A tale without society

Wish I had a mango tree

Once upon a time there was a little girl that lived in a very colourful village surrounded by gentle forests in which she would always play among the trees: climbing, building her own nest, reading pertinent books, sitting on a rock at the mainstream of the small river, feeling the strength of the fresh water on her back.

It was quite sunny outside the woods and they would protect her from the straight sunshine.

Amanda would stay there as long as she had to go home for regular commitments such as lunch and dinner. 

Although she didn’t feel lonely on her forest since she could see and listen to the birds and an amount of harmless other little animals, there would always be a moment when her own speaking inside her mind would often become louder in comparison to the ‘out there’ silence and sounds, and when that happened, her thoughts would get frustrated once they’d found her scull barrier and would immediately immerse in an unknown abysm.

So they would colonize the abysm and would often interact with each other at noon so that by the end of their getting-to-know-each-other-and-the-new-ones it was twilight and they would all rest, leaving the silence around, which would be felt in Amanda as emptiness.

But not a complete emptiness, a restless one, the one that would fill up her body right up from her toes, finger joints till her chest. Oh, it was so empty on her chest it would choke anything thrown at her mouth and nose.

This little girl would not know the secrets of modern life, such as compulsive eating, smoking or inhaling substances, nor would she know benzoic drugs. Then all she could do was lay down on the humid soil of her forest and feel embraced and she would feel so small among the warmth and the magnitude of the soil that it would work like a gigantic hug pressing up her emptiness and leaving her fit again.

“Amanda! Amanda!” she would thing she heard. “… time for dinner!” and she would be sure.

My little girl is quite small, 1m30 high, brown not properly curly hair, a porcelain white sprinkled face with an unique disposition of eyes, nose and  a little mouth upon her smooth skinny face.

She would show the outlook of a girl of her age, such as the inner and outer energy too.

Her name reflected the format and colour of her eyes, though sometimes, as an attribute at her own favour, they were undistinguishable between brown and honey.

She is 9 years old. And I’ll write about her till she is 11. 

(m)eu quarto

Por fora da minha janela, a janela do meu quarto, as nuvens pairam inertes sobre o topo das árvores que capto deitada na minha cama.

Os balões da capadócia respiram no móbile do lado direito.  Presos ao teto azul do mar Vermelho anoitecido envolto por três pontos de luz que minha avó gostava de contá-los junto aos outros quando se hospedava aqui.
Contávamos estrelas no meu céu artificial.

Naturalmente uma árvore seca colada na parede branca brota sobre o pé da cama, acompanhada das minhas almofadas de solteira numa marquesa improvisada.

Do lado esquerdo, pedaços externos de mim saltam da mala aberta e tentam estaticamente se aproximar ao meu ponto de reclusão. Meu ponto de maior encontro. Minha cama. De todo o tempo. De toda a vida.

Se um dia esse quarto não mais existir, perderei de uma vez por todas minha frágil referência de lar que ainda restou depois de tanta peregrinação.

Também vejo no canto do quarto, minha primeira tela, com o papel-bolha semi partido. É um grafite de uma Alice numa motocicleta, seu coelho na garupa, deixando rastros de cartas, corações, relógios, rebatidos pelos seus cabelos ao vento.

quando converge

não queria me vestir com as roupas e nem com as armas de Jorge

não pra você

ainda que na Capadócia.

e achei que
se
quando
ou
ou

o sim finalmente viesse,

eu não seria um não-reativo

dragão se doma, não se mata.

não é assim, Jorge.

asas pro seu cavalo.

briggitte jones jour

Vocé é rica, linda, cativante, viaja o mundo...




                        

                                                                                                                                                    ...eu sou inteligente, engraçada, bonita...

will someone touch me with this lyrics some day?

'you feel vulnerable around me...'

Kings of Convenience - Mrs. Cold.

don't get me wrong

if I'm looking kinda dazzled 

we're the only ones that might do that to ourselves, so think softly.

Anything else? Men, please.

Ui,
meninas,

sabe quando andamos por aí, caímos numa feirinha...
de repente, na barraca ao lado, escolhendo favos de mel,

sim,
é ele,

aquele homem lindo,
aquele clímax do seu dia todo...

e ele te olha.

Sexiest ladies 2011 by Maxim

Check them out and quote.

Do you agree she's the sexiest lady of 2011?

Kinda hard not to, right?

left you by the house of fun...

to look back 
to look at what we've been
to turn
round
and round
to go back to the same place
as in the beginning


to take another way
to go forth
a bit to the left
straight
and dive
no fear


to wake up
to open our eyes
to feel
strange
strangers
lovers


to go home

alone.

Shoes, of course.

 Warhol

 Van Gogh

Lynch

delícias femininas

Que atire a primeira pedra a mulher que nunca se imaginou tocando em outra.

Não é só um misto de inveja que sentimos dos corpos e da alegria expressas nas modelos das capas de revistas. É desejo.

Já dizia o sr. Freud que somos todos bissexuais.

... para liberar as fantasias, a presença de algum(us) falo(s) é quase como a ignição ... quando vem a primeira faísca ... hmmm

Homenagem a nós mulheres, eternas amantes, dos homens e de nós mesmas.

Wrong way

In this case, you are either both out of sintony or you are not right for each other.

Both ways, ending up eating a whole cake will be your destiny.

Herznervenkreislauf

If we can't understand ourselves,
we need someone who can.
Temporarily?

Love is Magick - Raul Seixas

Love ends?

Affairs last as long as the dream on them endures.
No longer than three months usually.

What about relationships?
Does self-denial always begin after a while?

The Beatles

It is no more than a delicious fantasy, which, no different than anything on the universe, fades.
No faults, no regrets, just untied strings to hook up into a new fantasy.

Delícias visuais

Watermelon, man.

Delírio voyerístico

Nunca me perdoaria fazê-lo sofrer. Talvez nem o conseguisse.

O que quero de mim?

Ser linda, magra, rica. Sim, não posso dizer que não. Mas isso ainda não garantiria minha felicidade.

Quero me entender, saber de mim – quem sou e o que quero. E, no entanto, pareço estar sempre mais distante... como a busca filosófica, que quanto mais pergunta o que é a verdade, mais dela se afasta.

Hm.  Talvez Wilde’s Lord Henry esteja certo, e o sutil prazer não ocorra a partir dos concretos desfechos em nossa própria pele, mas no desfrutar do toque de fantasia que há na realidade alheia.