N-O-T-H-I-N-G

“... Before you, Bella, my life was like a moonless night. Very dark but there were stars--points of light and reason. ... And then you shot across my sky like a meteor. Suddenly everything was on fire; there was brilliancy, there was beauty. When you were gone, when the meteor had fallen over the horizon, everything went black. Nothing had changed but my eyes were blinded by the light. I couldn’t see the stars anymore. And there was no more reason for anything...” (New Moon, Stephenie Meyer)

I finished reading New Moon today... And what can I say after this? There is nothing to say. N-O-T-H-I-N-G.

Confused

I have lived the last few weeks in a way more interesting world of teenage fiction books... The past has been quite present as well, mixed with dreams... memories I’m not really sure whether they are real or not. Is this very moment real? It just doesn’t seem to fit with the rest. But life’s episodes don’t seem to match anyway.

It is a big hole of confusion... Bus trips in Rio de Janeiro that could be confused with of some place else. But the street signs were still in Portuguese. Chewing gum packs that carry the smell of some place else. Autumn trees that could belong some place else. And the music belongs everywhere.

Although I’m soaking wet from the heat “outside my mind,” I feel I’m really somewhere wearing a heavy jacket, a pink hat, carrying a matching umbrella... The rain isn’t heavy. It doesn’t quite wet my hand when I stretch it out of the umbrella. I never liked gloves... I’m covered in the dark night by warm yellow lights in the garden with a bench. I play with the puddles... Yeah, I’m always alone in these trips. And the wind is blowing stronger now.

Yes, I would

Yes, I would follow you, or take you some place else and have you close your eyes softly and listen to the music... Somewhere near, far or that doesn’t exist, among the stars. It is fine if it starts raining... we are two still creatures in the middle of the universe... it is fine to get wet... It is green, brown and blue as you stand by me. I keep seeing us, everywhere, although we are nowhere at all. There is no we.

I would try to cut a lemon in symmetrical halves. Although we might waste a few (hundred) before I am able to do it. In the end we would have enough caipirinhas for a month. I can handle your cooking lessons or you laughing at me, as long as we are a team.

Car rides... I’m afraid you will have to do the driving 100% at the time... and I think you wouldn’t mind. I can entertain your drive though, by singing out loud, making up the lyrics as I go along... I’m quite good at it... “these sounds fall into my mind...” “pizza comes into my mouth...” “and if you’d like to talk for hours...” “and nephew wants to make the hours...” Years of practice...

The theater can’t miss us... whatever we do... we need to visit it once in awhile... I will cry all along, even in comedies... I will be the first to stand up in the end... I will be the one to clap the loudest... But you are ALWAYS allowed to pretend not to know me...
I will get into my spaceship at times and travel in my mind, in writing, in books, in thinking too much, but I always return. Sometimes it is a grand return... full of new ideas for tomorrow morning -- Or a trip in the middle of next year.

I am just. We will share our music and mix our tastes. Although there will be stuff I will have to say no to, and vice-versa, I suppose and understand.

Some nights are warmer than others and what is outside varies... but not the essence, which remains. I believe in forever and ever and ever, no matter whether the world has fallen apart. And the world inevitably will fall apart several times along the way, as I know it. But when we fix it up, we may have a caipirinha and go to the theater.

Falling for You

I like to watch the night falling
When it takes over
When the stars are out there
or hidden

I like to stare at your picture
Imagine your mouth close to mine
What I would see in your eyes
when they get that close to mine
What I would imagine then
when your hands touch mine
Trying to calculate how long I’d lose my breath for
Feeling the sweat of my hands
The guts it would take to touch your face
Smell your hair
Kiss your mouth

I would be lost
in you
with the hidden stars
somewhere I haven’t yet been,
seen,
but that I have always imagined to exist
Take me there
one of these days when the night is falling
when I’m helpless falling
when I run out of words
out of thoughts and
all I can see
all that is in front of me

The Trumpet

Yellow warm lights
Let's dance outside
Spinning, spinning the trumpet sound
We're away
from words and fears
in an imaginary moment
Just us now
where it is forever

Your eyes shine
into mine
I melt - we smile
We laugh out loud
We've escaped
from the mundane
from the same every day

The purple falls on us
escalators, rivers, asphalt and trees
It snows and it floats
Come with me
Close your eyes and come with me now...

