O coxo

Chamava-se Sérgio e era coxo. Por ter perna acima perna abaixo ou por puro desmazelo, nunca o soube, dava passadas tropeças e amiúde lá caia uma das asas da sua mochila roxa-desbotada. A horizontalidade dos seus ombros estava para a verticalidade do seu corpo como uma balança de dois pratos está para uma balança com apenas um.
Mas este filhinho de Quasimodo tinha qualquer coisa de interessante. Os meus 8 anos de idade não o conseguiam racionalizar, mas estava apaixonada. E para validar este meu 'élan', a minha amiguinha de carteira também sentia o mesmo. E o tal do Sérgio, como boa criança todavia limpa de preconceitos e regras sociais, estava apaixonado pelas duas e não se coibia de o demonstrar, mandado-nos cartas forradas de corações e de algumas das poucas palavras que já sabia escrever.
É bom lembrar que as palavras que sabia eram realmente as únicas que importavam: "Eu gostu de vossês".

Não estava correcto, afinal de contas, mas o som era o mesmo. E soava para as duas como um coro dos mais puros anjos.
Além de coxo, não sabia escrever, o tonto, mas, ao que parece, quanto mais tonto era, mais bonito se tornava.

Um dia o Sérgio, o coxo, convidou-nos para o seu aniversário. Quando chegámos à sua casa, entre mãos dadas e risos nervosos, a pequena sala jorrava gente: pais, avós, primos e tios, vizinhos e amigos. Mas nada de crianças. Apenas nós, as miúdas, que éramos o seu presente mais precioso, pois os outros apenas teriam vindo numa de lambarice pelos comes-e-bebes:
- Porque o puto faz anos, mas nem sei bem quantos. Oh Sérgio, diz aqui ao tio, fazes quê? 10?
- Não, faço 8... -  dizia envergonhado.

Os primos mais velhos quiseram por-nos a ver o Jurassic Park. Era idealmente medonho para nos aterrorizar. Enfiadas num só sofá, porque naquela altura ainda cabíamos assim juntas num espaço minúsculo, arregalávamos os olhos para logo os fechar, cheias de medo. E o Sérgio, olhava para nós, provavelmente pensando que não estaria esta a ser a melhor festa de aniversário que nos queria oferecer. É que o encanto do coxo era, afinal, esse mesmo: a ternura. E num tom miúdo e inseguro lá lhes disse para tirarem o filme.

- Ah, 'tou a ver que gostas mesmo das miúdas - disse um.
- Mas oh Sérgio, ter duas namoradas não 'tá certo, tu tens de escolher uma - disse o outro.
O bom do rapaz deixou cair os olhos no chão, e entrelaçava os dedos uns nos outros enquanto pensava numa resposta.
- Eu gosto das duas - disse então.
- Oh puto, não, tens de escolher uma! - insistiu.
- Está bem - disse por fim - Escolho a ela - apontando para a minha amiga.

E nesse momento deixei eu cair o meu coração no chão, desfeito em múltiplas gotas. Foi nesse momento que tive o meu coração partido, pela primeira vez. Teria o garoto feita uma escolha lógica por, afinal, haver uma preferência, ou apenas por se sentir pressionado pelos machos-alfa em seu redor, aquele dedinho apontado, ainda que não na minha direcção, tinha-me atingido como um torpedo.
E estava feita a formatação de dados: Gostar? Só de uma.

A Rua

O condutor percorria, ligeiro, em cuidados com as lombas e senteças sinalizadas, a rua que eu sempre conhecera, sem mais novidades ou somas, igual ao que sempre fora.

- A minha casa é lá bem à frente ainda.
- De acordo, menina - palitou o taxista.

Uma viagem pelo corredor da minha infância e adolescência, calhau a calhau, arbusto por arbusto, e os metros se foram fazendo quilometros, e os minutos estanques.
Lá fora, no escuro dos candeeiros amarelos, eu me imaginava outra vez andando, com os grilos grilando e os prédios num ressono profundo, e pensei "Eu nunca realmente d'aqui saí".
De volta à mesma rua e ao encontro do que dali nunca saíra, mas que há muitos anos tão pouco presente realmente esteve, vi-me num círculo, cuja ponta é o ínicio da outra. E pela primeira vez, em muito tempo, a sensação de voltar a casa e ao ciclo redondo, me despertou enorme consolação. "Estes calhaus são meus, aqueles arbustos além também, todos os outros, de outras paragens, nunca o foram. A estes eu volto, o trilho dos outros já nem conheço, não deu tempo memorizá-los no coração."

