#41 not the end

i like to know the end.

i never quite anything. i always go all the way to the end because i need to know how it ends. there are only a couple of books that i started that didn't finished. now i remember an awful Nick Cave's book a friend gave me, she picked it up just by the author and i do love Nick Cave when he sings and he breaks my heart everytime, but sorry dear Raquel, i have no idea who told him he should right a novel. it was terrible, it was boring at times and it was painful to read sometimes but i kept on hoping for the final twist, for a good moment, a good sentence that made the time worth it. i didin't find it, but still i read it all the way to the end. i needed to, you know, how could i just accept not knowing how it ended? i could never.

they say curiosity killed the cat and i guess it will kill me eventually.

but sometimes the end is just "and then he said you have my email, right?" and you just go WHAT? this is the end? oh kid me not! tell me that there is a second season for this show! tell me that someone is writing part two, a crappy sequel no-one is going to watch! don't tell me that I'll have to live with this end! don't tell me that the rest of the story will only continue in my head! give me something more! please! tell me that after that he flew and the plane crashed, or that he went back to his ex-girlfriend, or that he started jogging or painting or something... tell me that she wrote him an email and he didn't answer because it ended in the spam box, but he still thinks about her from time to time, or that he saw the email and laughed and told his friends about that crazy girl back from his vacations... give me something more 'cos this end doesn't let me sleep at night.

people that write these final lines are just sadistic, that's what i think. they are mean twisted and crazy and i'd follow them anywhere just to know a little bit more of the story.

#40 no news from you on my my spam box

Sometimes I look for you under the bed.

I sometimes look for you in my spam box. It's just one excuse, another excuse, another believing that it's fate or destiny or something else that it's keeping us apart. You weren't there. But there was another cute boy telling me to loose up my hair 'cos that's how he likes it, that's how he remembers me. I always keep my hair up tight. I remember him saying, as he was leaving, you should wear your hair loose, always, it really looks good on you! I think I blushed - I didn't expect it, we hadn't talked for more than 15 minutes the day before, when I had, as usual, my hair on a bunny. But he didn't touch it, my dear, he didn't put his hand on it and said your hair is so soft looking me in the eyes and I didn't reply it's Gerês still on it. That was you. And it was your voice I wanted to hear on my my spam box and if it was your voice talking about my hair, I would loose it up right now, I would shake it like the girls on the comercials, and I would smile and lie again, it's the forest, or the seaweed or the water springs that live in my hair.


And because it's was not you, I don't know what answer, I don't even know if I should or do like you, take the compliment and continue with my life. So I'll just keep it as it is, as always, discret, up tight, saving me for boy troubles. And wear it loose only in my drawings or the next time your soft hands are around.

#39 the empty hours

I've always wondered what people do when nobody's watching.

What do people do when they are alone on a rainy Saturday in the middle of July?  Or any week day after work, when you arrive home and everything is clean? What do people do?

Do they talk with the cats? Open a bottle of wine? Watch Tv as if the world, the whole world, isn't on the other side of the window?

I know what I do, all the silly things I do, but I kind of wonder if these are the normal things to do - wine and cake and tea and drawings and cat and coffee (gOD I needed it) and writing and photographies and waiting for something else, for something big, that I don't even know what it is, to happen but it doesn't.

I'm pretty sure that there is a study on this, there is a study on everything these days, or a book... maybe one of those "what to do when you arrive home and you live alone and everything is clean for dummies", but I'm no dummie and after so many years doing the same things - cooking, washing the dishes, doing the laundry, planning life for two, now that I don't really feel like cooking, that I use one glass and one cup a day, now that the laundry is for one and can be done once a week, now that I don't even feel like planning my own life, these free hours just seem strange. I'm not complainning, I love having the house for myself, I love that I have time for the gym, and that I can eat something as simple as a salad or a pasta, I love that the house is always clean and shinning, and I love that I can plan my vacations just for me (museums and museums and cafés) but there are some hours, some moments, some free rainy days, that seem too much of another life.

