There she was, nervous like when she just a little girl. Of course she was nervous; she hadn’t seen him in fifty years. His family had moved to her neighborhood when they were about fifteen years old and, from the moment she saw him, with his blond curly hair and his dark blue eyes, she knew what love was. At first he didn’t seem to notice her; in fact it was like if she was invisible. All he cared about was hanging out with the boys. Not until she turned eighteen, and her body developed turning her into a beautiful young woman, did he look at her. Yes, she had been beautiful once. But now she was old, with wrinkles all over her face, hiding her dark brown eyes.

There was a time when he fell in love for her. First he asked her to take her home from school and then he started carrying her bags. Eventually, he wrote her love letters. Everything was new, everything so magic.

But her older brothers noticed them and told her parents, and they forbade her from seeing him without further explanation. He was simply not good for her. She did not understand that and, what had been magical became secret. For the first time, she lied to her parents, which she did not regret, not even for a moment. He was the first boy ever to touch her, to kiss her, to hold her. Their love was intense yet quiet, strong yet smooth. Sometimes they went for a walk in the woods and they would talk for hours; other times conversation was not needed, as higher matters would arise.

Then, one day, his entirely family moved away. Just like that, without previous notice, without a last kiss, without long last promises of return. ‘They were bloody communists’, she listened her father saying. What were communists, daddy? ‘There is no need for you to know it. They are not good people, they are evil.’ But how could her lover, that gentle boy, be evil? That made no sense. She was grounded, when her parents discovered she had been lying. She was grounded for weeks, no months, but she did not mind. She cried, she cried a lot, but in silence. Her father would not let her suffer inside the house.

She did not know where he had gone. He had just vanished from the surface of the earth, so she started writing him letters. At first, she asked him for answers. Who was he? Who were they? Where did he go? What was communism? Then, as she grew up, she started to understand all those reasons. But there was one thing she did not understand: what did love had to do with such matters? She sent all the letters without a destination. The old post man always asked the same question, but she simply did not know the answer. She just had to send them; they were too heavy, and too dangerous, for her to keep them.

A few years later, she married a man who had business affairs with his father. Her parents thought it would be the best way for her to forget the despicable rat. She married a strong and very nice man, who treated her in the best way he could. He was a competent lover, and a loving father of four children: three boys and one girl. One of the boys died of tuberculosis when he was a child, and the rest of the children grew up.

They also got married with nice people and professional reasons made them change to other cities. The all family would get together for Christmas and, sometimes, summer vacations. The boys were loyal children, and turned out to be honest men. Real problems came when the girl grew up.

The girl considered herself to be an artist, and an artist could not develop her artistic skills among a wealthy middle class family. Her husband was shocked with those ideas and locked their daughter inside her room. So, she ran away. After several months, and one of the biggest police investigations in that region, they received a letter from her daughter saying that she was fascinated with communism, and that her intention was not to hurt them; she just had to live her life. And that was the last time they heard from her. Her husband did never recover from that loss. She was not family anymore and he forbade them to even mention the very existence of that ungrateful girl.

With her children abroad she started feeling very lonely in that old big house. Her husband was always working, but she knew what he was actually doing, perhaps with a younger, more beautiful woman. In the beginning, she suspected his secretary, but then, she realized he had several women following him. Yes, he was a handsome and successful middle aged man. She could easily understand his power over younger, ambitious women. But she was surprised when she was not jealous, not even sad. In fact, knowing it was a relief.

Not long ago her husband died. It was a heart stroke, and the doctors told her he did not feel any pain. He had died when he was leaving the house of a girl, with whom he had a professional meeting. Or so, that was what she was told. Was this man so powerful, that he even controlled the police? That did not matter. He was dead, and, for the first time in fifty years, she was free. And that made her afraid. What would she do with that unexpected freedom? She did have neither children nor grandchildren to take care of. She did not have friends, because her husband did not like her to leave home, except at Sundays, for Mass and an occasional tea at the Cafe Central.

(…)

On a winter rainy morning, several months after her husband’s death, she received a letter. ‘For you’ was the only written thing on the envelope. Reluctantly, she opened it and started reading. As she realized who the writer was, her heart beat faster, to the point she almost fainted. Her eyes became wet and her mouth very dry. Was he still alive? Yes, he was. Apparently, his family had been persecuted and, eventually, migrated. He was called for battle but he did not want to write about it. He was the father of two boys. There was not even one word about her wife. Was he married, or was he a widower like her? The letter ended with sincere condolences for the death of her husband, but how did he know? In a brief post scriptum he invited her for a coffee. If she were in agreement, then would meet precisely one month later at the Cafe Central, at 11 o’clock am.

