Dragons and hollow fantasies

Another dragon is going home and all we can do is say goodbye.

(Photography: Camperdouin – Netherlands, March 2001)

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At 1/250 of a second

Here here, come on! Don’t be like that please. Try to close your eyes and relax, there’s nothing wrong! Sure I can tell you all about it, although it’s not of such great importance, but will you believe me? Will you? Okay then. Do you remember me telling you about what I felt concerning my passion for photography? Do you really? Well, now I come to think about that, about all the pictures I took, I realise time is really passing and how impotent we really are about it. It’s not something I didn’t knew, but through my photographs I can touch time as it runs by me, and it hurts my hands and makes my fingers bleed! And you know how I need my fingers!

Through my pictures I try and try to capture time, to make it still, to preserve as many fractions of it as I can, just to store it in little boxes with numbers to consume in a nearby future, but it’s always kind of a lost battle. Every picture is a lie, as you know. Nothing of what you see in them exists anymore. That precise moment is gone forever. Do you follow what I’m saying? Just look at this picture here: do you see this man? He’s dead, and still here you have it forever. Excuse me just for a second…

So I went on thinking a little more about that and I realised that each good photo I took holds approximately 1/250 of a second of my own history, some even less, when it’s too bright and the shutter speeds are extremely fast. And what did I thought of next? I came to think that this way maybe in twenty or thirty years time I will be able to actually show images of about one or two seconds of my life – of things I saw, of places I’ve been, of emotions I felt and people I loved. In photographic terms that’s quite an accomplishment, around one or two thousand really good photographs! But lets face it, two thousand good pictures? I don’t think that's realistic at all! But even if it was what would that say about the life I chose and what I chose to do with it? Can you help me here?

That’s the reason of it! Let’s face it; it’s just life. And while we’re at it let me tell you about this dream I had last night: I was walking down a wide avenue at night, with cats all over garbage cans with bright eyes staring at me each moment, and oranges glowing in trees as if they all had inner lights! Those trees were all covered with little orange light bulbs and it felt like Christmas in that wide empty avenue. It was very warm and yet it snowed, and there were no cars, no people, nothing moving except me and those cats in the garbage. I was in a blue pyjama, bare footed, feeling an absence of you from my tiny fragile world.

Can you gather now in a single frame all that I’ve told you? Does it make any sense now? That’s why I’ve come with this diary of my days, this map of my life, that I now hand you! It’s not for you never to get lost, but for me not to be lost forever.

(Photography: composition of images, accepted for the Yahoo Time Capsule / Text: Coimbra – Portugal, October 10th 2006)

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A menina da casa de sal

Era uma vez, há muito tempo atrás, uma menina que vivia numa praia distante e deserta, numa casa feita inteiramente de sal. Ela não tinha pai nem tinha mãe, nem sequer sabia muito bem como tinha ido ali parar ou quem era, mas era muito feliz e... muito bonita! Pelo menos todos os seus amigos assim achavam, e ficavam maravilhados com os seus profundos e grandes olhos azuis e os seus longos, ondulantes, cabelos verdes.

Por vezes, de noite, a menina dava maravilhosas festas na sua casa de sal, para as quais convidava todos os seus amigos, como os caranguejos, os golfinhos, as gaivotas, os búzios, e muitos muitos outros animais que vivem do mar. E então, bem, então a casa de sal, com as suas delicadas e translúcidas paredes de sal fino, tingia-se do vermelho das fogueiras que ardiam no seu interior. E de repente, por uma porta, entrava a menina com o seu longo vestido branco, da cor do vento. E todos ficavam maravilhados vendo-a entrar no salão onde o baile sempre se realizava, ao som da música dos búzios, com os seus cabelos verdes flutuantes e os seus mágicos olhos azuis, reflectindo no vestido as labaredas das fogueiras. E quando sorria... não só começava o baile mas todo o mundo se reinventava e renascia. Mesmo as constelações se recompunham no espaço, só para espreitar...

E eram muito animadas essas festas, e todos se sentiam muito felizes, dançando e olhando as estrelas, pois não havia tecto naquela casa, e sentindo a brisa nocturna que fazia tremeluzir fogueiras e velas, pois não haviam janelas ou portas naquele lugar. Dançavam e dançavam, sorriam, rodopiavam quase até ao nascer do dia, altura em que todos tinham de partir, com receio que os seres humanos os vissem por ali, mas só até que se realizasse uma outra festa.
Porém, certa tarde, levantou-se um temporal muito forte! Nunca antes se tinha visto uma coisa assim. Os ventos uivaram com fúria, choveu torrencialmente, tanto que o mar ficou mais vasto, e as ondas ergueram-se de forma assustadora! O mundo ficou então suspenso em silêncio. As gaivotas recolheram aos seus abrigos, os animais marinhos esconderam-se bem no fundo do oceano, e todos estavam muito preocupados com o que poderia estar a acontecer em terra à menina! Ao cair da noite, porém, a tempestade abrandou, e os seus amigos puderam então ir à praia ver se tinha sucedido alguma coisa. Todas as gaivotas do mundo e todos os seres marinhos rumaram àquele local, com os corações apertados, e ao chegarem o que viram foi desolador! A praia estava cheia de destroços trazidos pelo mar, e da casa de sal quase nada restava. Todos a procuraram pelas imediações, mas tirando o vestido branco da menina, que encontraram no areal preso a um galho, nunca mais nenhum deles a voltou a ver ou a ter notícias dela. Quando começou a ameaçar amanhecer regressaram todos ao mar e repararam então que este, outrora transparente, se tinha tingido de azul! Mais ainda, notaram que se tinha tornado salgado e que no cimo das ondas havia agora espuma, e que as algas, antes castanhas, se tinham tornado verdes!