A rapariga chamava-se Alma. Tinham-lhe dado esse nome num a ver se ela alguma alma lhes trazia, à vida que já pouco surpeendia. A mãe, Maria Queixume, julgou ver esse brilho, durante os minutos que frouxamente a segurou, no meio das mantas, que apesar de velhas, o sangue não poupou.
Alma tinha, de facto, uma alma. Mas daquelas que vagueiam de um lado para lado nenhum. Silenciosa e taciturna, a miuda cresceu, mas nunca engrandeceu. E o pai de vinho se emborcou, pois a alma que ele queria que Alma fosse, não era mais que a sua que se perdera e nunca mais se avistou.  
Alheia ao peso da sua alma, que pesaria, afinal, coisa nenhuma, ela seguia o seu caminho de ninguém, com os pés presos no chão e nunca mais além.
Um dia a mãe Maria Queixume lhe disse:
-Mas tu não fazes nada? Trouxemos-te ao mundo para nos surpreender e olha o que o teu pai acabou por fazer!". Alma encolheu os ombros e disse:
- Olha o céu, mãe. Aquelas estrelas brilham tanto, e estão sempre no mesmo lugar".

Quem espera sempre alcança, já dizia o ditado. Mas eu o desdigo, sem troça. Quem espera desespera, diria então o outro. E esse já cabe em mim com todo seu sentido. Na espera do esperado, desespera-se porque já sabemos o final que irá ser contado. Mas na teimosia do esperar, porque sabendo que se chegasse já deveria ter chegado, vamos reconhecendo que, afinal, o que se teima é não querer desteimar. No desteimar, perde-se a ilusão daquilo que poderia ser, mas nunca será. Nunca será, mas poderia ser.
Há este doce afago que aquece as ilusões, personificando-as no desejado. Pois são elas, afinal, que esperam por nós, todos os dias e todas as noites. Enrolam-se aninhadas no pescoço, amarram-nos os braços e tapam-nos os olhos, e deixamo-las estar, assim enganadas, enquanto pensam que quem nos engana são elas.
Há um rio que atravessa a casa. E as memórias vão nadando contrariando a corrente. Não querem ser levadas e buscam sustento. Estão todas desgrenhadas, já não lhes resta vaidade, apenas arrependimento. De não terem sido salvas a tempo.

Snooze

Is there something better than a snooze?
I "snoozed", you "snoozed", he "snoozed"... even the verb itself sounds good even being completly wrong. I love wrong things.
It's good we all "snooze" for a while. You see how grandious everything tiny can be, you see how tiny everything grandious is, too. And the medium keeps being medium. It doesn't exist. It keeps being absent.
The wonderful meeting with a snooze: waking up and not even remembering your name. And when you eventually remember it, spelling it as the most surprisingly thing you have ever discovered in your entire life about yourself.
My name is Ana. A-n-a... That's really strange. I have never though that me, myself, was actually represented by a sound. I knew I was, I just never though about that. So... maybe I didn't really know.
How many people really think about the sound that represents themselfs? We all have a label. And the majority of our label's don't really mean anything, but they have a energy. How maybe not really a energy, that is getting to much "ying yang" here... But it is something quite funny, it is something immutable. Never changes. I was born and I was giving this name and I will die having this name. Even if I decided to change it to "Debora Cristal", I guess there will be dozens of people who will never forget my original name. I will be always Ana. Liking it or not.
After a snooze. After a snooze I got emotional about my name. Not because it's beautiful. Just because it is a freaking sound my parents put on me and it will never change. I found it interesting. And such a short sound. It really sounds...quick. Simple. And easy.
Now I understand why everyone calls me Luelmo instead.

professionalism vs feeling

That's it.
We can not be good professionals if we feel. Well... the majority of times.
A friend of mine told me how disappointed he was about a friend of him, who he recomended to a "big guy" of a "big company" and to whom this friend sent an horrible curriculum like if he didn't care. And my friend asked me "Why did he waste his time like that?".
I said.. "Man.. I don't know. Maybe because he was not so into it,... why to go against it?"