Of course she wanted to see him. What would he look like, after all these years? Had time been pleasant with him, or had it been dreadful, like it had happened with her? Who was this young boy turned into an old man? After all these years could they be, once again, the young lovers they once had been?

(…)

One month after, she put on her best dress, a pair of pearl earrings from her mother and a black purse, almost empty. She looked tired, as she had not been sleeping for a month, so she was wearing subtle make-up.

She left the house, and calmly headed towards the place he had told her. She was forcing herself not to run, but she was anxious just like a passionate woman that is about to rediscover her sweetheart. She confirmed twice that the letter was in the purse. It had been at her bedside during all that time, and it had been read dozens, perhaps hundreds of times. She memorized the letter, its smell, his handwriting, and even the paper weight. She knew the verbs he used, the adjectives he preferred, and the sweet way he used to address her.

She entered the Cafe, sat in the corner table and asked for a green tea with herbs. She avoided the central tables, where she used to sit with her husband. He liked to be seen, to be the center and to tell jokes to all his friends, but she preferred to be discrete. Today she did not want to be seen, actually. She was feeling guilty, more like a guilty pleasure, like when she was forbid to date him.

After a couple of minutes a man passed through the heavy wooden door. It was him, she had no doubts. He was taller than she could remember, and stronger. It was him, she could easily see, but at the same time that old man could not be the little boy she was once in love with. She could not remember his face, or his smell.

He looked at her, recognized those dark brown eyes and immediately smiled at her. As he approached her, the anxiety increased. Her body was electric, more than ever, more than she could remember. And it was heavy; she could not move one single finger. She had the feeling that she was glued to that nineteenth century chair.

His voice was deep and the accent different from what it used to be, maybe because of the time he had been in exile. The expression in his eyes was liquid. He spoke in a calm, steady voice, as if he was tired of the world. She was not paying much attention to the words coming out of his wrinkled mouth; she just could not take her eyes out of him. Who was he, whom had he became? Time had treated him kindly, he was so lovely. She had an urgent will to kiss him, to feel his taste, to touch her body even over those heavy winter clothes.

‘I’ve noticed you are drinking tea already’ – he said playfully, just like he used to do when he talked about her hair. ‘I’m afraid I will have to order something as well. Where is that waitress?’ He called her, with his finger in the air, and she noticed his strong arm, full of scars. Perhaps he had been burned, or torn to the bone. She felt an incomprehensible desire to treat him, to give him comfort.

‘Hello miss, I want a glass of whisky, old and strong, just like this old man in front of you.’ He used an even deeper tone in his voice, making him more serious. ‘Oh and another tea like the one this lady is drinking please’. She thanked him, but she did not need another tea; the cup was still full. ‘It is not for you Brigitte, it is for my wife. She is outside, trying to park the car. Since my accident, the doctors say I am not able to drive a car, can you imagine? I wonder if they think I do not please my wife as well. But she insists on fulfilling the promise I made to the doctor, so she is in charge of that old machine now. I feel such a useless old man. She is also from near here, you know?’.

But her mind was thinking too quickly for that, almost exploding in fact. So, he was married. What was she doing there then? What did he want from her? As these questions arose inside her neurotic brain, she felt betrayed, lonely, pulled out of that body, like a soul when it leaves a dead corpse. And, above that, had he brought her wife to meet her? She could not say a word. ‘Has the cat got your tongue? We have not seen each other for fifty years, and now you do not speak?’

A woman entered the Cafe, but the sunlight was hiding her face. Apparently she was much younger than her, maybe blond. She was looking to the other part of the establishment.

‘Where are you looking at? Oh it is my wife! In here, just turn around and come meet this special lady.’

When the woman turned his face towards the voice of her husband, she felt her heart shatter, like a frozen glass thrown into a concrete wall. The woman standing in front of her was his daughter.

Creedance Clearwater Revival - Chronicle

Down on the corner

Hello, my name is Grover, and I want to live forever. Or, at least, to become a good writer, which is, in fact, pretty much the same thing. I use words to catch the world in one frame, since the beginning of time, my time. Words are my wisdom, my question and my doubt. They are the most sincere way to describe myself, and to discover you. But what do I say when there is not a word to reveal this that I am feeling? How can I refer to the unpronounceable expression I read in your eyes? What does that subtle touch in your lips mean? What can I say when there is nothing to be said? Am I condemned to silence? I began to die since the day I was born. My body is bigger than before, and my eyes more tired than ever. But I know that the word is becoming stronger, sometimes even stronger than me.