Everytime I go for a cigarette in the balcony I check the buildings around. I check the flowerless balconies, the blinds closed, the flickering lights of tvs, occasionally someone else's cigarette break, but mostly closed blinds, people living in closed boxes and me wondering what are they doing in there and I wished I was living in Holland where I could actually see what do people do, the paintings on their walls, their family or lonely meals. I think that if I live in Holland I would take a walk at night, every night, just to see what do people do.

In those moments I would call you, my love. After the drawings, after the cake, after the plants, with the wine and the cat waiting for the bed, I would call you. And I'd tell you about my new plans, I'd tell you that rainned all day, I'd ask you about your day - you could tell anything, just think about your silly moment of the day - I'd tell you about my new underwear that I'm wearing just now and that the local news says that we'll have more riverside beaches next year.

I would call you on any subject in those moments, just to check on you, just so you could check on me. Isn't it what people do?

What do you do?

#38 home alone on a Friday night

In case anyone is wondering (and truely only because nobody is), I'm home alone on a Friday night, makeup on, wearing only fine underwear and a men's shirt, drinking Port wine.

Obviously, if anybody was really interested, I was wearing a plain t-shirt, jeans and snickers and I was out drinking with some friends, cos that what normal people do!

I do look good, anyway, and thank gOD there's  a mirror on the hall so can somebody see me ;)

#37 it's me by the shore, always me by the shore

I get scared sometimes. My ability to get inside things and leave this world is enormous, it's like jumping a cliff, it's like being on air in this gigantic fall where I can see the pine forest on the bottom, always at the same scary distance. Books, movies, music, I can always get out of this world and jump one character to another, feeling everything like it's on my skin.

I told you, my darling, didn't I? that I live in a world of my own, right? I told you that my reality is different, that I'm not happy with this system, with these people, with humanity and with the fact that there are no wild cats running free in our woods. And I told you that in my world, Adolfo is a lion and my apartment is a small house in the forest and my work is full of beautiful people. I think we had time for the reality discussion, the truth doesn't exist but in our eyes and each one of us can, activelly, select the truth we choose to see. I remember, we were by the river side and I asked you if a butterfly had just passed by in front of us, and I saw it and you didn't, and it was the high moment of my day, how could we have the same reality of the end of the day? You, always pragmatic, answered that you believe in truth, the absolute one, and that only our brains are to simple to understand it.

Well, I am, as always, getting away from the point. What I meant to tell, my sweet soft hands boy, is that I am scared. Yesterday spent the afternoon reading your "Kafka by the shore". At first I was so happy - how can a stranger, after one dinner and one afternoon, select me such a perfect book, how could you read me so well. It's not easy to choose books for me. My older sister, who knows me since before I was born, misses 50% of the times. My brother in law is very good at it and now I'm starting to think that he is a little like me on the inside. But you? When everything in your world is the opposite of mine, who's life story never gave you flowers, and ice-creams by the sea, who never had the possibility of being 8 and spending the whole afternoon on the room floor surrounded by books and watercolours, who could you be so perfect on your choice?

But then, my dear, I'm thinking it might to be too much for me. I'm getting inside of it to the point that after 5 minutes of reading I'm no longer here, like I am in Japan, and I'm Sakura (there is a translation note the first time her name appears - Sakura - Cherry, Cherry Blossom, Cherry Tree and I hear us, in the car, Air playing Cherry Blossom Girl and me telling you that I am cherry blossom girl and you looking at my right shoulder and understanding and me explaining that maybe that was not such a good idea and you asking the tattoo? and me saying that it was not the tattoo itself, but the symbol and you said yes, cherry blossoms are the symbol of death) and you Kafka and you Nakata, the loneliest boys away from home and yesterday, just around 5pm you killed Johnnie Walker and I was so scared that I run to the gym, took 2 classes - gluteus and abs followed by pilates - just to get myself together, put all the energy down to a level where I would be able to sleep without calling you for a hug.

#36 he lives

and this is when i start to get nervous!

#35 9 words

for spam reasons, he gave her the wrong email