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VISIT TO LISBON
I came back to Lisbon 15 years later. The first feeling was that of recognition of a city, heritage of my recent memory, with the same color, smell, profile and people who walked in a rush with those somewhat morose looks on their faces. After all, I had gotten used to a way more cheerful and loose profile, characteristic of the tropical climates. That's Brazil and the city I live in now. The old Lisbon was still the one who breathes history to me, full of splendid monuments and loads of poetics alongside Tejo. Of an unique beauty.
As I arrived, my will to wander around Lisbon was tremendous. Still tired from the trip, I couldn't resist the appeal of walking through the old Baixa Pombalina. Chiado, Rua Augusta, Terreiro do Paço and Rossio, just as I used to on the good old days. It was almost Christmas and the stores were simmering in colors and full of people. A great number of tourists savoring the relics of our land. The temptation of the cakes served on the old pastries of Lisbon and the typical restaurants with mouth-watering medieval delicacies. My tiredness had abandoned me entirely. My senses were now overwhelmed by a familiar sweet scent as hadn’t happened in a long time. My city had embraced me back as a son who comes back home after a long trip. Without questioning. With arms wide open in a gesture filled with comfort and affection I won’t forget anytime soon. A lot had changed without a doubt; a whole heap of new constructions and just as much demolished. Walking by these streets and avenues was to me like savoring an old familiar fruit that had matured several times but never really lost its essence. I found some almost chocking changes: stores which were now closed, gone restaurants, Rossio’s Square taken by a refugee’s population. The once noble area of the high part of town was now almost abandoned and in clear downfall. Who does not remind of the famous Roma Avenue’s buildings now overtaken by the population with lower economical incomes. I also enjoyed the wonderfulness created by Estação Oriente alongside the Tejo, with its rich residential and entertainment infrastructures. The impression I was left with was that of a Lisbon in deep transformation but remaining all its charm and glamour.
To me, this was without a doubt, the most valuable and waited Christmas gift that I had gotten in the last years. I will remember it for a long time, longing to live many more Christmas’ like that one.
MILITARY SCHOOL
The year was 1968. I had just lost my father, an officer of the Portuguese army. I was taking admission exams for the Military School, an institution solely reserved for the soldiers’ sons and famous for housing venerable and distinguished names. At the age of 10 I barely knew about these things. The challenge was right there in front of me, as raw as it could be, and I neither had a choice nor was asked the reason behind those purposes. I heard the Institution was primeval and had the best conditions that a child could be given to be educated for life. Therefore, I faced this choice as a needed and voluntary act once this opportunity was valuable and desirable.
I was given a uniform and a gun which I was supposed to learn how to respect and handle. I was also assigned to a number: 110. From that moment on I should always answer by it, as a way of identifying with myself and the system to which I now belonged. It was a new life in an internship regime, inside a quarter they called “school”. The rituals were very similar to those that take place in real military quarters with the aggravation factor that this time the soldiers had the ages of a child and were monitored by other children a little older than them, called the “graduates”. These were the students in their last years. They were authorized and instructed to preserve all the rules followed by the School since its foundation. They could manage punishments and penalties whenever they assumed the standards of conduct had been violated or decried. Above them there was a group of officers who managed the interests of the Institution but had no active role on the daily life of the students. Our journey started early in the morning with the dawn (and the horne) and ended with a curfew followed by silence. During the activities we’d always walk in formation, as soldiers. In formation we headed to the lunchroom to eat... in formation we left it... we went to classes... came back... sometimes we even headed in formation to our bathhouse to shower. It was hard but our skins started to thicken, year after year. It allowed us to partially relieve this heavy and responsible day-to-day that in such an early age became part of our lives. A great number of incredible stories took place during this time as you can imagine.
Well, this was the heavy and hard side. The other side of this story is that we were part of an institution of magnitude which had an overly efficient structure destined to schooling. We had plain space for our activities, great laboratories, rooms, courts, pavilions, gymnasiums, fields for different sports modalities, equitation, fencing, entertainment rooms, swimming pools, movie theaters, etc, etc. And all that secured by the best crew of teachers and methodologies. There’s no doubt that those were tough and demanding times. But the worst was still to come and we, children, could never know that. Life is hard. For everyone.
We learnt important values as friendship and the will to win. Today, many years after leaving the Military School, I have, besides everything, a weird feeling of accomplished duty, associated to a deep reminiscence that makes me recall friendships and highlight amazing moments I lived there. I recognize a lot of precious values learnt that I will keep with me forever. For all that, I think it was worth it after all. Zacatrás!!!
THE NEIGHBORS
I live in a traditional-inhabited-by-middle-class building of my city. There are eleven floors with four apartments each, which equals a total of 44 residents (families), half of it composed by elderly people who became widow(er)s and embraced the edifice as their forever home. Talking about neighbors is unavoidable when we live in a building. They become a part of our routine, even if we want to forget about their existence sometimes. The biggest part of them is irrelevant and we pass through them with simple “good morning” or “good afternoon” greetings and that’s all. They follow this protocol promptly. There are others who are not able to settle with just a polite greeting and express a desire to show they are there for better or for worst. Those are the people I am going to tell you about.
