10 Feb. 2003
This page has been moved to a more appropriate location: Pipoca
Doce
6
Feb. 2003
Entao,
toca o telefone. Minha casa esta cheia de gente. O roomeite respondeu,
e disse que ligaria de volta. Perguntei quem era. Batata! O Mister,
ele mesmo. Deu frios e arrepios. O roomeite ligou de volta, e bateu
um monte de papo. Dai olhou pra mim e perguntou se eu queria falar com
ele. (E ele, sera que queria falar comigo?). Antes de poder memso reagir
e registrar, o roomeite disse que eu ja tinha passado batido. Desligou.
Senti
tudo como se meus sentimentos estavam rodando na pia antes de descer
pelo ralo. Bye bye, Mister.
1 Feb. 2003
Preciso de uma cadeira. Urgentemente. Passo horas na frente dessa tela,
numa cadeira que e baixa demais, mole demais. Nao e possivel escrever
e trabalhar numa cadeira ruim comme essa!
La fora, neva. Esta derretendo logo que encosta no chao. E bonito, memso
asism. Mas nao entendo muito bem o escandalo que as pessoas fazem por
causa da neve. Eu, pessoalmente, prefiro ficar num barco, na praia,
no sol com muito calor!
31
Jan. 03
"Cry
me a River"
Minha irma jura que viu. Achei meio estranho, mas ela viu. No metro,
aquele que atravessa o rio. Em cima de um dos predios (ela nao sabe
bem qual), tinha um letreiro neon, escrito "cry me a river".
E isso, meu amor. Quero ver voce chorar um rio Sena so pra mim. Porque
para voce, chorei um oceano pacifico inteiro.
30
Jan. 03
Cotidiano
coitado. Coisa desgastante e sem graca. Mediocre.
Acordo com o rosto colado no travesseiro. Nao tenho forcas de levantar.
Desanimo, desespero. Abro os olhos e penso em seu corpo. So o corpo,
porque de resto, nao sobrou nada. Voce passou pela minha vida e levou
tudo. Nao deixou nem uma esperanca ou um calorzinho dento de mim. So
tenho a lembranca de teu corpo.
Pego
o metro, vou trabalhar. As pessoas em volta nao tem graca. Nenhum interesse,
nenhuma curiosidade. Nao vejo nada, so rostos vazios. Nao tenho vontades,
nem desejos. So quero teu corpo, e mais nada.
Mas
voce esta longe. Nao me quer, ja fez sua escolha. Foi embora para longe.
O que sobrou foi so um vazio. Tento prencher com textos. Meus sentimentos
e minhas dores. Minhas vontades de voce. Sai tudo nessas letrinhas......
29 Jan. 2003
My room mate has a new girl friend. My room mate is my best friend.
He is intelligent, interesting, a little tortured, but one of the nicest
people I know. With a girlfriend now.
Her name is Flavia. She is from an exotic country, and very pretty.
Long legs, dark shiny hair, blue eyes. The problem is she is dumb. Really
dumb. She has nothing to talk about to anybody, no opinions, and no
ideas. She litters our house with Vogue magazines and pointy heels.
Her dream in life is to work for Prada. Not as a designer, please note.
She wants to work in the Prada offices. She is doing a Masters degree
in Milan in order to get her closer to that goal. And she likes apples.
When she is in town, there are apples, apple juice, apple pie, apple
yogurt and apple ice-cream in the house. I hate apples.
So I am a little bitter, I can see that. But all of this is true.
There are other things contributing to my bitterness. Frustrations at
work, frustrations with my family, frustrations about the country I
live in and it's inhabitants. And a broken heart. A severely broke heart.
When you are nursing a broken heart, the last thing you want to see
is your room mate spending his nights on the phone with a pea brained
stick insect. If at least he was spending his night having wild sex
with her, it would be understandable. But he is wasting all the time
he could be using to take me out, and get my mind off things, and give
me attention. So ok, well yes, I'm a little jealous. But it's only because
I have a broken heart.
These things should be taken into consideration a lot more in society.
You should get sick leave, and store discounts, and automatic friends
when you are trodden on by a man. You should be allowed to stare into
space instead of answering e-mails at the office. People should give
you the free seat on the crowded bus. And hold the door open when you
are laden with groceries. You should get a "heart broken" sign to hang
up around your neck in cases like these. And room mates should not be
allowed to find new ditsy girlfriends!
I am trying, though. I decided to start exercising, and get in shape.
And keep my weight down. When the man in question broke my heart, I
actually stopped eating. Yes, it was that pathetic. The good thing about
broken hearts is that you lose weight. Now I am going to get in shape
to keep the weight down. And drink less, smoke less, sleep more. Get
life in shape. Get my head in shape. And my friends. The shithead left,
and I will become a much better person as a consequence.
