Souvenir

You have the beauty of Central Park in the fall
the loudness of bright red crispy leaves
the glossy skin of evenly woven orange covering the ground
the moving hands of open coats waving in the wind
Continuous, always–
predictably unpredictable –

I drown in it
drawing impossible postcards
helpless souvenirs
to hopefully remember that
you are too beautiful

that across the table drinking vodka and smoking cigarretes

you simply are

I leave as quiet as when I got there

In an aseptic computer screen
In a climate controlled dusty room
In my sick world of verbatim
I reduce you to words
I turn you into dry winter
Words. Dry. Winter.
I reduce
YOU
To words
I’m sorry for myself.

(Image: A Walk in the Central Park- By Maryanne Jacobson)

Being Late...

This morning, I was supposed to catch a train to New Jersey at 7:42. Not surprisingly, even though I took a cab, I didn't get to the station before 8:03.
I was dressed up, which made me happy, and had one hour left before work. So I stopped at a restaurant, and drank some coffee, slowly, taking my time to look around at the people, at the blueberry muffins, at the cappuccinos being rushed to the tables.
While I waited for my buttered toast, I opened the Clarice Lispector's book I usually have in my purse, and read the most insightful little text. I left, took the train and got off at Union Square. Instead of heading straight to work, I strolled around the farmer's market for a few minutes. Flowers, artisanal breads, huge cheeses. Even Jumbo eggs (I grinned a little then: why can't one just use two small eggs?).
Once in my office, I turned on the computer, sent my mom my morning e-mail, saying that everything is fine and have a good weekend. Then I linked to pandora, browsed through my several radios and chose Nina Simone's station. She was genius - as always. "Birds flying high you know how I feel, Sun in the sky you know how I feel, Reeds driftin on by you know how I feel... "
Earlier this morning, while I waited for my buttered toast, I read that "solitary moments of happiness can be so moving."
I wish Lispector was still alive, just so I would have a chance to ask her if even my tiny morning happiness can be, somehow, a little moving too.

Letters

On the least memorable Sunday, in a not any more memorable winter, I bought neat correspondence paper and carefully wrote three letters. When I finished, I didn’t reread them – nothing in there could be edited. I put them in envelopes, sealed and walked down to the blue box by the corner of the street. An ordinary action: pull the knob, drop the letters, the metal squeaks, let them go. Done.

I hadn’t expected it to be that simple: no ceremony, no great commotion; just words, one aligned dutifully after the other. I couldn’t blame them either, those apparently harmless insects of red ink; they were even cute when I looked at them separately. But the way they were arranged – the way I arranged them – the verbs that followed each subject, those were unforgivable.

After I dropped the envelopes I rushed back home, running up the stairs as if I were being chased. Still catching my breath, I called USPS to find out how long it would take. “Domestic packages are delivered in two business days. Do you have any other questions about the services offered by USPS?” asked me the robotic voice in the other side of the line. How ironic, “domestic packages.” That’s all they were now. Just as (un)important as any electricity bill, love letter or empty thanks note. $0.45 for a stamp, and any of them would be delivered with the same diligence in two business days. I had no more questions. I just sat heavily on the couch. Running was no longer an option.

Had I written those letters in a weekday, I would be able to entertain myself, as my time would be neatly broken down in breakfast, meetings, lunch break, e-mails, phone calls. But that was a Sunday, with its solid chunk of hours staring at me in their inevitable emptiness.

…you run over a child, you see a child running in front of a car and don’t do anything, you kick a homeless, you hate when he walks into the train, you give him food just so he will be quiet…

A little over three years ago, that’s when it all started. I had never believed there was a line between what is understandable and what is not, until then. I had made mistakes before; plenty of them. But on that rainy Friday, when the sky was drowned in such a thick gray it seemed there would never be a sunny day again, all the circumstances came together and I didn’t notice that that slip wouldn’t be just another one. When I found myself unable to create any more excuses, I understood that I had gone too far. I could no longer lie to myself: had you done it, I wouldn’t forgive you.
I knew everybody would hate me once they knew, so I hid it. I thought I could manage a secret. Secrets are common, aren’t they? Who doesn’t have one? But soon I learned that nothing can be more alienating than a secret.