Desde esse dia nunca mais os animais marinhos regressaram a terra. Apenas as gaivotas ainda acreditam, talvez porque não tivessem entendido.


(Fotografia: Quiaios – Portugal, 26 de Agosto de 2006 / Texto: Quiaios, Coimbra – Portugal, 26 a 31 de Agosto de 2006)

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A violência do impacto

Pensando sobre o suicídio lembro-me de ter considerado que este deve ser um acto praticado por quem crê numa vida após a morte, por alguém que acredita ter o espírito uma existência distinta e autónoma em relação ao corpo, acreditando que apenas este último desaparece, permanecendo um espírito (um eu imaterial) e uma consciência de si, mas não me encontro mais tão seguro nessa posição, pelas razões que de seguida procurarei explicar.

Levando em conta o sofrimento limite que um ser humano deve ter de sentir de modo a não ver outra solução senão tirar a própria vida podemos também supor, pelo menos disso estou relativamente convencido, que o acto que decide praticar (ou que pratica, sem sobre ele reflectir demasiado, num momento de desespero) é também em si mesmo uma espécie de penalização que esse mesmo suicida verte sobre os que consigo privaram, numa esfera mais íntima, e que de algum modo não contribuíram para o atenuar desse mesmo sofrimento ou, mais grave, foram seus causadores ou potenciadores. Quero com isto dizer que considerava que o suicida vertia a culpa, ou parte dela, sobre os que lhe eram mais próximos, tais como os amigos, a família ou os colegas.

Deste modo, por um simples exercício de racionalidade e de imaginação, podemos supor por parte do suicida um desejo intimo e não expresso (ou mesmo expresso, em notas suicidas) de magoar, de transferir para outros parte ou a totalidade do peso da existência amargurada que leva em vida. A expressão desse desejo seria o próprio acto suicida. Ao suicida caberia, assim, suportar uma angústia momentânea, eventualmente sentida no momento do acto em si, mas aos que lhe sobreviveriam caberia, na mente desse mesmo suicida (crente na referida separação corpo/espírito e na continuidade deste último, que atrás referi), suportar um peso maior: uma angústia pela vida inteira, uma quota parte de responsabilidade sobre o sucedido, um sentimento de culpa por nada ter feito, por não se ter apercebido, uma ausência definitiva de alguém que fez parte da sua vida e porventura se amou, sempre ou em dado momento. Assim, numa mente amargurada, a consumação do acto ditava, ela mesma, uma imediata sentença sobre as pessoas das suas relações. Isso serviria para a transferência da angustia daquele que se despede da vida como que dizendo “Vêem ao que me vi obrigado, vivam agora com isso! Não sou culpado.”

Ora, a questão que me colocava com frequência era a seguinte: teriam tido aqueles que sobre o suicídio pensaram, ou que o praticaram na forma consumada ou tentada, a ilusão de que após a morte os seus eus imateriais, as suas consciências, por aqui ficariam para observar as consequências daquilo que os seus actos causaram sobre os seus familiares, amigos ou colegas? Desejariam eles que as suas consciências testemunhassem o desgosto, a dor, o sofrimento que os seus próprios desaparecimentos causariam na vida de outros como recompensa por não os terem conseguido salvar a tempo? Dando um exemplo concreto, terá um elemento de uma relação amorosa que decide suicidar-se, por ter sido traído ou ter deixado de ser correspondido, um desejo intimo e secreto de com o seu acto provocar dor e um sentimento de culpa perpétuo sobre o outro elemento? E acreditará ele que após a sua morte o seu espírito por aqui andará para testemunhar o sofrimento causado, regozijando-se em vingança e auto-comiseração? Não me parece de todo uma hipótese a colocar de parte, bem pelo contrário. O suicídio é um acto extremo que estou convencido comportar em si mesmo também um castigo para os que sobrevivem.

