domingo, 3 de agosto de 2008


I wouldn't have gone as far as to say that you are a dream come true. Just a simple maze, a as time goes by stuff that stuffs my face with stiff suggestions I am a santified saint in swindler desguises. Leave me alone and pull all the stops to prevent this poisonous venom from reaching the last vain in my vanity valley . Pull all yourself together and shove off. You are an unwanted spirit that have been tormenting my soul and hackneying my mind. The rhythms are still here, the blisters are still here, but the capoeira circle has gone a bit too heavy for me, I have to learn more movements and fend for myself, there comes the ludicrous kick, instead of shunning from it with a boisterous dance, I go right to it, as if the pain would do me good and help me to transcend to another level: spirit level? I have to have a minimal knowledge of a joiner to build my house, out of the fire and out of the woods, out of my indentity. Who is me? I hold sway to the idea I am still a child chancing my arm at living, having a stab at dither and blather about a shadow of a dream once broken. Yes, this is the line of a song, I own up to confessing I am abject in my povery, but I am going to set my heart into constructing the little me, the small me that will grow and become one. Is that possible. Indeed! I am me, you know, Viviane, who writes poetry, who loves piano and classical music. Nice to meet you. Yes, I am Pulga, the flea that has been learning the hidden secrets of capoeira. My pleasure! Yes, I am Miss Annunciação, the one that works like a dog to pay her bills. Enchanted. But, far and more important, I am what I am: love and hate, body and soul, immaculate temple of pleasure and pain. I am me, do you want me? Would you care for me and take me in your arms? Would you understand the tasteless song of the blood mixed with the berimbau tune and rotten gravel? I highly believe you wouldn't. But that is immaterial, you see. Much of a mutchness that munch my stomach and punches my face. It's refreshing being punched. But it is also nice being on top of the hill in the beginning of the fall. Am I going to have wings? Always! I am ICARUS.

Um comentário:

The tone disse...

Dear Icarus!
After reading your text I could realize that although the assonances and aliterations keep on our minds, as a choir of angels the rest, the miss, and the flea are almost gone... you are penelope now and tomorrow, who? I guess you should unscramble this question and stop asking yourself who you are... you are who and what you were and is yet-to-be...
Ask yourself how... not who... And keep on walking, flowing like a river with your chills and your curves and your friends who are here to refrain you from falling in case you get to close to the sun.