****
La
fora: Paris. O sonho de consumo de tanta gente. A cidade luz.
Ta
bom, ta legal. Paris e uma maravilha, linda, linda. Mas agora e inverno.
Esta sempre escuro, umido, e um frio do caralho. Sorry, mas nao tenho
vontade nehuma de sair.
Meu
quartinho esta otimo. Meu computador fica do ladinho do aquecimento,
aquele bafinho de ar previamente respirado fica subindo, passando por
baixo do meu cotovelo, subindo ate meu queixo. Sou uma nerde de primeira.
Fico no escurinho, na frente da minha telinha azul. Escrevendo e curtindo
minha dor.
O
menino esteve aqui tambem. Ficou aqui no meu escurinho, na frente da
minha telinha. Sinto o cheiro dele. Minha pele ainda sente seu toque.
Mas ele foi embora. Voltou pra outra. A mulher "legitima".
Tudo bem, eu ja sei. Nao deve se meter com meninos maravilhosos que
ja tem outras mulheres. Mas o que eu posso fazer, se ele saiu da casa
dela, largou tudo, e veio estudar do ladinho da minha casa? E se ele
arranjou varias outras mulheres? Ela que nao soube guardar marido.
Mas
eu tambem devia ter me ligado. Homen lindo desses, que trabalha com
cinema. Que tem milhoes de amigos. Que aparece em casa com uma mulher
diferente cada vez. Achei que comigo seria diferente. Claro! Achei que
era melhor do que elas, do que a mulher dele. Mas fui como todas as
outras. Foi maravilhoso enquanto durou. Deixou poemas rabiscados na
minha parede, saudades rabiscadas no meu corpo, e muita dor.
27 Jan. 2003
Internet e realmente uma coisa esquisitissima! Estava procurando o blog
de minha prima. Cai no da
Clarah Averbuck. De la sigo os links. Todo dia descubro mais. Ja
conheco a vida dela, as suas dores, e agora, muitos dos seus amigos.
Um mundo todo, saindo de uma simples palavra na search da terra.com.br:"blog"
24 Jan. 200314:49
Deus. Nunca te vi, e voce nunca me fez nada. Mas dizem que voce existe,
e que se a gente pedir, voce vem e faz milagres. Entao olha, eu estou
precisando de um milagrinho. Pouca coisa. Nao precisa separar nehum
oceano nem nada. So preciso que aquele menino la, sabe (claro que sabe,
voce sabe tudo, nao e?). Entao, aquele la, queria ele pra mim. Faz com
que ele volte. Faz com que seus filhos se tornem meus, e que a mae deles
desapareca. E faz com que as outras mulheres tambem desaparecam, e que
sobre so eu na vida dele. Faz com que ele me ame de verdade, e que tudo
aquilo que ele me disse seja verdade. Faz com que ele esteja me esperando
quando eu chegar em casa, deitado na minha cama, como naquele dia. Faz
com que eu consiga ter confianca absoluta, e que a gente vive felizes
juntinhos para sempre. Porque ele e o unico no mundo que e perfeito
pra mim. Ta bom, ta bom, ele estracalhou meu coracao, e acabou com minha
auto estima, etc, etc, etc. Mas eu quero ele. So ele. Entao ajuda ai,
de um jeitinho, falo?
Brigadinha!
20 Jan.03
What do you do when you wake up in the morning, after a week end thinking
about somebody who is surely not thinking about you back, and when you
check your Monday morning e-mail, there is a message from them? That
person misses me. They wrote me a poem about it. I want to talk to them
so bad. But I won't. I will ignore the e-mail, file it away, and spend
another 8 weeks trying to forget that person's existence.
In a perfect world, we would fall in love. And there would be no complications,
no other people to love and to hurt. In a perfect world, we would live
in the same country, in the same town. Hopefully in the same house.
We would be able to take the metro together, holding hands. I wouldn't
be considered an evil woman who breaks up other people's family. I wouldn't
spend my Sunday singing alone in my apartment, trying to drown my sorrows.
In a perfect world, when I sent him messages, he would reply. And I
could also reply when he sent them to me. In fact, we wouldn't be sending
messages, because we would be living in the same house, where we could
talk, instead of sending messages.
16 Jan. 03
Just before I turned 27, I had the worst day of my life. Since then
I had another almost worst day of my life, but it's going to be hard
to top that other one. I was in the beautiful city of Barcelona, with
Jerome. We were sitting on a beautiful beach, watching the sun come
closer to the horizon. It was quiet and peaceful and so nearly perfect.
My mobile phone rang. It was my aunt. She was calling from across the
Atlantic ocean. She was completely calm. She needed my sister's phone
number. My sister's good friend Aline's father was my father's business
partner. She needed to reach this man. You see, my parents had had a
car accident. So she needed to talk to him. Her calm was an instant
indication that something was horribly wrong. She is not calm. Not ever,
under any circumstance.