Então, a questão inicial que me coloquei, de considerar ser o suicídio um acto praticado fundamentalmente por aqueles que crêem numa vida após a morte, numa continuação de um eu após o acto suicida em si mesmo, está directamente ligada ao que acabei de referir. Veja-se novamente: se as consciências sobrevivessem à morte do corpo os suicidas teriam o prazer de observar os efeitos nefastos do seu acto sobre os outros. Essa seria a recompensa! Só desse modo teria o suicídio razão de ser. Ver o sofrimento causado a quem não nos salvou faria o auto-extermínio valer a pena!

Parece simples este raciocínio, não? Porém dou-me conta de como é redutor e enganador pensar desta forma. Dizia Nietzsche que a recompensa da morte é não ter de passar por ela de novo. Como levamos este factor em conta na equação do suicídio? E se pensarmos ser o acto suicida praticado também por quem tem consciência de que após a sua morte o que lhe resta é o nada? Faz sentido? É plausível? E se pensarmos poder ser o acto suicida praticado também por quem nem sequer se preocupa em considerar se poderá a sua consciência permanecer neste mundo ou não? Faz sentido? E se pensarmos ser o acto suicida praticado também por pessoas a quem não interessa minimamente buscar responsáveis e culpa-los? E se pensarmos ser o acto suicida praticado também por pessoas que simplesmente estão cansadas de viver? Será isto possível? Creio que sim. O caso daqueles que optam, onde essa opção é possível, pela eutanásia comprova isto mesmo. Optam por ela sem com isso pretenderam castigar alguém, simplesmente porque as condições em que a vida existe se degradaram a tal ponto que a tornam insuportável. E neste último caso, embora em outras condições que não a da eutanásia, penso ser algo bem mais assustador na medida em que o individuo se sente apenas cansado do mundo, sem quaisquer outras questões pessoais por resolver que o conduzam ao acto suicida, sem querer culpar, sem querer magoar.

Se no caso dos primeiros uma mente treinada e uma presença forte e sagaz pode ainda reverter o processo, dando ao potencial suicida razões para reconsiderar e abandonar a ideia do suicídio, abandonando igualmente a ideia de procurar a culpa nos outros, penalizando-os, no último caso, o de indivíduos cansados das próprias vidas, pouco se poderá fazer para que reconsiderem. Porque quando tudo o mais nos falta a vida é o último reduto do que de facto é nosso, e o universo mental de cada um é o único bastião que jamais se poderá tomar pela força.

Num como noutro caso o assunto é da maior seriedade pois tratam-se de seres humanos à beira da desistência, sendo este um tema sobre o qual penso e sobre o qual me sinto de certa forma satisfeito por, de tempos em tempos, ir pondo em causa aquilo que julgava ser de resposta relativamente simples. No entanto, é talvez chegada a hora de ir baixando a VIDA das alturas em a colocámos, devagarinho para as consciências mesquinhas não ganirem, para que quando chegar a inevitável hora da queda o percurso até tocar a terra seja mais rápido, menos veloz, menos doloroso, minimizando assim a violência do impacto. E tudo porque é urgente aprender a aceitar o fim.

Hoje, 27 de Setembro de 2006, morreu o meu avô materno, o homem que me criou pela vez do meu pai. Não terminou com a própria vida, morreu apenas de viver. Tocou finalmente a terra, e isso só dói a quem fica.

(Fotografia: Fernando Rosa, Salazar - Angola, 1974 / Texto: Coimbra, 26-27 de Setembro de 2006)

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Who am I?

I’m 32 years old and I am a soldier. I’ve always been in fights since I was a little kid, to the point of not knowing how to live differently. Whenever I have doubts or get confused, whenever my senses or emotions send given chemical signs to my brain I shoot. I never think things over. I was programmed to take cover quickly and shoot, and already did it to all kinds of people, young and old. It’s not a moral thing and it’s quite easy for I’ve always been in fights, amidst screams, pain and purposeless violence. I dress in forest green and I’m mean.

Every time I travel I do it alone, through fields and meadows, forests, mountains, deserts and sea, carrying all my weapons in me, and I do feel deadly and kind, and I do feel clean and dirty, pure, sinful, mighty and a child. And no one ever sees me coming, passing, going away. I exist in silence where my body is and breathe through some different body I once dreamt I had somewhere.

In my long journeys, sometimes, I enjoy blowing soap bubbles in the breeze and see them suspended in the air. I do it since I was a very little soldier. It’s a way to keep track of the way back home, and that’s why I’m never lost.

Some years ago, though, I thought I had started imagining things! I really thought I was losing it when I took hold of my weapons and started shooting randomly everywhere. The problem was that I started to see, reflected in my soap bubbles, the image of a woman behind me, staring at the back of my head, watching me closely, as if judging me. My blood froze but my body responded as programmed. I turned around quickly and shot, but there was nothing to shoot at! I don’t know why I was frightened, but I really was, and I’ve told you how I react under pressure or stress! On the other hand, she was so beautiful and peaceful!

