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.

Dandelions

Yes, more wine please. Lustrous, fruity red wine shinning under the dim lights, reflected in the lusty cheeks and mouths. Furtive seduction lingering in the movements, a subtle exploration of the other, hands and eyes stopping half way – timid and bold – the blushing at the recognition of shared preferences, voices getting softer, “yes, I also love pancakes,” “I cannot stand Woody Allen either!” the food sitting cold on the plates, a content strangeness to everything outside that bubble.
At home later that night, I felt puzzled, not knowing what to do with the newfound cheerfulness now reflected in my suddenly clumsy hands. I was not used to things working, not used to encounters rather than dates, not used to moments that allow expectations. However restless, I abandoned myself in the pleasurable warmth of that hope; my unprepared hands holding that maybe as one would hold a seeded dandelion: amazed and frightened.
How confusing were my days after that night. I walked around bewildered by the frenzy of my own thoughts. Even in an action as simple as walking into the coffee shop, I was taken by overwhelming desires of eating chocolate muffins with vanilla ice cream and strawberries, and of not eating anything and going on a diet, going vegetarian maybe, and then exercising it all away. And also of shopping for a purple shirt, and of finally getting back to the bass lessons I quit so long ago, and of calling a friend who I hadn’t talked to in six years, of calling all my friends, and of planting a dozen orchids, of starting a whole garden, of painting my nails bright red, of drawing round faces with my index finger on the white snow accumulated on she shields of the cars, and of buying a brand new journal with impeccable leather cover and writing endlessly, aimlessly, distractedly. Looking for definitions in that tumult, I wondered for a second if that was what some people call happiness.
But then, that colorful mess was dissonant in a world where tediousness seemed to be the rule. And was it right to impose my gladness – a luxury! – on those frowning expressions across the counter? People and their robotic efficiency were somewhat offended by the giggly smiles that insisted to draw themselves on my face. I bought a couple of flowers, and did schedule a manicure, but I was too aware of the critic eyes to openly act on my new cravings. I trimmed the excesses, keeping my joy mild and well mannered. I stood at the sidewalks, my eyes shifting from cars’ shields covered in white to the gray bored people holding their cases and checking their watches, and just nodded, complacent at my own ingenuousness.
There were phone calls, and e-mails. There was the memory of that good sensation, which I naively tried to recreate, but it didn’t feel the same. My pragmatism spread itself slowly, filling any dents, answering all possible questions with its definite logic. “You live far from here…” “you haven’t been in a long-term relationship before…” “you haven’t finished college yet…” My brain relentlessly signing it can’t work, it can’t work, it can’t work… And even if it worked, where would it go? Probably into suburban misery, isn’t it where all the supposedly successful stories head after all? Once the book is closed and the curtains go down, where else does all the bliss go? It wears out. One marry, have kids, gain weight, and turn sweaty and flaccid confined in some two bedrooms beige and brown townhouse.
Shortly, my expectations from that first night looked childlike at my own eyes. What did I expect? A live-happy-after-ever fairy-tale? They don’t exist. You know it. I knew it too. We all know it.
After a week, we were barely still in touch. When he didn’t answer the phone, and didn’t return the calls I understood that we wouldn’t talk to each other again. I realized it gently, bit by bit, and took it in a quiet manner, with the coolness expected of someone who knew it all along. I scrutinized myself looking for some meaning, some evidence of that story on me. I believe I even hoped for a bit of sadness, but all I could find was an embarrassed sense of relief.