Every conversation became a game where words had to be calculated, subjects avoided, reactions masked. The phone calls started to fall into heavy, drenched silences, the lunches became torments where the conversations had to be shifted, abruptly, growing shallower by the minute. Each meeting, rather that uniting, only seemed to increase the gap. It came to a point where the distance felt less painful than those mimics of real encounters. That’s when my series of excuses started– “Sorry, I really have to work late” “the flights are expensive this time of the year” “Sorry, I didn’t get your message.” Until people gave up on asking, on trying to reach out: the messages got scarce, the invitations didn’t happen anymore, and all that was left were memories and courtesy calls.

That Sunday was a week before my birthday, and even if I wanted, I just couldn’t bear avoiding everybody again.

…you cheat on your boyfriend, you lie that you love him, you stay with him because you don’t want to be alone, you fake orgasms, you have sex with him thinking of your brother-in-law, you delete his mother’s messages, you put sleeping pills on his juice,…

I took a lethargic look at the living room: it was stark how every detail was evidence of how entrenched the presences of those three people – those three names in the back of the envelopes: my brother Mathew, my friend Anna and my mom – were in my life. The pictures, the CDs recommended by one or the other, the paintings discussed to exhaustion in nights fueled by wine, the couch itself which was a rebound from my brother’s first divorce; they all were souvenirs I had surrounded myself with, maybe trying to fill the space of the people missing. An attempt I knew defeated from its very start.

I looked over at the corner table, where I had placed, years ago, two quirky pictures of me and Anna during our road trip to Alabama – our so-called “Anthropological On-site Research.” We were never quite sure about the success of the research, but even weeks after we came back our phone calls still showed off a whole peculiar vocabulary: “Aaa-ight, y’all coming to my house tonight?” “Naw, better go to a bar.” As I remembered that, I chucked bitterly, shaking my head: just two weeks ago we met accidentally by the coffee place across the street from my work. “I haven’t seen you much in this area before. Are you working around here now” I mumbled, surprised and genuinely not sure of what to say. “Yes, I’m working across the street” she replied grabbing her cup and slowly moving towards the register. “Really, me too. I’m on the 14th floor. “ As I said that, she turned towards me, and we finally looked at each other. The expression on her face was that of someone disturbed by a small fly, of someone who picks up the phone and it was merchandising, of someone who just wanted to get a coffee, and was infringed by some unpleasant memory. It was clear how she felt, and it was clear that I saw it. After that the awkwardness was so palpable that we didn’t even manage to act the “call me later, let’s plan something” disguise.

Of all three of then, my mum was the only one that I still talked to often. For a while I did try to alienate her also, just so I could avoid the questions and the dryness in my throat every time I had to utter an assertive “I am fine.” Sometimes I wondered if I was really that good of a liar. Maybe, were they actually able to see my arms stretched out, saying what I was not able to voice, but found it easier to ignore?

I was glad when the phone rang, saving me from those thoughts. I let it go into the voicemail first: Hi, you called Laura, please only leave a message if you really have something to say. I will return.

- Laura, when are you going to chan…
- Mom?
- Hey, you are there! Are you ever going to change this message?
- No, I mean it…
I had always known how to irritate her – and had some foolish pleasure in doing it.
- Unbelievable! Why don’t you try to be nice for once? Don’t you ever wonder why you are always all by yourself?
I smirked then, and what crossed my mind was “if you could only hear my thoughts mum…”
- I am not. What are you talking about? And, do you have anything else to say, or you just called to remind me of how miserable I am?
- Of course not! Oh my Gosh, these are not things you should even think! I called because I want you to come over next weekend. Your brother is coming, so I thought you could plan… you know, we haven’t been all together in ages.

All I could think was that unless the entire USPS system crashed by the next day, I wouldn’t be welcome for a while.

- I don’t know mum, I have been busy lately…
- You could at least work on your excuses, couldn’t you?
- I am sorry, it is not…

What could I say?

- All right, I can’t argue with you forever. But now tell me, how are you? Is everything OK?

It was clear in her voice that she genuinely cared. Not only in her voice, but in her little gifts, chaotic e-mails, in her dysfunctional voice messages, in all her at times clumsy ways of affirming that she was always there. I thought of that letter, riding on some blue truck, going to hit her when she least expected, among Capital One statements and Cosmo merchandising. Had I just been selfish? Had I been self-absorbed to a point where I ignored that I was going to hurt her deeply with that letter?