In general, they are middle-aged and some very few of them are a little older. Usually they live by themselves. When we meet, most of the times on the elevator, they love to talk about the weather. Asking or affirming how cold or hot it is, if it is going to rain, as if this was the most important thing in the world. That type of conversation that won’t take anyone anywhere. In my opinion, that’s the way they found to socialize without taking big chances, using a topic of conversation that won’t compromise anyone, but that becomes increasingly and deeply tedious whenever it happens. A truly trial by fire to me. Anyway, those are not the worst. There are others, even more dangerous, who live to pay attention to other people’s lives and always know the latest news. And as if it was not enough, they gossip about all sorts of conversations or information. Obviously, in this snoopering a lot of stories are enlarged and distorted, creating unimageable and bizarre narratives.
There is a woman who keeps one of her doors open most of the time whenever she is home. This door gives access to the entrance hall, to the rest of the apartments and to the elevators’ precinct. Believe me if you might but whenever someone steps on this area or makes noises while moving, the woman shows up promptly, out of nowhere, and comes to see what is happening as if she was a spider looming at her reckless prey who just fell into the web. A truly Divine Work of Nature.
As for me, I try to show myself not too distant from people, but I also don’t give too much space for those who I have been watching for some years to approach. Fortunately, the building has a great post code and construction structure. The walls are so thick and solid that I’m not allowed to hear any of the neighborhood’s noises and that, to me, is a true blessing.
THE ELEPHANT’S KING
That is all everyone would talk about. King Juan Carlos apparently had engaged in an elephant hunting. Not satisfyed with that, he had also posed beside a slaughtered prey, wielding his riffle in a victorious attitude.
Yes, Spain’s king still hunts elephants, can you imagine... But did he? Well, it all leads us to believe that al least he tried. People vehemently pointed out their fingers and condemned the king for his unexpectable and ignobel action. Imagine, coming from a king of a certain age. Monarch of a country such as Spain, with respected traditions and given examples. It can’t be true.
But it can happen and really happened in Botswana, as an invitation of an Arabian entrepreneur. Both the media and people didn’t forgive him and spread pictures and acid comments about the episode, as with everyone was a saint and had never planned and executed a hunt in their lives. Society and people are great hypocrites and forgetful of their actions, especially when it is convenient to them. All right, the king could had been more careful in avoiding embarrassments once he is a public person known as a defender of ecology and the animals. On the other hand, the hunting topic itself is an activity deep-seated in every person’s blood, especially in monarchy or royalty’s members, constituting their habits since the dawn of times. But back at us, recriminating and scathing society, what do we do other than constantly organize bloody and infamous hunts in which the chased animal is almost always our equal, a thousand times smaller and more fragile than an elephant?
MAYOMBE
Yesterday, while I was reading a small chronicle of a friend of mine, I could remind some places and episodes, distant in space and time. I refer to the six years that I lived in an Angola (Africa) colonized by Portugueses and stained for the great amount of trope’s commissions sent by Portugal to defend and secure these territories.
My father was one of these militaries, through a number of service mobilizations; Angola, Mozambique and India. At that time, it was typical for these militaries’ families to have the opportunity of remaining together or nearby during those service commissions. The chronicle I had the chance to read talked about an area placed on the North of Angola, closely to the Cabinada city, almost border with Congo. Area of densand characteristic forests. This African jungle is known by its high forestall density, with gigantic trees, famous by the high quality of its wood (mahogany, brasilian rosewood, pau-santo, tola, ebony, etc). This enormous forest is also home to the famous Mayombe’s Gorillas. For three years my father defended a small fortified clearing in the middle of the woods, called Alto do Bucozau. Entirely isolated in the woods and constantly threatened by enemies’ attacks. It happened for a long time and a few letters he could send every once in a while were the only communication we had with him.
I would like to record here a fact that happened several times throughout this period of semi isolation. Something that latter I learnt to realize and give the rightful value. My father was a military officer and lived in an outline of imminent war based on hard and insecure moments. All that to say that at any point he let that out in the letters he sent us. On the contrary. As to me, he would usually sent me letters (aerograms) in which he told me his war episodes, as if they were adventures designed to be appreciated and read by a 6 or 7 years old boy. The most revealing and extraordinary was that every one of these letters had a dry and dissected butterfly within. A beautiful and colorful Mayombe’s butterfly that I would withdraw very carefully off of the paper, always leaving the marvelous pollen stain of their wings. Those stains remained recorded forever in that pages, just as they will forever remain in my memory.
A MAGICAL NIGHT
Few readers will be familiar, but for the majority won’t be aware of some facts that took place around the beginning of the 70’s, while we attended in internship regime the famous Military School in Lisbon, Portugal.
We were at that time in our teen years, living our days confined in a small quarter-school where the severity and discipline made themselves present at every moment. I introduce it in order to tell you an extraordinary and worth telling episode that happened out of sight and out of the rules and the authoritarian system we were living in back then as students. On weekends, when we went back home, we’d frequently gather a group of close friends that were also internship colleagues. This group was friends with another, entirely formed by girls who were friends and shared the attendance to the famous Odivelas Institute where they studied in internship regime as well. So far, a group composed by two groups with similarities and shred aspirations is only normal and logical. Our weekends were highly and creatively enjoyed once it went by too fast and on every Monday everything went back to the school’s routine. The episode I’d like to record went far further the usual meetings we’d have.
