяцев. Я лично вкладывала много времени говоря о геморрагической лихорадке денге, где угодно бы мне дали микрофон и где слайды показать. Каждый раз кто-то понимал руку и спрашивал: “а как лечим?” Улыбнувшаясь я отвечала каждый раз: никак, можно только верить. Привожу другие цифры, более угрожающие и чаще появляющиеся в наши с вами повседневную жизнь, если кажется что Эбола и Денге— далекая проблема от России и мы в зоне комфорта. Наступает зима и уже каждый второй наш знакомый успел переболеть гриппом. Если очень упростить, то видов вируса гриппа бывают три. Только один поражает и людей и животных, это означает что площадь для мутации — огромная. Просто представляете, что вирус мутируется в организме птицы и к нам переходит уже в незнакомой нашей иммунной системе форме. А тот уже не исправляется. Отсюда эпидемии гриппа. Это угроза всему человечеству. Так что, уделяем ли мы достаточно внимание инфекционным болезням? Передаю слово Шведской королевской академии наук. С 1901 по 2015 года присуждали 26 Нобелевских премий по медицине или физиологии ученым, посявещающим свои работы инфекционным заболеваниям и вопросами иммунологии. Последнюю премию в 2015 г., например, выдавали за работы, связанные с малярией и аскаридой. Это не только ставит вопрос инфекций в актуальность, а нас напоминает о том, что враг общий, и только единичные люди умеют с ними бороться. Мы, врачи, не компрексированные герои, мы только знаем лучше вашего соседа размер угрозы. Не зря называют Остерхауса, вирусолог, Дейвида Бекгана вирусологии — ведь же он может спасти все человечество от гриппа, пока мы с вами читаем эту статью и вирус где-то как-то мутирует.

sábado, 12 de dezembro de 2015

Sovietesque

Один из отцов церкви скакал, что мы чувствуем себя лучше в обществе знакомой собаки, чем с человеком, язык которого нам не знаком: Так что чужеземец для человека иного племени не является человеком -- Монтьень
"I've been counting how many terrorism warnings I will hear today", we were in this fancy german-like train in Moscow leaving for Vladimir. Looked anything but Russian. Not anything like the Rus', the Soviet Union, the Russian from the 90s being democracy-curious, instead it looked like the Russia trying to go a way it shouldn't go, the West.
Cathedral in Vladimir, outside view. A чужеземец and an anthropology enthusiast.
The country is so singular in so many cultural, historical and political aspects that the world has failed to understand it throughout all human history. Now there's a big terorrism awareness campaign going on, because it seems like it they scratch Russia or Russians in any way, then a war might really unleash. "If they touch this country, it will rape and destroy everything they love and have", a colleague of mine once said. You can't touch this. Napoleon and Hitler went home running with their tales between their legs. When I did think about it, I actually started counting how many times we would be warned about terrorists in public places that day. It was only 10 am and it was already 2 or 3 times. Fighting a war against ghost ideas. Ideas without a face, out of which we label a group as the doer and start planting prejudice. I had seen that before in the US, and it got so old with time, that hate agaisnt muslins just started sounding like one of those terror stories you tell children so they go to bed earlier. 
A panorama in Vladimir. Old wooden houses and Alex.
Streets of Vladimir, next to the touristic center of the city. 
This guy called Vladimir had drastically changed the course of history of Russia by choosing between judaism, christianity and islam the new, official religion of the former Empire (former, is it?). He chose christianity, the orthodox branch of it, because of their tight relations with the Byzantine Empire. It's easier to govern a monotheist nation, so Russia became officially orthodox. Cathedrals were built. The orthodox doctrine adapted to the Russian character, soul. Until the Soviets came and decided to abolish religion and make it illegal. Our anthropology enthusiast came up with the perfect term for it: sovietesque. It's a mix of soviet and grotesque, or just that feeling of completely lack of reaction whenever facing a typical Russian paradox of ideas, culture, etc. A reaction of both surprise, motionlessness, and impotence towards the course that history has already taken and the turns this country has taken that can't be untaken. It's sovietesque.
Hopefully have fully adapted to life in Russia to be able to write this article-ish. This is me wearing a платок Russian style. Behind me a famous Russian fresco painter, Andrey Rublyev.
It's this time of the year, December, that I'm awaiting by reflex for Christmas sales and decorations around the street, and still in 2016 you will see none of it. Christmas is not celebrated, in fact, it's just a working day. All its holiday-ish influence was thrown at New Year's. If you're a catholic/been raised as one, it might seem like the Grinch movie from time to time. Growing up around catholics, and exclusively around them, the notion that this was the only religion people ever followed was so embedded in my brain that I was completely deprived of the thought of knowing Jews, Muslins, Buddhists, anyone outside the Roman Catholic circle. 
Surprisingly enough we found a catholic church in Vladimir. Against all historic odds. The difference between catholics and orthodox churches jumps before your eyes. Very interesting to see the both of them in one day, from one said you have a branch of christianity that is nurturing suffering and very specific doctrines on behaviour, on the other side, the Pope's picture with a thumbs up and an organ rehearsal that takes you away even if you're the least religious person in the world.

