Sunday, June 11, 2017


Maybe the necessity or desire to die is in fact a call from G-d. I have questioned G-d's existence for a long time. Blaming it for allowing suffering to happen.  But suffering is also part of existing. One of the many complexes layers that permeate what we perceive as reality. Then, suddenly, you are faced with life's finitude. The body's end. The culmination of somebody else's reality.

Across the street, the cemetery. And for a moment you see a whole funeral happening. But the person is still deforming right in front of you, begging G-d to have mercy. and wasn't her life just that? The profound begging for mercy?

I don't know.
I have never been this puzzled in my life.
My dad is shrinking by the minute. We face death together and it's a wake-up call. Because more than ever being alive makes sense. I want to have time. More than anything else.
So, I make my pledge.

I pray.
I haven't had the opportunity to really write about us. So much has happened. So much is happening.
I just don't want to forget the beauty of it all.

I have looked for a friend, a lover, a love that was worth experiencing. I have never found it. They were all thick smoke that dissipated in a short while. I have never looked for a mirror. I have actually said outloud that I didn't want to be with a carbon copy of myself. And here's where G-d must have laughed a great deal.

Cause I now see myself in the mirror. My raw, scarred self. We are finally reunited. We are one. And in this slice of reality that is called life, I face the challenge of recognizing and learning. The humbling experience of looking at yourself and seeing beauty, and flaws, and the spikes that make others react.

Desert flower, I wonder?
My desire to be in the desert.

The first time I saw the ocean and the desert together.
The beautiful landscape of Spain. The different hues of earthly tones. My eyes surrounded by Spain.

You were still a dream then. I didn't know you have been with me all this time.
There were moments that I felt you and talked to you.

But then I got tired of waiting and searching and I started focusing on not having any more memories of you. 

Thursday, March 09, 2017

The Math of You and Me

Everyday I come home and I mentally recount the ways you were wrong for me. The ways we were wrong for each other. The way I was wrong for you. And I try to do the math. It doesn't add up. It never adds up. Where did we really drop the ball?

Was it because I did not know you enough? Was it because I had a hunch? Or was it repetition compulsion?

I am distracting myself the best way I can. I am all over the place. Restless. Literally restless.
I go back and forth. I want to write, but then I can't. I want to dance, but then I remember. I want to organize the mess, but then I am tired.

I float around. Maybe like a ghost. No heart. No flash. No pain.
I float around, scattered cloud. Massive cloud without direction.
Trying to regroup. Trying to organize the house. Trying to be the house. The house of drying roses that still have a scent.

The cool guy
The awkward girl

Such disparage
The dates are going to start repeating themselves. Our first anniversary. The first kiss.
The first dinner. The first questions. The first dreams. 

Sunday, February 26, 2017

O casamento na Espanha

Spain, September 2015

Havia tanto silêncio naquela tarde em que vi pela primeira vez o mar que banha a Espanha. Um casamento no rochedo. Uma noiva cativa a minha câmera. Não quero as velhas memórias que estão incrustadas nas paredes da tua pele. Nem o mesmo sorriso, nem o mesmo nome. Meu cabelo era mais loiro naqueles dias em que conheci os rochedos banhados de sol e mediterraneo. Minha alma mais pura. Menos perdida que agora. Sal puro e ardente na pele de quem se encontra nas águas azuis do mediterrâneo. Haviam menos guerras sendo travadas dentro de mim. Tu ainda não estavas. Tu ainda eras sonho. 

