I’m actually really impressed with this gymnastics photoshoot on the beach (date taken: 3/12/19)
I’m actually really impressed with this gymnastics photoshoot on the beach (date taken: 3/12/19)
Tamarindo, Costa Rica.
Seashore in the evening / 波の音だけ
Borkum - Germany - 07/03/20
“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.” ― Oscar Wilde
I spent last two months listening about the plane crash on the radio, crying so badly when they first claimed no survivors. First Jane died, then Amy died, then Maria died, and then, nameless hundred and eighteen passengers. Maria, my sister, would come live with me in Mexico before the big catastrophe happened - but it’s all gone now. She always said she knew she would die young, and did. On the day the plane crashed, the news begin to show the picture of plane falling in flames in about a thousand magazines; the president of America made a true tribute for the victims and the loved ones, the whole world was crying and then they’d finished the ceremony singing the national anthem. Not that it mattered much, really. There’s no news been chattered in the penny newspapers about the precious moments that the passengers lived. After all, there was none reverence for them when they were alive, they had to die to be praised. Everybody knew that they died, but nobody anywhere knew their names. I was not surprised either. They are awfully unjust. They know how useful catastrophe is for publication. Nowadays a plane crash will run to many editions. Every day the newspaper says all about it, I never even read them. Don’t even mention them to me. Things changing and two weeks later everybody forgot about the crash. But, as they say, you have to keep going. I also know that the shock of Maria’s death consolidated to my decision to go to Rio de Janeiro. My boyfriend it’s a native of Brazilian beaches. We own a small beach house South Zone of town, nearly a few minutes of Copacabana. I was always greedy for something new then I leaved Brazil but my boyfriend couldn’t live with me in Mexico because of his job, which is fine by me, really, but I got depressed after my sister died, so I thought I’d love to came back. In fact, he was with me at the funeral. Some kindred of mine would provide some drama along the funeral, by merely saying all the time that we have to live each day as if it’s our last (another recklessly optimistic people). I had to be an insincere and a dumb woman, a creature without love, to survive that funeral. That’s depressing, when somebody says “live each day as if it’s our last” in your sister’s funeral. I wonder who it was invent this quote. It was the most premature quote ever invented. Maria died young, but she lived intensely. No matter what they say or how much grief I feel I will never talk about my sister with pity, she never enjoyed self-pity. I am glad she lived, after all: Death is a part of life. On the other hand sacrifices are also. The last sacrifice that I made was that funeral. I had to give up someone that I love. And let go of someone that you love is a sort of bravery; when you know that it’s the right thing to do.
It is 12:10 in Mexico; I drove to the downtown airport. When I arrived the airport, the woman voice announcing countless flights, one after the other, coming and going, flying down beside the clouds and as I walked on I was lonely no longer. There, in the plane, one hour later, I was reclining in the chair trying to remember where I put my favorite picture of Maria — had no doubt missed it already. I knew exactly what picture I wanted to, and how clear, and vivid, and cruel that picture is for me, I remember everything. Maria was sat in our grandmother’s garden, and in front of her, on silvery baking cup, little cakes of crimson strawberry, she was happy as a child needs to be, that picture was taken on her days of “juice” where my grandma still dared to await that her life would be even more longer and her days even more prodigal, in order to never receded even on the loneliest Sunday and I must profess that I was quite annoyed at the thought of returning home. Still, I felt happy, in a sort of way. One Wednesday, after this summer, when Maria and I come back to Seattle, our grandmother was feeling chest pain, and there were pills and medicine all over her house, and everything was pretty depressing. She was sick enough to go to the ICU. They said she would die often till she did. It was almost nine o’clock, was on Sunday morning while church bells rang, I remember everything. It was very tragic, of course. I did not know what to do, or what to think. I made no answer at first, but remained quite still. Occasionally I heard men cry as long as the funeral ended, as other men drink red wine. There was a gloom over my father. I have forgotten that men cry too, my grandmother’s funeral had taught me that even men’s have a heart. Sometimes men just cry. I don’t exactly know what I mean by that, but I mean