On one of those Sunday afternoons, as the time to go back to school started to show itself, someone had a genius idea. Why not dare to come up with an evil plan that would entirely overturn both institution’s systems. Something that would be the biggest and most tremendous plan ever made by students of the Military School. Someone took the lead and said: - Would you girls be up to get into the Military School and spend some time with us in there tonight, trying to deceive the whole strict and flawless system of the School? Silence took over the place. The idea was way too crazy and hard to be taken in by all of us. After a few seconds, weirdly, it became nothing but a simple plan. The dices were rolling. The whole thing started to shape up and we started to set every detail of the plan.
It was a cold winter night and around 10 or 11 p.m, after we presented ourselves to the official to go back to our regular activities, there we were waiting in the Largo da Luz for our friends who were arriving in a cab. It was the beginning of a great adventure. At School, we had already taken care of hiding all the evidences. A night patrol through the dorms to check if the students were on their beds was usual. This patrol was made with a flashlight that would help checking if everything was normal. Using all of our creativity and mischievousness we came up our disguises under the sheets in such a way that it would look as if someone was indeed sleeping there. Once at the Largo da Luz and in front of the entrance gate, we ran through the outline of the building by the left until we reached a barbwire zone alongside the aeromodelling field, the place we had previously studied as propitious to the plan. Our entrance would be made under the wire, in a small bench made to this effect. The ones who couldn’t make it, would have to go over the wire. For us, teenagers, that was a delightful and unusual adventure. Way far beyond our imagination. And the pleasure of deceiving such a strict and flawless system was superb. I remember that there was a sentinel soldier who would pass by the aeromodelling pavilion every once in a while with his gun ready to be used. It gave a touch of geniality and sophistication to the whole process. We got to enter and make ourselves comfortable enough to spend the night, that went by as a magical session, filled with a strong sense of complicity and great music; Genesis, Pink Floyd, etc. The feeling of that moment will certainly remain in the memories of those who engaged in the project for eternity. An unusual idea that shaped up and took place in the most plain and natural way.
Rumor says, based on true facts, that our girl friends faced some tough moments when they went back to their school. As to us, the episode was not disseminated or commented by the high-ranking officers of the school, although it was heard that the both the principals were aware of what had happened. Certainly, they tough it was better not to make it public.
THE HOST-EATERS
I’m here to talk to you about a personal subject which is a little touchy for a few people, who see in it and in your observation some sort of intrusion by those who dare commenting about it. Indeed, each person follows their believes or religion according to their thoughts, life experiences or the need of some spiritualization. The constructive comments should always be welcomed by everyone.
Even though I don’t currently follow any religion, my background is catholic. I feel more connected to the word “religiousness”, finding it more wide-ranging and free of dogmas that I have some difficulty in recognize as valid and acceptable.
I have seen that a lot of people insist in going to their churches in such a constant and periodic manner, turning this habit into an almost social circumstance, and in a few cases solely socially. Why do I use these terms to talk about this practice? Because I have a hard time taking in that people who go religious and systematically to their temples don’t make any effort to follow the preaches and principles passed on on their religious cults. It would be praiseworthy if these people were indeed willing to use at least a few of the great commandments of their religions. On the other hand, we could also say that a lot of these people, perhaps the biggest part of them, are precisely those who have the hardest time following a conduct compatible with the religious principles and lessons, having the need to go all the way to a temple in order to pray, think and share. Well, I’ve been seeing that a big amount of people insists in fervently engage in the Holy Communion and other rituals, but shortly after seem to forget almost entirely the value and the meaning of these ceremonies. It’s all about acts that stands for something bigger than what is actually seen. Way more meaningful than the act of receiving a representative host.
It would be interesting if some people payed a little bit more attention to their habits and rituals. If they could take them to their living with one another, shading light then to a full and established communion with the true purposes. Making it easy and respecting their own lives and the lives of those around them.
INTERNET
I compare the Internet to a huge cell who feeds, expands and transforms itself constantly. Relentlessly multiplying its reach power and dissemination. As a big brain that builds its synapses and chains in a tremendous and precise way. Magnificent and tempting, as a wonderful insinuating woman, full of attributes. Dangerous and reserved, as those who don’t show themselves entirely and hold something back. Intense, magnificent and astonishing in her grand lady purposes. Always snazzy and wearing a sober or sparkling make up according to the moments or situations. Demanding, jealous and possessive to those who don’t give her the attention she craves or show any interest. A powerful aggregating machine that demands everyone’s presence, with no exceptions. Surfing the Internet is like being able to cross all the oceans almost instantly and at the same time. A truly fantastic and unthinkable odyssey, almost capable of replace the old and illustrious caravels of our remote and glorious past.
