Thursday, 8 December 2011


It was one of those timeless farms. Timeless, not because it will last forever, but simply because no one actually really knew how old it was.

It was one of those centennial Lego houses. A quarry being dug out as slowly and steadily as the drop of water that carves the hole in its stone, oblivious and anonymous, depending more on the youth and strenght of those who carry it, than of the faces and voices of those who grunt cursing its effort.

One generation had chosen the spot, another had turned the hut into a cellar, the other had started storing wine in it, yet another selling some of it out. If none had fallen into the temptation of drinking too much of it, it was probably because all of them had always had, in some way or the other, books or music to drive them crazy enough.

I try to remember a child I used to know quite well, and who had been transplanted away from those chalk clad walls, like a lugubrious monument to the school his great grandfather had built for the village, and to those inhabitants his grandmother and all her seven sisters had taught. Like a school blackboard that had been countlessly written upon, like the prayer of the multiplication table, until it turned white, unerased and yet unkept.

Like all the children, this one was a messenger of the truth. Someone to whom adults unwillingly confide their unguarded self, someone who listens beyond their understanding, and that, at some point of indecision, confronts the plot of our expectations with the treason of our methods. Someone once said children are cruel. No, it is the truth that is cruel. And if destroying the illusion of a child is something traumatic, destroying that complexity of the illusion of an adult is something that will reveal, not the harshness of cruelty, but the unfairness and blindness of revenge.

There were three brothers. The eldest one gave the child his first guitar and beat him up on the instigation of his wife. The second one stuck some chewing gum on the child's hair and said we are all like dogs, we are all here trying to pee to mark down our territory and broke the guitar. The third one said we differ from the dogs, because if they have food, shelter and sex, they are happy, and threw all his toys into the rubbish bin.

The child grew up and told me he liked clay. To him it was a mixture of blood and earth, and that was the reason some silly book accounted us all as having been created out of it. I saw him a few years later in my travels, and he had spat on his Alma Matter and was begging on the streets. He had abandoned everything. Maybe embraced everything, who knows.

One thing is certain, at least I think so. He had embraced his destiny and the entirety of its mystery. Being almost, if not the same age as he is, and when I had no longer been prone to be surprised to see what life does to people and what surreal outcomes do to vanquish your innocence, I recently got some words from him.

If I remember them correctly, they told me he had now had a child of his own, and he advised me not to fall into the temptation of the adults, which is to immolate the comradery of childhood to the selfishness of turning to the upcoming children to resolve why you have forfeited your dreams. Actually, I think he said, you should be very careful when dealing with children. Raising them is not bringing them up into your world, rather entering theirs and simplifying it for them to move freely. Making it come true.

The only hindrance I have found in my tortuous way was the punishment for wanting to learn what I was bound to become and to the fact that are no words, no palpable categories to describe it. If you ever happen to have a child, let it loose, let it grow, let it be.

If we all do it like this, we will be surprised to find ourselves in whatever sad and ridiculously inevitable predicament as falling sick and fearing withering, surrounded with younger people who actually care and understand our dreaming away.

I wonder where he is now. I just hope he has found the happiness of a child.

Saturday, 3 December 2011


I thought I was climbing when I saw you from afar. I was carrying all my years and the back of my wrists were sore from so much tripping. But if what I imagine to be the top was my goal, and if the path was so steep as I made myself to believe it was, how come you were not rolling down? Well, maybe I was just walking straight. Maybe I was so out of myself I was actually crouncing onto the ground in fear of tripping.

It is all a question of horizons. When Sacadura Cabral invented the Aviation Sextant he knew, he knew that if you are flying, you never realize where the ground is. Was I flying, then? Or was I wanting to become a dog or a monkey, a tree with no branches, a mushroom? Was I an hallucinating wolf, galloping my way towards you?

I will not sit on you either. Not because I am worried about soiling my trousers with the breathing miracle of your green moss. That would be like caressing the roots of a lover’s hair with the lullaby of truth. Maybe too comfortable, maybe too willing to halour. No, what if I would pretend to be climbing, and simply grab you and take you to the top, to the other side of the horizon, just to make a temple the fact that I would have to come down, and you would always be out there on the top?

Then again, what happens when you leave a precious stone lying about on the top of a mountain?

Thursday, 1 December 2011


The Sea is primordial. They say we actually came from the Sea. That the Constitution of our Blood resembles that of the Sea in an extraordinary Manner.

But maybe that doesn’t amount to anything: when was the last time you actually thought on how much you resemble other Human Beings? Or maybe it does, because you probably feel embarrassed with a Truth so close, and need to get something far-fetched to help you forget that you have scratched your Face after having touched the same Doorknob as hundreds of others, even though you try to ignore the Fact that you are letting your Dog lick that same Face after having had its Snout all over First Class Excrement.

That is precisely what the Sea is: changing Limits. Changing your Limits. The Sea is Water. Water is everywhere. Inside you. In the Air that comes in and out of you. In your Shit, your Urine. In your Infection. In your avid Word. In your Sadness and in your Laughter. In your Glass of Wine. In the Ecstasy of both your Orgasms. In the Placenta of your Future. Water. The Sea.

And they tell us we came from the Sea. Had you yourself never in your Life felt that? Have you seen the look of a Person looking at the Sea for the first Time? The Roar that sprays the Salt of Life leaving marks of White in your Skin? Have you ever licked yourself like a happy vagabond Dog after that? Or have you been on a Mountain? I mean, really on a Mountain, on top of it? Under a Stone there are Tears from the Earth that are so Pure they have the most exquisite Salts you can ever find for the benefit of your Health. And all those Tears gather. You see a Crevice, you take a Leaf, and the Drops become a delicate Creek. You reconcile your Hands, hermetically, and the Creek becomes a Pond for you to drink. And, little by little, Action by Action, the Water that has climbed the Mountain becomes the Sea, the embrace of the Earth, the biggest Reflection of the Sky you will ever have the Possibility of contemplating.

Have you ever gone Sailing? Because, if you have, and if you are wise enough to keep your Sails silent, you will ear what is it that you are All about. If you see a Tree, all the Ramification you will find above the Earth will be the same in Number as the one you will find below.

A sailing Boat can have a 7 metre Mast being hold on to by half a metre Centreboard. And this, just because the Water is so subtle and so strong. It is Archimedes in the Bathtub, some Baby Jesus being bathed by his Mother for the first Time, the real Baptism.

Salts and Crystals. They call upon you.

No matter how many Dams you build to try to stop this Miracle from happening, the Sea and its Mermaids are singing for you. The Mountain is crying for you. The Boat is frozen until the Spring.

The Physiological Serum. The Goddesses of Nouméa. An Art of your own brought to you with the fizzling Foam across the Sands of Time. The Uniting. The Golden Earring blessing the Obstacle of the Day. And you. A barefoot Child beholding the Power, and trying to explain it.