Stay out of my head, you would repeat, like a lullaby to put yourself to sleep.

Now the house is silent,the glasses are quiet, the books are dead, the curtains are still. Memory is fading and time is running wild.
Like an old lady losing sensitivity.
You put your hand in the fire
- a ritual.
Tearing your hair and your heart out, strand by strand -
Pushing the limit assuming love conquers it all:
love will hold your hand, love won’t let you fall.
And though cliffs are steep, though waves crash high.
A cracked fairy tale put you in bed tonight.

me: missing london these days. sometimes i dont even miss it anymore, but when i do… i listen to elliott smith, like i’m doing now
anders: i got the same thing with san francisco, but right now its only people and burritos. I watch star trek like i’m doing now
me: it´s not really people that i miss the most in london. and the food only when i’m hangover, craving for an english breakfast. i miss the streets, the greasy spoons, the dusty pubs. my right to loneliness without guilt.
anders: word, i had a nice sunday lamb roast at this pub in a park.
that is nicely phrased. how do you feel guilty about being lonely? I mean, what about it brings up guilt for you?
me: i dunno. like, when i’m here in sao paulo and i know people who are in the same city, i feel like i should be with them and if i’m alone i feel guilty. like i should be socializing and showing people i like them and enjoy being with them and that they are important to me. and if don’t, i feel anxious and guilty and you never can give enough atention to all the people you know and like. so i’m constantly feeling guilty.
anders: I know exactly what you mean. I was tryingto say something true about it but the words aren’t coming… thinking…
me: …
anders: this is something that I’ve struggled with a lot too. i have come to choose that the only OBLIGATIONs I have to my friends is to keep what promises I make (so I make few) and to live a life that they can enjoy having as part of theirs. it’s really easy to try to be there all the time, especially since its a ton more fun than thinking about crappy things you don’t feel like dealing with … but the loneliness is important for taking care of those things
me: but see, foreigners they respect it more. brazilians are famous for being “friendly”. but by “friendly” you can understand: obtrusive. is it a word? like not respecting your space and individuality. if you’re not socializing, if you’re not attending every event they make up, you’re akward, you’re weird, you’re cold, etc
anders: yeah, but that’s just not possible to do all the time.
me: BUT THAT’S WHAT PEOPLE EXPECT YOU TO DO. ops, sorry for the caps
anders: do you mean loneliness when you are actually alone or do you include feeling lonely when you are around other people? dont yell at me! joking
me: both, i guess, but mostly being on your own
anders: I’m just trying to make sense of the guilt that is felt based on a feeling or a self expectation to be with other people … it’s self imposed. I dont think that it actually exists in other people’s expectation of you … it’s something I’ve been thinking about here. I get to spend a ton more time alone without feeling like I’m letting someone down, but I don’t fully understand why. it reminds me of this:



Them and their photographs and their jobs and their trips and their drugs and their freedom. Their promises of truth and beauty, their good taste and all the books they read, all the important books they read, and the places they’ve been to and the people they know and the questions they keep.

:: Cardigã, vestido e cinto de brechó
coturnos Chebel (sim, é daí que vem o nome)::