THE FAROFA’S EMPIRE
In the Farofa’s Empire there is not a king (emperor). Let me explain it to you, farofa is Brazilian receipt from the colonial age, made with manioc or maize flour. It is served as a side dish for a lot of traditional dishes, whether they are meat, fish or shellfish. It was related, primitively, to the table of those who were least fortunate, although it can be find in the finest restaurants nowadays. Later, the term “farofa” became related to big mixtures that don’t follow a very well-defined catalog. In some cases, this concept was used as a somewhat derogatory term and could cause certain discomfort.
Following this, it is easy to take this idea to wider and more widespread universes, using it in various and unusual contexts. So we could say that in social and political terms, for example, there’s a huge miscegenation of values, that can easily cause an opinions and results “farofa”. When it comes to people or group’s behaviors, the term “farofa” can come from more rudimentary attitudes, as for example the indiscriminate usage of food in non-recommended places followed by neglect of the leftovers, causing what people call “farofa” (or “farofice”).
Liking “farofa” or not seems to be deeply related to the origins and habits of a people who learnt to use it in various and bizarre situations. Personally, I rather the culinary “farofa” that I consider an interesting and tasteful product, full of creativity and opportunity. When it comes to the other possibility, I have a hard time getting into this distant, and at times lost, kingdom. Where it seems to me that everything or almost everything is allowed and where I find imperative the supreme absence of a king.
PRAYING MANTIS
It is a very interesting animal; it moves slowly in the middle of the leaves and has the ability of masking itself entirely in the environment (mimicry). The body is that of a long insect with strong, agile and also long legs. It has wing and two enormous and hypnotic eyes with glass-like aspect and texture, looking like two precious gems. Its characteristic mark is the two strong fore legs, equipped with serrations used to immobilize the preys and hold them while feeding. The posture of these legs, when gathered, resembles that of the symbolic gesture of a prayer. The mantis has a special and characteristic manner of hunting; while slowly approaching the victim, it patiently waits the ideal moment to strike the mortal and fulminant coup. It gives no chance for the preys to react and immobilized by the presence of the glance and behavior of its predator, they wait for the certain attack. The praying mantis is a carnivorous and voracious insect, resembling sometimes another (smarter) beings that use strategies similar to those of our little animal, but with distinct intents and purposes. After all, who can pray for a God must also be able to distinguish what is reasonable and what is inappropriate. Our praying mantis’ behavior is perfectly adequate to the expected; it is an extremely well-equipped creature, adapted to its habitat and in need to guarantee its survival.
SPIDER WEBS
A few days ago, I was drawn by a headline displaying in capital letters the public performance of a play described as unseemly, rough and bold, funded by public money through a governmental agency.
This performance revolved around an artistical debate concerning points of view about a certain search, effected in a part of the human body, particularly one of those are frequently related to sodomy practices, pornography and matters of lack of decency and/or marginalization. I am talking about the anal area, which simply is a part of the human body.
Although it is seen as taboo to be hidden and preserved from anyone and anything for a great amount of the population. But the biggest astonishment, aside from the purpose or the quality of the play (which I don’t know much about), was the comments posted on social medias, attributing to this matter not only strictly sexual critiques due to the outrage related to the presented subject, but also critiques concerning the funding source (our money or public money). As if theater and arts in general weren’t free, autonomous and conscient entities that provide debates about ideas and questions of public interest. And as if it was not enough, people also accused the government of condoning pornography and unscrupulousness.
Certainly, I am not here to stand up for the authors of the play or to give credits to whomever authorize its exhibition. I am here solely to help the reader and the population to take into consideration some and particular points of view. Interestingly, I could notice that any of the people who were offended made any questions or showed any interest or curiosity towards the play itself; what the message behind it was or what were the unspoked reads in both text and images. They solely disregarded the subject and associated it to unseemly and shameful practices. This posture seems to result from an inefficient education and a lack of factors that allow an analysis and appreciation of subjects viewed as nonorthodox. The lack of knowledge and openness to artistic and creative matters is a major gap in some society models. A people who don’t read and don’t write can’t have an acceptable critical judgment about matters that don’t particularly follow the expected.
Society is constantly overwhelmed by the media’s suggestions of obtuse consumerist and alienate behavior models. Let’s think for example in a question similar to this one, but in a more developed and progressist country, as Sweden, Denmark or Finland. Certainly, it wouldn’t have the perfidious, rough and animalistic nature it had here. People would have tried searching for a read that fitted in some personal or social interest. Even if at first it didn’t have the clear factors to considerate it. They would have enough intellectual curiosity to try to find some valid background.
Back where I live there is a funny expression that derogatorily qualifies those who don’t do it. In other words, it is said that these people who negatively judge beforehand things they neither understand nor tries to have spider webs (or chicken poop) in their heads.
