Saudade
Compiled from half-farcical, half-scattered memories.
2022
Texts written in Brazilian Portuguese.
The translations were made automatically so that other cultures could at least come close to the lyrical universe.
I miss a time I never lived. I don't know for sure if I'll ever live it. The second and third voices tell me stories in whispers of nostalgia. I passed by there and played at tripping on the cobblestone streets. I scraped my knee. I cried. I was carried and cared for. I counted to three, inhaled, noticed the smell of the bush that hangs over the mountains. I put my foot out of the tent and felt the sand. I contemplated the simple outbursts of the waves that worked all night so that my ears could hear, for a moment, your forró. I visited it with my soul. I wrote your name in the sand. The rain knocked on the window. Twice. It's inviting itself in. To wet. To soak. To wash. Purity is respecting the cycles of the seasons. I stepped wrong on the stones on the trail. I slipped in the mud. I had fun. I remember the little feline, miles away, drifting off to sleep as she heard the sound of a guitar strings playing poetry. In any case. I close my eyelids in the same way, imagining a whole large circle singing that we are the warriors of this place, coming from nowhere. I shout that chorus with immense desire and notice my legs tingling. I share a warm hug with my dad and mom. I smile in the depths of those strong arms that held me up before my feet were even able to support the tiny weight of my body that carried the breath of life. I look at the sun that is already setting. Tomorrow it will return. It is possible to see three planets with the naked eye in that interval. Forgive me? Tell me a joke. What a relief. I miss this time to which I am transported. I try to remember what specifically I miss. It is so sad. It is so beautiful. Maybe the beauty of all this nostalgia is exactly in not knowing exactly where it comes from, no matter how hard I try. But it opens wide the doors and windows of my reason to let in the light of innocence. Make yourself at home. It's your house.
I walk along the train tracks. Two people accompany me. I don't know who they are. I hear the birds calling in the night. It's been years since a single train has passed through here. I see a flower in the gap between a piece of wood and another that makes up the tracks. Its smell sets the village on fire. Many wanderers have kissed this soil. They were pushed off the trains they were hitching rides on. The walls that surround this route bear inscriptions of indignation. The whole thing is a mix of emotions that make my legs tremble. One of the people holds my right paw. I calm down. I don't know his name, but since I stepped onto the central track, I understood why I had chosen that place. It's late afternoon. The sun hadn't appeared for three days. Since then, I've been looking for an open space of long-trodden land. I look at the feet of the other person, not the one who held my hand, but the one with long hair who was resting on the track to my left in a fetal position. I recognize a whistle. Dolores, a childhood friend of mine. She sings a hymn of gratitude. And announces the rain. I introduce myself to the people, without saying my name. I imagined they wouldn't understand. They both wave. One caresses my head with her fingers. The other invites me for a hug as she gets up from her meditation. I feel at home. Many companions have breathed this place. It's my turn. The rain begins its ritual and delicately delays so we can find shelter. We decide to be blessed. We stay in the same place. I surround the girls in a gesture of affection. I would like to return the hospitality. They cry. They say a prayer. I cry too. It's rare for our species to understand each other in this way. Seeing each other equally as capable of giving in to each other. We didn't know each other. But for an instant I became one with them. And they became one with me. We found silence. Only the rain sings.
Look at the windows as the band passes by. Tablecloths are shaken. Sidewalks rise freely. Drains are transformed. The roots of the tree in the central square offer themselves to the elders to rest. The party has begun. Everything had been prepared with great dedication weeks before. The children of the village have the procession as their school. Gates open so that all the air can be renewed. Many steps. The day when lovers share their shyness. The furious admit their resentment. The melancholic kiss their sadness. The living recognize themselves as alive. Ah... the reunion with humanity. The posts humbly give way to the moonlight. Roof tiles lower their guard. Gardens surrender to the movement of the ground that sways in the dance of their people. The forest celebrates the birth of its brothers. And each and every being is born again. In these songs they are heard in a single timbre. In this dance they jump in a single body. No son wants to take possession of these lands. They experienced solidarity in the praises of the birds, in the embraces of the harvest, in the kisses and sweat of women and men. The children, in the intervals between their games, are their faithful advisors. It is time for all the calluses and scars to be welcomed. All the air to be equally inspired. To be grateful for the glimpses of freedom. Just to be. Without chains. And to cry once more. After all, not everyone is free. Today we lie down. Tomorrow is the uprising.
