and there is a street band on every corner, a couple in instant love in every street and so many costumes and beautiful things and not a care in the world. for five days, everything is perfect and allowed and crunched into happiness and alcohol…
and those who search for tragedy and sorrow only find poetry. and those who do not belong are relished – curbs have no prejudice and we, all sons and daughters of the great God above, will be accepted and cherished on the church of asphalt tonight.
“you are not allowed to be this person you are now. I created this person, this lovable, sweet person. you are allowed only to be who you were before: the socially awkward, can’t-handle-a-beer-or-looking-someone-in-the-eye person you used to be.”
***
e eu não sei quem me criou. quem me criou não foi ninguém, nem pai nem mãe, nem eu. talvez tenha sido o mundo e seu método de educação sentimental de cimento e vergalhão, suas porradas grossas e os tropeços das pernas. talvez tenha me ensinado a ser eu o suor que escorre nas costas, árduo, de quem andou o dia todo, ou a solidão do “não cumprimentarás o próximo” – essa vida de não olhar ninguém nos olhos.
quem me formou essa pessoa horrível… eu não sei. talvez tenha sido a preguiça da democracia ou a negligência da civilidade. a procrastinação da humanidade. talvez tenha sido o abandono do convívio que tenha me criado assim – tão perto, mas tão longe, prendendo pra depois soltar.
não fale com seu vizinho. nem com seu namorado. pode ser perigoso (deixar-se chegar).
***
“diving in too fast, too deep, head first. through hell and high tide. snatch them, hug them. make them run, then. love them just to hurt them. I am who I am: I am this small. really. this tiny, annoying thing. come closer, but not too close. hold me, but not so tight. ignore me. save me.
please, go away.”
vejo que cresci pelas olheiras insones que visto. vejo que estou velha por ser aquela pessoa que dormiu de menos e trabalhou demais, pelos dentes amarelados de café e cigarros, tomados e fumados de stress, pela aquela barriga gorda que me cutuca o rosto no ônibus lotado. vejo que cresci pelo mundo que me formou, sem coração e sem tempo, pela solidão imensa que sinto e que não revelo, pelos pequenos causos de ontem que parecem já tão distantes da minha juventude. percebi que cresci pelo meu sorriso, parco, que a rotina não percebe soltar. percebi que cresci, finalmente, por beber como uma pessoa adulta que não tem a inocência de criança, que afoga um mundo cinza, cerveja atrás de cerveja, porque não há escapatória senão essa, escapatória outra que não seja, no escuro do quarto, antes do sono entre expedientes, chorar.
choro agora, depois dos tragos pagos pelo meu salário, lágrimas de gente grande, de coração partido, de sonhos desfeitos, noites mau dormidas. lágrimas de eu. eu só. só eu.
J’espère que chaque mot te montre à quel point je t’aime. Et je t’aime encore.
and my skin was chafed
with the rough sandpaper-like
touch
of your fingers.
and my body, skinned,
from sharp nails
of life
is finally born anew.
soft and smooth
(run you finger along it-
touch me-)
like the ruffled feathers
of newborn ducks.
and my limbs,
before – so limp -
have the strength to hold
my neck upright
and slap
your uptight
jaw.
…it was a moment of quiet and sudden inspiration. I rose from my bed and suddenly I desired to vandalize things, walls, benches, doors; I had the urge to write on them, leave messages for the people, inspire them, make them look away from their cellphone screens and enjoy life. it was the same inspiration that drove me downtown, to the seediest neighborhood of the city, to enter a party. my hair uncombed and very insane, my clothes were old and not fashionable, but I was there just to walk against the crowd, rubbing skin and elbowing and pushing, trying to cause a reaction, trying to cause commotion. people were there, all sorts of colors and eyes and mouths, having sex in the bathrooms and drinking, dancing – a fun party. but I was never one to dance, and I was there to change, both myself and the rest of us all. I was there trying really hard to start a fight in the naked, absurd heat of the place, needing to punch someone, craving to take them outside, yell, punch kick and get punched and thrown down, and pinned down, and go home with three broken teeth, a gash on the forehead and a changed life. I wanted to feel…
…and I was very confused about my feelings and sort of desperate. also a little hungry, but that doesn’t count. I was feeling lonely. very lonely. this tidal feeling of yearning, the thing that I cannot define that comes and goes was here again. maybe it had been brought up to the surface by a movie or a song, or whatever, but it was here again. and again. it penetrated my dreams very constantly too, preventing me from sleeping. I had to learn to finally let it go, to grow out of that mood, but I JUST COULDN’T. I was in the point where drinking didn’t help anymore, amplifying emotions instead of drowning them. I had no escape route. and then I realized that I didn’t know if I couldn’t let go of it because it was really hard or because I was actually sabotaging myself. In reality, I didn’t know if I really didn’t want to let it go. I just knew that I had too, and couldn’t. I was an old dog and his bone, never able to figure it out. so I asked the television for advice: it had none to give. series always had happy endings, but mine was a huge doubt. my writing, at least, was able to become raw again and that was good: the sense of self-satisfaction helped a little, and the ego boost never hurt no one. but I was angry, at the same time. so very angry. why didn’t he ever call? “oh, I thought we could be friends.” yeah, we could be friends if you weren’t an asshole. you were wrong. just like that. you thought we could be friends, and you were wrong. I thought you were the love of my life, and just as wrong was I…
… and I just wanted to lay there all day long, buried underneath the memories, smiling, alone, and maybe even crying a tiny bit. I wanted to fall asleep in peaceful naps and dream of kisses, waking up to the smell of afternoon coffee and then, later, of dinner. in and out of sleep, like a cat. and I wanted to remember things graciously and have a sore neck from laying down all day long, careless. and I wanted to be able to just enjoy sadness, dressed in that old cut-up shirt that was yours and that is so comfortable, its cotton already paper thin after being worn so many times …
não é irônico se acontece de novo e de novo e de novo. é rotina. não é belo por conter tristeza. é apenas triste. é solitário por não ter mais ninguém. ali não há reflexão, não é melancólico. estou apenas só.
e é saudade, mesmo sendo unilateral. mas não é irônico. a ironia aconteceria se o resultado fosse totalmente diferente das expectativas. e aconteceu tudo exatamente como o esperado.
não é como em uma música de Alanis Morissette. ironia seria como disse David Foster Wallace: a canção de um pássaro que aprendeu a amar sua gaiola.
mas não é. estou aqui, presa. me liberte.
the memory is very vivid and pungent, making my stomach churn and hurt, when I remember that, sometimes, things with you were pretty much horrible.