The Unique Piece

Well, something is ‘kinda the same’ anywhere in the world: You sit in front of a laptop not inspired whatsoever... holding a glass of water, listening to music, and it just comes to you... whether you grasp it or not... like the wind, a breeze carrying a memory. And it becomes a quest, if not a question: do you want to go back there or stare at the screen... have a sip of water... Which brings me to Covent Garden... I am looking for a restaurant now. Unsure of what I want to eat, unsure whether I’m in reality looking for a restaurant or some company, someone who understands.

I realize I am not really looking for a restaurant... I hold on tight to the fantasy of not knowing what I am actually looking for... In order to avoid the fear of not finding what, in fact, I am looking for. And that is when the ice cream cone will just do. Sitting down in the square, I start watching people and feel like I am the only puzzle piece out of the puzzle.

The scenery is ‘always’ magnificent to watch... It almost fills the emptiness I feel inside. Almost. It is London. Twilight invites the thin rain that wets my scenery. I carry the song, get up and head for the tube station. I hear the loud laughter of those already drunk. I imagine what my laughter would sound like in that scenery. But what would make me laugh when representing the unique part of the puzzle that doesn’t seem to fit. The matchless piece. The one whose colors don’t blend with the rest.

I felt unwelcome to that Friday’s night party, and perhaps Saturday would be the same, and Sunday...

Monday would definitely unwelcome me with locked emotions, locked in a fluorescent room, facing the rain drops outside... The traffic jam... Oh I look through the window dreaming being right there in the middle of it all. The unique, invisible piece trying to blend in with the purple and red outside... If only the stars started to fall down, so we could get in the elevator in a hurry to leave. I had planned to get up quickly, get my coat, and run as fast as I could... But the sky had no stars yet and they wouldn’t fall down and disrupt a Monday... or would they? Or would they?...

Finally a Pen in My Hand

It’s been so long since I last grabbed a pen that I am almost scared of it…

perhaps of what might come out…

it’s been easier to lock it in, swallow the key and laugh, make others laugh, you laugh…

But I still need to write in order to breathe although it is painful…

As I’ve written before, being a writer is dying every night and being reborn in the mornings, dreaming of a musical, writing about it and being in it, standing up in the end, clapping more than others as though that musical had been a gift, something made just for me…

Staring at the distance and feeling the need to smile even when everything is going wrong… when you miss who far away stayed or moments from which I will just be further away every second that passes by.

I have grabbed this pen with an empty mind but an overflowing heart that almost kept me from breathing.

I have so much to say and nothing.

I want to write the silent, spell feelings I have locked full of fear.

I just want a hug – cry of happiness and sadness at the same time…

Be in a far away fairy tale land in your eyes… or shut down all the lights and dance on my own in the dark…

Blank Page

So much to inspire me
But I can’t see
I feel it
But I can’t write
My heart is somewhere else
My tears have dried
But I don’t know who I am anymore
I miss whom I used to be
Places and people
Loneliness is every where
Spread in this new flat
I used to wear shorts and dance
Look out the window and fly away
I stay here now
Locked
I love and hate
And yell
All in my mind
I imagine and keep imagining
Run on a treadmill
No pretty gardens
Or sunny highways
Rain
Wash my pain away
Wind
take me to a distant place
where I can be
what I used to be

Treasure Island

One day I thought I’d be able to ignore my fear of freeways and the fact that I get easily lost. I got into my car, Golfinho. The destination was El Cerrito. After about 30 minutes on the road, hoping in vain for a traffic jam, so I wouldn’t have to drive at 70 miles an hour, I noticed a toll way (?) I could have been mistaken, but I did not recall a toll in the way to El Cerrito. And I had no cash. So, I caused my dearest traffic jam by stopping for a few minutes to talk to the toll guy: “Excuse me, where am I?” He replied with a serious look. There were signs everywhere telling me I was about to enter the Bay Bridge, that is, the bridge to San Francisco. “I wasn’t supposed to be here; I was going from Concord to El Cerrito and I know San Francisco is not in between these two towns, is it?” “Ma’am, it is $2. You will need to cross the bridge now and make a U-turn in Treasure Island.” “Sir, I’m sorry I do not have $2 on me. Do you take credit cards? Debit cards?” By that time, the drivers behind me began to honk and it became loud. I was more concerned about Golfinho, my car, heating up, of course, he could also run out of brake fluid or oil, or he could have another episode of just stopping there for a good 15 minutes (never happened for longer than that). I mean, besides him being more unpredictable than me, we were cosmically connected: When I was upset, he was upset… The toll guy gave me a ticket and told me to mail in a check for $2 within two business days.

