tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83787947803058192162024-03-13T18:38:31.836-07:00Rianne (vive) no auto-piloto.Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.comBlogger135125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-18147174772911796952019-08-27T10:39:00.001-07:002019-08-27T10:39:20.250-07:00Purple crutches<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
“I wish you a great future”, then she gave me her hand - similar to a peace offering. She had a simple case of a stomach ulcer, I had patched her up around 3am in our ER, I had simply asked her if there had been any unusual stress in her life lately, to which she replied “I had kids too early, I wish I had done more with my life”. I could feel the courage-fuel she was burning while saying these words. I didn’t give her any speech. Just admiration, and a small part of me smirked at my childhood hoping my mother had realized that sooner. Well, she didn’t. I made my life’s mission to become exactly the opposite of her. As I typed in another ER report for the 27-year-old sitting next to me, I came to an uncomfortable realization: how not often patients wish us anything at all, like we’re not people, like we don’t have feelings. She had wished me as much as a great future - that’s a lot. I hope she knows that’s exactly what I wished her, too. Truth is, I felt like my emotional energy couldn’t stand up to patient’s needs, it wasn’t enough, it would never be: I’d get tired, I’m only a person, and you’re emotional vampires, I’d think. How can’t anyone see that?<br />
<br />
Fast forward many weeks: I had no idea how I was lying on the floor, I could hear a high pitched beep in my years. Had I just been unconscious? I saw my bike laying somewhere on the sidewalk. There was pain, too. Where the hell is the helmet? We went to the ER as I admitted to myself being a patient was many things, but most of all meant not to have, even for a brief second, control over your existence. I had none now. So much blood. Now, I got a crappy doctor. I observed his moves for the two minutes he took to examine me. Not for one minute I disclosured I was also a doctor. I simply wanted to know how everyone else was treated, as in, let’s make this a fair race. It was disaster, and as things got increasingly worse with me fainting home the next day, I knew I needed to go back to the ER. I gave the same hospital another chance. I didn’t open my mouth about being a doctor until the very end this time - I wanted the fair ride, again. This one other doctor in the same ER had not only done the x-ray (which the doctor the day before thought was unnecessary, just some scratches, he said), and a full trauma assessment. And as I had my patient moments I realized: we must, as doctors, know how much strength it takes to owning up to not controlling your existence. It is an act of bravery for most to show up at your ER. Who knows, maybe the great future is coming up soon. For the meantime, just being able to walk wihtout feeling like I’m exercising would be nice enough.<br />
<br />
Thank you, crutches, for the support, literally.</div>
Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-20794725518480885092018-01-06T12:29:00.002-08:002018-01-06T12:29:28.798-08:00Culturally distant from reality<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Как-то вяло, said Sabrina, looking down on her New Year’s present. A thick pair of jeans. Frustration wouldn’t begin to describe it: she hadn’t showered for days because the water in the building had been turned off — turns out pipes do freeze and her nails, oh, her nails… A disaster. Not something a woman like — her — should be showing around. You see, Sabrina met Georgiy, which now went by George in the United States, while serial visiting museums, theaters and boutiques in Moscow, she would eat cans of caviar without thinking of tomorrow — ведь девушка так должна жить, пуская Георгий придумает откуда икры еще взять. This, in her head, was the real her. And George’s American pay check took her Her away from her... Every. Month. He’s the man, she thought, why, in her artistic mind, was she now forced to work, to simply make rent and edibles? Why on Earth? To work at the groceries 30 minutes away by bus. In thirty minutes she’d Moscow’s center! But here she was leaving from nowhere going to exactly no heaven on Earth: work! She had moved to the United States with George because the posters told her she would have that Hollywood smile as soon as her passport got stamped. It turned out that every tooth costed, in the real outside-poster world, 200 dollars. 200 dollars! Her мелирование was out of date and needed renewal. Sabrina was not herself. Sabrina was not a woman. And George… George was far from being a man. Как-то вяло.</span></div>