This kept happening and every time it fascinated and scared me more, until one day, while crossing a dark forest, I saw something white amidst the leaves and bushes! Very slowly and silently I went closer and closer to look. And there she was lying, naked, on a fallen rotten tree – white body over dark green – the woman of my soap bubbles! I went even closer, scared, not breathing through my body but through some other one. She had her eyes closed and was very peaceful, as if sleeping, as if waiting, her chest making slow rhythmic movements up and down. I went to her side and realized she was the one who breathed for me! That made me really confused, and when confused I am programmed to shoot, so I went for my weapon and aimed at her head with a steady arm. Although confused I was about to pull the trigger, I was about to shoot her dead, but then she opened her eyes and slowly turned her head in my direction. Then I saw inside her eyelids. Only then I saw, as if I had always been blind, and what I saw was much too beautiful to put in words! I saw myself with the blue sky behind me! A blue sky with some sparse white clouds, like cotton. Everything inside those blue eyes was magnificent, bright and peaceful.

Then both my hands where attracted to the ground, and my weapons fell over the dry leaves and dust. I felt so tired. Suddenly I was on my knees beside her, facing the dirt, her left hand caressing my head and tears dripping from my chin. Was I a defeated soldier? I surrendered my weapons. Had my fight ended? Not being what I always had been left me facing the question of who I really was. Left me facing emptiness and lack of purpose. Then something strange came into my mind and I whispered, “I breathe in you!” She nodded as if agreeing, smiled, and gently pulled my head towards her. My face touched her skin – and it burned –, I laid it over her stomach and felt both my hands disappearing in her, melting with her white skin like ice cream dropped on the sand in an August afternoon, and must have fallen asleep because there’s nothing more I can remember.

When I woke up it was already dark and cold. The owls were watching me from nearby branches and I had marks on the skin of my right cheek from falling asleep over a tree. I was alone but had this strange ring in a finger and a scar in my chest I’ve never had noticed before. I was alone, freezing, and felt strange. Suddenly I became dizzy and must have passed out because I only remember being morning again and waking full of aches in my body and dead leaves clinging to my bloody self. Every part of me was hurting deeply, and I dragged myself over the ground into a nearby water stream to plunge my face in the cold water. The fresh water in the face and hair came as a shock, because I didn’t realized how bruised the face was and how bloody my hair had been. The stream became red, but it felt good. “What had happened to me?” I thought. Was it a fight?

Only then I opened my eyes to look around, to see this world again, and eventually I faced my image in the water to see the damage. That was when it all happened! That was when the whole world changed! That was when day became night and night became something like a uterus! I shouted out loud, got up jumping and cried like a little kid while running in circles bumping into trees and falling down. I collapsed into the ground and covered my face with my dirty hands. “Who am I?” I kept shouting while crawling. My eyes were now blue, and now I was the one who breathed! I was she; she was I, we where one or something close to it. My body had changed completely…

I stayed in the ground until next day once again, I think, trembling with fever. Amidst convulsions I remember strange thoughts taking over my mind, losing sense of direction and throwing up. I thought of soap bubbles suspended in the air. I remembered mum and dad young again, my dog Nadir, huge waves... I dreamt with women dressed completely in black, faces covered, walking slowly on a beach of very white sand at dusk. I experienced pain and pleasure at once, like morphine. Give it to me! At the same time I was hoping for it all to be just a dream I was feeling really good. It’s not easy to explain. I stayed like that in the ground for the night, trying to figure out my name, my meaning, until falling in a deep sleep.

Early in the morning I got up, brushed my hair using my hands as combs, stretched my new body to make the final adjustments of my soul to it, and picked up my weapons from the ground. I stared for a moment at the sky with my new blue bright eyes, feeling my new long blond hair in my neck and face and adjusting my guns to my hips.
I’m 32 and I am a soldier. I’ll dress in forest green and act mean.

(Photography: Murtinheira – Portugal, August 27th, 2006 / Text: Coimbra – Portugal, September 2nd, 2006)

