Inner Babel / Babel Interior

When there was shadow, He was there. When there was blood, and death, and sadness. In the dark, He was there. When there was pain, And there was grief, When there was doubt And no hope. And from the lost blood, they drew the strength. In darkness, They walked towards each other. Embracing one another, They found love. From death, They found life, They found light.

Why? What a question! Why? Why one feels what one feels? Why is there  curiosity, longing, desire? Why do thoughts and fantasies run free, uncontrolled? Why one stands on firm land, looks down the abyss and takes a leap? Why one doesn't? Why one just turns around, walks away, never looking back? Except, perhaps, when no one is looking, When all are asleep. Why one walks in circles, Always coming back to that same point? Why one gives all up , Remains inert, Starving? Why? What a question! Answer me or I'll devour you! And devoured many were. Never truly knowing, Never really understanding why.

You feel you must let life run its course, Yet you don't. You wish for things out of your reach, You want it all,  Certain of its impossibility. You step away, You draw a distance, You make promises to yourself, And you immediately break them.  You know beneath beauty, There is darkness, There is pain. You recognize the vanity, The shallowness.  Still, You long for it, You insist. Still, You look for it, You reach out. You hurt, You are consumed. A lump in the throat. A tightening of the heart. No more, no more, You silently scream. Until you find yourself, There, Again. http://youtu.be/tc7FhWtA2Jk

Entrar no azul Perceber a densidade, A temperatura, A luz que se fragmenta, Se expande. Movimentar-se. Sentir a fluidez, A Resistência.   O impulso. Ir ao fundo. Ouvir sons abafados, Sentir o desejado isolamento, O silêncio. Concentrar-se nos movimentos, Peito, quadris, braços e pernas, Alongados, Contraídos. O ritmo. A respiração. O inspirar e expirar, Constante, Consciente, Até que não mais. O rosto imerso, A água na boca, Os olhos abertos. A cor, Os azulejos, As linhas entre os azulejos. No fundo, pequenos pedacinhos de grama, Trazidos pelo vento, Reverberando suavemente, Os movimentos firmes e compassados. A ida, A volta A ida, A volta, Até que não mais. Só o impulso, O movimento, A força, A plácida resistência do meio. O rosto que queima. A respiração, Sempre, Constante.   O ar, A busca. A água, O retorno, A paz.

She collected eyes. They fascinated her since she was little. Her mom used to tell that, still a baby, she tried to touch her eyes with her little fingers. She touched her eyelashes, felt them delicately and, at times, pulled them; which would put an end to the game. Another childhood story she was told preannounced her future interest. She used to remain for minutes looking at people’s faces, blinking when they blinked, moving her eyes to accompany the other’s movement.     When a child, she would cut eyes from  magazines and glue them in countless notebooks. She was interested in their colors, shapes. As she grew older, other nuances began calling her attention. When she was young she was given a photographic camera. The new tool provided her with different possibilities. She began to focus not only on eyes, but on the way they looked, the expressions of joy, surprise, fear and pain; the reflections of light and the reactions to different stimuli. The powerful...

Eu tenho pensamentos horríveis Eu praguejo Eu desejo o mal Eu minto Eu tenho urgências terríveis Eu deito languidamente em sonhos de luxuria Eu lá permaneço Em verdes, cinzas e castanhas fantasias Eu vivo o lado escuro da lua Eu sou o lado escuro da lua Eu ofego Não respiro Eu tomo café Eu procrastino Eu tento Eu me esforço Eu sinto falta da luz. Eu vivo o lado escuro da lua. Eu sou o lado escuro da lua.

I have horrible thoughts, I curse, I wish people ill, I lie, I feel terrible urges. I Iay languidly on dreams of lust. I linger, In green, gray and brown fantasies. I live the dark side of the moon. I am the dark side of the moon. I gasp, I cannot breathe. I drink coffee,  I procrastinate. I try, I strive, I miss the light, I live the dark side of the moon. I am the dark side of the moon.

Diving into the blue. Realizing its density, Temperature. The fragmenting and expanding of light. The movement. Feeling the fluidity, The resistance. T he impulse. Getting to the bottom. Hearing muffled sounds. Feeling the desired isolation, the silence. Focusing on the movements, Breast, hips, arms and legs, Alongated, Contracted. The rhythm. The Breathing, The constant inhaling and exhaling. Consciously, Until no more. The immersed face, The water in the mouth, The eyes wide opened. The color. The tiles, The lines between the tiles. In the bottom, tiny pieces of grass, Brought by the wind, Reverberating g ently, The firm and cadenced movements. The going and coming, The coming and going, Until no more. Just the impulse, The movement, The strength. The placid resistance of the medium. The burning face. The breathing, Always, Constant. The air, The search. The water, The return, Peace. 

Arrumando o pequeno escritório, jogando coisas fora, abrindo espaço para iniciar a rotina de trabalho, encontrou os recortes de jornal: "Faleceu sábado de ataque cardíaco fulminante" dizia um deles. Os outros repetiam a história do ataque cardíaco, mas ela sabia, desde aquela época que essa não era a verdade. Líder estudantil do seu tempo f oi  expulso da Universidade por ter opinião.  Perseguido na cidade , viu roubarem os seus sonhos e resistiu. Seguiu para a Guerrilha do Araguaia, lá foi preso, torturado. Quando ela era criança, não se falava disso. Já adolescente, com a abertura, quando estudava história, ele era mencionado, junto a alguns outros amigos da família "Ele fez parte da Guerrilha. Foi preso, torturado. Até hoje passa por uns períodos de depressão." Nada mais. Toda uma geração traumatizada, não conseguiam muito falar do assunto. Tudo muito recente, talvez. O medo ainda uma sombra, logo ali, a espreitar. Ela imaginava um homem adulto, barbado, preso ...

Quando tinha uns sete anos, a família se mudou para uma casa com piscina. Ponderaram que seria importante que aprendesse a nadar. Ouviam, vez por outra, tristes histórias de crianças que se afogavam nos quintais de suas próprias casas e se perguntavam como sobreviver a uma tragédia dessas. Como na tradicional divisão de tarefas, a mãe se comprometeu a levá-la e buscá-la nas aulas. Não que fosse uma dona de casa profissional, exclusivamente dedicada aos duros afazeres do lar e da família. Na verdade, era uma profissional respeitada, mas como mulher de sua geração, acumulava responsabilidades e ainda lhe cabiam os malabarismos dos cuidados da casa, dos filhos e da carreira. Conseguiu um horário no fim da tarde. Saía do trabalho um pouco mais cedo, corria em casa, buscava a menina e levava para as aulas.   Não pensem hoje, as mães que levam seus bebês e crianças às aulas de natação, que havia alguma abordagem especial nas aulas ou equipamentos específicos, como as plataforma...

Once she had fallen on that turn. She was riding a moped. The boys from school had somehow messed it up. They had removed the pipe and the gas just didn’t pass through. She tried to turn the bike on a couple times, aware that there had been a sort of sabotage. Very irritated, she kept an exterior calmness, while the boy approached and showed her in five seconds what the problem was. She thanked him and left. “What a stupid way to flirt!” She proceeded with her afternoon ride, good school times, the wind on her face, the postponed obligations, dinner waiting on the table, all the time in the world… The moped failed a couple times, she had to break it and speed it up at the same time to keep it going. In one of these attempts, on the curve, she skidded! The moped slipped to one side while she slid to the other in a 45-degree angle. She stood up, covered by the red dirt of Brasília, bruised, hurt. She picked up the moped and carried it, limping, to the last house of the street. She w...