Poll
Once a liar, always a liar?
Posts
Missing
I miss wintertime. I remember us walking down the street at night, leaving the milonga and going somewhere for coffee. I remember your brown eyes staring at me with such amazement. My words put a spell on you. We talked about architecture, music, life in general. We laughed at several things. We had tea and coffee and it was late. We smiled at each other and we waited for each other. Dancing with you was terrible, but fun. You would walk around nervously and I tried to follow. That’s what tango is supposed to be like: the man leads, the woman follows. Is tango a metaphor for life? I hope not. Why did I decide to travel down the same path again? If being afraid was already a red flag? I’ve missed you without realizing it. What am I going to do to let you go? How can I avoid the tears and the disappointment? If I stay, I will be conflicted and I will have to change who I am. As you say, there’s no winning with me. Photo: Keiko, Hollywood Beach, June 2009.
fading smile
Can I pose questions without sounding accusatory? It was a beautiful morning. We mourned her loss over coffee and a tango song that I interrupted because I didn’t want to make you cry. It rained last night and my tiny body was tired and dry. I was hungry, but I was also tired of thinking. Reasoning seems such a foreign language to me. Am I a whining baby? How do you see me? Drop me a line, I say casually, as if I could hide what my eyes say. I nod. I tie knots with my long fingers. I paint the nonsense of my soul. Master’s Degree of Fine Arts: Creative Writing. What kind of works? Does it pay well? Can we survive and capitalize on ideas, on feelings, on not belonging? How can you capitalize on being who you are and showing that urgency to the world? Why can’t I just be content being pragmatic, making ends meet? Why can’t I just be? I don’t want to be a number. Maybe because if I retell stories, they will sound appealing and people will feel something when they read what I’ve written. T...
Yoga
It was easier today to get up at 6 a.m. I took a shower and had a small cup of coffee. I woke up humming a tango song that I still didn't have on my iPod. So I came to my computer and bought three new songs. I got a text message from someone who is far away, but he didn't call last night. I can't help but wonder: what was he up to? I'd like to understand my instincts. Why can't I just trust anymore? Or shall I say, why can't I trust him? After I got that text, I had a very weird dream. I'm heading to my Yoga class with a bunch of new songs to listen to. Music makes life less ordinary. Love, on the other hand, tends to complicate things.
Sometimes
Sometimes we don't know where we should fly to, but we're happy to have beautiful and colorful wings.
Dania Beach at night - 4th of July
I am only a tiny hand that wants to touch it. A tiny piece of the puzzle. Maybe one day you'll see what I saw. Maybe one day I will not remember what it was that made me break up with you. I don't understand what I felt that Saturday night when I went to see you. And your eyes were deep and new. For some reason tonight is a dry night. No wine, no poetry, no love. I just want to love because I want to belong again.
Titubear
I feel that life isn’t fair (at all) with women. Men, on the other hand, have it easy. Sometimes I don’t like to think of myself as a nurturing person. I don’t want to have that weight over my shoulders. The more I read the Oaxaca Journal by Oliver Sacks, the more I fall in love. After I discovered Lila Downs, I felt like I had to go visit Oaxaca. Urgently. I never did, but that silent desired was since then always there. There are so many chapters in his book that provoke thoughts. There are so many dialogs between this book and myself as a reader. I read it slowly. I don’t want it to come to an end. You don’t read me anymore. You don’t write anymore. I am concerned. I am concerned about my new decisions and this moment of instability, uncertainty, and new things. I wonder if we’re going to last this time. I wonder if what I see now is the real you. Who was the persona that saw you with those other eyes? That other soul?