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On Earth

To make a long story short, at the beginning there was a big explosion, so scientists say… And then, well, then the planet Earth was formed… More explosions, eruptions, lava, poisonous gases, clouds, rain, ponds, oceans, Life, evolution, destruction, survival of life forms, more evolution, millions and millions of years at the speed of light, first primates, evolution of primates, upright locomotion, use of basic tools, always evolution, some millions of years more and, at a given point, pre-human life in the Rift valley, Africa… Right after that some more millions of years of evolution, controlling fire, travelling and dissemination, the ability to dream, cave painting, more destruction, different pre-human species, fights and blood, survival of the strongest, specialization, birth of Man, migration, affections, cultural and social evolution, written language, conquest of land, fights and more fights and more fights… Art, culture, society, politics, religion, beliefs, differences, more fights, more conquests, more affections, development of great cities, architecture, establishment of huge empires, the birth of Christ, fall of those same empires, middle ages, conquest of more land and the rise of empires of a different nature, craziness, blood and tears, Renaissance, expansion of Europeans all over this world, slave trade, humanism, consolidation of cultures, birth of new countries, industrialization, some more affections, some more craziness, psychoanalysis as an healing, war as an healing, death and destruction, scientific advances, medical progress, better health care, longer life expectations, better education, poorer people everywhere, people travelling faster all the time around this planet, cultures in contact more frequently, the atom bomb, mass television and so and so and so, and at the end? Well, at the end l saw you, I met you, I talked with you, I got to know you, I went out with you, I dreamt of you, I touched your hand for the first time, I fell in love… And suddenly, after so many millions of years, so much more than I could possibly understand and tell, a first kiss! And then there was this silence, this peaceful seconds when time stopped for the first time! And then there was nothing more just because everything was already in it. And then I felt electricity through my body, felt like being experiencing an earthquake, the ground moving under my feet like a huge ray-fish. And then I started to believe that a higher intelligence can in fact exist, oxygen ceased to reach my brain for some seconds, I felt the lack of breath, felt dizzy, I understood beauty, had my own religious experience. And, at last, I understood the meaning of it all… to feel that sweet rosy taste of your lips in a summer night!

(Photography: Rome – Italy, March 2006 / Text: Coimbra – Portugal, August 3rd, 2006)

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Hilflos

Wußte nie genau, warum ich es tat! Möglicherweise tue ich es um meine gefühle innerhalb bestimmte grenzen zuhalten... Bitte stellen Sie mir nicht zu viele Fragen. Vor allem, stellen Sie mir bitte keine Fragen, die ich einfach nicht beantworten könnte.

(Fotographie: Frankfurt, Deutchland, März 2001)

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Save my soul

Some months ago I met an American girl that lives in Rome, with whom I developed a great friendship, and even went to visit her in the Eternal City. She was kind of my eyes in there, and ears too. With her, amongst many other things, I learned to pay attention to the sounds of the cities. She’s from New York and we talk about everything, just as if we’ve known each other since little kids. I hope we can grow old seeing each other frequently. There’s also a Spanish girl I met in the same occasion, from Madrid, with whom I maintain a nice relationship, although presently only trough mail – I’ve never seen her again, and maybe the time is coming to do just that or simply to let go. There’s also a young Belgian girl that works with me, with whom I hang out a lot. She’s quite nice, and although extremely young we get along very well. She’ll be leaving in early September, and the challenge is to make a relationship last after she’s gone. Last Saturday I’ve spoken with a tall Dutch girl, from Utrecht, and she seemed very nice. We talked mostly about Holland, but unfortunately only for twenty minutes or so. I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again, I think not – sometimes we loose, and that’s not even a shame, it’s just how things work. And today, well, today I’ve spoken for the first time with a German girl, from Dresden (the white dove), which caught my attention on the bus to work the first time I saw her – she’s an architect and beautiful as an alabaster statue! This one I can not let go – she has already made me dream a lot, with her smile, and I simply can’t throw that away!

The phonebook of my mobile phone has lots of numbers preceded by international dialling codes – as well as many others from my home country, of course – but I confess that sometimes, apparently for no reason at all, I enjoy sending messages I know will be read in distant locations in this world, in different time zones, in different weather conditions, in cities with different stories and maybe discussed after in different languages. Somewhere, for some reason or other, someone in this world remembered us at that specific moment! I don’t know if this planet is getting shorter or larger, and I really don’t care about that. I just have this idea that getting to know people from different parts of this world and, most difficult, build with them a strong and lasting relationship, will make my life worth living. I need that! I’m getting addicted to it.

Some years ago, I don’t even remember exactly when or where, I read this: “Some day someone, in a far away city, will say I am dead”. For some reason I kept this sentence in my thoughts always. Sometimes it came to the surface of my mind and just floated there for a while, and eventually it started to make some sense. To be loved and remembered by people from very different places, and missed as well, just as if I had lived all over this blue and brown and beautiful planet, will maybe be my personal statement about how I think life should be: lived without restraints and prejudice! That is, perhaps, the best thing I will ever leave here after I’m gone, and I do hope the ones who met me see it that way also! Maybe it’s not much of a statement, but the ones who met me and like me should maybe bear in mind that I need that to save my soul.