That´s what people do. They fall and then, eventually, rise up, with the certainty that they will never fall for that trick again. And that is precisely when the illusion restarts. There is no magic in it, only illusion that may bring us comfort or even happiness, if we really start to believe in it.

There are certain things in life we grab with all our strength, desiring they will never end, wishing they fulfill our hope that forever actually exists. But the strength blinds us, precisely until the moment we realize they are not there anymore. In fact, we then understand they were not there in the first place. Was it a dream, a parallel world, where Alice fights against the Queen of Hearts? Is the pain of the discovery more real than the warm feeling we once had?

Maybe that is what faith it is all about. Maybe it is hope who orchestrates this illusion.

Her mother wanted her to become a doctor. Surgery like her grandfather, or Pediatrics. But her father pushed her to Law School. She could work with him, or fly even higher, and become a judge, a politian, or something else. After all, he thought, a lawyer is the right man for almost every job. In this case, the woman, her daughter. She was the best student in her class in high school, and repeated that success in college, one of the best in the world, or so they said. Whenever she came home, proudly with an A in her hand, her parents thanked cordially, but warned her that she did not fulfilled more than her duty. Her life was one large duty, and she fulfilled it perfectly, like a machine: without a soul, without a feeling, without tasting the winnings, and crying the losses. She had never lost, because one cannot lose if one loves not, one cannot be defeated if one does not participate in the war in the first place, and, eventually, she became one of the best lawyers ever to exist. But, apparently, never too good for her father. She was ruthless, daring and calculating, and she had never been caught off guard. After clearing entries and ruin families, she found Politics, just like her father had dreamt. It was a shiny world, full of people full of themselves, and she thought she truly belonged in that place. She discovered she could speak to the crowd, and that power made her horny. She became really powerful, almost like if she owned the impossible, or if she reached the stars. But what she didn’t realized is that it is impossible to reach the stars without dreaming of them long before. And she never stopped for one minute to answer the question her parents never asked her when they pulled her out of her enchanted world: that what she really wanted was to be a ballerina, like the ones she used to read in fairy tales, long before she knew what the Constitution was.

Sometimes, she thinks about being a man. She always wanted to be a boy, but no one asked her about her desires. She tries to hide her perfect breasts, but it is very hard. It’s hard to hide who you really are. She thinks about her blond and curly hair. Maybe she will shave it, just like boys do, when they go to the army. Her mother taught her how to make up, which she does perfectly. Her soft skin disturbs her, when she thinks about those big, dry, rough hands of her father, back to the times when they lived in the farm. She loved that harsh man, though he was not her real father. She usually stared at him for hours, watching him cut firewood. She followed him to the barn, and helped him take care of the animals. Two cows, three sheep and a white horse called Starlight. She waited for the big man, as he washed his sweaty body, filled with strong muscles. His arms were darker than the rest of the hairy body. Usually he spoke very rarely, preferring the silence, and she accepted it. But sometimes, when the day had been good, he would look at her, a small girl, happy as the free wind, with a strange, yet intense look. Some years before, her mother had fallen from the old well by the river, and her spine had broken like a dead leaf when it is bruised. Since then, she had spent all her days in bed, like a forgotten vegetable, till it rots. She was a rotten woman. So, when the man looked at her, he would see a poor girl, similar to her rotten mother. The hair was similar, so were the eyes and the mouth. Even the voice reminded him of her. He was getting old, but still felt the strength in that forbidden zone, below the navel. And there she was: always curious, always smiling, and always happy. He was kind to her, like a father cares about a daughter. She didn’t know that his warm body against her had a name. She didn’t know that his male breath, a mixture of grass and chewing tobacco, was forbidden. She didn’t know that there were names for all those things he taught her, for the world she discovered in him. Not until someone saw them, and called him a rapist. Not until her neighbors called her witch, and accused her of enchant that poor man. Not until the policemen took her, and that old judge forced her to live in an orphanage, as if she were alone in the world. The old nuns accused her of witchcraft and wanted to purify her. They beat her with strong wooden sticks, leaving scars of the size of snakes. They said that girls should not show up like that, that women are sin. All that she wanted was to be a boy, free like those boys which swan naked in the river, on those hot summer afternoons. Now, the boys say she is like Norma Jean, when she became Marilyn. And that is painful to her. Sometimes she thinks what it would be like to have been born a man. All that she wanted was to be a boy.

