To William

Dear William,

I believe I have come across her.

At 25th December

Stick Boy noticed that his Christmas tree looked healthier than he did.

(Tim Burton - Stick Boy's Festive Season)

She never was and could never, nor could I, and I haven't

I have killed her. Just now. I'm still shocked and I still haven't washed my hands. It's weird. She smells of oranges. She looks like a cartoon. She's beautiful. I'm not sorry. I could have fell in love with her. Some time. Some day in the future. Some weird re-encounter. Oh, but we have never met. I could have teached her how to dance and how to sew a sock, and she could have told me what makes her sleep and what she likes in sex. She liked Elton John and Jackson Five, I've figured, and her toothpaste was strawberry flavoured. I was nervous, never got to kiss her mouth and when she was lying on the floor in that strange angle I still felt her breaths drying my eyes. Her hair looked beautiful spread upon the wooden floor and her nose seemed to be still catching and releasing air. She looked lonely. Never more beautiful. Still she did not look peaceful, I wonder if she ever was. Her scent always reminded me of fire and her fingers of rape and murder. I think she was never peaceful. I see her in a tale of lost love, a lover that went away, a love that could not be, could never have been. She was doomed. So am I. I do not love her, and could never. She looks like a piece of wood, she's so static. What may be the story of that tatoo above the left hip and how old were those trainers under her bed? She could have been the lover of Napoleon and the whole curse of History changed by their thorny separation. She could never have loved me. She's dead now, it' ok.

Note

I don't find you interesting.(I don't know you.) I don't find you attractive. I do not want you. I wish I would and you would take me. I do not find a reasonable reason for this. Actually I do, but I wish it did not exist. It hunts me that I'm so puzzled about what may be so attractive about you that caught the other's attention. The other's attention is never caught.

Deliver to Henry

Dear Henry, I believe I have understood her.

You've only heard about her once or twice, I have always been most protective about my feelings and thoughts of her and even her only being. You possibly don't even know her favourite colour - telling someone else's favourite colour is already exposing your thoughts of them. But you've known she's a riddle. A riddle is possibly all you know of her, and all do I. Always feeling the greater disposition for falling in love with her never told me why I felt this, nor what she meant to me, nor what she was. Never have I encountered so peculiar, calling and challenging a soul. She's trully a riddle. If Wilde could only see her..! I'm sure he'd say she's the sphinx's secret itself, for she is.

I was always under the risk of falling in love with her, as I have already stated, but never did so. I still can and may, but I simply won't. If she'd ask me - and as you know me, I feel strongly invited to tell her all of this, for you know I'm always dazzled by and curious about what the truth might bring out - I'd say it was always a matter of choice and never a matter of choice, for it is exactly this. You yourself wouldn't understand or be able to grab her soul, my dearest, and I am very aware of how clever and astute you are. But I was thinking just now of my distress and erosion with her and suddenly realized what it is that she causes.

She is purely and simply an opportunity for an obsession. Knowing this, all is explained. For I, despite my strong wills to do so, never had an obsession. And who doesn't want or need one? Now, I know, Henry, that you've known my episodes of alcohol and gambling, but they were never an obsession: they were only and simply, for a time, my very only friends. But she is so clearly a fall, a downright fall, she could never be more attractive and nothing could be more attractive than her. She has no idea of that, of course, but she's so peculiar a case I believe even if she did she would still be a fantastic disease. Even she is unable to spoil and dominate such lovable danger.

So that's what she is. She's an obsession. Obsession IS her. It's even awkward we don't notice it from the start - she's fabulously a black dame, a black hole, a sin, she's alcohol and cigarettes, she's a drug, she's so completely a drug and she will eventually kill you. Even if she loves you back. That's just her.

She suffers too. She never finds peace, never will and does not seek it. And she'll die being just that, just this. If there's a God, she'll die coming, and still she'll be unhappy. She'll be blasé, as if looking to a camera, as if being a movie star, as if playing a role, for she plays, she is a role and she is not. She's the Cinema; you'd understand.

I'll die, Henry. Tomorrow or the day after that. This is not a probability. I'm glad.

Yours,

Smells like Lisbon

With the lights out it's less dangerous

Here we are now, entertain us

I feel stupid and contagious

Here we are, now entertain us

A mulatto,

An albino,

A mosquito,

My libido.

especially Rebecca will like this, I believe

"How my Bovary infuriates me! Still, I am beginning to get out of the wood a little. Never in my life have I written anything harder than what I am doing now, a dialogue of trivialities! This inn scene, for all I know, is going to keep me for three months; I feel I want to cry sometimes, so helpless do I feel. But I'd rather die than scamp it. What I have to do is to bring five or six talking characters into the same conversation, several others whom they refer to, the place where they are, the whole of their district, whilst giving physical descriptions of people and things, and in the midst of all this to show a gentleman and a lady who, through a sympathy in their tastes, are just beginning to take a fancy to each other. If only I had more space! But it is essential that this should be quick without being bare, full without becoming clogged, and yet I have to hold back for later other details which would there be more striking...."