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Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-86794292467169792972017-11-27T07:07:00.002-08:002017-11-27T07:07:22.716-08:00Malibu, 2025. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Malibu, 2025. Note to self.</div>
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It had been already snowing. Awfully early to, but it was Moscow. Normally, after the first snow I’d meet Seda and she would complain about every single aspect of her life and connect it to the snow fall and the coming winter. Now, however, it was just me. I remember I had been looking for emotional sustainability. I, yet, couldn’t find the equivalent of “green, sustainable” for feelings. I was not sure either it was a color.</div>
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Oh. Right. It was exac<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">tly the things that happened after we graduated that defined us. I died my hair blond, took off to Vienna to meet old affairs and taste the Austrian cuisine (all of it, but I specialized on schnitzels and apfelstrudels). Martin moved with Masha and Domenico to the countryside, after which they became gypsies in the alps. Seda took off with Gennady to the United States in the pursuit of happiness according to the American constitution. I became a vegan after that, but remained blond. Seda ended up working temporarily for a coffee shop that had a blueberry pie she described as from another planet. Those “next steps” were like our last breath. Like it was all we truly wanted. The last meal before death row.</span></div>
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I believe that after six years of living medicine, you can call it medical childhood, we tried so hard to get in touch with who we were afterwards, because we had somehow lost that person. I had always been only an introvert had had learn to be an extrovert, to achieve things and people. But I’d go through cyclic phases of needing to be alone and turning off my phone - because learnt skills will never really outpower talent. Being a people’s person took away an extraordinary amount of energy from me.</div>
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But at some point, we went back to medicine. We had to. No more being a gypsy, nor a schnitzel connoisseur, nor a blue berry pie enthusiast. </div>
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Our expectations towards the profession were living an all time low - but they were never this realistic. </div>
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I’d go to an opera or a concert now and then, Seda would have breakdowns and visit museums, Martin would take his cocktail hobby more and more seriously. </div>
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I believe, now, that being a doctor is accepting to give up most parts of your life. And trying to spend time with yourself, and whatever is going on in your head - when you can.</div>
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None of us were religious, although at least two of us had been raised to be true Roman Catholics. I couldn’t help but remember a patient we had during an oncology rotation, when we asked to take her history she proudly got up, with her bad prognosis breast cancer, looked at us and said: “in the name of science!”. And I am truly of the opinion that that’s the truth and the basket we chose. We might have to give up all: but we will have science. </div>
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This was a randomized study and there were no conflict of interests.</div>
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Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-12458871335612409092017-05-31T15:09:00.003-07:002017-05-31T15:09:36.102-07:00Depression and the change you can be<br />
A lot of people will say I'm silly, that I have everything: opportunity, privilege, money, a highly helpful Uber app, a nice set of teeth, that I sound like the average western prick that is looking for the meaning of life. Whatever, the point in writing this is bringing up people to speed to a real problem: Stop blaming people for being "sad", "depressed", "down", it can often be a medical condition. I don't mind "feeling naked" if that will help at least one person.<br />
You don't blame anyone for catching the flu, do you? My point.<br />
There is a lot of stigma in medicine. It's our version of racism. What is the "moral ground" for it? The idea that of a sick person is to blame for his/her condition, then we should stigmatize that person. You name it: HIV+ patients, clinical depression, lung cancer. You have done it, I'm sure, at least one time (even if only in your head). I have always taken a deeper interest exactly at this part, because I see a lot of room for social change.<br />
My father was very busy making that sort of change, and while I struggled through my teen years making every cell of my body to hate the profession he had chosen, I ended up doing nothing but the exact same thing he did: I was avid for change, for improvement. I put that in practice every way I could, and still do. Hopefully.<br />