THE HERD
It darkened quickly and the herd gathered to begin the descent; shadows who slowly shaped up into enormous oxen, with strong scent and twisted rods. The oldest one seemed to take the lead, closely followed by the youngest and by some offspring in a silent and orderly cortege. Together they came to occupy the sideways of the fence, near the road and near me. They had a nonchalant and suspicious look and seemed to get scared and run away in small nervous trots to the minimal sign of movement close to them. They waited for one another until the dawn of night and then formed an intense and mysterious line. No one knew the purpose, where they were moving to and their destination. Suddenly they seemed to disappear into the night, wrapped by the haze alongside the grass. It happened when spontaneously they disapperead when a small depression alongside one of the improvised water fountains right beside the road was hit. No one knew how it was possible and a few people would relate it to some supernatural power of the mountain. It happened all of a sudden and the creatures would not be seen as if they had been swallowed by a cave. Something absorbed or dissipated them as a heavy fog made to conceal. I wanted to understand what happened in this moment and what in fact were there by that small depression at the edge of the road, where the traffic would go on intensely and ordinarily.
That afternoon I carefully approached the area before the lead of the herd arrived. To do so, I crouched carefully behind some herbs. It took about fifteen or twenty minutes until I felt the heavy and nonchalant steps of the leader. When I faced that dark and powerful animal, I was cold and nervous. Even tough the secure, distant and well aware look, I could feel that he noticed me. I was overwhelmed by fear and for a moment I realized that I was the intruder. I definitely was not a part of that almost holy ritual. Shortly after, the second and the third ox showed up and soon all the herd was there, like a rehashed ceremony. The fog seemed to be even lower and the first animal was walking towards me in a slow and definitive walk. My whole attention was in him and I waited for a miracle or for something that could explain that magical story. Petrified, I could barely believe what I was seeing, or to be more accurate, what I wasn’t seeing; the oxen seemed to vanish under me with no explanation, it was like magic. What just happened was very intriguing and made me even more curious, apprehensive and willing to investigate. I patiently waited until the last animal arrived and as soon as he vanished right in front of my bare eyes I stood up and trembling went down that small slope. The night was dark, and I could notice that the animals were no longer there; it made me break out in a cold sweat at the thought of might vanishing too. I looked around freaked out searching for the oxen, overshadowed by a yellowish light that shined under the road. It drawn me and I took a few steps towards it. The mystery increased and I could recognize a small opening on the rocky wall. The was a small improvised tunnel, sprinkled with pieces of moist manure. I filled up with braveness and run through that empty space aiming the light. The were no sign of the herd but I could hear a familiar sound nearby. Not far from where I was, I could recognize a big and crude white house that seemed to be abandoned and empty. As I came closer to the door a strong scent took over my senses. Slowly, I reached the door and took a glimpse. A huge living, dark, restful mass made of heads and rods indicated where my herd was and it didn’t bothered to notice me after another long and intense journey on the mountain.
A feeling of joy and complicity filled my mind as a light and flowing plume that seemed to show me a way. That ending was decisive and important to me. Way beyond my expectations and imagination. At that moment I could feel the presence of something strange and natural. A feeling of fulfillment and completeness that deeply connected me to those beings and to those families. Everything was starting to make sense now. A warm message had just made its way into my heart. I realized it was time to retreat and go back home.
POKÉMON GO
A few years ago it would be impossible to think about millions and millions of people drawn by the desire of hunting with a machine a dull and not-al-all-appealing little pig, that can’t be even eaten.
Obviously, I refer to the recent creation of Pókemon Go, the game that allure enormous amounts of alienated young people all over the world at a time where relationships and conversations are more and more scarce.
Those who are older and look at this phenomenon feel a certain type of nostalgia and discomfort, I imagine, and must think that both the world and people are on the edge of a personal and social collapse.
Hunting these little pigs was something created and very well planed by someone that is intended to stimulate young people to build fictitious worlds and realities by taking advantage of this moment, where these people and machines seem to live intimately and unconditionally. An alienation in name of an erased and almost forgotten hero who instigates the unstoppable will of going out and looking for alternative ways, justified as physical activities. At times where society has little to offer to those who need to find safe and reasonable purposes to conceive a slightly promising future.
The big entertainment multinational companies, and particularly the ones that maintain empires through video games, use this power to build their castles right under the nose of a corrupted, hypocrite and highly dependent of capitalistic interests society. The biggest beneficiary of this business if Nintendo. The Japanese enterprise has increased its worth in 9 billion dollars since the game premiered.
Pokémon is not the one to blame. It is solely a dull little pig who saw the rise of this huge audience of followers, admirers and sycophants. It is just another trend launched to take down barriers, digits, markets, and a sign that the times we live in seem to be each time less suitable with art, beauty and creativity, overall. The dehumanization is a concerning factor and something that deeply scares and bothers us.
I don’t want to sound retro, pessimist or antiquate on my comments. I might not reach certain trues or realities sometimes. After all, time goes by and leaves its deep and impeccable makes. However, I would like our Pokémons to have more realistic and humanized shapes, or to not even exist, as in those good old times.
THE LAST SLAUGHTER
Francisco was an old, extremely thin and with yellowish skin man. Deep buried eyes like two dark and deadly graves. He was a rich man, one of those who let it show in the smallest details. Diamond rings on both hands and a small silver handle cane. He had one of those Mercedes’ classic models that impress by its size and style. A discrete and servant drive always available for him.