Porto
Eu nao quero mais olhar para as cicatrizes. Quero mergulhar. Me enredar em ti. E sentir que es minha casa. Cada dia mais te transformas. E eu me transformo. E aprendo de novo a sentir. Ves como o meu tom tem mudado? Estou agora a viver uma alma nova. Os dias se encurtam. Estou gravida de incerteza e caminho sob um filamento chamado vida. Tao fragil. Tao aspero. Tao inseguro. Tantas possibilidades - vejo organogramas - vejo varios caminhos. Me cego. As portas se abrem para mim: chove, mas estou em teus bracos.
multitudes
Renasço no sexo explosivo e vermelho. Nas mãos que rápidas e atentas me querem. Renasço em forma de outra coisa, qualquer, assintomática, perene. Renasço nos teus braços que eu pensava mortos. Beijo e te embalo como se tu fosses vida em si. Escrevo isto as pressas. Pois estou renascendo e renascer exige de mim todo um ritual, todo um esforço. Renascer cansa. Mas também compensa. Renasço em teu sorriso e em nossas discussões acaloradas. Renasço e quero mostrar-te também o que há de velho em mim. Aquelas calosidades na alma de quem foi ferido e quer sarar. Renasço também para ser uma mais leve e tua. Tento eliminar o que antes me afogou. E sou deserto. E tenho minhas incertezas como uma forma de bengala que me ajudar a ir em frente. Desconfio um pouco dessa loucura de nossa entrega. Que apressada me revela tudo que fomos e o que nunca poderíamos ter sido. Nossa morte me ajudou a me refazer esta que agora urge em ti e em teu corpo. Somos como um caleidoscópio voador. E mergulhamos. Tento ...
A Tango Story
A rarity found in a place that no one would have imagined. Life is full of little surprises. Roughly forty years ago, a man was determined to put together a record with the best of tango, poetry, and paintings. One of the songs just made so happy. I was in my bedroom, playing the record in my living room and then all of a sudden, I started paying attention to that song. Oro y Gris by Leon Benaros and Mariano Mores. Raul Soldi was the painter. He did his muneca: a blonde girl with curly hair. Maybe she was his Spring. I like it when I have music in the living room and I can listen to it from everywhere in my apartment. That makes me feel less lonely, but not only that. It's a surprise when I walk from one room to the other. On top of that, it seems like something very movie- ish or movie- esque . The entire album has a very interesting story. The selection of songs is amazing. Songs that you don't usually hear at the milongas . Originally recorded. Fourteen songs in which a ...
A questao fundamental
Abro mao dos acentos, abro mao das exigencias. Escuto uma cancao em frances. Entendo palavras aqui e ali. Mas o que mais entendo e essa dor profunda que a musicalidade do idioma frances me ocasiona. E o ritmo da musica, e a voz dele, instrumentos que nao posso distinguir. Me pergunto: porque temos de certas pessoas expectativas tao altas e de outras tao baixas? Entre tantos planos, entre tantos escombros eu tento escrever como escrevia ha cinco anos. Ha quatro anos. Escrevo desde sempre, quando me doia estar viva. Passei pela rebeldia dos anos de adolescencia e escrevi poesias horriveis. Depois veio a fase de seca, na qual me perdi. E depois veio a fase dos arroubos, da vontade de conectar com alguem do outro lado. Entao eu me imagino telefonando-te para saber como estas. Porque a esta altura o que eu quero e manter contato com as gentes que conheco. Nao tenho motivos escondidos. Nao me perguntes se estou fazendo isso conscientemente ou nao. Como saberemos? Eu nao posso estar em um rel...
Misc
A casa está feita de silêncios. Silêncio na sala, nos quartos. Na varanda. Em meu corpo. Acordei pensando em Marcelo Gleiser que dizia que a distância mascara tudo. Me distanciei de nós dois. Me distanciei da familiaridade de tua voz, de tuas mãos miúdas. Seiscentos posts. Ontem. Que post bem fraquinho foi aquele! E eis que, me surges tão repentino. Tão diferente do que foste porque eram meus olhos que te faziam ser. Lembro dos embates que éramos. Gritávamos os dois porque não sabemos escutar. Interrompíamos pela ânsia que temos em querer falar, em querer ser ouvido. É tarde. Listo minhas possibilidades de ser feliz num pequenino papel amarrotado. Me pergunto: será demais compartilhar o que compartilho aqui? Estarei eu me expondo e expondo os demais? Eu sempre tive tanto cuidado em ser discreta, em não me expor, em guardar coisas para mim mesma. Mas daí chegou um ponto em que eu queria confrontar o medo. O medo de ser. E o blog me ajuda a ser. E o Facebook e o Flic...