In the year of 2014 I faced the loss of my father, and among other things, even an episode of not being able to feel hungry for weeks (which resulted in -10kg... Unwished for, everyone that knows me knows that I am allergic to dieting!), it took me more than a year to seek the help that I obviously needed. Even though I could lead my life on a normal basis, I saw a lot of my basic functions impaired, and it was affecting my studying. So after a Neurology exam at university, I scheduled a shrink appointment and surprisingly: I was talking to the doctor in less than 2 hours from that phone call. You'd be surprised how psychiatry is neglected in this country (Russia), but that's not an issue I'm going to get in right now. Smirks.<br />
As I started the "one white pill a day" treatment, I started to feel like myself again, I was utterly impressed by how I had forgotten who I really was, like that song says: "You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness".<br />
A lot of [physical] symptoms were slowly fading as well: neck pain, waking up in the middle of the night, even if for short minutes, worrying (too much) about the future, blaming past situations over and over again, the crying.<br />
It was only after two panic attacks (that resulted in fainting...) and a highly nervous state and a constant one (!) I was able to admit to myself: It's time to tackle this thing...<br />
Two weeks ago I had a really bad episode. I was staring at the ceiling thinking when do the planets align and any of this makes sense. It's quite a dark place to come out from. I did. Because I have the privilege of information, which hopefully, is being somehow delivered to you,too.<br />
Also, I have long been noticing the lack of function on Facebook, so I decided to use it as a tool for something... Useful. <br />
When you stigmatize someone, it says a lot more about yourself than about the person who you've put a target on. <br />
So be better, help yourself or help someone else close to you.<br />
Now, I told you the story of a person that has access to information and medications , but the latter remains no reality for a lot of people. We had a 15-year-old seemingly joyful girl at school who ended up hanging herself. No one EVER suspected anything. Out of all people!<br />
You want to keep on blaming these patients for it, go ahead, but it's sad, only for you, for that matter.<br />
As you were...Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-20345751982104953482017-05-31T14:56:00.001-07:002017-05-31T15:02:13.052-07:00HIV: a burden one cannot unsee I'm in a great rage now, as I understand how many lives we have lost, he thought to himself, as he took a flight back home from South Africa. Home had become a toll of guilt for him, every time he took this very flight, away from the desperate need of change, droughts, lack of all things human and unvalued by a good part of people on the other side, in Canada, the idea of home had become too foggy. We would never have an HIV epidemics, he reassured himself. No, they had been relatively lucky. Not on the other side, his side, his home, which came now with the price of privilege.<br />
His last trip had been life-changing, like many others, but this time he was ready to present his book in Canada — Race Against Time— and maybe put some color about the other side, about the HIV epidemics in Africa, the one he would so like to combat systematically, even if as an individual. He had been agitated the whole flight, there was absolutely no message he could deliver in that opening that would fit ten minutes. No time for conversation, too much to say.<br />
And suddenly I’m right here, Stephen Lewis, he reassured himself, as United Nations Special Envoy for HIV/AIDS in Africa, representing my own Foundations, my parents’ well-known political figures’ names, and still unable to find the right words, nor the voice tone, nor a catchy enough hook. Maybe silence would do, he smirked. <br />
“I want to be cautious here, because Africa is a hugely complex continent and you can't really generalize about it”, he started, pausing, underlining where necessary, and continued, “I think when you've travelled around a lot in Africa, you understand something that many people here don't recognize: the extraordinary power that is Africa at village level - at community level”, he looked at his colleagues, journalists across the room, politics and business people, “I don’t think you realize how much we can do to fight HIV as a community, if we, from the other side of the ocean, are ready to be part of this same community”, the room had his undivided attention, “in this book, I tried to tell you in five pieces about the change that can be promoted by us, here, from this very room”. Would it have any effect, he asked himself, one could never begin to imagine, could he really deliver the message?<br />