That fall afternoon, Francisco went by the house where my grandparents lived and invited us to a walk through Alentejo. Back then, it was the partridges hunting time and uncle Chico seemed to have a special glimpse in his eyes. We got into the car e headed south, in the hopes of going to one of the farmhouses where Francisco used to hunt. It had belonged to a persistent Family of hunters, used to travel long distances searching of preys. He was the youngest of a many brothers family who possessed lands on the alentejanan plains. This time, our walk would take us into protected fields where a simple hunt license wasn’t enough.
Chico seemed weak. He was wearing a wool blanket on his legs and had a tired and cold look on him. I was on the backseat close to one of the windows and Francisco was sitting close to the other one on that day. I could notice without being noticed his eagle profile, his bony and edgy nose that resembled that of a bird of prey.
The silence was frosty and I barely heard anyone’s voice during that weird afternoon. We walked through a long dirt road until we saw grass and some trees. I could notice uncle Chico’s signs of anxiety. His body seemed to shrive while the car kept moving forward. His head would turn from one side to the other. If it wasn’t for his strong nose he could resemble a hunting dog sniffing on his prey.
The driver stopped at a sign from the old man and we remained in silence inside the car for a couple minutes. Francisco started to put his hunting gun that he had carried hidden on his legs together. Both shiny barrels of the shotgun could clearly be seen in the shadow of the car. He took out some red cartridges of a small bag as well. Despite those white cadaveric hands he made all the pieces of the gun come to life with the skills of an old hunter. A whistle coming from the window’s glass could was heard and a powerful white gun rested its double barrel on the glassy profile. Uncle Chico straightened his bones in a precise and clear manner. He held his breath and pressed his shotgun’s trigger twice. I didn’t see that death. He was the only one who saw the animal. I was sure about that. Certainly, it didn’t even had the time to start its flight and attempt to fend against the fast, brutal and deadly attack.
As if by magic the trunk opened and two beautiful hunting dogs came out of it. I remember the animals, eager and obstinate as they came back to the car with two partridges on their mouth. They were salivating and the old man seemed younger and almost recovered for an instant now. That moment was the last hunt of an old huntsman, a moderated and planned act. The only possible way of a preconceived death, relentless and cold. The last slaughter.
THE CLOAK
I looked at that man who was crossing the city. Despite not seeing him for a long time, I could observe him reasonably. A young man, tall, sunken face and very prominent cheek bones. Long straight brown hair slipped back and a dark skin damaged by the sun. He seemed to be utterly alone, out of that context. Extremely safe inside that dark cloak scoured by time and dust. Closed white collar shirt wrapped around the skinny and wrinkled neck. He certainly attempted to seem formal, but his outfit was way too old despite the highly starched look. He was an entirely airy and abstract being. A dark and bold silhouette who walked down the street in slow steps. He resembled one of those Old Wild West gunslinger who appeared dragging his spurred boots in the skyline near the villages, ready to honor his name in a duel. Despite his weird gestures and his somewhat marginalized look, I though the had some dignity on him. Focused and aware of this part. Or maybe not.
Suddenly, I noticed that I had seen him before, but not like that. He seemed to float among people like an extra who had just finished playing his part in a long shooting. I found it weird that no one else was looking at him. Everyone seemed to know him already or maybe not care enough to notice him. The only thing missing on him was the holster holding two silver-shinny beautiful pistols. Those gunslinger’s boots were old bent shoes, overly polished and bright. I carefully looked at one of his hands, partially hidden by the extremely white cuff of his shirt. He had on him something of a noble, poor and rejected man.
Out of a sudden, I wanted to know a little bit more about that man who, despite a fragile and aloof look, walked among people with his head held high. I noticed that he was squeezing something between the fingers of his right hand. It was something that seemed to belong to him for a long, long time. I tried to recognize that twisted and worn out object. It looked like a smashed paper. Right at that moment the bell of the old church ringed twice. By instinct that man passed his object to his other hand in a quick and precise gesture, as if he wanted to check if hadn’t forgotten his holy book.
Far away, that worn out and shabby cloak looked now a lot more like the cassock of a monk headed to his sanctuary. Head down, begging for his fate.
BLESSED DAWN
I have been in my hammock for so long that I ended up seeing the Crux constellation. I also saw the rise of two shinny stars that apathic and sparkling arose in the darkness right after. I am a homeless illiterate man who looks up to the stars and follow their movements never knowing their names. I watch them go from my open property.
I am a lonely man, but I am not sad. The night is still a child for those who have in it a sole companion, like me. Time moves fast and leaves me in an unfortunate and hopeless situation. I am a lost and thrown to the wind’s arms being when I am not by the sea.
By a twist of fate, I am here in this starred night and patiently follow a comet and its tray running through the vastness as a beam of light from my small flashlight. If João calls me I tell him that I have no news. Soon I will have the rising of my Moon, sweet and mysterious creature. She’s the reason why I am still up. I am highly sleepy and I feel as if I might fall asleep on my hammock at any moment.
God put me here when He gave me this gift. I am going to light up a match so I can keep myself up for a little while and enlighten all the space around me. I feel certain anxiety as I look at my watch. There are still eighteen minutes to go until the rising of my Moon. I take a deep breath and try to make myself a little more comfortable. I can’t lose this spectacle of Nature. Afterall, it’s not everyday that a homeless man is blessed by the stars.