…you wish your father were dead, you look for a job across the country, you are addicted to porn, you do porn, you hate dogs, you want to kick them when no one is watching, you would kick them if you were less afraid, …

- Hey, are you there?
- Uh? Yes mum I am here. I have to tell you, some things have happened, I don’t know… maybe…

My own thoughts became unintelligible.

- What is it? Just tell me and I can help you…
-
-Laura, … whatever it is… is it money, your job, are you sick? Did you break up with a boyfriend that I am not even aware of?
-
-You know I am here right? I have always been.

I just couldn’t. What words to use? The simplicity of what she expected my problems to be made my task impossible.

- Mum, never mind. I have to go... I’ll call you on Tuesday.
And I hung up.

… you steal your parents, you are ashamed of them, you think of your inheritance, you lie to your co-workers about your family, you are envious of your brother’s career,…

After that I decided to take a walk. The oppression of closed places, added to what was going through my mind was just claustrophobic. I put on a jacket, stuck the phones in my ears, and as soon as I stepped out the door, felt the cutting dry wind hit me in full. I arranged my hat tightly, turned my face down, and started walking the seven blocks that separated me from the park.

When I got to the park, I tried to find in my IPod some song that would work for me in that state of mind. It always intrigued me how some people need quiet, peaceful songs to calm them down when they are nervous. It never worked for me. And especially on that day, soft spoken, honey wrapped melodies would not do it. I browsed through the playlists: on-the-go 1, 2, 3, 4, the most played; it seemed impossible that out of one thousand five hundred thirty six songs, I couldn’t find at least one. I walked towards one of the big rocks in the middle of the trees, for a minute totally absorbed on my musical quest. When I finally found a song that sounded as, if not more, desolated as me, I finally was able to slow down. I sat on one the rocks, and stared at the anorexic branches of the trees contrasting against the grayish view of the empty park, while Jeff Magnum screamed his confessions on my ears.

…you alienate your co-worker, you tell your boss to fire him, you don’t vote, you sell your vote, you have an abortion, you are an alcoholic,…

The Monday went by way easier than the Sunday. I made sure even the quarters of the hours were completely filled, and I am positive I had never before produced that much in only one day. The mechanical phone calls, the fake smiles, the extensive and useless note-taking, the mindless music playing in the background, it all worked together to create the perfect environment for a numb person – me, that was – to get through the day. When the night came, I replaced the office mindless environment with two Xanax (four times more than I had ever taken), and the effect was about the same.

On Tuesday I slept the entire morning, and woke up with my body sore. I looked down at my cell phone: Mathew, Anna and my mom’s phone numbers appeared on my list of missed calls. God Bless USPS, I thought, sarcastically. I sat at my bed, and although I knew what to do, I was still motionless. My first instinct was to throw the phone out the window, but that would be too dramatic. I thought of creating my own postmodern interactive ending: the heroine runs down the stairs, and keeps going until her image is just an unrecognizable streak between the buildings. And then some –hopefully – compassionate audience could decide what those messages on the phone say. But then, that was not a play, or a book, it was my life.

I pushed all the right numbers.

I held my breath, feeling like my entire body was cracking. One word, and I would hear the pieces of me falling disjointed on the floor. “ Ana, it’s mom. Aren’t you going to pick up? You know why I’m calling don’t you…”

I was trying to read in her voice what her words would be: was it pain, anger, disappointment, hatred?

“… I didn’t expect this from you. But more so, I didn’t expect you would need to write a letter to tell me anything. Come home as soon as you get this, and we’ll figure things out.”

It was not hatred. I didn’t have to listen to any other messages.

Lacking Poetry

This is an old poem that I wrote when I was still living in Sarasota. Just thought I would throw it out there. To the lions it goes!