“I hope that today you realize that the United Nations has a lot of capacity on the ground, but your backup is imperative, whether in research, direct funding, or just spreading the word”, he added, “There is a disturbing distortion of the preventive apparatus ... It is resulting in great damage and undoubtedly will cause significant numbers of infections which should never have occurred”, he was almost running out of time now, “I hope this message in this book, with its voice, reaches you and your potential to fund the necessary aid”. He thanked them, and quickly went to his seat, to blend in.<br />
It gave him hope, this great strength of Africa. Even in that room, he was almost jealous of the people around him who would never experience the need of systematic cooperation he felt, that life-changing feeling of being a Canadian with nothing but great things to do: research, awareness, recruiting the right people, engaging and fighting HIV in a land that was not his, but surely the cause, had become. <br />
<br />
Hopefully, that would give him hope, too.Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-23142833316129876742017-03-20T00:32:00.004-07:002017-03-20T00:37:48.672-07:00Формула хорошего врача<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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“Не ищите ответов”, - сказал он четко. Однако мне потребовалось несколько лет, чтобы понять эту фразу. Её произнёс профессор Философии и пациент отделения кардиологии. “Умейте задавать себе правильные вопросы”. Я на него смотрела и донца не могла понять смысл сказанного. В тот момент мне хотелось лишь выспаться, но с того дня я «допрашивала» себя чаще: зачем я год за годом, отдаю медицине лучшие годы своей жизни? И так уже шесть лет. Мы скоро, буквально через пару месяцев, будем врачами. Что же мне необходимо, какие профессиональные и человеческие качества я должна развивать, чтобы допустить себя к людям в худший момент их жизни? Оказывается, есть многое за пределами учебников. Задавая себе все время вопросы, я понимаю, что приближаюсь ближе и ближе к ответу.</div>
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Дифференциальный диагноз, интерпретация анализов, написание истории болезней, правильно собранный анамнез — это те термины, которые мы слышим каждый день, которые мы за шесть лет должны уметь применять в пользу пациента. Достаточно ли нам этих “технических навыков”? Вовсе нет. “Есть многое в природе, друг Горацио, что и не снилось нашим мудрецам”.</div>
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Ведь вышеприведенные качества вырабатываются в процессе учёбы. Мы их приобретаем “лишь” читая несколько глав в медицинской литературе. Они доступны каждому, они по пунктам расставлены. Но есть и другие качества, пожалуй, более важные. Они касаются понимания друг друга, эмпатии, наличия воображения, нестандартного мышления, умения поставить себя на место других. Эту главу я пока не встретила в медицинских учебниках. </div>
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Степень освоения навыков из второй категории сложно отследить, проверить и наглядно продемонстрировать. Поэтому стоит отметить, что применение этих качеств возможно только при условии умения целостно понимать собственные и общие интересы, расставлять приоритеты и делать выбор. Результативное освоение навыков из данной категории всегда направлено на выработку способности видеть и различать множественность полутонов и вариантов ситуации.</div>
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И мне становится очевидно: нельзя быть врачом без них. Из всех них я бы выделила, прежде всего, следующие: структурированность сознания, аналитическое мышление, быстрота реакции, умение видеть картину целиком, самоорганизованность. А этому нас не учат на кафедрах, этому учат пациенты, когда мы в состоянии полусна, должны слушать, переваривать, и задавать себе правильные вопросы. </div>
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Не отрицаю, что знание о заболевании спасает жизни людей, но перед нами стоит вопрос: делать это должна я гуманно, либо как автоматическое устройство? Правильный ответ только один. </div>
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“Берите то, что дает жизнь”. Умение БЫТЬ ВРАЧОМ требует огромное количество навыков за пределами диплома. Берите то, что дают пациенты, ведь среди них могут попадаться даже философы. </div>
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А если и так ответа не найдется, не надо спешить, ведь нужно только дать время времени, и все составляющие того, чего мы ищем, к чему мы стремимся, найдут себе правильное место.</div>
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Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-71062603387861861262017-03-19T11:54:00.003-07:002017-03-19T11:54:41.262-07:00Immune<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I wish I had<br />
