Christmas Eve

After many years, I am looking forward to tonight. Not that I like the crazy shopping and the crazy people. But I like the idea of staying home and celebrating. Obviously, I celebrate for the wrong reasons. I guess I am not a good Catholic and I honestly don't care. Merry Christmas to all.

These Days: An erratic list, from an erratic being

I need to buy flowers. The house isn't clean yet. I have so much cooking to do. What stresses me out is not having all the ingredients yet. This dinner party I have to go to also stresses me out. What am I going to talk about with people who are complete strangers? At least the restaurant is nice. I haven't been eating out lately. The medication is strong and I feel tired all the time. I am tired, but happy. I need to take new photos. Dancing tango with my Comme il Faut is a cosmic experience. People might say I am crazy and I don't know shit about Argentine tango dancing, but I don't care. Am I going to write a New Year's resolutions list? Pomegranate is probably one of my favorite fruits. I am reading Tolstoy and a book on whole foods based on Eastern teachings, in particular Chinese. Both amazing readings. My dad e-mailed me. I miss Christmas in Brazil. I think I am wearing my new Chinese inspired white and red dress tomorrow night. I learned something new about tango. I am in love. I look at the sky to find his eyes. No one knows. No one knows anything. Atavic form of being. I want to travel. I want to fly.

Parents

I hate parents who mistreat children.

Christmas and the New Year

It's time again to look back and write about it.

Northern Star

It's shining.

Update

I am falling asleep at the reference desk and I have four more hours to go. The good news is I will take a break at 2pm.

Reasons

Hoy
Bajofondo

Leyó otra vez, y camino bajo esa puta lluvia que no deja de golpear y la sintió… que va a sentir mientras las lagrimas brotaban a granel leyó otra vez, se sorprendió buscando auxilio un remedio compasión y en un café se refugio y afuera el mundo continuaba sin razón

You don't write I can't hear you What am I doing?? The lake looks like a mirror. Birdie wasn't here for breakfast The sun invades my bedroom The windows are open I smell the beginning of a fresh morning It rained, I showered Luminous ludic languid lackadaisical Dance I miss somehow that attempt to belong perhaps Can you tell? I walk towards you my imagination playing tricks on me You The night begins May G-d allow me to be blessed in this naive type of happiness This subtle state in which art, movement, color, the freshness of all of you permeates my entire being I want to drench in you As intense as this is: let me be the equivalent to your other half.

Image: McQuillen, Skye, Visual Arts Studies
Japan — paint.

It's tonight

To Seat Still

Image: Almeida Junior, O Descanso do Modelo.

Longe das estradas tortuosas de um amor insano. Descanso sobre teu corpo como se te conhecesse. Vermelha espera e incerteza. Vermelha incerteza em uma espera longa. Sento-me. Reclino-me. Faz tempo. Tento a calma de ser. Avolumam-se os anos. Derretem-se as horas. Ampulheta revestida de cores de abril. Ando no meio fio, embriagada de ti e vitrais de Chagall.
Sento-me e canto. Para ver se quando chegue a aurora toda essa de mim que sente-se alma possa acalmar-se. Esfriam em mim latitudes de ti. Giram em mim teus sonhos. Orbitam em ti o que quero da vida. Descanso.
Luzes. Umidade. Tomo um café, como se nessa atmosfera habitassem felicidades tangíveis, verdades certeiras, o grito de misericórdia, a paz decisiva.
Sento e espero.
A face recostada numa parede imaginária, o toque por vir.

Good Food

"Good cooking does not depend on whether the dish is large or small, expensive or economical. If one has the art, then a piece of celery or salted cabbage can be made into a marvelous delicacy; whereas if one has not the art, all the greatest delicacies and rarities of land, sea or sky are of no avail. - Yuan Mei. 18th Century Chinese Poet in: The Flavor Bible by Karen Page and Andrew Dornenburg.

Looking

Self-portrait late at night. I look at you softly. My yellow-ish eyes on fire, on you. I kiss your face just to find your smile. Gently -- give me your hands -- I want them to touch every single spot in my soul, take this fever away. Rescue me from the icy cold night. I need to see and feel you because if this is a dream, I want it to be real. I travel long distances and wait. Could this be really happening? I open a book to distract myself from you.

Reading you is a mystery. I don't ask questions because I don't want to be hurt again. My silence is a sign.
Your lips: some type of prayer I want to - more than say it - understand.

It took me only one second to look at you and now all I have is this image stuck in my head. I hear voices too. I see you singing and your entire body creates worlds of contentment.

You embrace me with your eyes, your left hand closely holding my right hand and taking it to your chest. Among other things, there's this crazy notion, I feel safe with you.

Be real, my sweetest dream. Be real. I want to keep looking at you with passionate eyes and an enamored soul.

Enough is enough

When enough is enough?!

O corpo

Quase nunca me acostumo a que meu corpo mude. Quase nunca. Muda meu corpo. Mas agora me sinto inchada. E com dor. E com medo de meu corpo.

Ao fim: saudade

Pois saudade aguda que vem. Se fixa n'alma. Me escorre por dentro. Me latejam os olhos que ardem de saudade. Saudade aguda como que estivesse febril. Saudade de casa, saudade de sentir saudade. Saudade de sons. Saudade dos cheiros das ruas, das pessoas sem rumo. De um horizonte. Saudade qualquer. Saudade especial. Saudade remota. Saudade ausente. Saudade dos carros e dos animais. Saudade dos passos ligeiros, dos encantamentos duradouros. Do anil onipresente. Saudade das cartas, dos pacotes, dos bolos, das tardes mornas e das noites quentes. Saudade de ver-te. Ter-te embalado em mim. Saudade de teus olhos faceiros e pequenos.

Saudade.

Saudade para mim se trata do desejo de cruzar uma ponte que deixou de existir, mas que insiste em estar dentro d'alma.

Image: Almeida Júnior - Saudade, 1899.