a skype love story

Fred reads the poem, Diana waits.

listen to questions...

tries to understand questions...

I get it, more or less.

Fred draws...

and draws...

and then we confess our profound, creative love <3

A poem with no rhymes

Almost Dead Ancestors 

I have been the eternal promise, yet

not once was I what had been promised. First,

I was supposed to be the spawn of evil

itself. Shame, evil never really matched

my skin tone. I used to believe in things

too: tooth fairy, rabbits that lay eggs, fat man

entering my house at night all dressed in red,

but there are things not even kids should know

about. True evil, a god that kills the sons

of disbelievers. It’s in the Bible, I read

it once, it’s hard to concentrate with all

the poison dripping from the skin thin rice

paper. I’d rather have it rolled, smoked in

to fun, but I don’t want lies blemishing

my lips. Later I was supposed to be

forgotten, but I kept on showing up,

despite everyone’s contempt. Last time I was

there, a cadaver was asleep, sheets of

the purest white, they fed and sang to him.

The corpse was me, somehow. My future? My

fears wrapped in disintegrating flesh?

I was the promise of insensibility,

yet I was shaking. Once I’d known that dead

man lying on a bed. He said he hated blacks. I’m

at least café-au-lait (don’t mind the blue-

green eyes). Back then I felt so far away,

an interstate apart from him, although

he was one palm away on the church bench.

The living corpse called my name, but I

had the same love for him I have for the

first maggot yet to eat my eyes. I guess

my passport straight to hell is really already

all stamped and signed. Was I supposed to be

the devil? I saw my reflection in

the mirror: I am missing a tail and

two horns. Oh well, I’m just the promise still.

Phobia

It all began with robbery. A dark,

smart, little punk showed me his gun. I froze.

Only I did not freeze enough.  To act

was probably a bad idea. He rose

the gun, and I began to move. The sharp

pain and the bang exciting me. ‘Suppose

it wasn’t my day to die. I look at him and smirk.

Adrenaline kicked in, my pressure rose

to a peak, and as if I were a star

from Rambo or Die Hard, I fought. Disposed

the gun from the punk’s hand. Then the park

got packed. The crowd saw the boy, broke nose,

blood in the pavement. When my blood cooled down

I found a starving child lying on the ground.

*

Rich kids of Salvador, me and my crowd,

walked in the streets that don’t belong to us.

They joked and laughed at the world around:

Poor houses, barefoot kids, crazy man that cursed

someone invisible. They pointed at

the children, bathing with an empty ice

cream pint. Isn’t it adorable? Their flat

stomachs showed me their hunger. That’s the price

we’ve got to pay for the indifference,

an ugly past with slavery, a huge debt

from times of colony and no advance

in the economy. My girl friends threat

to leave if I don’t stop the blabbering

The kids still bathe in sewage, smiling.

*

The car is going eighty miles. That and

the glass between me and the world should make

me feel secure. Still my hair stands on end,

dilated pupils, sweaty palms, the fake

impression that a gun, or knife can threat

my life at any moment. Panic is

inside me. Frozen, I observe the wet

streets, empty. No mass murderer in his

way to the bus, no robber selling gum

or cigarette packs at the stop light.  Despite

the lack of threat, my heart beats fast, crazed drum

inside my temple, and my throat is tight.

Yet rationally I know I must go on,

love, live, work unafraid. But the fear’s my home.

hoje já é amanhã

estou aqui, nesta madrugada do dia de São Valentino, tentando dormir. Na verdade não considero que estou tentando, afinal não desliguei o computador nem fechei os olhos em momento algum (não suporto quem reclama de insônia sem nem tentar dormir), mas a verdade é que algo tem me mantido acordada até agora, 1:14 da manhã de acordo com meu despertador atrasado.

Aliás, em 6 horas mais ou menos, esse desgraçado vai decidir tocar e eu vou ter que levantar de qualquer forma. A aula de psicologia é as 9:30 e demora pelo menos meia hora pra chegar no prédio certo. Além do mais, tenho que chegar cedo, porque é uma briga de faca pra achar lugar naquela sala lotada, e eu odeio ter que dar mochilada na cabeça de alheios pra conseguir um lugar enfiado em um jogador de lacrosse gigante, e uma gringa espalhada.