enough heart left to<br />
fall in love with<br />
you<br />
this emptiness is everywhere<br />
is every me<br />
I have grown immune to<br />
things like<br />
pain<br />
alcohol<br />
love<br />
If I could only<br />
get a naiviness shot<br />
I'd fall in love with<br />
you<br />
first thing in the<br />
morning.<br />
<br />
amorousé equals to<br />
not knowing<br />
take me<br />
wherever<br />
(I know this path<br />
I have spilt this<br />
blood)<br />
I have been (shredded)<br />
everywhere.<br />
<br />
when you<br />
leave<br />
close this heart<br />
after you<br />
(tape me) </div>
Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-79189404294330722472017-02-03T10:54:00.001-08:002017-02-03T10:54:53.401-08:00Quem não escreve, respira sem ar. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
eu te encontrei<br />
haviam lá mil correntezas que me levavam ao mesmo lugar<br />
eu nao te amei<br />
saibas que sei mentir quando preciso nadar<br />
nos calculei<br />
e perdi a conta de quantas vezes precisei falar<br />
e de uma so vez<br />
redigi palavras cuspidas no ar<br />
evaporei<br />
a pontuação - larguei freios corri a te amar<br />
desmistifiquei<br />
as mil armadilhas que me convenciam a voltar<br />
inaugurei<br />
avenidas com teu nome que sempre me guiavam ao lar<br />
viuvei<br />
enquanto te escutava mas ja nao sabia te amar<br />
(interpretar)<br />
mal afundei e<br />
desacreditei nossos planos; so quis poetar.<br />
agürei<br />
essas tantas vezes que quisera dissertar.<br />
quiçá quem não o escreve<br />
respira sem ar. </div>
Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-24755914510517179662017-01-27T12:23:00.002-08:002017-05-31T15:09:52.464-07:00We are chimerasThis journey is over. That was a great chunk of my life. I have rented a garage and left a bunch of stuff behind. I shall come back to retrieve it, but will I want it all back, when I reopen those boxes, will I still need them? So I thought about this, and these are the transcripts of my thoughts: <br />
<br />
I first step foot on this land as a teenager who denied the existence of the Home. The world was bound to be the Home, and I knew it, even then. I have always suffered from chronic curiosity. <br />
<br />
We felt everything, we knew nothing, we toasted and danced, we slept on couches and had neck-pain the other day. I was present and took part in weddings, police investigations, births, fires, carbon monoxide poisoning and car accidents. I left my appendix here, I ran through the streets of a cold winter to catch an ambulance before they left to help a friend, I didn’t think about slipping on the ice and dying, not a single moment. I developed a nail polish habit, a skin care routine and depression as well (in remission). There was romance, love, flirts and pseudo-feelings that we failed to develop, we grew up so much, we even outgrew hate. There was learning to forgive, forgive people that had hurt, forgiving Putin, and the winter, for existing so solidly. We made science and progress, we met Nobel Laureates and hyperventilated. We took cabs when we could have walked, we hugged when we were cold, we had no shame in being smugglers (will we ever?). We developed our facets, we had blackouts and cooked foreign dishes with a socio- political purpose. We even opened books knowing that they would change us. We rode bikes. We exacerbated our OCDs. We have become doctors and the worst patients. We got tattooed. We became polyglots. We got massages and full body scrabs, we got stuck in traffic, in metro wagons and fainted in public. We excelled sarcasm. We had picnics with no fear of food poisoning. We slept over, we binge watched. <br />
<br />
We are a chimera of all these things, and so many more.<br />
<br />
And there was Home, somehow, there was Home.<br />
<br />
And if you smirked reading any of the above, that’s probably because of you.<br />
<br />
Thank you Russian Friends, Non-Russian Friends, friends’ pets and attaches. You made me feel like I was on Erasmus for seven years. A lot of people only get one year of that, so that’s at least 7x better than the average.<br />
<br />
<br />
Le fin.<br />
Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-67701855760265830202016-11-04T05:00:00.000-07:002016-12-23T04:16:25.756-08:00Skin walls<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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.<br />
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.<br />
I kept walking around the mud, feeling exposed, I kept walking, and for that moment on I did not feel anxious about feeling anxious. </div>
Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-15486807216800073752016-09-30T06:47:00.003-07:002016-09-30T06:50:08.721-07:00Um porta-malas que acomode o nosso futuro.Atenção,<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
Por isso, das coisas que eu não te disse, vou continuar a não dizer.<br />