Gustave Flaubert to Louise Colet, late one Sunday night in 1852, resting after a bout with the "Lion d'Or" scene.

Concretismo!!!

How to break someone down

"but, please, your scent. let it come first."

Always, right?

the whole point is a hole.

welcome to the jungle with wilde editors your parents beer cigarettes alcohol love loneliness panic shit freak coldplay sound blood sanitary fuck fall

In the end you can't stand it, but they do. You can't bear the noise, but they dance; you can't stand the vision, but they sit together and stare; you just don't understand, but their smells kiss, marry and bury each other with tears in their eyes. I too don't know if I'll find love, but you cry ahead. Children begin by loving their parents. After a while they judge them; rarely, if ever, do they forgive them. But the problem is with your own love. But nevertheless you don't forvige, you don't even bear to look, you beer to look, you beer and cigarettes, you cigarettes, you lousy and lonely. And your cigarettes, are they yours?, whose cigarettes are those? It's in your hands, in your hands, love, hatred and ultraviolence. You almost use it, it's not you, not your type, not your mind and your mentality. Your distorted mentality, so largely distorted, lost and lonely, you lost and lonely, you just like hell. And alcohol. Alcohol in your veins, you'd drink your veins, you'd drink your blood, it looks nice, it's warm, maybe it's wine, is it wine? You drunk and lonely, you soft and lonely, you lost and lonely, you just like hell. Absint. Absence. Absint absence, absint-minded, absent-minded again, but you've always been anyway, now there's at least fun. Joy, enjoy, overjoy, joy division, love will tear us apart, "we're not Joy Division!", they said, and they're not. Lights and sound, lights and sound, is this coldplay now?, is it cold now?, do you want a drink? and do you want to fuck? Do you want to get paid? Do you want to get laid? That way you get two things, don't you? Don't you? Do you and are you sane? Sanity, sanitary, loo, low, I've fallen at the low tide and meet me by the quayside, by Editors, editor's cut, I've cut myself by mistake, mom, how would it be on purpose? Purpose is scaring me, what if I can't see mine?, you are the colour, my dear. I want to quit, to quit, it's plain it's simple it's plain so why can't it be, why do you cry? I smoke, I slope, I stroke I strike I struck, thunderstruck, hardrock and what have you done to yourself is this really you? I am human and I need to love just like ev. I'm a tv show, a horror show, I'm a freak, I swear I'm not sorry, I swear, god dammit, I sweet, I sweat, you S.W.A.T, you're not saving me at all, love. Why do you panic on the corridor?, I'm here, am I not?. Yes, thank you, now please don't put me under more uncomfortable situations, will you, will you please, will you please me, can you, should you, is that really what keeps me coming back, now I come and I go, I go, cause it's more appropriate, it's more appropriate to go. You love me, all the time, and in the middle we find hatred, but you love. I love you, and I close my eyes more easily than you do, I rest too, and play snooker, alone if needed, cause sometimes it's needed and I've . I have my viciousness and manias, I'm weird, mom, mom, I need a beer, dear, is it too much, is it too much to ask. Let's make a promise, give me an idea, no, a bet, yes a bet, so much better. Bodies, stories, glories? You rot, you'll rot, you'll rock, and roll, you'll roll over and die. Yes!, you'll die! You'll dye, will she let you dye, should she interfere, you're not a barbie, you taste like barby, you taste like bribe and you take it. Will you share at least. Of course, what did you think we were, holy? Holy shit, holy shit man we're here again. Yes, but we'll die. Rest, may the plane crash. (Just don't pray; maybe there is a god after all.)

I know you won't answer

and have you seen the emails, and have you, have you, have you, have you? so many things. and will you come? and I don't come and I write late at night but not secrets.(something in this last part should be between parenthesis, but I don't know what)

i think when i talk is clearer that i miss you. imagine if you could see me

Fabulous Funny Cambridge

Cambridge Advanced Learner's Dictionary

cringe verb [I]

1 to suddenly move away from someone or something because you are frightened

2 INFORMAL to feel very embarrassed:

I cringed at the sight of my dad dancing.

"Seven simple rules for life in hiding"

1. Never trust a cop in a raincoat.

2. Beware of enthusiasm and of love - each is temporary and quick to sway.

3. When asked if you care about the world's problems look deep into the eyes of he who asks - he will not ask you again.

4&5. Never give your real name, and if ever told to look at yourself, never look.

6. Never say or do anything the person standing in front of you cannot understand.

7. Never create anything. It will be misinterpreted. It will chain you and follow you for the rest of your life. And it will never change.