I am working too many hours a day, I guess. And I guess I am working well while I am working, but in the end of the day I just want to "put them on the bitches", sorry my french/portuguese! And if I had to send a curriculum to these guys again I would say "I am wondeful, but don't try to get more than what I have to give. My wonderfullness has an end".
He gave right away what he had to give. And he was not accepted. Correct... Fail!
Because, yes.. we all end up giving more than we have to give, and that is not so good after all. This guy knew it already. As I knew it already, also. But I needed this job, anyway. Lucky him, he didn't need it so much.

Now I am just thinking how amazing would it be to wake up and to do exactly what I want to do. Without anyone saying
- Listen, your curriculum looks a bit.. vague.
To what I would like to answer:
- Listen, your belly got very big in the lats years, didn't it?

Dreams

Dreams...
Who can explain a dream?
I am not talking about desires, those things we want to have or to do in our little lifes nor the things we plan. I am talking about dreams, those strange messages, images, words, feelings, sensations that come into our sleep.
I guess it is one of the most explored subjects ever but until now it remains being one of the most secret secrets of our mind.

I often dream with water. Big waves. Really big waves, Tsunamis. And in these dreams the big wave is approaching and sometimes I feel fear, sometimes I don't. What I know it's that anything bad happens. The wave catchs me but I float, reaching the top of the wave that vanishes after a while or I just wake up. Or sometimes I am inside a building and the water hits the window, but I am safe inside. Nothing bad happens, I never drown. It's just water in a great proportion.
Mister Freud would say its is my desire of being amazed with great proportions of male attention (to not say other thing..) or I am in my fertil period or something like that. But I think it must be something else. Which I really don't know.

Then there are these more common dreams, where I am running away from something. It can be men with guns willing to kill me, or monkeys throwing stones. I can be in a typical favela from Rio or in a garage hiding between cars. They always know where I am hiding, its frustrating and scary, not matter how far I go, they always find me. But of couse, then I wake up. I never die, they never touch me.
About this last one I could say it's the normal fear of being persecuted and killed. But in my normal real life I am not affraid of that. I don't feel threatened by anyone. And still, why am I running away from monkeys or running down a hill in Rio? Too much movies, I guess.

But the most interesting one is the one I am going to talk about now:
I dreamed that I was giving birth. Okay, dont say anything yet, Mister Freud, because it is a bit more strange than the simple desire of having babies or, again, being amazed with great proportions of male attention.
The interesting/scary thing was that I was expecting to have pain and I dind't have. And why not? Because I was expecting to give birth to a normal baby but he came out in a second and so I thought: "Hum, he must be really tiny". And the baby was, actually, really tiny, but with a face of a grown up child. The nurse, or whatever she was, presented me to my new born baby and despite his unnormal look I was streching my arms to hug him. But this crazy baby, tiny as an hamster and with a face of a five years old child gave me a reproachful gaze with his big eyes opened. And I thought: "Okay, boy, with that attitude he should go straigh to the nursery without having to please me". And so he went.
I've never seen the boy again. I know I was very worried about his condition because he was so tiny but at the same time he was represeting a problem I didn't really want to deal with. So I left him there, at the nursery, dealing with his own issues without visits. ("yeah, boy, who do you think you are?").
But the sweetest thing was... I gave him a name. His name was Henry. WHAT? HENRY? Yes, Henry, exactly like that.. an english name. Henry. And I was worried about him but I was much more worried about his father whom I was still waiting to share the 'problem' with me. He was a problem, basicly. And the father, also, who never came.
And then I remember having a friend exactly in the same situation. And I remember asking her to go and see my boy while she was going to see hers. But after asking this, I asked her "But were you pregnant, too?! WHY? How? I didn't notice it!". And there was my friend with a big belly (already after giving birth and still with a big belly, don't know why..) saying something like: Yes, I actually saw Henry the other day, he was alive!". And I felt relieved.
Okay, I woke up... And I felt even more relieved because that was just a dream. But it was a dream that I am going to remember for the rest of my life. Probably it would undergo several changes though, because we never really know what we were dreaming about and we creat and recreat everything until the point we lose its basic essence. So, to avoid that, I am recording this here.
Henry, the baby. My problem. The problem I am still trying to solve in my mind. Who are you, bastard?