Era uma vez uma menina que tinha um pássaro como seu melhor amigo.
Ele era um pássaro diferente de todos os demais: era encantado.
Os pássaros comuns, se a porta da gaiola ficar aberta, vão-se embora para nunca mais voltar. Mas o pássaro da menina voava livre e vinha quando sentia saudades… As suas penas também eram diferentes. Mudavam de cor. Eram sempre pintadas pelas cores dos lugares estranhos e longínquos por onde voava. Certa vez voltou totalmente branco, cauda enorme de plumas fofas como o algodão…
— Menina, eu venho das montanhas frias e cobertas de neve, tudo maravilhosamente branco e puro, brilhando sob a luz da lua, nada se ouvindo a não ser o barulho do vento que faz estalar o gelo que cobre os galhos das árvores. Trouxe, nas minhas penas, um pouco do encanto que vi, como presente para ti…
E, assim, ele começava a cantar as canções e as histórias daquele mundo que a menina nunca vira. Até que ela adormecia, e sonhava que voava nas asas do pássaro.
Outra vez voltou vermelho como o fogo, penacho dourado na cabeça.
— Venho de uma terra queimada pela seca, terra quente e sem água, onde os grandes, os pequenos e os bichos sofrem a tristeza do sol que não se apaga. As minhas penas ficaram como aquele sol, e eu trago as canções tristes daqueles que gostariam de ouvir o barulho das cachoeiras e ver a beleza dos campos verdes.
E de novo começavam as histórias. A menina amava aquele pássaro e podia ouvi-lo sem parar, dia após dia. E o pássaro amava a menina, e por isto voltava sempre.
Mas chegava a hora da tristeza.
— Tenho de ir — dizia.
— Por favor, não vás. Fico tão triste. Terei saudades. E vou chorar…— E a menina fazia beicinho…
— Eu também terei saudades — dizia o pássaro. — Eu também vou chorar. Mas vou contar-te um segredo: as plantas precisam da água, nós precisamos do ar, os peixes precisam dos rios… E o meu encanto precisa da saudade. É aquela tristeza, na espera do regresso, que faz com que as minhas penas fiquem bonitas. Se eu não for, não haverá saudade. Eu deixarei de ser um pássaro encantado. E tu deixarás de me amar.
Assim, ele partiu. A menina, sozinha, chorava à noite de tristeza, imaginando se o pássaro voltaria. E foi numa dessas noites que ela teve uma ideia malvada: “Se eu o prender numa gaiola, ele nunca mais partirá. Será meu para sempre. Não mais terei saudades. E ficarei feliz…”
Com estes pensamentos, comprou uma linda gaiola, de prata, própria para um pássaro que se ama muito. E ficou à espera. Ele chegou finalmente, maravilhoso nas suas novas cores, com histórias diferentes para contar. Cansado da viagem, adormeceu. Foi então que a menina, cuidadosamente, para que ele não acordasse, o prendeu na gaiola, para que ele nunca mais a abandonasse. E adormeceu feliz.
Acordou de madrugada, com um gemido do pássaro…
— Ah! menina… O que é que fizeste? Quebrou-se o encanto. As minhas penas ficarão feias e eu esquecer-me-ei das histórias… Sem a saudade, o amor ir-se-á embora…
A menina não acreditou. Pensou que ele acabaria por se acostumar. Mas não foi isto que aconteceu. O tempo ia passando, e o pássaro ficando diferente. Caíram as plumas e o penacho. Os vermelhos, os verdes e os azuis das penas transformaram-se num cinzento triste. E veio o silêncio: deixou de cantar.
Também a menina se entristeceu. Não, aquele não era o pássaro que ela amava. E de noite ela chorava, pensando naquilo que havia feito ao seu amigo…
Até que não aguentou mais.
Abriu a porta da gaiola.
— Podes ir, pássaro. Volta quando quiseres…
— Obrigado, menina. Tenho de partir. E preciso de partir para que a saudade chegue e eu tenha vontade de voltar. Longe, na saudade, muitas coisas boas começam a crescer dentro de nós. Sempre que ficares com saudade, eu ficarei mais bonito. Sempre que eu ficar com saudade, tu ficarás mais bonita. E enfeitar-te-ás, para me esperar…
E partiu. Voou que voou, para lugares distantes. A menina contava os dias, e a cada dia que passava a saudade crescia.
— Que bom — pensava ela — o meu pássaro está a ficar encantado de novo…
E ela ia ao guarda-roupa, escolher os vestidos, e penteava os cabelos e colocava uma flor na jarra.
— Nunca se sabe. Pode ser que ele volte hoje…
Sem que ela se apercebesse, o mundo inteiro foi ficando encantado, como o pássaro. Porque ele deveria estar a voar de qualquer lado e de qualquer lado haveria de voltar. Ah!
Mundo maravilhoso, que guarda em algum lugar secreto o pássaro encantado que se ama…
E foi assim que ela, cada noite, ia para a cama, triste de saudade, mas feliz com o pensamento: “Quem sabe se ele voltará amanhã….”
E assim dormia e sonhava com a alegria do reencontro.

