sexta-feira, 4 de novembro de 2016

Skin walls

It's like you're stuck in yourself, I answered him, soundly, it's like you're hitting the walls, and the walls are your skin, and you can't get out, it doesn't even echo. He looked at me with a grim on his face, as if words were too little or not powerful enough to put it out there. I knew this, because I had been trying to reach out for words myself all this time, but I hadn't been able to.
The streets were covered in a mud that reminded us nothing of Christmas time, in fact, our slow pace made it look like we belonged somewhere else, a warmer else. Before I began to calculate how long these shoes would survive, he grabbed my arm, in a way that made me wake up and mess up with the show-math. You see, it's easy to play out the victim, or even easier to play strong, it's a lot harder to do this, what you're doing, to be wide-open about your weak spots and to bring up a solution in the same strain of thought.
I kept walking around the mud, feeling exposed, I kept walking, and for that moment on I did not feel anxious about feeling anxious. 

sexta-feira, 30 de setembro de 2016

Um porta-malas que acomode o nosso futuro.


Das coisas que eu não te disse, mas com muita insegurança, fazendo desvios, inclusive dos teus abraços, tentei te dizer, eis aqui mais do que algumas. Eu não sinto a tua falta, pois há muito aprendi a viver sem ninguém. Cultivei esse objetivo, agora colho. Por isso, desde o primeiro momento que te deixei entrar, não foi casual, foi tudo planejado, eu havia preparado tudo isso pra ti, uma cadeira ao meu lado, que andava vazia, a cadeira-companhia. Por isso não sinto a tua falta, deixo apenas que tu acrescentes algo a mais à minha vida, então faz-lo! E se te dá vontade de aqui mesmo levantar-te, esvaziar a cadeira, eu nem sei se me restam as forças para pensar em querer chorar, pois já vi tanto triste que esse seria apenas mais um triste na pilha dos tristes, acostumado, comum, não menos triste! Mas conhecido. Como o amigo que toma o café, e sái, desavisado, até a próxima.
Fora isso, não te disse que penso em ti. O tempo inteiro. Imagino um carro com porta-malas grande o suficiente para acomodar o nosso futuro, imagino os cachorros, até as maratonas que nós vamos querer treinar, e nunca nem chegaremos a participar. Penso nisso o tempo inteiro. Te tenho aqui perto, e tu me fazes sorrir mais do que pensas. À distância, mesmo.
Por isso, das coisas que eu não te disse, vou continuar a não dizer.
E vou não te dizendo… Até se tornar tão óbvio que não haverá como não ver.
Eu vou desenhar, vou mostrar, atuar, tudo.
Pra que ter conversas sobre como ser feliz, basta querer ser.

Dizer, não vou dizer nada, eu mesma não, mesmo querendo tudo, esse negócio de viver de dizer...

sexta-feira, 12 de agosto de 2016

Maria e Lampião

Vivo em um limbo cultural
Dou brecha ao destino
Lembro de Maria e Lampião
Pego avião
Continuo atemporal
na tristeza desta geografia
do meu sentimento que se espalha
que é mais que continental

quarta-feira, 20 de julho de 2016

First time sailor

Mistakes are moving wheels. Just like the right calls — they are also full of potential for change. The one and only difference is that the latter (can) brings something unexpected. And of course, no one is ever wanting to make a mistake, be mistaken or misunderstood. Could it be so bad?

In 1492, Columbus came across what he judged to be an island, the Indies. It was such a time of great assurance that Europeans thought that all they knew was already known, written in the Bible; and what they did not know — was not theirs to understand in the first place and God probably had a good reason for that. He couldn’t, anywhere in his mind, admit that he had discovered a brand new continent. It couldn’t be, of course: the world was already and was always made of Europe, Asia and Africa.

Mr. Vespucci, an Italian man who began his expedition in 1499, came across the same “island”. But this was a different encounter thanks to his perspective: he knew this was different, and not only he knew but he was ready to admit that all the knowledge in the world was not entirely in our hands. He was breaking bonds with the Absolute and welcoming Ignorance.

A german fellow, Waldseemüller, read Vespucci’s reports and included his findings into his new version of the map of the world. The map was copied and distributed throughout Europe. Walseemüller had to give a name to the new “island”, after all, it was 1/4 of the world.

In attribution to Mr. Vespucci, he named the continent America, after Amerigo Vespucci.