THE PAST PERFECT, THE PRESENT CONTINUOUS AND THE NEVER WANTED FUTURE

How did you get here? You come every night, without previous notice, without even permission, and you enter. You wait until I’m alone in my bed, my eyes closed and my mind opened, and you stay.

Who are you? Are you my nightmares? Aren’t we supposed to be afraid of them? You come naked, faceless, all covered in smoke and dust. Are you some strange gods, I don’t believe in? Are you the monsters of my past, of the places I have not been yet? Or are you coming to talk about the present, this insensitive vacuum, which is everything that I feel? Even though, I’m not afraid.

What do you want? You don’t speak and it seems you have nothing to say. Do you think I find the silence awkward? Believe me, it is better this way.

Are you those strange creatures, full of habits I do not know, that I like to call myself? Are you my alter-egos, the supreme condemnation of what I believe in? Are you my fears, human specters with no name, no soul and no spirit?

Oh please, do come in! Welcome.








> These photos are part of the work Dust, made by Olivier Valsecchi (http://www.bdejanted.com).

THOSE DARK EYES OF YOURS

This lady was a dancer. That’s what she had been doing for all her life. That and smoking Cuban cigars, Double Maduros as she did in Cuba, back to the time when she was just a small kid.

The first time I saw her was in a Latin club in Berlin. It was Tuesday, the Rumba night, and some of my Colombian friends wanted to teach me las danzas mas calientes. Apparently, Rumba was one of them.

There are many Latin clubs in Berlin, hot spots in the cold immensity of that flat city: the Salsa club, the Forró club, the Tango club, the Merengue club, well there is one for each dance. And when one enters one of this clubs, it is like entering in another world, full of exotic people dancing in such a way, that one finds it impossible among the typical German’s frigidity.

And among all those dancers, there she was. Small, yet dominant, like if all the lights were pointing at her. The skin was dark and wrinkled, but the expression in her eyes was intense, perhaps even intimidating. She was dancing smoothly, but in a very safe way, like if those steps had been born inside her. I was staring at her, and, suddenly, she was alone on the dance floor. There were just the two of us, and I was feeling like a small child looking directly to a giant. It was like she was commanding the great orchestra, ordering the notes of that melody from his feet.

The music stopped without even noticing it. The couples separated, and the dance floor became empty. I followed her with my eyes, as she went graciously to the bar. She whispered to the bartender something I didn’t understand, and he served her a glass full of rum.

“It’s our turn. Let’s move guys!” I was nervous, though my date was an amazing dancer. “Don’t be nervous. Usually the man leads, but this time I will lead you, so just follow my moves.” The music began and it was so much more difficult than I thought. The dance floor became almost instantly over-crowded and we had to dance really close. Those two or three minutes of synchronized movements became painful, and especially embarrassing. Eventually the girl decided I was a lost case and lost the interest. The Latin-American girls chose their men by the quality of the dance. And my feet were made of heavy steel.

The music finally reached its end and I kindly refused another one, so I dropped out of the spotlight and went to the bar, in the shadows. And at that very moment I felt a strong hand holding mine.

“Do you dance, mister?” The voice was deep, almost masculine, but with a sensual warm touch. The accent was far from perfect, but something told me that was her intention. I turned my head and there she was. Even smaller than I thought, older than she seemed initially. The eyes were so dark and so strong that they made it difficult to look directly. I apologized for my lack of skills and, with a defeated look in my face, told her I intended to go to the bar.

“Are you a quitter, young man?” That old woman was challenging me! What could I say? That I wanted to find a hole so that I could hide myself, or at least, that I wanted to go out of there, as quick as possible?

“There’s no way you can hide from me here. I know this place like the palm of my old hand.” She was reading my mind. Who was this woman, smiling at me as if she had known the whole world? “Do you know what your problem is? You think too much. Do not think, just feel.” As she said this, she put her strong harm around my waist and dragged me back to the dance floor.
“I’m sorry madam, but I don’t think I can dance. That girl over there tried hard, but it didn’t work. I think I have a lack of coordination.” I was trying to be polite, as the delicate situation demanded. Her body was warm, and it reminded me of the cosy lap of my grandmother.