Aleph

I always wondered if there is in real life, alike in the movies, that moment right before one’s death, when their entire life crosses in front of their eyes. Is it possible for our brain to defy time, gravity, Physics, and all the Einsteins, and Newtons, and others of their kind? As you can see, I haven’t died — thankfully! — but something happened the other night, and now I can assure you the answer is yes.
I was awakening from my evening nap, and it happened right on that instant when I was getting out of my dreams and back to reality. I’m not sure if I was wide awake, or still dreaming; if my eyes were open or closed; if that wall was there all the time and I saw everything printed in it, or it just began to exist when I came out of my dream. But I don’t think this really matters, after all how can one ever be sure of what is real, what is dream? What matters is what I saw, and now I’ll give you an account of it.
I say the streets of every city, loud and crowded, with their several bars, pubs, and restaurants; then I saw the cafés in the world, the ones I’ve been too, and I saw the funny, or philosophical, or stupid moments I had there with friends, and I realized that my life also can be somehow measured in coffee spoons; Then I saw my mom as she looked two years ago, the time I had last seen her; then I saw what she was doing in that present moment, and I felt relieved, because she looked fine; and I saw that she does wait for my calls, and that she has gained wrinkles around her eyes, and that her eyes too, sometimes get teary for no apparent reason; and I saw Clarice Lispector, Kundera, and Saramago; and all the pages of the journals that have been written inspired by them; and I saw my first kiss, in the park, and how I hated it; and I saw all the others that came after that, and crazy as it might sound, I even saw how they tasted: apple, beer, cigarettes, grape, mint, wine, red bull, watermelon, coffee, chocolate…And I saw that orange-blue-purple sunrise at the beach — the one that I cherish and treasure — in the night we decide that we would catch the sunset and the sunrise together; it made me happy when I noticed that my memory had been able to keep intact each detail of it; and I saw my guitar, and all the songs that I’ve played; and the ones that I’ve attempted to; and I saw me and my best friend, jamming, drinking beer and eating chocolate; and I also saw you, and where you are going to be in three minutes, and in three days, and in three years; I saw the moments when you are hateful and despicable and also the ones when you magnificent; and I saw all the people in the world, yellow, brown, black, white, they all stared directly at me, and some accused me with their gaze, and although I am not sure of what, I know, by the certainty in their eyes, that they were right; and I saw all the kids that were being born, their brand-new souls still free from all the doubts, all the trouble; and also saw their moms, all utterly hopeful against all the odds. And it perplexed me that I could see the entire world but I was not able to decide if I should be happy or sad for them. Then, I saw myself: no adorn, no pretension, no secrets, I truly SAW MYSELF; and that was the most astonishing of it all.
Now, you might want to know how you can do it too, see it all. I can tell you, but I have to warn you first: life is not the same after it, after you’ve seen everything that there will ever be to be seen. Think: there might be a good reason why for most people it just happens, if it happens, in the last instant, right before their death.

A Different Inauguration Story

Yes, I was there for the inauguration. I don't have anything super new to say about the ceremony itself though: it was crowded, it was cold, people were happy, ... I'm sure you have heard all that a thousand times by now.
The only way I can think to come up with something fresh is by telling my personal experience as Obama's "hopeful" campaign was sweeping the country. I'm afraid It starts way before the inauguration.

I believe It starts here:

I was the most skeptical person about Obama's candidature. Of course I knew he was way better than Mccain, but I stubbornly refused to go any further than that. I went to extremes of driving my friends insane right after the election by saying: "he's just another politician. He will steal you a little less than the others, that's all." Yes, I was annoying like that.
You are probably wondering by now what I was doing at the inauguration, why I went there.
Well, let's say I educated myself a lot.
First though, I want to tell a little fact about Brazil's recent history that might serve as an explanation to my stoical skepticism during Obama's campaign.
From the beginning of the 60's until 1985 Brazil suffered under a military dictatorship, marked by violent censorship of any kind of self-expression. It fell in 1985, but it was only in 1989 that that entire generation had the chance to vote and choose their president for the first time. They (the Brazilians who unlike me were not 6 years old) elected Fernando Collor. A young politician, great speaker, without much experience but considered to be a breath of fresh air in a country tired of old governors and their ideas. The country was swept by a wave of hope in the future.
Sadly, the outcome was disastrous. In 1991, in a supposed attempt to reduce the ever growing inflation that was killing the country's economy, Collor confiscated the funds from all the savings accounts. People went to bed with money in their accounts to buy houses, cars, etc etc, and woke up broke, with nothing more than the change they had in their wallets. Ahh, one important detail: not all the people. There was a certain more well-informed circle who managed to transfer all their wealth out of the country right before it happened. Their excuse to such good timing? Luck. And God, of course.
That, added to denounces of corruption and traffic on influence in the government affected his image and soon his popularity hit ground. The streets were filled by raging protesters. The same young people who elected him, now painted their faces with the green and yellow colors of our flag and hit the streets. Shortly after, when Collor's participation in influence peddling was proved by the senate, an impeachment process was opened. He resigned in 1991, right before the impeachment process was finalized by the senate.
This two short years marked Brazilian history profoundly, and I dare-say that after Collor our capacity to believe in politics, and in politicians, was irreparably hurt.