I only had that chance when moving to Russia, I was both fascinated and intrigued, as to how do people make this work. Everything in this country is mixed. Races, religion, etc. People live in a relative state of peace, and what's more important and fascinating, there are absolutely no official religious holidays. The Soviets made their point. And that stayed around, for good or not. The city of Vladimir had reminiscences of all of the Russian history. It gives you the feeling that opening history books was a complete mistake, when it was all there to see. And if you bring this country down, you will go down together, therefore I have been completely ignoring all terrorist threats agaisnt it -- no one's crazy enough. There is no country on this Earth that has reinvented itself so many times in such short periods of time. You go ahead and destroy it, blow it up if you must, but they're remaking, reinventing it before you've turned your back. 
Western Alarm. Barber shops have reached Vladimir streets.

I have been nurturing a relation of love-hate with Russia, I've lived with them, learned their language, basically infiltrated every aspect there was to infiltrate, at least at my reach, and slowly changed into simply a relationship of respect. There's nothing monotonic, boring or uninteresting about it. The latter opinion is reserved and available only for those who have lived here. Close your history book, it's lying to you, a bit more than a 100 km from Moscow you get in contact with enough historical truths about this country that are simply not out there. I might be leaving Russia soon, and even after so many years I cannot quite figure out what's their deal, and there's an obvious answer to that: it's because it's always changing.

quinta-feira, 15 de outubro de 2015

I want to be single with you.

I want to be single with you.
I want you to go out for a beer with your friends and don't feel like you owe me satisfaction, just have that beer, your friends were there before I was. I want, in the midst of a hangover, that you ask me to join you because you want to hold me in your arms and I want to curl up next to you. I want you, just after woken up, to talk to me about everything that goes through your head, but I want you feel free to make different plans for the rest of the day. I will do the same.
I want you to tell me about your evenings with friends. To tell me about that girl at the bar who would not stop looking at you. I want you to write me to tell me when you're drunk nonsense, just to make sure that I'm thinking about you.
I want to laugh while we make love, maybe because we feel awkward between the sheets. I want that, while we are with our friends, you take me by the hand and take me to another room because you do not resist more and you want to make love to me right there, at that moment. We'll try to be the quietest possible.
I want to eat with you, I want to feel free to talk, and I want you to do the same. I want to imagine the apartment of our dreams, knowing that perhaps we will never live together. I want you to tell me your plans without rhyme or reason. I want you to surprise me, to tell me "Get your passport, go!"
I want to be afraid with you. I want to do things you would not do with anyone else, just because I feel safe with you. I want to go home after a drunken night out with friends and I want you to take my face in your hands, kiss me and hold me tight.
I want you to have your life, to be able to decide to go on a trip. Leave me here alone and bored, waiting for your "hello" on my phone. I will not always attend your evenings out and I do not want ever expect the same from you. We will just meet the next day.
I want privacy. I don't want Facebook posts and public love letters, as much as "keeping it in your pants" is a thing, so "keeping it between the two of us" is. In fact, for all I'm concerned my Facebook page will say I'm widowed and live in China as a small protest for all the relationship oversharing out there.I don't want to celebrate our anniversaries. I want a casual sushi date to be the best for no specific reason.
I want something that is, at the same time, simple ... but not too much. Something that puts in my head a thousand questions but let me know the answers are just near, with you. I want you to think I'm beautiful, you're proud to say it when we're together. I want to hear you say you love me, just as I do with you. I want you to let me walk in front of you so you can enjoy the view of my ass. Scratch that. Just because I like being alone too much, and you understand it, so just let me walk on my pace alone now and then.
I want to have no time for you. I want you to understand why: I want to concentrate on my work, and just wish you are proud of me while I do that. I want to never have to fight about this, I want us just to enjoy the moments we have together. I will be sleeping with a textbook open when you get home, I will be on-call on your days off, but I want you to know and respect the profession I chose. It was never going to be easy. I want you to know you could have dated anyone else, but you still chose me. And I chose you not because you chose me, but because I was blind after I met you, and no one else mattered. I want this to be obvious for you, that you never have to ask me on your worst moments of insecurity.
I want to make plans, although we do not know if we will realize them or not. I want to be your friend, the person you love to go out and play. I will not lose the desire to flirt with other men, but will always come back to you anyways, when the evening draws to an end. Because maybe I will go home first, without you. I want to be the person you adore making love and fall asleep soon after. The person who gets out of the way while you work and who loves watching you when you get lost in the music you love.
So if you want to be single too, we should just admit we want to be together. I want to have a single life, but with you.