“You have a very nice voice, young man. But right now, just shut up!” Her eyes were amazing, two black spheres full of energy. She closed them and let herself go with the flow. Her body was strong, as her voice suggested from the beginning. And then, I too closed my eyes and let me go. I'm not sure what actually happened to me, because, at the moment after, the music had already stopped. I opened my eyes, and she was looking at me, with a big smile in her face.

“See? Just feel it, and you will dance.” She left me and walked away, towards an old and dusty couch. She sat down heavily, as if she had never rested in her life, and lit the cigar already in her mouth. I wanted to know everything about her, her name, her age, where she was coming from, what she was doing there.

“Can I sit here, next to you?” She didn’t answer, as she was more concerned with cigar smoking. I sat.

“I’m Cuban, and do not ask my age. I’ve been living here since I was twenty. Why? Well, my dear, for the reason we all come here in the first place: naïve passion.” So, what had happened to that passionate love? “The passion became love, the love became violence, and so one night I just ran away. I didn’t want to go back to my village. That’s no place for a fugitive girl. And even if I wanted, I didn’t have enough money. So I decided to stay here. I cried for hours, days, even months, until one hot summer day, when there were no more tears in my eyes. That’s why they are so dark, and that’s why I have so many wrinkles around them. They are dry eyes.

“They seem nice to me. I’ve always liked dark eyes. And they are truly intense.” I didn’t know when to stop. I just wanted to say I was fascinated.

“Oh, that’s because I’m very strong, I’ve inherited it from my mother’s side. Here they call me la mujer de fuego. Do you know what that means?” I told her I was Portuguese, and all the Portuguese understand Spanish.

“Are you Portuguese? So you certainly know other strong women, right?” I do, in fact. They have always amazed me, though our relations have not always been peaceful. She laughed.

“Of course not. A strong woman usually is a problem for a man. Because men think they have the power to lead, and they forget the reason why they lead. It’s like the Rumba. When you were with that beautiful girl over there, your problem was that you thought you had to lead her. But if you understand that she is your support, then everything will be fine. In real life it is exactly the same, no matter what.”

And that’s how I learned the Rumba, in that cold winter evening.

THE WOMAN NEXT TO ME

Yesterday I met one of the most interesting women I've ever had the privilege of knowing. One of those people we only see in the cinema, but yesterday she magically appeared before me.

I was sitting at a table in one of those typical cafés of Lisbon, lost in all the excitement characteristic of a late afternoon and completely absorbed in a piece of paper, in which I was writing something. Suddenly, and without noticing it, an eighty-year old woman sat at the table next to me.

“Do you usually write in cafés, young man?” I was confused. Not only because that’s not something I usually do, but also because I didn’t look at what I was doing as true writing. Just a few random thoughts, disjointed and impulsive.

“I did that for many years. Right now I don’t need paper anymore, I keep all inside here.” She took her hand to the forehead. In front of her was a small cup with black coffee and a small cake of puff pastry.

“Can I ask your age, young man?” I’ve just turned twenty-seven, I answered. I never liked this question. For some people I’m too young, for others, just too old. And on top of that, I did not feel free to satisfy my curiosity in this case.

“You look younger, I’m telling you.” This was the first compliment of the conversation. I like to be praised, and this one was particularly good, coming from an old being, yet very decent. She seemed wise.

“During my life I wrote a lot, and especially a lot of crap. More in German than in Portuguese, I think." Okay, I admit, I was extremely curious. I asked her why.

“Oh, I thought you would never ask!”, she says proudly. “I’m half German, half Portuguese.” I then revealed her I also had lived in Berlin for one year. I never liked to end in second place, when it comes to self-praise.

“I know it very well. It is an ugly city, even aggressive, but still wonderful. And, above all, very rich, all sewn.” I wouldn’t have said it better. Who knows Berlin has a relationship between love and hate, although it might be rare to happen between people and cities.

“I love the Germans, so spiritual, introspective and philosophical. Do you know any German philosophers? Are you familiar with Kant, Nietzche, Heidegger?” I’ve studied the last one, I answer timidly. “Oh so you know Heidegger? How come? Do not tell me you are an Architect!” I chose to be honest, and I told her that was true, even when I wasn’t having the best feeling.

“I know plenty of them. Strange people, very charming though. And very sensitive. Are you sensitive?” I didn’t know what to respond, I even blushed. She understood the red tone of my skin, as she changed the subject.

