"Pombo"!

O Benjamin usa a mesma palavra para “peixe” e “pássaro”.
Não conseguia perceber a lógica, até que olhei melhor para as imagens no livro:
- Ambos voam! Haha!

Inchaço de coração

Comprei para o Benjamin este Natal uns livros da Sophia de Mello Breyner. Aquela edição quadrada e apetitosa que sempre quis comprar para mim… (agora tenho a desculpa perfeita).
Acabei de ler "A Menina do Mar" em, voz alta.
E o Benjamin adormeceu a meio das aventuras do Rapaz da Casa Branca.
Olho para o meu filho a dormir e sinto vir a onda: um amor e uma agonia que é quase pavor, uma certeza de morte. Desde que ele nasceu que vivo com este inchaço de coração: sempre que o protagonista de uma história é um rapazinho ou canto qualquer coisa com "o meu menino" na letra, sinto isto, que é um misto de alegria e medo, uma coisa estranha. Uma visão do abismo e o voo sobre o abismo.
Deve ser o "sentimento de mãe", nada de racional o explica. É mais ou menos o equivalente ao "sentimento de febre" que eu tinha quando era pequena. Não mostra no termómetro mas está lá.

Qualquer coisa mudou definitivamente nestes sete meses. As portas do meu coração já não fecham bem, empenaram, há sempre uma corrente de ar. E o vento deixa sair o calor, sinto-me constantemente desconjuntada.
Acordada.
Feliz, acho.

Private Cities IV (after Italo Calvino)

Seattle is a group of islands connected by dozens of metallic bridges. Around these islands the water is transparent, salty and sweet. Sea lions play on the rocks. They stink.
In the horizon one can see snowy mountains. Some streets are so steep, people have to climb them. There automatic cars can show what they're worth.
Wooden houses are built on top of the hills, perched over the canyons. In between the houses, gardens grow semi-wildly, rooting the houses in place. There are thousands of flowers. Bikers pass by, always smiling.
Babies swim with their mothers on Sundays, just after the Baptists have sung their Gospels.
People walk in flip-flops. They are very kind. Specially at the supermarkets. There food is sprayed constantly, so it shines.
There are coffee shops at every corner. One can drink coffee at anytime. Actually, everybody is drinking something all the time.
Big fishes shine on windows. Bears cross the street when you're not looking. And whales migrate constantly.

Back in Amsterdam

I've been arriving for the last two weeks. Everyday a bit closer to reality. Though reality is a weird concept.
No, I'm not depressed. I'm floating. To be honest, I wonder if I can ever be depressed againg. Since I did Essence, a year ago, I feel this permanent layer of soberness between me and my depression, like a cushion, like an air-bag, I can't get through it. Though sometimes it would be great to just let myself go.

I must write again.
And think.

It was a great summer. A weird, full-on summer. I had no holliday. But again, I didn't really need one.
Just check it out: citemor.blogspot.com

I'm just sorry warm weather is over before I could stop missing it.

Lisbon this week

Private Cities III (after Italo Calvino)

Erlangen is a street with bavarian shops. They sell good shoes and good clothes that are too expensive to buy but nice to look at. The restaurants are Turkish, and Turkish-pretending-to-be-Italian.
On top of the street there is a square named after a brave man. What this brave man has to with Erlangen and its inhabitants is a mistery...
The sky is always blue, the river runs transparent and the air is fresh. So fresh one could eat it with a spoon, like ice-cream.
On the theatre good looking young man and women work frantically. They always have a smile and speak many languages. In Erlangen one might find oneself speaking up to five different languages in one day: English, German, Spanish, Portuguese, French... It's a sort of Babel land, but a happy one.
One spends days in dark rooms playing with figurines. In the night, performances happen. The public laughs and cheers generously. Everybody smokes. Blond women feed their babies. They wish they'd have dark hair on their arms...
Salad and beer fill up the tables. There is no meat, just shy saussages on the breakfast table.

The beds in Erlangen are crispy white but the body lotions don't work.
Train tracks run inside the bedrooms.

Private Cities II (after Italo Calvino)

One enters in the city of Budapest through old gates. The wide avenues invite you to long walks that will undoubtly lead you to the Danube. There you can stop and look at great Baroque buildings perched into the water. Fifteen golden and green bridges connect Buda to Pest, each one more impressive than the other. They are all dedicated to Sissy of Austria, her children and grandchildren. Buda is hilly and green, with mountains and luxurious valleys, Pest flat and yellow, with big parks, big houses, and fast traffic. Yellow trams swiftly travel the city, leaving no trace of their silent passage. In opposition, cars and buses make noise day and night.
Parks filled with statues remember the traveller of the past glories of this nation. Bronze horses are depicted with Viking-like ornaments and stone warriors look fierce and brave.
A thousand hot water springs fill the city's air of vapour. They can emerge at any given place, at any given time. Some are tamed, so grandiose bath houses were built around them. But others are wild, and spring from unexpected places. Immediately passers by take their clothes off and plunge into the warm bath, assuming a known expression of peaceful bliss in their faces.
The people are proud, walking straight in their old styled clothes. Most women have bright red hair: this fashion suits some better than others... Their language is melodic, but completely ununderstandable. The signs in the street make you think you never before learned how to read. Nevertheless, Budapestians are great mime players, and one can communicate for hours with them, through gestures and face expressions. Beware and do not pronounce the words: Mongol, Turk, Habsburg or Communist as they are considered severe insults.