unicidades

Image by Dan Garver - Title: The Twin Boats Here we are again, at the verge of another year that ends.  This year in particular left me with many stories to tell. I have yet to make up with myself and reunite my soul to music. My father passed away. I started school. It feels like I live another life. I feel somewhat safe. There is a shy hope peaking at the horizon. And yet there were many moments in which I just succumbed to thoughts of you and delusional hopes.  What is in me that sings to this new cycle? I visited Turkey in July. Somehow my excitement towards things has diminished. I have been remolding my perceptions of the world. The enthusiasm that I once exhibited somehow has been hiding. Tango feeling has been hiding. I saw you in 2019. I looked in your eyes again. Amidst the fog. I was surprised there wasn't much emotion on your part. You are always a shadow. I am afraid you will always be. We are twin boats that collide because they share the same rou...

You sent me an email this week to talk about memories. Not sure what memories you are thinking of. I know the ones I have and the ones I treasure. They come and go, sometimes randomly. I don't pick them, they pick me. I think of us - I try not to. But I can't help it. I think of us urging to see each other. I remember the day I left work early to see you. Come to think of it, we were a recipe for disaster. But I could not reason with my heart. I still can't.

Não se calam os sentimentos mais profundos. E e deste mar que emergem as lembranças. Lembranças do que não foi dito, e do que não foi feito. Voltamos a passear pelo jardim de rosas saturadas de cor. Um universo disperso entre pássaros e brisas. Eu rodopio, bailarina acelerada num tropeço de amor. Poesia ao caminhar. Notas musicais esvoaçando pela barra do vestido. E se não fomos o que poderíamos ter sido? O que seremos, desde então? Abrem-se braços na espuma do mar. Um peixe salta ao longe. Um estilhaço de prata que borda o mar e corta a água como se fosse uma mensagem do que está por vir. Mas não há futuro, o tempo se condensa numa gota dentro da palma da minha mão. O tempo escorre, evapora. Condensa. A química do amor que se esvai, com o tempo. Imaginário Deus titânico.    O céu se enche de azul, um azul possivel, infalivel, cintilante. A ponte de madeira curtida de sal, nao tao sozinha, amansa o calor, perfuma a brisa. Fecho os olhos, os cilios me da...

Photo: Dan Garver What do we do with what we feel exactly? How does it impact one's life? My tango teacher is telling me he needs to feel what I feel when I am dancing. How can I unveil my feelings in a class?  How can I let him know of the raw and unbearable feelings I have had lately. The intensity of the pain both physical and emotional? How could I bare it all in front of him?  The books sit on my table on the right. A pile of words, teachings, theories. I think of TJ and what he represented in the short period of time that we experienced life together. I remember his words: my body is failing me. Little did he know that my body was also failing me. For different reasons.  I avoid listening to music these days. I avoid pain. I avoid voices. Avoidance has been my strategy. The sky is my witness and partner of sorts. Way above me. Intangible. The dream of dreams. Where blood and tears mean nothing. White and blue mixing together in perfect harmony....

The color was a dying pink. The pink you see in the sky when the day is ending. It wasn't a pale pink. It was just a disappearing pink. The hue you see in something that is dying. It must be the same color you see on a dying heart. The heart that is forgetting love. That is a dying pink heart. One that crumbles and shrinks. A heart that has indeed forgotten how to love.  Image by me. 

The windows were small and tall. So out of her reach she had to climb up in her bed to open them. The windows themselves did not open to the street or to the sky. The windows faced a corridor that had a special type of brick. She grew up without seeing most of sky. She opened boxes in the meantime. Boxes that contained books. The Book of Life. Recipe books (recipes they never made in the house). The Bible. She soon decided the Bible wasn't for her. She preferred the poetry book her dad had written for her mom. It had a glassy blue cover and golden letters. He wrote in blue. Passionately.  The bedroom where her brother and her used to sleep was dark and cold. They lived in a big house that hadn't been built in its entirety. The functional and small areas were a kitchen, a garage (turned into a bedroom), a future library (turned into a bedroom), a bathroom, a laundry room and a corridor. As time went by, the future library was used as a master bedroom, but became a living r...

As I sit here in this office that is gray and noisy, I press the repeat button on a song that means so much to me. All my life I knew where I was going to and who I was going to be. I was going to be a professional. I was going to be independent. I was going to be someone. And that way, without knowing who I really was, I ventured into becoming. I didn't walk a straight line. I fell many times. Success as we imagine it or how we see around it around of us, was never reached by me. I am not famous. I am not popular. I am not rich. I felt stuck for a long time.  Right here, in this precise moment, I realize that even though I was searching and searching for better ways to live, I missed out who I was. It's this way I have of not making a big deal out of anything. I take myself for granted. I am honest. Big deal. Everybody should be honest. I am a good person, big deal. Everybody should be a good person. No need to reward myself.  How can I blame you for not seeing me? ...