“So young, yet already graduated. I have three degrees, you know: the first one was in Advanced Studies in English and German, of course. I traveled extensively throughout Europe to complete my studies. I know French as well, but that’s another story, much more interesting!” My spontaneous laugh made her look directly to me. Behind the lens of the glasses, her blue eyes revealed the complicity of being understood.

“Well, after that I took Economics and Finance. I always thought that if we know Economics, we are able to help the World. And finally I attended Law School, because I was tired of being cheated. I finished it last year” She passed her all life studying, I thought out loud. “Not all my life son. Just until today!” I became bothered by my reflection.

“But I worked a lot, as well. In big corporations, in Public institutions and I was a teacher for eighteen years.” I noticed teaching was important for her. Once more, her eyes were sincere.

“You know, as teacher I was able to understand that we should not require more from people than what they can give us. But we can always demand more from us to help those people.” I did not understand what she meant, but she carried on. “For instance, once I told my students Hitler had socialist ideas. Some people were very disturbed. Later, I discovered that two girls from that class were orphans from the Great War.” I finally understood what was going on there. I too, met some of the sons and daughters of Germany. Not from the War, but from the Separation. Some of them saw an orange for the first time when they were eighteen years old.

“But you know that the political party led by Hitler, the Nationalsozialismus, was concerned to rescue Germany from misery! I have never understood how, in the midst of such people as the Germans, was hidden a man with that ferocity and meanness.” I tell her that the main problem about the Germans, are themselves. I read this in some book, though I do not admit that. I wanted to seem smarter.

“That’s true, young man! The German people are odd, armor-plated. They never treat us as a friend, but an acquaintance. Das ist nicht mein Freund, das ist mein Bekannte. But if we break the armor, there stands a friend for life." I recognized that. It took me time to make friends in Berlin. But I eventually succeeded.

“The Germans have difficulty in being happy. They are a restless people. Are you happy, young man?" There it was, the question about happiness. It stalks me like a vulture, ready to devour my stomach to the minimum setback. I told her that I have moments of happiness.

“Well, of course. Did you think happiness was a continuous line? It’s a line, of course, but dashed. Do you know my trick to be happy? Finding the pleasure among small things. Forget the great idealisms, they are cumbersome and lead to frustration. We cannot change the World all at once. But we can have little pleasures every day.” My eyes glazed in hers, and that should have bothered her. She stood still and looked at me. Then, smiled.

“I like talking with you. You don’t talk much, but you seem to understand what I’ve been telling you. What’s your name?” I answered. “You are named after a Saint, you knew that?” I said I did. “You are a Catholic as well?” I said I had been. “But you have got faith, that I can tell. Religion does not matter. What matters is believing, which sometimes becomes really hard.” I know that well, thank you. I know that well.

“Well, young Tiago, I’m going home now. Bach expects me. I come here everyday, at this time. This is the time of doom.” She laughs and approaches to whisper: "You know that this cafe is the cheapest in the neighborhood? I have already compared the prices of everything. The cakes are also smaller, though." I see the whisper as a secret, and I decide not to comment.

“Please do comeback one of these days. We have a lot to talk about.” She looked to the old mirror and fixed her hat, with a colored feather on top. Then, she left.

I didn’t have time to answer that I wanted to come back. Maybe I will.

WE ARE ALL ALONE

Last week I attended a workshop on "How to improve in Architecture.” A tough one, I might say. Besides having realized that the path will be difficult in every possible way, I had an epiphany at the time of the lecture on Communication Skills.

At the beginning of the lecture I was introduced to the fabulous world of the Laws of Communication, created by a Finnish gentleman who goes by the name Wiio (not to be confused with WII). And what does this researcher of human communication, a specialist in communication skills in business, tells us? Well, basically informs us that we are completely alone, and, as much as we try, we'll always be frustrated in the approach.

This is, indeed, cruel, and it had already crossed my mind. But, when this comes out of an absolutely beautiful woman’s mouth, it leaves us all sadder. At least, I am.

Wiio presents us with seven Laws of Communication, similar in every single way to Murphy’s famous laws:

1 Communication usually fails, except by accident.

1.1 If communication can fail, it will.
1.2 If communication cannot fail, it still most usually fails.
1.3 If communication seems to succeed in the intended way, there’s a misunderstanding.
1.4 If you are content with your message, communication certainly fails.