E vou não te dizendo… Até se tornar tão óbvio que não haverá como não ver.<br />
Eu vou desenhar, vou mostrar, atuar, tudo.<br />
Pra que ter conversas sobre como ser feliz, basta querer ser.<br />
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Dizer, não vou dizer nada, eu mesma não, mesmo querendo tudo, esse negócio de viver de dizer... Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-16936464853078130172016-08-12T10:27:00.002-07:002016-08-12T10:27:46.015-07:00Maria e LampiãoVivo em um limbo cultural<br />
Dou brecha ao destino<br />
Lembro de Maria e Lampião<br />
Pego avião<br />
Continuo atemporal<br />
na tristeza desta geografia<br />
do meu sentimento que se espalha<br />
que é mais que continental<br />
Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-10299700526144159542016-07-20T08:09:00.002-07:002016-07-20T08:09:56.418-07:00First time sailorMistakes 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?<br />
<br />
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. <br />
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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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
In attribution to Mr. Vespucci, he named the continent America, after Amerigo Vespucci. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
Go ahead. Have no idea what you’re doing, break a leg, whatever. You might discover something worth the while while breaking it?<br />
<br />
And that’s beautiful.<br />
<br />
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. Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-25450195079445099962016-07-07T06:08:00.002-07:002016-07-07T06:08:49.103-07:00Attached to this message<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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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. </div>
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[Written in Larnaca, Cyprus, in a very very relaxed state of mind]</div>
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Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-40798110567830070472016-06-12T02:45:00.002-07:002016-06-12T02:45:31.848-07:00Mini-conto<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Não publico fotos de bikini nem poesia própria pois me sinto nua.</span></div>
Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-22201512663350388062016-06-12T02:33:00.004-07:002016-06-12T02:35:42.976-07:00Se eu me despedir de ti estaria mentindoQuando te pus na mala<br />
me desintegrei em pedaços<br />
também<br />
Eu tomando chá de avião<br />
Você pra trás.<br />
<br />
O mundo não cabe na nossa mão<br />
Nem na minha mala<br />
Nem na tua<br />
na minha<br />
vontade<br />
<br />
Cabe no meu acordar<br />
do lado teu<br />
Nos meus ataques<br />
(só de risos)<br />
<br />
Cabe no teu cheiro <br />
que ficou em mim.<br />
Cores promessas<br />
<br />
E olhando pra ti lá<br />
só<br />
ficando pra trás<br />
Fico sem dúvidas:<br />
<br />
Te levo na mala sim<br />
Pois se eu me despedir de ti<br />
Estaria mentindoRiannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-24797945142298265022016-04-01T14:08:00.001-07:002016-06-12T02:34:21.532-07:00Ar e garraRespirei os teus sonhos<br />
Vivi pela metade<br />
Guardei ar e garra<br />
Para quando valesse a pena respirar<br />
Quis te falar o concreto<br />
Não me serviam as formulas<br />
Não me saiam as palavras<br />
Não me saia mais nada<br />
Vivi só por viver<br />
Senti a tua falta<br />
Pintei quadros só para renovar minhas memórias de ti<br />
Me distrai<br />
Esqueci<br />
Puxei ar<br />
E o teu cheiro já não me impedia de respirar<br />
Valia a pena<br />
Sem você<br />
Valia a pena até as duas metades.<br />
Vivi com ar e garra<br />
Pois não vivo de você<br />
Vivo de pulmões<br />
do que é meu<br />
do que eu quero que seja meu<br />
Inalo o que me estratifica em dezenas de camadas<br />
E me remonto ao expirar<br />
E me remonto ao inalar<br />
Me remonto pelo simples prazer<br />
de de novo me realinharRiannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-31908524887551704152015-12-15T14:16:00.001-08:002015-12-15T14:32:51.513-08:00Uma fábrica abandonada na estrada<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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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. </div>
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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.</div>
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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.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: start;"><i>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.</i></span></div>
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Nessas de não-amor e amor eu mergulhei de peito, me deixei levar, ali mesmo aprendi a nadar. Preciso desaprender (você).<br />
<br />