(Photography: Rome, Italy, March 2006 / Text: Coimbra, Portugal, July 3rd, 2006)

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Excess

Too many sleepless nights, too many nightmares and whiskey on deserted pubs / Too many stories told by fireplaces and sheets of paper filled with beautiful hollow thoughts / Too many advices I’ve never followed / Too many light and far too many darkness / Too many women pretending to like me / Sex made with too many people for whom I didn’t really give a fuck / Too many happiness for one person and also too many pain / Too many music taken on dance floors on huge amounts / Too many purposeless conversations / Too many time wasted on insignificant things, and many more wasted on more significant ones / Too many hours spent turning the living-room lights on and off for no reason / Too many drugs diluted in my blood stream / Too many kisses / Too many shaking hands with strangers / Too many shit / Too many diseases taking me to the hospital as a child / Too many pills / Too many travels through strange and far away lands / Too many languages spoken / Too many luggage lost in airports and books left on coffee tables / Too many signs sent to people around me / Too many emotion, too little motion / Too many years spent in college just to shatter completely the person that I was / Too many expectations / Too many wishes made with shooting stars crossing the night of my eyes / Too many of those wishes that never came true / Too many silences when I wasn't alone and too many confusion when I was / Too many pictures taken of places I’ll never return to / Too many parties I never was invited to, and many more I was requested to attain / Too many time trying to think or say something that really made some sense / Too many years trying not to be a clown but acting just like one / Too many precautions with my appearance / Too many Martinis / All this I had, and many more, and for too many time now I’m sure that I’ve always lived my life in the excess of everything / Which road should I follow from here? / Because I simply can’t stop now!

(Photography: London, England, November 2003 / Text: Coimbra, Portugal, June 14th, 2006)

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Neste mundo daqui

Quando o caos chegou à minha cidade eu fiquei. Todos fugiram, uns levando pertences e outros deixando-os absolutamente para trás. Entre gritos e tiros, paredes sendo derrubadas pela explosão de minas, ruas manchadas de um vermelho atroz porque de entranhas, eu fiquei. E não porque tinha inevitavelmente de ficar. Fiquei porque quis. Fiquei porque não fazia sentido que partisse, porque a parte alguma pertenceria jamais como àquele lugar. Fiquei porque estavam ali os meus sonhos e eu não os poderia nunca deixar sós.

Nessa amálgama de sangue e fome, mantive o meu corpo ileso à espera de que tudo passasse e de que pelo menos alguns dos que tinham partido regressassem para que eu os abraçasse de novo. E esperei. E todos os dias fazia exercícios com as mãos ao vento para as preparar para um novo abraço, para novas carícias que ainda não chegaram. Mas esperei, não fugi. Não fazia sentido, percebe-se? Fiz do medo esperança, fiz da fome força, fiz da escuridão a manta debaixo da qual me deitava e sonhava, sonhava… E por entre o brilho das estrelas desse meu cobertor de noite nunca esqueci o teu rosto! E quando as tropas pressionavam o uso das armas eu cobria-me e imaginava-me sempre contigo nas festas populares, dançando dançando dançando…

Se calhar deveria ter partido com todos os outros, com todos aqueles que me tentaram puxar dali para fora. Mas agora é tarde para tentar imaginar como poderia ter sido acaso tivesse sido diferente da forma como foi. Não faz sentido, entendem? Resolvi esperar e esperei sempre, mesmo quando a espera não comportava esperança. E fiz dela uma bandeira para a inevitabilidade de estar aqui, onde ainda estou, à tua espera.

(Fotografia: Nápoles, Itália, 23 de Fevereiro de 2006 / Texto: Coimbra, Portugal, 5 de Junho de 2006)

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Blue smell of the sea

Fireflies on warm summer nights, dancing over my grandparents garden, under the pale moonlight / Colourful crackers all over the small village, lighting the night sky for the festivities and being taken by the breeze / Candy cotton stuck to my small hands, tongue red from lollypops, all that music in the air / And the promise of a long and happy life…

Ice creams in winter, eaten under the heavy rain / Clothes soaking wet, dripping all over the house / Mum gently drying my hair / Dad washing my face, with his tobacco smelling hands / From the kitchen, that sweet smell of familiar harmony / Going to sleep already dreaming of a thousand white clouds in which to rest my body / Sensing a last kiss / Closing my eyes with that promise of a long and happy life…

Wearing red sweaters in Christmas, with open windows to let the sound of the church bells into the house / Books full of fairies and queens and horsemen chasing beautiful fantasies / The roar of the sea outside, saying goodnight to us all, and its blue blue smell / Seagulls at my window right in the morning, and presents just waiting to be opened / Within each one of them a promise of a long and happy life…

The full moon / The birth of a sister, a new presence in the house / A small puppy bought to do us company for a portion of our lives / Dragonflies in dry summer afternoons / The reflexion of my face in the pond, asking so many questions / The calling of grandmother for dinner / My knees bleeding from falling while climbing trees / Oranges eaten right under the burning sun / Dad coming from a trip bringing presents / Falling asleep in front of the TV / Feeling a little strange inside but yet, the promise of a long and happy life…

It's all gone now.

(Photography: Rome, Italy, March 2006 / Text: Coimbra, Portugal, June 2nd, 2006)

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What a way!