(As I said, basically we are all alone, which does not surprise me at all. And if you think you are being understood, make no mistake: you are not.)

2 If a message can be interpreted in several ways, it will be interpreted in a manner that maximizes the damage.

(As my grandmother used to say, silence is golden. My japonese friend Mikuri, on the other hand, would say: “If you have nothing good to say, the best thing is to keep your mouth shut.” Where are you Miko?)

3 There is always someone who knows better than you what you meant with your message.

(This is kind of offensive, though I remember it well, when someone once told me “if you don’t see anyone more stupid than you in a room, then you are the dumbest of all. Been there, done that.

4 The more we communicate, the worse communication succeeds.

(I’m perfectly aware that this gentleman is talking about business corporations. But I’m starting to suspect that he might be talking about personal relationships. Be afraid, be very afraid.)

5 In mass communication, the important thing is not how things are but how they seem to be.

(See girl? The looks are all that counts in the middle of a large mass.)

6 The importance of a news item is inversely proportional to the square of the distance.

(Now I finally understand how the media work! Who cares about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, when you can see Cristiano’s new hair-style? Just solve your little problem, enough is enough.)

7 The more important the situation is, the more probably you forget an essential thing that you remembered a moment ago.

(Like, for instance, when you forgot to tell me that you were going to get married, the day after I slept in your bed. Small detail.)

Well, my friends, do not worry, that's not all that bad. We are alone, all right. Probably we will never make us understand, not even with our closest friends. Not to mention our family, those people will never understand us for sure. But, hey, cheer up! If we are alone inside an isolated capsule, we’re free to do whatever we desire: burp in the middle of the street, farting wherever we want, walking naked on the street, on those really hot Summer days or simply not show up for work. We are alone, aren’t we? So who dares to criticize us?

By some strange coincidence, or not, some days ago a friend of mine told me about SIGNS, a short-film, a Lion winner at Cannes 2009, directed by Patrick Hughes. A fabulous essay about loneliness, caused by the lack of communication skills. A comic adventure between two losers who, within their bubble, find a fabulous form of dialogue. Thrilling.

I would love this would happen to me. Some day. Fuck Wiio, that's not even a name.

MY YELLOW BOOK

You come late. You recognize this as a fact, so natural to you, with the occasional laugh that melts me. You don’t apologize, mostly because you know I hate the concept. You came because I asked you; you came like you always do when I ask you.

You are all dressed up, as usual, but with that small detail in disarray that makes you so unique. You start talking almost instantly. About you, your week, about bad things and better ones. You always talk too much, and always too fast. Some might not like that in you, but it distracts me, it carries me to your special world, so much richer than mine. You talk too much, without even noticing I’ve been crying. Or, if you have, you choose not to comment.

You ask me if I’m happy. You are always direct and that intimidates me. I don’t like to talk about me. You decide to change the question, and ask me how I am. I shrug my shoulders. You don’t seem to be affected by my silence and carry on. I light a cigarette, just to listen carefully to your monologue. You forgot to ask for the coffee and I do it for you. The cup must be filled and the coffee very hot, I know that well.

“Do you like my hair?” I respond with a yes, though I have not noticed yet. It’s shorter, fresher. You smell good. Cinammon mixed with fresh flowers. The coffee arrives and you steal me one cigarette. You smoke whenever you drink coffee, while insisting that you stop smoking. I think you shouldn’t, you are so attractive when you do it.

You notice my black moleskine, under my wrists. I think you had noticed it before, right when you sat in front of me. You catch me distracted and you grab it. You browse it like a magazine, without looking at me, knowing I’m nervous whenever you do that. But curiosity gets the better.

You make small talk about some random thoughts, but you get no answer back. I have no answers to give you. Answers require decisions and, at this moment, I’m not able to do that.

You reach the last page and close the notebook. You return it to me and, for the first time, look into my eyes. You ask, without previous notice: “Have you lost the will to live?” I answer it negatively. Well, actually I don’t know what to answer.

You grab your wallet, always full, and start searching for something. “This is my yellow book”. I grab it, mixing reluctance with profound curiosity. I open it, and realize you too write for a deposit, hoping to have something to grab to. I digress for a while just to watch your handwriting carefully, always inclined to the left side. I read some sentences, focusing on the music in some of the words. “It is my exorcism. I dump it, without even thinking about the content. I imprison the words, without even trying to give them a meaning. Also you should try."