Now, I can even consider the idea of sleeping around here later, in a glassy and roofless house. Fall asleep fearless, calm and almost happy. Be able to smile, forget and dream as a God’s creature.
Note from the author: This text is a reinterpretation of the chronicle “O Fiscal da Noite” from Rubem Braga, in the imaginary perspective where the storyteller is a homeless man.
OTOLARYNGOLOGY
I arrived early. The access to the waiting room kept us standing up by the entrance door. It was one of those buildings with a lot of rented commercial offices and people impatiently walking all over the place. All the elevators were closed and made of iron and could fit eight to ten squeezed people. A doorman by the entrance door on the first floor instructed the flow of people who wanted to get to one of the many floors.
Finally, someone opened that glass door that gave us access to the waiting room. A middle-aged woman with a serious and heavy expression greeted us in a slow and low-pitched tone. We realized she was the secretary when she went to other side of the reception desk and sat down. She didn’t look very communicative and seemed to be just going by another one of a tedious period of her daily routine. Her skin and eyes were light and she made me think of a German matriarch with her strict and formal assemblance.
We were the first ones to get in, alongside a young and extremally thin woman who gave us a resigned and accomplice smile. Shortly after, three other people arrived; a tired old lady and a middle-aged man who escorted his daughter, a teenager who seemed to be thirteen or fourteen years old. Even tough we were the first ones there, we weren’t admitted right away.
It was way passed 2 p.m. when a short man in simple clothes entered the room. He appeared to be more than seventy years old and his expression was the same as the secretary’s. The grumpy face had no sign of kindness and his entrance was silent. A simple greeting between teeth, in a tone that made it seem as if that gesture was a favor. We only realized he was the doctor because he headed towards other glass door with his key in hand. Once the door was closed the old lady beside us asked – Is this doctor good?! I look at her, to my friend and then answered with a simple smile. Once we were not the first ones to be admitted, we still had to wait for another half an hour. The room was calm and the low sound that came from a small suspended television created a certain peaceful atmosphere despite everything else.
When that second glass door opened out of the blue, a small and upright figure announced in a metallic and shrill voice my friend’s name in a spelled, slow and extensive voice as a machine reproducing a recording. The doctor’s expression was now that of a small commandant in plain use of his credentials and rights. He was no longer that sad and dull man that had passed by us. I noticed his small dark squared and mustache, its squishiness and outliner appealed immediately to my sensitive photographic memory. I had seen that face before or at least one that was very familiar to his. The tone, gesture and expression were clearly consistent with the parameters that made me feel that clear similarity. I reached out for my friend in a glance. There was no doubt. By a unimageable and transcendent twist of fate I felt as if I had just been taken to a Germany in the middle of a war in the 40’s, where the presence of that couple seemed to represent an almost real staging of Adolf Hitler and his secretary. My friend’s astonished look reflected quite well the weird feeling of a ghostly reality. It was unbelievable. Despite it all, we stood up and followed that man.
The doctor’s officer was small and tidy where the objects seemed to be strictly fit. There were two empty couches in front of a dark desk of modern lines equipped with two notebooks. We sat side by side and waited for our host. When we tried to exchange a few words over that shocking moment we notice that our man had already taken his place of command right in front of us. He was waiting for us with an intense and inquisitor glance. Silent was made. While he read my friend’s informations, she pronounced the words and followed him with wide open eyes in complete surprise, sticking to confirm each one of them. – Well, and what is the story you have to tell us? At that moment, and perhaps appealing to my fertile imagination I could not keep myself from remember those reports about the holocaust where Nazis doctors made terrible experiences in Jews in the name of the purification of the race. – Let’s see, said the doctor. – Sit down on that chair! My friend stood up slowly and I remained static, taken away by my thoughts. That seemed too real, but perhaps it was just a strong suggestion. – You, come here! I looked back, moved the chair away and stood up quickly. – Put yourself right here behind me! I did it and waited. – Do you see those two white stains at the bottom of the mouth, near both molar teeth? I nodded and he quickly turned off the flashlight. The three of us came back to the desk. He looked at us and made a certain pause. - Let’s go to the other room! – Open your mouth! And then he drop a few drops of something that seemed to be some sort of pain killer. I followed them and noticed that the doctor was wielding a long instrument probed shaped with a light on its tip. At that moment, the Nazism images sharpened in a much clearer way in me when I associated that instrument and that man to a torture scenario. – Open your mouth! It doesn’t hurt! And then he shove that on my friend’s mouth. The images of an unusual route of pink cavities and protuberances started to be shown on a monitor. – Nothing! We went back to the doctor’s officer and he started to write his prescription. – It is not serious! It is just anxiety! Stress! I will prescribe only a few medicines that I believe that will solve the problem! And look right into my friend’s eyes to say: - And be careful, you must learn how to control yourself! And pointed a finger at her head. In order to help you should gargle with this medicine, like this! And in a quick gesture he pulled back the chair and loudly simulated the gargle. Right after he performed the rinse; making noises, his body leaned forward, eyes on my friends’ and moving his cheeks up and down nonstop. It was impossible not to laugh at the hallucinating sight of an almost Hitler in his decaying phase... Anyway, that ending would come in hand to relieve a little bit of the tension of those pathetic and unrealistic moments. My friend and I were now fearlessly laughing of that funny and dull man that looked at us with a serious expression as if he was not allowed to laugh. – Thank you so much, doctor!