Bob Dylan

but do you really wanna hide?

Nem leucemia nem planos cabíveis

Todo mundo sofre, e você estrategicamente posicionado para tirar-lhes a foto no momento do descanso. Daí também, e nada mais faz sentido, vai caminhando sem propósito para o depósito de lixo mais próximo e atira-se na esperança de expiação. Ninguém volta, ninguém te quer entre os mais queridos da turma e os primeiros escolhidos do time de futebol ou do medley de natação. Ninguém te quer. Você vai dormir e chora pela foto que bateu no momento de descanso do atleta mais sofrido do colégio e, embora a foto tenha sido de puro caráter artístico, você argumenta, ninguém vai gostar dela, ela é do momento mais suave das cinco horas de corrida do menino de doze anos com leucemia. Você pára, você olha, também você podia ser leucêmico e acho que então a foto valeria, você tem quatorze e ainda usa mamadeira e ninguém sabe e então já é lucro e você é disléxico e sozinho, mas não tem leucemia. O câncer mata e é trágico, é chato, é triste. Você não fuma, nem bebe, mas gostaria. Cada trago que dá sozinho no box mais mocado do banheiro pensa que é uma injeção de células tortas, mas e sem saber o porquê, traga mais uma vez. Sua família é católica apostólica romana, ortodoxa, dedicada, praticante, submissa, unida, amorosa, amante da medicina, da advocacia, da tradição e de todas as profissões que lhe trarão dinheiro e status. E de você, é claro. Você terá sucesso, mulher, filhos, casa, carro, aplicações e posses. Como assim você não quer? Você terá sucesso, mulher, filhos, casa, carros e aplicações. Sim, obrigada. Enfim, vai dormir, vai, coloca as idéias em mente e amanhã vem nos encontrar no almoço do jeitinho certo, como tudo deve ser., ok.

Oh, Editors

Ooh, Editors...

[thanks, dear.]

Shit. oh, and the layout too, I forgot!

I have no idea if the layout will last. We can't say it lifts your mood and, well, to be on the gutter is not what I need right now and as I already feel/fell in it and am not thinking as Wilde would advice ("We are all in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars"), I should probably be coming round with an insight to bright my mood up, not the other way around. This is clearly a portuguese speaker writing; anglosaxons would never, under any circumstances(other than deliberate copy, I believe), write so intricately and laboriously. Anyway, the blog is beautiful. Oh, come on! Ok, dramatic and heavy and whatever but rather lucid, you must admit.

Inside I'm ridiculous. From the outside I'm worse: absolutely incomprehensible, weird, selfish, egocentric, stubborn, childish, blind, limited, influenciable, corrupted, tiring,,,,,,. The situation is pathetic. Radically different, I keep finding myself between two options, none of them acceptable if I'm to think about complete happiness. So I keep choosing half happiness and complete disaster instead of complete happiness and disaster. What are these barriers people have teached me? Christ(hehe), how to break them?, how to break them? Why can we not naturally face disaster, break free, ruin things, break up, break down, destroy, be different, choose another route, not live up to the other's expectations, be what we want and not what's supposedly better, etc etc. All the same old cliché nobody lives. And I'm this mess, I'm only accessed by that who will be put into the fire with me, we'll both burn, we'd be happy if, I'd be happy if.. if only I could, we'd be happy if I could. I keep elaborating strategies and plans, all doomed. None I manage to take further.

Even my love has changed. Having no idea where it is, I can't make it up again, wrap it in a beautifully designed paper and show it to the world. I don't know where it is. I don't know if it exists. I want to be free to start and restart, walk and fall, walk and fall. Why should I have to prove weird faces I don't have to make a thousand try-outs to make things work? What if I need a thousand tries to make it work? Why the fuck should they care? I'm tired. I'm tired and I don't think I can't fit again. If I have to go back to what I was, I won't fit again at all. In a way, I'm sorry. For mom, I'm sorry, I trully am. For the rest, ...rest.

Live with me.

[And if we lack something or have too much, just leave. (But when it comes to this, the weak side is me.)]

[riso pelo nariz]

Can't you see how common and vulgar we are? We love each other. And we'll die (like everything else). We'll hate and we'll fight and we'll get hungry and we'll drink and we'll have sex and we'll lie down and we'll shit. We never thought we were better than anything or anyone, but still. The difference is we would leave. Knowing or not knowing how. Dying for doing so or not. We can and would leave. Most people stop evolving when they notice it will lead to separation or full stops. We carry on. We are scared and we carry on and we smoke, together, in the middle of the process. Genious. And if we die before we part we'll smile at the other's grave and nobody will understand and everybody will hate us. But we'll smile. And plainly know it's the end. Live with me.