Golfinho and I went on to Treasure Island. We were shaking while tourists were everywhere taking pictures of that sunny day in San Fran. I didn’t want to hit anyone, so I tried to concentrate on the road. That was tough, though: the sky was so blue and the sun so yellow and everyone seemed happy and the view from Treasure Island is (this is so typical!!! I can’t believe I’m actually missing SF!!! We really never place happiness where we are!) pretty. Yes, I do regret I didn’t stop in Treasure Island for a few minutes to watch the pretty view. But then, magic came into my story, as usual, and I magically arrived safe in El Cerrito.

Asking myself now when I’d feel that Treasure Island feeling again, I realize I won’t. And I probably won’t feel that Piccadilly Circus feeling again, as I no longer feel that Ipanema posto 10 feeling. Everything changes gradually and it is for sure late when we look back to notice it.

La Mont

It had been a sad week in a sad time
when the nights were too long and the days too dark.
I had been dancing alone, watching myself in the mirror,
imagining someone by me.
After a sad week in a sad time,
when the world’s greatest power is at war,
and the world may end suddenly,
I suddenly found myself riding a motorcycle;
feeling on purpose the cold air on my face
My arms squeezed too hard the one who took me for the ride,
as I wanted to squeeze him harder because he made me laugh.
The people who are usually around went on vacation,
as they travel somewhere else,
I travel in my imagination--
in this semi dark room I wish you were here to make me laugh again.
And yes, I’m too weird,
as I write about an unexpected beautiful day after so much rain.

Insights of an Old Lady

Sometimes I think I'm getting old;
I think that I've left too many good moments behind.
I imagine myself as an old lady without a puppy;
someone who goes alone to a coffee shop;
dressed in brown with a purple hat with a red flower on it;
someone who doesn't care anymore about matching colors or getting wrinkles on her face.
I imagine the reflection of an old lady in the mirror,
white, heavy hair, pale face, deep green eyes that have seen so much,
so much they will never see again.
An old lady with an old heart that has felt too much, almost more than it could handle.
Wrinkled hands. Wrinkled right hand that has written too much nonsense.
Full lips that haven't said the right words.
And she feels for having no more time now for re dreaming her dreams.
She has barely time to keep the old dreams, or get a puppy,
or change the old flower on her purple hat.
She drinks her last sip of Brazilian coffee--remembers that place, Brazil,
and writes her last word, in Portuguese: Saudade.

Train Rides

Writing is like dancing without the choreography.
The words give me the freedom of a dance on my own,
where no one can read my out-of-rhythm-dance,
watch my bare feet,
my loneliness,
my mind full of places
and empty in understanding of the real world.
I’m not a dancer or a poet,
just someone who rides trains back and forth
and dreams louder on each ride.
I’m just someone, who could be going crazy,
as my stop approaches and I have to give it an end.

Let Me Be Here Awhile

I will write it if it just comes to me, but I feel like dancing tonight,
a glass of wine.
Perhaps some lonely party somewhere,
candle light, red carpet, a balcony, fresh air.
Some play in the middle of the city,
a busy train, a latte in the rain.
Tears with smiles.
I can’t write tonight. But I insist.
Lack of conflict. It is just blank, not happening, well, too much happening in my mind... It is a dance in vain, a lonely dance in some very crowded place... no heels tonight, please. I will go bare feet. No rhythm, no makeup. I will wear a purple dress or dance in my underwear. More wine perhaps, so I can bring you here. I will watch you sleep, play with your hair. Take you somewhere where there is enough light in the dark, and look deep inside your eyes. Let me be here awhile. A long while? Ok, we can swim now... where the water looks almost silver. The moon, the stars! Hahaha... the clichés and me.

“Ishq Salaam e...”