THE WEEPING OF THE HERON
The voice was coming from the heron’s stronghold and sounded like a low and raspy weeping. I looked around and didn’t see the birds. They had vanished with no tray despite the habit of always gathering around there to sleep.
They used to go by in groups and hover over the city coming from numerous directions and place. They were marvelously white and loaned to our sky a magnificent and white veil of feathers and plumes in a synchronized movement worthy of the Mother Nature.
It was late and the dusk was setting in, making it hard to recognize that place and their presence. I slowly approached and looked for the old tree with its dry and gray branches that served as a shelter to the herons, who once adopted it as their home. That was the place where they rested and felt safe and united by an irrational bird ideal, in a spontaneous and solidary gesture. I tried to come a little closer and made an effort in acknowledging the place a little better despite the darkness. Slowly, I started to notice that the grass had disappeared and the dirt was now dark and dry, looking like it had been poorly treated and expropriated. I recognized the smell of burnt leaves that seemed to come from the depths of the earth. I was now certain of one thing; something terrible had happened to those birds. The place was no longer the same and the weeping I had heard announced something serious and tragic.
While I was preparing to go back home, I heard once again that low and raspy voice. The sound made me come a little closer and right when everything seemed dry and dark, I could notice the presence of a few spaced white points on that pale clarendon. Dozens of motionless, tired and silent animals. Resigned, sad and lonely. And despite being there together, they no longer had their old tree to sleep. Trying to rest on that ground devasted from the fire.
I could feel the lancinating pain of the disrespect for nature and its magnificent forms. I have the clear assurance that the weeping sound I had heard was the earth mumbling in pity for the tears of those white herons who were now getting ready to sleep over the ashes of their old tree.
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ASHES
Ashes are remains of dust, almost disintegrated and able to proceed the natural course of everything that rises, lives, grows and dies one day with no appeal. Nothing is enduring to the point of perpetuating into the vast immensity of space and time unless we understand it as a clear and clean extension of other forms, beings or probabilities that need to be born and enchant. With that in mind, our ashes are enlightened with a special glimmer, capable of feeding an interesting evolutionary chain. They are no longer a pale, deadly and dull thing. They should no longer be called ashes or grayish*[1], but living, rich and golden dust. Everything has its own moment and Nature fulfill its cycles in a plain and exuberant manner.
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WRINKLES
Wrinkles are marks of our deepest and most authentic expressions. They are like grooves where the purest and fastest rivers of our essence run through. Interrupting them would be the same as interrupting these waters, until they can find and kiss all this sea one day.
THE FLIGHT OF THE BUTTERFLIES
Handling people is like going through a great forest. You should always be as careful as possible, especially if you don’t know the path very well and it is dark. You will find both small and large insects. Curious and hungry or nonchalant and uninterested animals. There will be a lot of holes and stones on your way. You will see grand trees that might look enormous and dark. Almost threating. Some sound will be familiar, others will sound strange and disturbing. You may feel tired and it will make you vulnerable and out of breath. But you should never lose your peace once you can always recognize the flight of the butterflies, even in the most complete uncertainty of the darkness.
THE LEGEND OF THE LADY IN RED
In the bright red I spread myself, delighted in the sway of the waves. I feel the smell of the sea that I declare and keep on the chest my rest, alert sentinel of these patrols. I am that woman in red who lives awaken in your dream and brings you a saddened peace wrapped in satin clothes. Rumor says that I was seen on the road by those who dreamt about me. Those whom I smiled at stopped and felt my scent. Vain petals of red roses forced the night ride, with no aimlessly and homeless. The cars and the men followed me nonstop on the long enshrined road. When I kissed then, hugged them and asked them to proceed with me on the moonlight, through the old and dark cemetery path. We were lovers and accomplices of that love, perpetuated on those endless nights. At the door of my beautiful and red little house, stunning and almost naked, I asked them – You want me to be yours forever? Come, I live here alone.
OVERDOSE
Suddenly I had a weird feeling, some sort of nausea and dizziness. I looked around and no one was there. Everything spun quickly inside of me and I had the clear sense that it was real. Immediately I reached out for some object’s backing so I could balance myself and resist that strength. I noticed that at that moment all the lights of the city converged to a sole unfocused point. I had the notion that inside of me something was growing and shaping up; it seemed as if it wanted to drag me, sucking in my guts. My mouth had dried and opened in a grotesque and involuntary gesture; terrified by the astonishment I could notice that vivid and gracious bloody-red hearts started to come out of my mouth.
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END
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*[1] N.T.: In Portuguese, ashes are called “cinzas” (gray). In this line, the author makes a reference to the gray color of the ashes and the proper ashes, once they have the same written form in Portuguese.