I am immortal,
I can not go away!
I can’t just leave,
I’m bound to stay.
Oh dear God!
I’m not allowed to get out or to get off.
I’ll get by, though,
Maybe one day He’ll let me go.
I am immortal
And no friends will last.
Their future will always be my past.
What a way to live,
What can I say?
I can’t just leave,
I’m bound to stay.
So if you’re sure you do not want me
You should not worry of what to say:
One day you’ll leave,
And I’ll just watch you go away.

(Photography: Capri, Italy, February 22nd, 2006/ Text: Coimbra, Portugal, May 10th, 2006)

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Geography of emotions

When asked about what she felt Simone answered that it wasn’t easy to explain! For many years she tried to deal with what was going on inside her, with her feelings about what she had seen. She didn’t knew how, and where, she had kept all that! Definitely, she didn’t know what to answer. Paul could tell all she wanted was to be left alone now; she didn’t really want to be having that conversation. Just by looking at her anyone could see she didn’t want to talk anymore. Her hands and legs were restless, willing to move out from that room and from that life. Her mind was already outside, and the body would soon follow.

Suddenly Paul went to the window, turned his back on her, and stared at the quiet marshes as he lighted a cigarette. It was very cold outside. He stood like that for quite a while, silent as the day itself, lost in his thoughts for a long moment. And when she made a movement to leave he asked her suddenly, without facing her:

- And if it happens again Simone? How will you deal with it?

She sat back again and stared at him, waiting for him to turn and face her. But he didn’t, his eyes kept looking at the marshes, and she felt an urge to hit him, to hit him hard for what he was doing, for all his questions, for making her remind. But instead she lowered her eyes to her waist, smiled grotesquely, and caressed her left wrist with her right hand. She thought: Behind all those windows something must be happening… She stared at the bottle of whiskey over a little table in a corner of the room, and with her right hand she took a small knife from the pocket of her bathrobe. Then she spoke, as she stood up:

- I need a drink, Paul! I really need a drink now!

(Photography: Purmerend, Holland, March 2001 / Text: Coimbra, Portugal, April 24th, 2006)

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Post scriptum

What do I know about tenderness? If happiness came today I think I wouldn’t know what to do with it.

(Photography: Rome, Italy, March 2nd 2006)

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Descobrir novos planetas

No âmago da minha viagem esteve também a ausência de ti – tínhamos finalmente atingido Plutão, lembras-te? Sim, este é para ti… E então encontrei-me com alguns amigos, tomei uns copos, fiz alguma conversa de circunstância quando, na realidade, já ali não estava mais, e lá entrei eu na noite, sozinho e tão cheio de mim, com bagagem atrás. Depois… autocarro, avião, comboio, táxi, e mais comboio uns dias depois, e finalmente um barco e de repente… um rochedo no meio do Mar Tirreno onde descansei vendo o barco que me trouxe afastar-se de novo e procurando na cerveja esquecer-me de tudo por algumas horas. E esqueci! Apenas uma semana se tinha passado e eu já nem recordava o facto de não ter estado em espírito à mesa dos amigos. Mas de ti não me esqueci, ali naquele lugar. Porque nunca me quis esquecer. Posso até dizer-te mais: que te recordei próximo das nove da noite de 22 de Fevereiro de 2006. Não interessa a razão de ser assim mas recordar os motivos para que assim acontecesse, e eles existiram ali, na bela ilha de Capri. Se em algum momento houve naquela viagem um propósito para o regresso – sendo que esse seria inevitável – esse propósito eras também tu! Conhecia-te antes de te conhecer, e sempre tive a mais absoluta certeza de que te iria tocar, de que te iria beijar. Mas como imprevisível que é, a vida depois pregou-me mais uma partida. E essa eu não previ, felizmente! Desejo agora que um dia novos planetas possam ser descobertos para que nós os dois possamos continuar a nossa viagem sem nos desviarmos da rota traçada.

(Fotografia: Capri, Itália, 22 de Fevereiro de 2006 / Texto: Coimbra, Portugal, 11 de Abril de 2006)

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Peekaboo

Que viagem é essa? Em que lugares de antes posso encontrar-te agora? Deixando-me na sala com um livro aberto sobre o colo, os olhos conhecedores nas páginas que já não lês. Lembro-te descalça pelo jardim com aquele teu vestido, branco longo, correndo, saltando, gritando frases soltas, rodopiando, suja de terra e de ervas. O nosso cão atrás de ti, louco de alegria, e eu olhando-vos, rebentando de risos, da varanda. Olho agora esse jardim sem flores, por detrás da janela orvalhada da sala onde lias o teu livro eterno. A catedral vizinha dá as cinco da tarde e as badaladas perpetuam-se pela casa nos acordes de Charles Lloyd. The water is wide. Há uma distância impossível entre nós dois, e no entanto pretendo ainda tocar-te e sentir o teu cheiro nas minhas camisas brancas. As tuas mãos cobrem-me os olhos, e a tua voz quente anda à minha volta e faz-me lembrar as vezes em que propositadamente me fazias nódoas nas gravatas para que eu tardasse um pouco mais a sair pela manhã. Lembra-me os duches quentes a dois, totalmente vestidos, antes das festas onde éramos sempre os últimos a chegar. Peekaboo. Provocas-me correndo louca, nua, pela casa, gritando alto, escorregando nos tapetes, indo de encontro às esquinas, fugindo, escondendo-te de mim para me encontrares lá onde me querias contigo. E os gemidos e os beijos e tudo o que não consigo descrever. E os risos, e as mãos à minha volta ao descobrir-te dentro do armário do nosso quarto. Amor feito ali mesmo entre as roupas e os lençóis dobrados com tanto cuidado. E as autoridades chamadas à noite por um vizinho zeloso e preocupado contigo. Tínhamos coração em demasia tu e eu! E agora, que jogo estranho e cruel é este em que te escondes numa derradeira partida? Pensas esconder-te para sempre? Estranha viagem a tua.