Frequentemente

Frequente, muito frequentemente
Te olhei por dois segundos
acreditei em você, em nós
e logo desacreditei
larguei, saí a viver
respirei.

Frequente, mais que frequentemente
deixei o dia passar
sem a tua imagem no fundo dos meus
pensamentos
deixei escorrer entre os dedos
os grãos de areia feitos de
ti
destruí (teus castelos)
cresci.

Frenquente, tão frequentemente
Quis te abraçar,
só pra te largar e continuar caminhando
essa linha reta que me leva
longe
só só por querer
um outro jeito de me querer
bem (melhor)

Frequente, demasiado frequentemente
Quis a mim
mais do que quis a ti
e já não te quero mais
nem aqui nem ali nem cá nem acolá
nem perto nem ao lado
por mim distante já basta
sem você já me abasteço

Todo o tempo
O tempo inteiro.
ligeiro.

quarta-feira, 5 de agosto de 2015

Love is when you decided to come along.

Fall in love with some who makes you feel lucky. Whose snoring sounds like music. Whose crushing hugs in the middle of the night are better than anyone's. Who knows where to tickle you. Who knows when it's time to order pizza. Who loves to walk with you under the rain, leaving it as background. Who calculates the minutes out loud on the phone based on his current speed and distance left when driving to your house. Who shares your love for things and books. Whose chest is the perfect pillow.
Finally, fall in love with someone who lets you breath, but can still make you breathless.

But these are only words. Words coming from something I thought I felt. Or I did. And just forget how it actually stroke me, right now. This empty vessel. So all I have are these pretty words, a charmer poet singing to the passing beautiful one, not to anyone in specific. That hopeless romantic who is just waiting to love, and doesn't realize how unfair he can be to the one who is waiting to be loved, expecting this new person to fall into a conception of love the poet already has. Never date a woman who writes, they say. Or a woman who travels alone. And how to go on about that, only knowing what we are made of. Like when I ran four miles, just to see what I was made of, how much blood running through my veins would make me feel alive. What was I made of.

A writer is only made of, born from love deceptions. A writer with a constant lover is a cheesy bag of words, the text everyone has read before. A writer deceived and sad is a grotesque fountain of inspiration, it’s himself within. Oh, I have loved. I have loved the days, I have loved our hours, I have loved even our conversations in my head. The way you smiled and looked at my eyes turning to the side, uncapable of eye contact. And the way you turned your back, and the way I looked directly at you doing it. 

Could I have stopped you? Should I have? Me, a defender of the personal rights to come and go? Oh dear, I could not leave my convictions like that to rot, and I could not make you love me any longer than you planned to. 

And as it started to fade away, your memories, your aquarela drawings inside my multi-tasking head, I started to ask myself: have I truly loved you. Have I truly loved anyone, at all. So I made peace with the negative answer. 

Like the poet said: love is not the time, and it is not made by time, love is just the moment when I moved on and you decided to follow me.

So you took off, and I sat there. I sat there with your drinks next to me. An empty seat. That’s all you were. So I cleared my heart, this war zone after battle, I took care of its soil and I’ll let the birds bring whatever seeds they intend to. Whatever will grow here will be a work of the wind, the occasional and of myself letting it happen and prosper.

Love is the moment. And I have to be faithful to the overlapse of time. Moving on. 

quinta-feira, 5 de fevereiro de 2015

Eu me vou a Pasárgada no amanhecerl, ou Canção do amanhecer.


Esquenta. Esquenta em mim. Filtra a boemia através de quem quer ser atravessado por ela. Atravessa o salão. Senta comigo. Bebe logo, senão esquenta. Mas vai sem pressa, vai na malemolência. Aumenta o som. Saideira. Agora já ninguém quer sair. Perde a identidade, refaz-te dos pés ao pescoço, deixa a cabeça pra lá. E quando essa música acabar, já vai ser alvorada, e vai ser a minha hora de ir-me daqui. E ir-me-ei sem permissão, mas antes disso te deixo sem chão. E enquanto enquanto esquento, espero eletivamente a hora de me amanhecer, e aí já não vou estar. Vão ser notas no ar, arranjos, rimas, saxofones  e dissonância. 
E aí já não vou estar. Vou nos pontuar.