Now, does the Fernando Collor candidate's description ring familiar to you at all? It did to me for a long time.
However, I have no intention whatsoever of comparing Obama and Collor. This entire story is more a justification to why I was reluctant to board the Obamamania than an attempt to draw parallels between both presidents. It didn't take me more than a half-serious on-line research on Obama's background to realize that my concerns were absolutely unfounded. Obama's political views, and his accomplishments in Illinois show that he's not a marketing product, that he has the principles and the courage to lead the US out of the shameful situation it has been in for the last 8 years.
It was with this belief that I headed to DC for the inauguration. I joined the over 2 million people in their hope that Jan. 20th was the first day of a better world. However, even if I wanted to, I can't run from my past. It's reflecting my Brazilian and American experiences that my position about this new times is: let's hope, let's support, and let's watch. Carefully.

A Quite Artsy Weekend

I visited the MoMa yesterday. That's one of the great advantages of living in New York: having the museum right there. At moments I may even forget about it, but it doesn't matter, it will be there. So comforting... I wish all my relationships had the constancy of my relationship with the MoMa!

The lines, of course, were around the corner. Tourists and more tourists, English degraded as the third language in the place. I'm not sure if they were there for the paintings or because it was part of their long list of must-dos in New York. Anyway, they were there, with their cameras, tired feet and subway maps.

But enough of digressions, this is supposed to be about the paintings, isn't it?

I didn't really walk by any of the permanent collections, since the time was short. I concentrated at the three major exhibitions: Joan Miró, Marlene Dumas and Van Gogh.

Miró was unintelligible and genial as always. The exposition is organized chronologically from 1927 to 1937. It was great to see his evolution during those pos-roaring twenties, pre-war ( WW and Spanish Civil War) years. I might be exaggerating a little, but in paintings of the "Rope and People" series I saw a beginning of the style that later would become acclaimed in Picasso's "Guernica." A big surprise for me was to learn that even for apparent spur-of-a-moment works such "Portrait of a Dancer," Miro sketched endlessly before getting to the final arrangement.

Ahhh, a little comment that I can't avoid indulging in: there were these two ladies there, who reminded me terribly of Mary Wilkie (Diane Keaton's character in Manhattan). It was great! I followed them around for a few minutes, trying to catch some hilarious line, or maybe a mispronunciation of Van Goghrrhhr. Sadly, It didn't happen. I think they noticed I was around too much and got weirded out by my stalking manners. Ow well, ... I tried, if they had cooperated it could have been a quite funny story.

Marlene Dumas' work was definitely the big event of the day for me. Absolutely fantastic! I'm actually quite embarrassed that I had never heard of her before. Had you??? (Ow God, please say no... ) I was in a mist of amazement, surprise, and somewhat shock that totally incapacitated me of coming up with any analytical response . Dumas' paintings are extremely revealing of the artist behind it. I felt like walking through someone consciousness (or would it be unconsciousness?), being able to experiment her fears, aggressivity, doubts and even sexuality. Let art be revealing, instead of using it as a curtain to one's personality? Now that is subversive! I'm a already a fan.

At 3:30, after walking out of the museum for a while to get some fresh air - and my thoughts in order - I had my appointment with Van Gogh. What can I say about Van Gogh? First, it's sort of surreal (in its adjective form, please) to be able to actually see the original Starry Night just a few inches of my face. It took me a lot of strength to hold myself from touching it. I guess my fear of being forever banned from the MoMa, added to the fact that my very favorites- the sunflowers - were not there kept me behaved. I was actually a bit sad, looking at all corners hoping they could be hidden somewhere, but no. No sunflowers for me. It may have been for the better though... can you imagine if I happened to overcome my fear, touch one of the paintings and possibly ruin forever the most solid relationship I've had in years? That would be a sad, sad thing.