A porta está aberta, e minha janela dá para o mar.</div>
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Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-19204262781349072252015-12-15T11:50:00.000-08:002015-12-15T11:55:54.835-08:00Инфекции: прошлое, настоящее, будущее.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">“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:</span><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> кто же врач?</b><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> 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” —</span><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> ВИЧ, гепатит, туберкулез</b><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">. 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: “</span><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">а как лечим?” </b><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Улыбнувшаясь я отвечала каждый раз: </span><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">никак, можно только верить. </b><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">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. </span><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">С 1901 по 2015 года присуждали 26 Нобелевских премий по медицине или физиологии ученым, посявещающим свои работы инфекционным заболеваниям</b><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> 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.</span></span></div>
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Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-35339292236955023592015-12-12T13:28:00.004-08:002015-12-12T13:52:44.203-08:00Sovietesque<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: blue;">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 <u>не является человеком</u> -- <b>Монтьень</b></span><br />
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"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.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-bYk65dJS2bpb-5c6EBhUjJbFiPds_1tc4YUUhwT-JXeCYNvVHqpawc0DpXHaq6oUo3H-D9izEG82DzpVFnAblBJldrM7ky5AGU4_Mge4hKlxSXpsj2vuz1BX6yOYuVSdzKTpzmeHV90/s1600/InstagramCapture_3877ba10-6f71-408c-a8f5-9b841f25b29f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-bYk65dJS2bpb-5c6EBhUjJbFiPds_1tc4YUUhwT-JXeCYNvVHqpawc0DpXHaq6oUo3H-D9izEG82DzpVFnAblBJldrM7ky5AGU4_Mge4hKlxSXpsj2vuz1BX6yOYuVSdzKTpzmeHV90/s320/InstagramCapture_3877ba10-6f71-408c-a8f5-9b841f25b29f.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Cathedral in Vladimir, outside view. A чужеземец and an anthropology enthusiast.</i></div>
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<span data-offset-key="74oti-0-0"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px; white-space: normal;"></span>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. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdbeLD0N0EVovnOQQZ9YbjrCEdR0mZ3yXUNZA0JGA6drPe5YkFvbesGbVV39hB6D4qcsCFm59gpok82sAy_Q0FQsRfxtohq92PvnlGPNDO2w1CEpCFdMZdB-rem8hIA6LCReL4bUbspdo/s1600/WP_20151212_11_43_03_Selfie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdbeLD0N0EVovnOQQZ9YbjrCEdR0mZ3yXUNZA0JGA6drPe5YkFvbesGbVV39hB6D4qcsCFm59gpok82sAy_Q0FQsRfxtohq92PvnlGPNDO2w1CEpCFdMZdB-rem8hIA6LCReL4bUbspdo/s320/WP_20151212_11_43_03_Selfie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>A panorama in Vladimir. Old wooden houses and Alex.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Dbj_DiIRUifJ2cXFCh80CCvTfEVyfahmQxOVg7Up63sp0FnwVVFs-UeTskjvMQK9DkEYsycQNFfhOgoSBI3luFwzM9EzXoCmIJcCKc4flnXlCNDKEtfoK2iy1zLcLPo5GwHFo2pxlJ0/s1600/WP_20151212_11_29_04_Pro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Dbj_DiIRUifJ2cXFCh80CCvTfEVyfahmQxOVg7Up63sp0FnwVVFs-UeTskjvMQK9DkEYsycQNFfhOgoSBI3luFwzM9EzXoCmIJcCKc4flnXlCNDKEtfoK2iy1zLcLPo5GwHFo2pxlJ0/s320/WP_20151212_11_29_04_Pro.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Streets of Vladimir, next to the touristic center of the city. </i></div>
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<span data-offset-key="74oti-0-0"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px; white-space: normal;"></span>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: <i>sovietesque</i>. 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 <i>sovietesque.</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinKnjbuC56Hmm4ek4Id1z9sYuxnpE81kel5tGljoq1B99PR1cBj2j9eWzh_c2EzzFt4GfyE5ptPTq0AT6qP4ImKJlBMQSgJmBKutt9SfYNIm7cxIP5QAeR6_klCCAafktgEb_dSvujxwQ/s1600/WP_20151212_12_39_54_Selfie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinKnjbuC56Hmm4ek4Id1z9sYuxnpE81kel5tGljoq1B99PR1cBj2j9eWzh_c2EzzFt4GfyE5ptPTq0AT6qP4ImKJlBMQSgJmBKutt9SfYNIm7cxIP5QAeR6_klCCAafktgEb_dSvujxwQ/s320/WP_20151212_12_39_54_Selfie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>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.</i></div>