The girl's father, Philip, was needed, to drive to the coast and see
what he could do to help them at the hospital. They had a head-on collision
on the way home from the beach. There was nothing left of the car. She
kept talking about the car. I asked if she has spoken to my parents.
She said she had, to both. I asked her again. She hesitated. I knew
she was lying. I started to cry, and yell, and tell her she was scaring
me. I wanted a reaction. She continued perfectly calm.
I hung up the phone and breathed. I cried and cried. Jerome just sat
next to me. He didn't ask, didn't say anything, didn't touch me. He
did exactly what I needed him to do. I called my sister, and asked her
to call home. She is supposed to be the artistic, dramatic, depressive
one. She handled it perfectly well, while I couldn't even see the ocean
in front of me anymore.
Throughout the next 24 hours, little by little, information came. There
was a man who broke up with his girlfriend. He had a motorbike. He saw
her talking to another man, and in a fit, tried to run over her with
the bike. He tried to kill her. The people around them reacted. They
went after him. In order to escape, he stole a car, and took off. The
police were after him. He took the windy road up the coast. He lost
control of his car, and it crossed the road to the oncoming traffic.
To my oncoming parents. Head on.
My father managed to get out of the car, and walked around it to my
mother's side, to try to get her out. He lost consciousness before he
reached her. A man who stopped to help them caught him and prevented
his head from hitting the concrete. They stretched him out on the road
and waited for the ambulance. My mother sat in the car, immobilized
by pain. She couldn't open her door. When the ambulance people arrived,
they concentrated on the other driver, who had visible fractures. They
cut him out of his car, and put him in an ambulance with my father.
They took my mother out of the car and put her in a second ambulance.
She couldn't speak.
The next day my phone rang again. It was Philip, Aline's father. They
had moved my parents to another hospital, in town. They each had a room,
and they were under observation. My father had fractured his sternum,
my mother was in incredible pain. He said my father wanted to talk to
me. My father is a big man, strong, athletic, healthy. He is never sick.
He was stuck in a hospital bed, about ten thousand kilometers away from
me. When I heard his voice, I choked. I couldn't speak, I could only
wail. When he heard me, he couldn't speak either. I think this alone
was the hardest moment in my life. Philip took the phone. He explained
that with a fractured sternum, you shouldn't cough, or laugh, or breathe
deeply, because this would move it. With a fractured sternum you shouldn't
cry.
My mother still wasn't speaking. She was in atrocious pain. She wanted
to stay in the hospital, with drugs and pain-killers.
I went home the next day. It was still an ocean away. I still couldn't
see them. They went home, they suffered with their pain, they tried
to recuperate. I desperately wanted to know what had happened to this
man. Was he dead? Was he in jail? In hospital? Crippled? I don't know
what happened to him. I don't think anything did. I think the legal
system will leave him hanging and he will remain free.
I don't believe in punishment. I don't think it solves problems. But
I wish that I could talk to him. I want to tell him what his fury did
to me and my family. I want him to know about the worst day of my life.
I want him to know that he is responsible for it, that it was
Intro
Isso nao eh um diario, nao eh um blog. Nao eh poesia, nao eh arte. Nao
tem formato nem intencao. Nao tem lingua, nao tem fim. Nem comeco, nem
meio. E alias, tambem nao tem acento!
Se eu conseguisse, faria musica. Mas depois de anos de aulas de piano,
violino, flauta, violao e batucada, nao sou capaz. Nao posso nem cantarolar
sem desafinar. Senao eu seria a proxima Cassia Eller, o novo Lenine.
Ja que nao sou capaz, vai ter que ser aqui mesmo que solto as coisinhas
que estao dentro de mim. As coisinhas que ninguem quer saber. Que nao
sao destinadas a ninguem.
Ai vai. Enjoy!
Porque comecei isso? De once veio? Olha, e a mesmissima historia de
sempre. Um belo dia, cheguei em casa pensando em uma pessoa que nao
me quer. Diz que me ama, mas nao lembra de mim. Entao veio aquela velha
dor. Amor doi, certo? Todo mundo sabe disso. Mas a gente esquece. E
de vez em quando aparece uma pessoa pra estracalhar teu coracao, just
in case you had forgotten. Dai cheguei em casa, com fumo e vinho na
cabeca. Tinha um monte de coisa dentro de mim. Tinha vontade de pintar,
ou de fazer musica. Mas falta o talento. Entao escrevi um montao. Cartas
pra ele, que ele nunca vai ler. E textos pra ninguem. Mas me sentia
injuriada de ter um monte de letrinhas que nao serviam a nada. Entao
porque nao colocar num site algum lugar? Minhas tripas espalhadas pela
internet. Que ninguem vai ler.
Voila!