Ruben Alves

Paul: I think we grossly underestimate our sorrows, in general. We always die of sadness, actually. Alice: You mean sadness is put inside us at birth?

Paul: Yes.

Alice: Like eye color?

Paul: Exactly. That’s why it needs our care, but others can do nothing. No one can do anything about eye color. Also, I think it would be fair to let you take care of your sorrow alone.

___________

Paul: I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t trust myself when I’m in love. I get nervous and say the wrong things or I start examining, evaluating, calculating what I say. I say “Think it will rain?” She responds, “I don’t know.” Then I wonder if she’s even interested. It all scares me to death. Yes, scared to death. A friend once told me having a fuck buddy is better than falling in love. I think he’s right. Rain makes flowers grow and snails happy. That’s a fact. But if a girl loves me she starts acting strangely, like asking me funny questions and pouting when I snap at her or saying things like “Think it will rain?” and I say “I have no idea” and she says “Oh” and gets all sad looking up at the California-blue sky. That makes me thank god it’s you, darling. This time it’s your turn.

____________

Anna: I know you love me. That’s the difference between us.

Paul: How can you know I love you? How can you be sure?

Anna: Before I followed you inside this hole, I lulled myself to sleep repeating “Paul loves me.” I said it out loud hundreds of times, like a prayer. Meaningless words. We hardly knew each other. But something came about, something established. I believed you loved me. I had faith in your love. This belief never left me. We can pray to be loved by only one person. It’s not the worst way to save a soul. You never prayed for my love. You never needed my love.

She’s out there.

He’s out there.

They sit at restaurants, have lonely meals, read magazines while having a temaki for dinner.
They ask for diet coke with ice, no lime please. They lick the yogurt lid. Sleep with old t-shirts. They hate wearing socks to bed, unless it’s too cold not to wear them.

They like going to the movies by themselves. Hate watching plays. Never care for television. Like going to small gigs and listening to music with their eyes closed.

They love, absolutely love traveling. Despise being tourists – they call themselves “travelers”. They dream of going to Japan, Botswana, Pensacola. Just because they like the name. Pensacola.

They write since they were kids, diaries, stories, poems, lyrics. Never show anyone. But they have blogs and tumblrs and twitters and flickrs and blips and memes. They like to watch videos on vimeo, listen to new bands on myspace and read about technology and education and astrology and random wikipedia stuff. They love their friend’s shared items in google reader.

They both think things used to have a better design in the past and fantasize about being born in Paris in the 19th century or maybe being teenagers in London in the 60s. Or painters from the 15th century.

They both have been in way too many serious relationships and like being sincere about their feelings and calling when they want to call and not calling when they don’t want to. They enjoy witty sms exchange and quotable gtalk chats. Unexpected e-mails are the favourite ones.

Once she was coming back from a party and stopped at MacDonald’s, 4am, to buy some ice-cream.

He was sitting there with some friends, having a Cheddar McMelt.

That was the only opportunity they ever had to meet each other. She even glanced at him, at his cute round glasses and messy hair and thought he was kinda attractive. But then she left. He didn’t even see her. They were never in the same spot again.

John Givings: You want to play house you got to have a job. You want to play nice house, very sweet house, you got to have a job you don’t like.
——
John Givings: Hopeless emptiness. Now you’ve said it. Plenty of people are onto the emptiness, but it takes real guts to see the hopelessness.
——
April Wheeler: Tell me the truth, Frank, remember that? We used to live by it. And you know what’s so good about the truth? Everyone knows what it is however long they’ve lived without it. No one forgets the truth, Frank, they just get better at lying.
——
April Wheeler: Look at us. We’re just like everyone else. We’ve bought into the same, ridiculous delusion.
——
Frank Wheeler: I want to feel things. Really feel them.