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<span data-offset-key="74oti-0-0"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px; white-space: normal;"></span>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. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qk-RWO5HjP4h8YDaE5w7w8AFWeE960vl2C4Bn-5wAlK67M-zjm7z5lHHX1w-hpVkryhHq2u9mChurzcRvz4VdPw-tuyYmMMWYBynNFIpweLmYabPYGfyWtMitcHXkkcvTffYUyninr4/s1600/InstagramCapture_9d8366f0-15c5-43c7-b106-9efb2d53eae9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qk-RWO5HjP4h8YDaE5w7w8AFWeE960vl2C4Bn-5wAlK67M-zjm7z5lHHX1w-hpVkryhHq2u9mChurzcRvz4VdPw-tuyYmMMWYBynNFIpweLmYabPYGfyWtMitcHXkkcvTffYUyninr4/s320/InstagramCapture_9d8366f0-15c5-43c7-b106-9efb2d53eae9.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>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></div><br>
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-M8jceAlOsCFTS9g0CMpwY63ikUsNB1TAKvRoZa31uhlOhLT8k9w0Cq0XdcthgKPEhCh7wlyO8MuBGP-34R51MKsDPApJukr_i5wUA2RZziTuieh4Ug3NsfySW8TU7yjFNAQG7KTmjO8/s1600/WP_20151212_12_49_34_Pro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-M8jceAlOsCFTS9g0CMpwY63ikUsNB1TAKvRoZa31uhlOhLT8k9w0Cq0XdcthgKPEhCh7wlyO8MuBGP-34R51MKsDPApJukr_i5wUA2RZziTuieh4Ug3NsfySW8TU7yjFNAQG7KTmjO8/s320/WP_20151212_12_49_34_Pro.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Western Alarm. Barber shops have reached Vladimir streets.</i></div>
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<span data-offset-key="74oti-0-0" style="color: #373e4d; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span><span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></div>
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Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-13147637881793763292015-10-15T13:09:00.000-07:002016-04-01T14:27:40.409-07:00I want to be single with you.I want to be single with you.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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!"<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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. <br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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. <br />
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.Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-73239082665688045832015-10-15T13:07:00.001-07:002016-04-01T14:15:49.909-07:00FrequentementeFrequente, muito frequentemente<br />
Te olhei por dois segundos<br />
acreditei em você, em nós<br />
e logo desacreditei<br />
larguei, saí a viver<br />
respirei.<br />
<br />
Frequente, mais que frequentemente<br />
deixei o dia passar<br />
sem a tua imagem no fundo dos meus <br />
pensamentos<br />
deixei escorrer entre os dedos<br />
os grãos de areia feitos de <br />
ti<br />
destruí (teus castelos)<br />
cresci.<br />
<br />
Frenquente, tão frequentemente<br />
Quis te abraçar, <br />
só pra te largar e continuar caminhando<br />
essa linha reta que me leva<br />
longe<br />
só só por querer<br />
um outro jeito de me querer<br />
bem (melhor)<br />
<br />
Frequente, demasiado frequentemente<br />
Quis a mim<br />
mais do que quis a ti<br />
e já não te quero mais<br />
nem aqui nem ali nem cá nem acolá<br />
nem perto nem ao lado<br />
por mim distante já basta<br />
sem você já me abasteço<br />
<br />
Todo o tempo<br />
O tempo inteiro.<br />
ligeiro.Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-48466705347557936852015-08-05T10:20:00.003-07:002015-08-05T10:20:43.299-07:00Love is when you decided to come along.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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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.</div>
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Finally, fall in love with someone who lets you breath, but can still make you breathless.</div>
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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Love is the moment. And I have to be faithful to the overlapse of time. Moving on. </div>
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Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-76002304165056193162015-02-05T19:54:00.004-08:002015-08-05T10:21:18.847-07:00Eu me vou a Pasárgada no amanhecerl, ou Canção do amanhecer.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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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. </div>
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">E aí já não vou estar. </span><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Vou nos pontuar.</span></div>
Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8378794780305819216.post-37045195445088795842014-12-27T05:48:00.002-08:002014-12-27T05:48:47.009-08:00Português, língua doce.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
alvorada<br />
cafuné<br />
saideira<br />
saudade.</div>
Riannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16640797210454300484noreply@blogger.com0