Minha tarde toda (das 2 as 8) foi utilizada no parto do soneto pra aula de amanhã (vide o post abaixo), e acabei não estudando história, o que tinha planejado fazer. Mesmo assim não considero a tarde desperdiçada. E depois de 6 horas espremendo os neurônios pra dar luz a esse bebê de 28 versos não tem quem aguente estudar mesmo. Ainda me iludi, abrindo o livro, mas nada de me lembrar de fatos e datas da Reconstrução, Rebelião dos Sioux e outras coisitas mais que vão cair na prova.

Enfim, estou orgulhosa de mim mesma porque já escrevi 15 mil palavras de meu futuro (possível/imaginário?) livro, e estou dentro do cronograma. Me dei até o dia 30 de maio pra escrever no mínimo 100k palavras, o equivalente a 300 páginas impressas em um livro paperback, e ainda tenho 14 semanas. O que significa que se eu escrever 10k palavras for semana, ainda dá pra escrever um pouco mais. Tantos sonhos, tantos planos que eu faço pra depois levar tapa na cara dessa nigrinha chamada Vida.

Acho que agora que já vomitei algumas coisas que estavam me causando indigestão cerebral, vou tomar banho e escrever um pouco. Quem sabe não cuspo umas mil palavras hoje ainda (sendo que hoje já é amanhã).

Fleeting Images from the Highway

A double sonnet dedicated to my valentine @joaofred, inspired by roads past and roads yet to be driven. It was really challenging to work the (imperfect) iambic pentameter, but I think I managed.

Fleeting Images from the Highway

I saw the now become the past. Look right,
look left, and you can see it too: dry land
sprinkled with rocks, an eagle taking flight,
dead snake dangling from its beak. Unmanned

gas stations, “closed” signs everywhere, adorn
the landscape. They’re a blur my brain tries to
compute, but memory, the treacherous whore,
is fleeting. Little lasts from it all. I knew,

when I left home, that I’d be left with few:
snapshots in instagram, a short blog post
I wrote in Tennessee, American Gods still
forgotten in the back seat, full of notes

— our plans and declarations of undying
love — I miss you, but I keep on driving.

*

I saw our plans become the present: Now!
Look left and you’ll see the house on the rock.
Just twelve miles ago we got in that stupid bout,
you want’d to see Niagara Falls, New York

but I wouldn’t let you. It isn’t in the book.
Landscapes of steel and woods became abstract
blurs, passing us by: running deer, dried brooks
and Neil’s soothin’ voice. I felt like Lisa Nowak,

mad, running after the ghost of a lover (minus
the adult diapers), but you were right there
mumbling about the prophecies of Nostradamus
on the death seat while we listen’d to Neverwhere.

I will hold tight to the good bits, the me-
mory of our road trip, when love began.

coisas pequenas e frágeis

Hoje eu estava pensando sobre muitas coisas. Coisas pequenas e frágeis que cabem na mão e se partem quando apertadas, e coisas grande que podem mudar minha vida. E talvez a de outras pessoas, se elas se deixassem mudar.

Como o trabalho de pintar uma casca de ovo vazia com cera derretida, usando um pedaço de arame (um clip de papel desdobrado?). Vale a pena pintar uma casca de ovo? Tem gente que olha para o mesmo ovo (um ovo de verdade, cujo interior foi esvaziado por um buraco mínimo, de uns um ou dois milímetros de diametro) e não vê nada de valor, não vê nenhuma arte. Joga-o no fundo de uma gaveta junto com papéis abandonados, coisas que já não são mais usadas, e o deixa lá, ignorando sua fragilidade, sua beleza, sua arte.

Uma casca de ovo, que coisa pequena, que coisa mais fútil e sem valor. Mas um quadro de Rembrant também é só um pedaço de pano esticado por cima de uma armação de madeira barata. Quem me ensinou a olhar para um quadro e ver beleza nele? Quem me ensinou a olhar para um ovo pintado e admirar a mão precisa daquele que o pintou? Acho que há coisas que não se ensina.

Uma parte do meu cerebro me diz pra olhar para arte e aprecia-la. Apreciar que tem alguém, que eu não conheço, que fez algo com o qual eu me identifico de alguma forma, que fez algo que me faz sentir sentimentos tão fortes que é como se minha vida houvesse sido abalada de alguma forma. Que me faz rir ou me faz chorar, que me faz seguir cada traçado por horas, obsecada.

some poetry I love

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
-Mary E. Frye


To the Virgins
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,
The higher he’s a-getting
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times, still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time;
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.
-Robert Herrick




One Art
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
-Elizabeth Bishop