(Fotografia: Roma, Itália, 2 de Março de 2006 / Texto: Porto, Portugal, 3 de Julho de 2003)

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Onde tudo foi sendo perfeito

Voltar a partir.
Regressar ao silêncio,
Aos espaços amplos,
Invisíveis,
Transparentes.
Regressar à felicidade,
Onde a vida é feita de minúsculas fracções
De um tempo imperceptível.
Deixar de vez o negro da noite
E abraçar o azul cobalto
Do céu das manhãs frias do norte.
Regressar ao tempo de paz,
Abandonar a guerra
Pela última vez
Sem olhar para trás.
Apagar toda a dor de espírito
Da noite perpétua.
Regressar ao silêncio,
A casa,
Aos filhos,
Aos pais,
Aos teus braços,
Às transparências,
Ao outro lado das existências,
Ou simplesmente regressar
Para que seja possível voltar a partir
(Ainda que os lugares fiquem para sempre dentro de nós)

(Fotografia: Roma, Itália, Fevereiro de 2006 / Texto: Coimbra, Portugal, s. d.)

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Here I am

I love you but it’s all so silent now! What more words should we have said to each other? What more could we have done? I think it’s alright, we’ve lived enough. The truth is that I still feel your arms around me; I can still sense your breathing close to my neck; I still feel your eyelids touching my cheek, sometimes! Now it’s all so quiet and I always feel so sleepy. But in my sleep we kiss as we used to kiss! And in my sleep you’re always there as you used to be! And you know that when you’re there I feel alive, and for that reason I want to stay here with you. And so I will, my sweet love, for all eternity.

Yesterday I had a strange dream. I dreamt I turned into stone and yet I could smell geraniums! Suddenly I sensed movement on my back and realised that there were this beautiful pair of wings, white as heaven, over my shoulders! And I remember looking at the window, smiling one last time, and starting a journey towards you, a long journey towards you, to be with you again, to stay with you again, forever more. And so I will, my great love, for all eternity.

Here you have me. Although it’s silent I feel quite comfortable now, I want you to know that! Although the clouds look like bringing rain again and some wind is blowing and making a mess of my hair I don’t mind! Don’t worry. Nothing matters anymore; I’m home. I don’t feel cold or pain; I don’t feel the need of anything except to be with you, as we were meant, always and always and always. And so I will my one and only love, for all eternity, in this most eternal of places.

(Photography: Rome, Italy, March 2nd 2006/ Text: Coimbra, Portugal, March 2006)

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Away from home # 7

While travelling I couldn’t help thinking I was loosing someone back home! And I did. And so I want to say goodbye now…

(Photography: Naples, Italy, February 22nd 2006)

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Fausto

"Enquanto Fausto esteve longe, expandindo-se para além do alcance de Margarida, o «pequeno mundo» de que a arrancara – aquele mundo de «ordem e completa satisfação» que achara tão doce – desabou sobre ela. Assim que a notícia correu, os seus antigos amigos e vizinhos caíram sobre Margarida com bárbara crueldade e fúria vingativa. (…) Margarida leva o seu lamento para a igreja, na esperança de aí encontrar conforto. (…) Tormento e aflição é tudo quanto o seu mundo lhe pode oferecer: os sinos que salvaram a vida do seu amante dobram agora pela sua condenação. (…) Os acontecimentos precipitam-se: o filho de Margarida morre, ela é metida na cadeia, julgada como assassina e condenada à morte. (…) Fausto adoece de culpa e remorso. Num campo desolado, num dia sombrio, enfrenta Mefistófeles e queixa-se do seu destino. (…) O crescimento humano tem custos humanos; quem quer que o deseje tem de pagar o preço, e o preço é altíssimo. (…) Claramente, não há possibilidade de diálogo entre um homem aberto e um mundo fechado".

(Fotografia: Amsterdão, Holanda, Março de 2001 / Texto: sobre Fausto de Goethe, in Tudo o que é sólido se dissolve no ar, de Marshall Berman)

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