Well, she did go back home or so I hear... She is there now waiting for the next big event of her life. She hopes it doesn’t take long. She has a few ideas of dreams here and there, everywhere. Ideas that make her travel far away again... When she is back from her imaginary trips she wonders why they can’t come true yet, or will they ever... She gets up and dances to the song “Ishq Salaam e...” and it is just her and that very present moment, very real, no dreams, no imaginary anything... The song, the dance, the rhythm and all that is around her... Is she going home for long? Is she leaving for somewhere I know, where I have been before, so I could give her some advice this time around? Is she still going to take all her baggage and extra baggage? Is she taking me, her full heart? What’s her story going to be like when I hear from her again...

Meanwhile, I sit here imagining her deep green eyes, the magic around her that intoxicates me, her little steps back and forth following the song, her arms moving as waves... Her smile... Is that smile for real? Oh I remember her loud laughs and screams of desperation... so dramatic like a character that could never exist inside someone’s normal mind... It must be some character of a schizophrenic mind, I’d think if I hadn’t met her one day.

It was raining the day when I first met her. She was running outside the coffee shop, laughing and crying at the same time, jumping up and down. She wore boots and played with puddles! I couldn’t stop watching her. Perhaps she was dancing to "Ishq Salaam e" under the rain, in the middle of the streets, not fearing the cars... Perhaps she was even singing out loud, as if no one was watching her right on Bond Street. She got inside carrying all the rain with her, dripping from hair to toe. She ordered a very large cup of cold iced coffee as if she was burning inside. I thought it must have been the Ishq Salaam e Ishq inside her, until I noticed a bit of sadness in her eyes which she perhaps tried to hide. Smiling a fake smile, she looked at me for the first time.

I felt a bit uncomfortable at first, wondered whether she was in fact looking at me or the couple sitting behind me. She walked towards my table and asked “Is it alright if I sit here?” with her cheeks blushing a bit from the fire inside her, ‘cause it could not be of shame. I simply nodded and she took a seat in front of me. I wanted to say something, but I guess I just stared instead... she asked me if I liked her earrings. And I said “yes, that is what I was just looking at.”
“I got them in Mikonos because they matched the hat I was wearing on the occasion.” She replied.
“Oh so you’ve been to the Greek Islands before?” I inquired hoping to hear an amazing story. And that’s when she burst into a loud laugh.
“Greek Islands? With the blue seas and Greek gods, like paradise, like so blue that you can mix sea with skies? No, only for those 5 minutes it took to purchase the earrings.” I am not sure till now what that meant.

She seems to be back home and I am hoping for her to find her true home this time. Settle down somewhere because I believe that is what she deeply wishes for when I heard her heartbeats. As if her heartbeats were almost scared to beat their full beat. As if her lungs were almost afraid to breathe fully. Well, you get it, as if something was truly missing despite the whole scenario in which she lives... It may rain in every colour and an orchestra may follow her all day, and nights or days may be longer according to her scenes and feelings. But in the end of every story of hers, the last sigh means: “I haven’t found it yet.”

Fairy Tales & Reality

Fairy Tales and Reality - Perhaps they can co exist... what I imagine is a real fairy tale... All that I am, all that I’m not anymore... It is this avalanche happening while you watch the sun from down the mountain. When you suddenly start to run away from the mess... But you carry it with you to all the magical and real places. You go on sober or have some champagne, look for answers in theatres and classical songs. It comes a time when you give up. You can’t run anymore. Exhaustion has consumed your fears... You then smile at yourself, take a deep breath and see your reflection in all places but in a mirror...

And feelings are more than words or any description that I could come up with right at this moment... Every note played as we make up stories of prisons or freedom. The red curtains close, they applaud, everyone else applauds, while you are still on stage, or perhaps the stage belongs only to my real fairy tales. Two lives happening simultaneously, while I sometimes ask myself in the middle of the avalanche, whether they will meet at some point or will remain parallel to each other.

And nothing else matters when the night is simply dark, when the red curtains have been closed, when there is no more champagne and you continue running away from the mess inside. Of course, you can just care less about the circumstances, your personal wishes, even dreams and choose to accept the person you were born to be. Would this be prison or freedom? You walk out the room, close that door behind you, or do you walk in the room closing the door in front of you. For now, I am just gonna wait for the colourful rain outside down the mountain... Looking at the sun while the avalanche runs after me. Let the mess out, and yell a scream of relief. I will then, welcome myself.