A leitora

Acho uma lástima essa coisa de ser sentimental demais. Acaba o filme, mamãe vai às compras e eu fico aqui a sentir arder o estômago, a remoer histórias que não são minhas (histórias que nem são). É mentira mentira mentira (ficção). Não, não me convenço não.

coming home again

Hemisférios

A diferença entre
o norte e o sul é uma
simples questão de cor:
sai o cinza, entra o azul
(e fica a dor)

A maldição da saudade
é essa facilidade
de adaptação.



Alergia

Pra ser feliz às vezes
é preciso que memórias
sejam feitas de giz...

um apaga(dor), alguns
espirros, talvez;
e começa-se tudo novo outra vez.

Lunch

Something in the pea and ham
soup got her thinking about floaty
dresses and warm afternoons.

(or maybe it was just anxiety
finally sneaking out of her
hermetically sealed chest)

She took off the lid
anyway, and nearly
threw up her own heart.

Spinning

Swirling on the pathway like a miniature
tornado the golden leaves mimic
the state of my thoughts.
It’s gonna be hard to
leave, I tell thee.
And I pray for
the wind to
spin you
along
with
me.

Auto-traduções

*alguém arrisca apostar qual versão saiu primeiro?

Volta

Me despeço da cidade como quem
se despede de um amor minguante;
com uma ponta de dor e a leveza
de quem acredita em recomeços.

Aqui aonde o sol brilha
mas nao aquece a carne,
a alma busca combustivel
na memoria de dias como este.

É novembro e pisco meus olhos
devagar para capturar na retina
toda a luz que posso suportar.
(Superexposição é imprescindível)

A cada fechar de olhos enterro meus
pés mais fundo na areia da praia que
me aguarda, paciente, do outro lado do
Atlântico.

Estou pronta para me apaixonar outra vez.


Return

I bid the city farewell like one
does to a love slowly fading;
with a hint of sorrow and a
longing for new beginnings.

Up here where the sun shines
but doesn’t warm up the flesh
the soul has to look for fuel
in memories of days like this.

It’s sunny in November and
I blink slowly so as to capture
all the light my retina can bear.
(Super exposure is essential)

Every time I close my eyes I sink my feet
deeper into the sand of the beach that
awaits, patiently, on the other side of the
Atlantic.

I am ready to fall in love again.

untitled.2

So, this is it. I’m supposed to know what to do now. This is ridiculous; she must be joking. I hate girls like her...people like her, actually. Always making everything sound so fucking easy, anticipating things. How did she know I wasn’t going to wake up by myself? And how the hell did she remember about the notebook? Stupid airplanes, if this was a bus I could just chuck it out the window. I shouldn’t be here anyway. Holiday...yeah, right. People shouldn’t be allowed to start holidays travelling by plane, it ruins the entire thing. ‘Put your seat on the upright position, Sir’; ‘Turn off your electronic devices for takeoff, Sir’; ‘Fish or pasta?’. Do I look like a give a damn? It will all taste like nothing anyway. And no music during takeoff? But that’s when you’re supposed to be overwhelmed with excitement, with a great summer tune playing loud on your iPod and the picture of a chick like Angelina freaking Jolie sunbathing by your side on a white-sanded beach.

You mentioned you wanted to write down some plans. Never a better time than on the road.
Stay on the sunny side and send a postcard,
Love.

Not children screaming around, not granny sleeping and snoring on the seat next to me and all this darkness outside. This is wrong. We need light – and lightness. And I say we because I need you to come with me. Not on this bulky, claustrophobic jet-jail, but on a bike. Arms wrapped tight around my waist, chin resting on my left shoulder and the engine singing through silence. The landscape passing by is absolutely essential for travelling. Things gone and things new; cities dying and cities reborn. Most importantly, things changing. This is why we travel, right: to change. Change scenery, change routine, opinions.
Change your heart.
Anyway, I’ll hope for a cloudless sunrise. The notebook is safe for the time being, Alice, but it might not survive all the boat trips.
As for me, since I am not piloting this shit, I might as well enjoy the free wine. If I crash our bike in my sleep, I’m blaming it on you.

Imaginary roads

Hidden in the backseat of the 49 Hudson, zooming from NY to North Carolina, I listened in awe to what those two men were talking about. I couldn’t make sense of most of it, and in order to do so I would have to stop daydreaming and actually hit the road with the first soul that would take me away from this corner in Leeds and head south – penniless and with no plan whatsoever. It is much easier to sit under the warm sunshine and imagine myself crossing highways in a freezing December night with Neal and Jack. Will I ever experience the same kind of madness? I very much doubt it. The world has grown a little scared, and I with it.

***

The warm breeze blows my hair on my face and brings me the smell of burnt gas from the scooters that have just driven by. It reminds me of my teenage summers and how back then I feared everything was so damn perfect that it couldn’t possibly get any better. It did. It does. Will it ever be larger than life, worth telling the rest of the world? I don’t know. But I agree with Neal when he tells Jack that ‘Everything is fine, God exists, we know time (…) And not only that but we both understand that I couldn’t have time to explain why I know and you know that God exists’.

Not your God, not anyone’s, but my own. Invented by me. And today it brought me here to this cafe, in the company of this book, to watch the most dazzling sunset I’ve seen in age, reminisce about the past, and dream of the road ahead.