Skip to main content

About fish

Fish are mysterious creatures. Fish are elegant like their natural enemy, cats. Cats sway sensually. Fish are cats' prey. Fish are beautiful things. You can see them in oriental paintings and porcelain. In Brazil, we say fish die for their mouths. We say one has eyes of a dead fish, big eyes, slow to follow whatever is going on. And what's going on? I'd say if anyone knows what 's going on is fish. One tried to tell me the truth behind the origin of the universe or the secret for being ever content with what you have. It tried to tell me the secret of happiness. 

I saw it, there, in a tank at the Indianapolis Botanical Gardens. You could almost see its brain underneath its thin skin. We looked at each other and it kept the fixed stare at me. It came closer to the surface. I took its picture and left. When I looked back, it looked at me yet, remaining close to the surface, the mouth outside the water like it still had hope to say what it meant to say. Had it legs it would have followed me, I'm sure. I did not look back again. I was afraid that the fish would talk to me. More than that, I was afraid of what it was going to say. To my companion, I said the Green house was too hot for me and I left. Fish are mysterious creatures and this one wanted to talk to me.  It had something important and urgent to tell me. It chose me and made an effort to let me know. It did it all and I left, a coward, and what it had to say I'll never know.





Comments

Popular posts from this blog

All the faces I've loved

All the faces of men I've loved visit me in the quiet night of my noisy brain All the ones I once loved and came to hate or forget or pretend to have forgotten Lost in the cloud of indifference  I've carefully created
All of them come back  filling the emptiness  of my broken beaten banal heart In this quiet night of my crowded noisy brain
They march firmly towards me
stop and stare Inches away and shoot their questions right between my shortsighted eyes Why? Why not? How much? How little?
They give me no time to answer
They move and vanish like ghosts of the Christmas past Some fierce and revengeful  pass on the judgement they've held in long
You! They shout Too bold! Too coward! Too hot! Too cold! Too little! Too much!
I try to touch a face or another
I remember them Especially the ones I've hidden so well from myself "Hey, look at you!

Quando

Quando se é a sombra de uma estrela esparramada sobre o mapa-múndi, cruzando terra e água, longe e perto de sua própria constelação. Quando se está aqui e lá, quando se tem tudo e sempre se quer mais. Quando vão-se os anéis e ficam os dedos e é possível ser "um sem deixar de ser plural". Quando se "vê a linha fina que separa aqui e ali" e, ao vê-la, não se contenta enquanto não a cruza. Quando se quer estar lá e cá e se quer amar, amar, amar.



Menino Guerrilheiro

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 foi  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 por…