Of the Art of Misplacing Things and One's Heart

I misplace things
this time I misplaced my

I left my heart in your

Your Hands in My Heart
by JR

Tuesday, February 07, 2017


Nunca pude te dizer onde doía pois nem mesmo eu sabia. Houve uma época na minha vida na qual eu era ouvinte. Houve uma época na minha vida na qual eu escutava e sempre calava. Dificil para mim sustentar-me nesta corda frágil chamada presente. De certa forma o passado sempre parece merecer atenção e carinho. E o futuro parece necessitar esmero e trabalho. Nunca te disse o quanto doía ser estrela cadente.  Não ser a personagem principal. Não ter papel importante, principal na vida de um homem. Em mim sempre houve uma certeza que nasci para amar. Amar a beleza e o que não e solidão. Amar sons, o oceano. Amar o amor, os rios. Os pássaros e o céu. O sol que desperta antes. Para mim sempre foi tudo amor. Pela musica, pelas cores, pelas pessoas. Amor que liberta, que desnorteia. Nunca te disse quais eram os meus medos por sempre ter a impressão de que o cristal se romperia. A dor de saber-me passageira. Sempre a batalha do eu. Um eu que agoniza e desperta todos os dias. Sempre te confessei tantas coisas. e de peito aberto segui pela vida, esperando. E a espera sempre erode. Nunca. Nunca fui apenas tua ouvinte. Tu me ofertavas música. No sentido mais amplo. Mais bonito. Mas a música perdeu o sentido depois de eu ser mais uma vez, cadente. Não sou mais ouvinte. E me arrependo de não ter contado daquela dor no passado, quando era. Quando estava ainda brilhando.

Wednesday, February 01, 2017

Shrapnel flying

Since then I was in New Mexico and North Carolina, beautiful skies at night. A multitude of color, clouds and stars. Since then I have been struggling with balancing life and love and then some pieces of love breaking into the skin and cutting it deep. I lost a sense of understanding. Lost a sense of purpose. Lost the very thin sense of belonging I had. I don't recognize the walls I see. I miss the red and the water. What is it like to have love and that love make you feel unloved? Does that even make sense? Am I capable of eliminating thoughts from my head? Is that the only way? 

I think of three of you. So unavailable. 

Wednesday, September 07, 2016


The "We Drop" 
By Janine Rodrigues 

I do not know why such small words have so much power. Such words Break the glass of romanticism. Reality sinks in the flesh. Reality bothers me more than. It was the “we” last night. I often confuse confidence with arrogance, insecurity with humility. I am navigating an ocean of questions, doubts, and hurtful thoughts. Then I think about my past and I know it is different now, but that is for me.
Give it time to flourish, I think. Be patient. Indulge in the present. However, how can a creature that adds meaning to words, actions, and facts and is so used to indulging and living in the past, who can revive moments from her childhood so vividly, how can she abandon the past? How does one let go of just some parts of? I am afraid of becoming empty and hard. Hard like the shell of a scallop: deprived of emotions, a silenced soul.  Diligent in controlling every single reaction. But aren’t reactions just that? Newton, second law. 

My thoughts are so disturbing I get away from the person I love the most. I retract into my scallop shell:  shiny eyes hiding in the abysm of thoughts. I retract because there is no room for my thoughts and my love. Yes, we all have a past and yet. We have discussed our pasts. I have asked questions. But then a simple “we” triggers my insecurities and all of a sudden I have a thousand more questions floating in my heart. The meaning of the “we”. Imaginary answers floating around my head.  The “we” catapults a storm. The “we” now a symbol of us is a layer from the past. It is a skin, hidden in the continuum of time. Linear matter of what was, when we were idle, still and parallel. All in my head. The “we” meant a house together? Cooking together? Maybe, plans? The Caribbean? Trips together. But that is not important. What really pushes me down, takes me underwater is not knowing my role. My ego is bruised, perhaps. Not knowing what is this piece of life we are living. I never want to be just another one. I am not a woman that feels content with what is common. 

And then I sink deeper: how do I know I am any different? I do not. In my head, I can be different but it does not mean I am not just another one (for you). In my head, confidence crumbles into uncertainty. The present images become sandy, blurry. The present become a razor that makes me bleed internally. I say to myself, only time will tell. And then I have to be kind and patient. And I have to allow my heart to bleed what it can bleed. I am a drop slowly sliding thru you. Like the drop I see on the red flower. It will eventually dry. I need you to mean something. I need “we” to mean more, more than what I know. My love for you urges and it redeems itself in the assumption that it is inimitable, distinctive. Just like the “we” we are separately.

Tuesday, June 14, 2016

Japanese Eyes

He doesn't know how far,
How much
He doesn't know
How much I love him 
It is my secret in the way I look at his Japanese eyes
The way I say yes
Every time he comes closer 
I hold him in hope
I trust his pace, his peace 
I finally have found him 
Life's circling the immensity of one's heart 
In the quiet and subtle murmur of Beautiful Japanese eyes