I crossed the border between real life and the prophecy of hunger by boat. I doubted the prophecy, as dissidents usually do. Until then, I had not found the hunger capable of undernourishing me. Maybe because of the gluttony of singing about utopias. And not letting my teenage haircut die. I play a harmonica and pretend to tune the guitar with perfect pitch. If they knew that just looking at you makes me listen to a lecture for being inattentive, they would understand my nickname. Fried like a pastry. In love like a lover. Red from dullness. Waiting for you to meet me and give you an invitation to a trip to the free world. Thus, believing in the prophecy. And facing it in the same way. This is the secret to not losing the sparkle in your eyes.
It was a school trip. And then we arrived at the machinery hall and the guide offered us samples of the production. We enjoyed it and then I don't remember anything. Or when I touched the electric iron with my delicate child's hands and then I don't remember anything. I have a trauma from the burn. In fact, as for the latter, I have doubts as to whether it really happened or if it was a figment of my imagination more than a decade ago. My mother doesn't remember it either. It's kind of sad to have the events fragmented in your head. It seems to me like finishing reading a book, getting excited about the ending, and when trying to reconnect the excerpts for greater prestige, resorting to the writings again, because you no longer remember what's there from the middle to the beginning. I feel like I didn't read it with due attention. I have the same impression of life. Sometimes.
He satisfied his desire to resent everything that was outside his control. The delay, the failure to drive, the failure to remember to go to the street market. His thigh hurt and every time he took a step, the world remained the same.
He regretted the disgust that had settled in his throat and listening to Clash didn't cure the boredom. That was how he saw himself. Boring. But what the hell was this incompleteness and extreme sensitivity that made him feel so bitter for no reason and robbed him of his teeth?
The film was no longer able to wrap the thigh. It would be better if it recomposed itself in the exact time. It preserved the color. It cared about the subtleties. So much so that its most coveted project took a long time to finish due to the author's meticulousness in ending this process rich in bitterness and novelties. It may be that the origin of the resentment was in the novelty or in the expectation of it. But if that were the case, it would constantly resent itself, because a challenge-lover is always on the doorstep of a headline. Resentment would be its neutral state. And that cannot be. It cannot.
Finally, a few days passed and bitterness took hold of someone else. He suspected that it was time's foolishness. Some simply said no. Others said no, because time is not a fool. Well, no one knows for sure. And that's enough.
The end of the year brings with it frustrations. All possible plans are made and guided by the marrow. Then you step on a piece of glass. A glass of sorrows. In the middle of Christmas. All the wine you've consumed bleeds. You almost lose your footing. And you almost had to give up on the schedule. But you'll have to rest for 2 months. And then 1/6 of the plan has already been sabotaged. By chance.
Light, anxious, for those who handle weight well. Let the lines move serenely, but at the same pace as the opening and closing of a door. It's strange to move around sitting down. And I'm not referring to trains. I'm really talking about the daydream journey. That moment when you fix your gaze on a certain point on the map and your pupils blur. You think you've fallen asleep. In fact, you've woken up. Hundreds of different shoes can pass by your head, but the only distraction that could complete your intent is your own, thinking that you're not awake. You've arrived. And gone again. Waiting for the trunk, as they say in a certain part of the Midwest. Navigating semantics also means not wanting to see borders. But the biggest problem with waiting for the trunk is the need to not fix your gaze on just one point when you write.