You go as fast as you came. You never stay longer than needed, just the necessary to turn my life upside down. I stand there, lonely, feeling homesick. That yellow little book of yours disturbed me. Its power of absorption, like a sponge over your concealed suffering. I want to have one, as well.

I get home and turn on the computer. I’m ready to write this story. What happened to me, what binds me to your flesh, intrinsically, the words that came out of your mouth. I love your mouth. I enter my blog, without even noticing. It has become a habit.

I read my last posts, without paying attention. I don’t consider them extremely good, but they’re not bad as well. They represent me. My blog is, in fact, my exorcism, my much-needed process of catharsis. My yellow book.

THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE REST OF US

Those who watched, and let themselves be enchanted by the animation movies of the fabulous world of Disney, divided, at some stage in their lives, the world in two parts: the good and the bad. I was one of them.

The greatest achievement of Disney has been precisely it: to simplify our World, and, at some point, our very own existence. Throughout our childhood, and, above all, when we become adults.

Who has not cried when Bambi's mother dies? Or when little Simba is expelled from the Kingdom? Or when Dumbo is separated from its mother? Who has never felt hate when the wicked queen poisons Snow White with that apple with a delightful aspect? Or when Cinderella’s stepmom locks her in her room? Well, who ever felt it, had a childhood as filled as mine.

I’ve always loved stories, and during most part of my childhood, I’ve always wanted to believe they were true. That it was possible to give life to a boy made of wood. That rats, cats, dogs and foxes were speaking beings. Or even that mermaids lived in some kingdom, lost in the ocean.

But there is always a time when we start to see the world in different ways, with more (or less) colors than those belonging to good and evil. With no apparent reason, we begin to understand that world is not just those enchanted stories and, due to that fact, some of us simply stop watching Disney movies. However, that has not happened to me, yet. I have never stopped watching those movies, and I’ve never stopped feeling something special after watching them for the 134th time. I can still remember parts of the dialogs, not to mention the soundtracks. Some of them are, even today, included in the playlists on my mp3 player. And I think that happens with a good deal of people out there.

When I grew up (a difficult process I must add), I began to understand the movies from different perspectives. Suddenly I could no longer identify myself with the good fellows, and I could understand some of the bad ones too, somehow. I started getting angry at the perfect world of heroes and to have compassion for the miserable world of evil.

Maybe, I thought, maybe Snow White’s evil queen is just an old lady who does not accept her age, having been deeply depressed when a little, insignificant, princess usurped her kingdom. Someone younger and, imagine that, prettier than herself!

Perhaps Cinderella’s stepsisters, uglier, fatter, shorter and dumber than she, have all the right to be jealous with her true love with that insipid prince, with a crystal shoe fetish (also no one has yet explored the many fetishes that Disney has been encouraging since the beginning!)

And what about Captain Hook, who sees his plans constantly devastated by a bunch of rude kids, with no manners and no parents to punish them, from time to time? Who never lost control with a naughty kid, please throw the first stone to Hook.

I don’t consider myself to be an especially good person. Nor an especially mean one. Not even someone with specifically elaborated fetishes, though I might have some. Having that in mind, in which enchanted story do I fit in? Am I the blond, good looking, tall and naïve Hercules? I’m not blond, nor tall and, least of all, naïve. Ok, I’m not a bad looking guy, but I’m not the teen star kind of guy.

Perhaps I’m more like the monster who holds the Beauty within the castle. Well, he’s more like one of those guys hiding inside its shell, having been hurt throughout his life. But I've never been so lost in my life, and not even as psychotic as he is.

Maybe I'm just like Wall-e, some strange being alone in the planet, without having any clue about my role here.

As I was thinking about this and other things, I realized that Disney created a world that is so precious, exactly because it simplifies us, without necessarily reducing us. No one is as perfect as Sleeping Beauty, nor as fearless as Pocahontas, nor as stupid as Goofy, nor as boring as Mickey Mouse (well, actually I know a couple of guys as boring as Mickey, but let's not deepen the subject). We are just imperfect sequels of all these stories. Like Alladin 3 and a half, in which the character has already won new addictions due to the new position acquired by marriage and the Genius of the lamp is even fatter and grumpier. Or like Lion King 10, in which Simba is already a grandparent, smokes, is a recovering alcoholic, has a carload of children who just want to usurp the throne and only thinks of girls younger than Nala.

Well yes my friends, we are the rest, we are those that Disney never wanted to portray in its stories. We are the lost boys of Disney.