The one and only difference between Colombus and Vespucci is the fact that the latter was willing to admit he did not know everything. And that means, he was willing to make mistakes in the process. He wasn’t the conqueror who discovered the continent, but he was the man who shed light.

More than half a century later, a considerate number of people is too afraid to be wrong, to make a mistake, to be mistaken and to be misunderstood, add taking chances to this list, since it’s a great door for the unknown and for potentially new mistakes. Oh well, when one is troubled by the listed feelings, it’s enriching to look back at these moments in history and take home one message: Being ready and open for mistakes and to take chances is sometimes the best thing you can do in this world, to the whole world.

We have, somewhere in our mind, connected the idea of mistakes with the christian idea of the sin. It’s time to free those thoughts and change perspective.

Go ahead. Have no idea what you’re doing, break a leg, whatever. You might discover something worth the while while breaking it?

And that’s beautiful.

I’d rather be Amerigo and and have a continent named after me, than be Columbus and be of the idea that we have taken all our chances to know everything that’s worth knowing.

quinta-feira, 7 de julho de 2016

Attached to this message

I need just one cup of coffee to be entirely happy right now. I was repeating to myself walking around the bay, crystal clear water, smell of salt and good memories around. So in no time I was sitting there, reading my book, taking peaks out the window and feeling entirely happy, with that coffee. Complete. Such a foreign feeling for those who inhabitant big cities like Moscow and get used to having meals and breathing in and out when they remember to. I was stroke by so many moral questions, but in this peaceful state of mind, on an island in the middle of nowhere, they were more and more evident, as, in the human nature, the only real issues tend to be moral, not financial or where did I leave my keys-wise. They were all spreading out the surface. I dove in. Not in the sea I was staring at blue blue water, so inviting and salty and bond to cure everything. I dove into these moral questions. I had long pursued the idea of love as attachment. Having exercised that for years, it obviously didn’t live to tell history. So I laid that aside, to say it lightly. Except for this: I know for a fact that love should not be translated into possession. Love someone who you are able to love with or without you. Love someone whose day you do not possess entirely. And I have to admit that being a believer of the private property, this goes against those beliefs. But there is no place in political world views in this branch of life. Love should be treated like the culture ministry, alien to everything that’s bureaucratic and written on paper, only job being to express itself in as many ways as it can. Loving someone at the end of the day is truly letting them go, truly believing that if they are happy without you, or with you, you will be just as accomplished and taking a well-done-good-job feeling back home. I have decided to break with the social contract of loving a person irrationally, unconditionally. One should always set these boundaries and rules, without being too formal, just as far as to protect the individual being of each party. The right to come and go, and if you’re lucky: to stay. Loving someone is always being able to let them go, but just truly hoping they will come back on their own.  Love is not attachment. It’s detachment. And it’s a natural flow. 

[Written in Larnaca, Cyprus, in a very very relaxed state of mind]

domingo, 12 de junho de 2016


Não publico fotos de bikini nem poesia própria pois me sinto nua.

Se eu me despedir de ti estaria mentindo

Quando te pus na mala
me desintegrei em pedaços
Eu tomando chá de avião
Você pra trás.

O mundo não cabe na nossa mão
Nem na minha mala
Nem na tua
na minha

Cabe no meu acordar
do lado teu
Nos meus ataques
(só de risos)

Cabe no teu cheiro
que ficou em mim.
Cores promessas

E olhando pra ti lá

ficando pra trás
Fico sem dúvidas:

Te levo na mala sim
Pois se eu me despedir de ti
Estaria mentindo

sexta-feira, 1 de abril de 2016

Ar e garra

Respirei os teus sonhos
Vivi pela metade
Guardei ar e garra
Para quando valesse a pena respirar
Quis te falar o concreto
Não me serviam as formulas
Não me saiam as palavras
Não me saia mais nada
Vivi só por viver
Senti a tua falta
Pintei quadros só para renovar minhas memórias de ti
Me distrai
Puxei ar
E o teu cheiro já não me impedia de respirar
Valia a pena
Sem você
Valia a pena até as duas metades.
Vivi com ar e garra
Pois não vivo de você
Vivo de pulmões
do que é meu
do que eu quero que seja meu
Inalo o que me estratifica em dezenas de camadas
E me remonto ao expirar
E me remonto ao inalar
Me remonto pelo simples prazer
de de novo me realinhar