it. All the men’s of the town loved my grandmother, as a rule, they regarded her as a wise women, an active cause of that wasn’t exclusively her age, the reason was her maturity, even when she was just a little child, she was seasoned and that’s rare, I have known adults who acts like children all my life. She was never like that, I swear. She was not born a child, she was born old. She only became a child again when she was on the beach, running along the seashore with her feet dirty with sand, without fear of life, diving into the sea and being reborn again every time she put her head out of the water. Smiling because she does it well and in that particular moment she could be a child, forgetting that she would be old again. There was something in her soul that was pure, some tenderness that can make even empty men cry. There was so much in her that was delicate, so much in her that was noble. Our fathers used to like to go to Brazil with us quite frequently. They stopped going when she died. Brazil rather reminds my grandmother, I believe. The longer I think about her death, the more keenly I feel that whatever happened for our fathers when grandmother died is happening to me now that my sister died. In hope, as in the way I see things, the way I prefer to be in places that doesn’t reminds me her. Mexico reminds me Maria. Copacabana is the only place I ever really relax and give up. Emphatically, catastrophe is inevitable. Poets always die in plane crash. But this time, with me, the plane didn’t crash.
When I arrived in Rio de Janeiro, about eight o'clock at night, the only thing I could see was the charming street near Leblon, in the busy night at the purple light; Rio was pervaded with a melancholy beauty. I assumed the sun probably was warm in the noon and now the gray eye of the night sky occurred to turn red as a pomegranate, and the dispassionate cariocas clamorously passing by me on the streets, as usual, half moved like a Paris doll the whole way. My heart melted. Noiselessly, I tried don’t have to remind me of how things were in the old days, when I lived here. Then I saw the Christ the Redeemer statue at distance on the tall column, and the statue of Jesus Christ, inevitably, still the same. Numb, white and inconsequential. Prophetically hardened to the consistency and polish of concrete, on every side of him filled of transient people around, always with open arms to all that is southern. The Christ the Redeemer wasn’t build to be facing the black streets. And, after all, he just can’t see the fact that in this exact moment a few rich is laying down in their big beautiful fat houses meanwhile many beggars are in the middle of shooting begging for food. Behind him. The fact is that the statue can’t look back. I thought I was supposed to understand that there would always be poverty in the world, that you cannot stare poverty without poverty stare you. And every day the black streets look at the statue’s back. In fact, the statue probably feels their strong eyes. I wish the slums could feel the force they have. They wake up every day and sell their power to the royalty, and let me explain: Is very dangerous sell yourself for the royalty—they’d foul up anybody, they give pity mercy, and forget. That’s all. Anyway, some of the slums dwellers act like kings. Partly is because of them that the Zona Sul is magnificent the way it is, they keep it nice and clean. Maria used to like to think that they are kings because they act like kings, even when nobody is looking. I always think about it. She liked strolling along Leblon with me and there were few moments she turns to me saying she was imagining particularly the slums living in peace, being the kingdom and wondering how it would be more easily, everyone could be kings just for one day. We imagined the Redeemer statue staring them that day. We wished impossible things. We imagined the great, concrete eye of the statue looking back at them, focusing in all the black bodies that shall bless the southern breeze.
It was with these thoughts that I knock on his door; I was carrying red roses in my hands and a necktie inside a golden box in my backpack. I always had impassioned in give pure gifts. Richard, Maria’s boyfriend, taught me that roses and birds are both the purest thing in the world. And fishes, too. Roberto keenly understood this, which was one of the reasons I love him so much, one of the reasons he has still throw me some red and damask roses every day I’m in town. He gave me every rose I wanted, except the birds that I ask for. He never gave me birds. It’s an absurd for him to catch birds. His whole philosophy of life is to never imprison anything. He had found that people were cruel to seek to imprison birds. I guess I’m cruel, too.
For a moment there was silence; I watched the roses in my hands. Then, with a large smile, Roberto opened carefully the door and looked at me more closely. He spread his arms to me as a meek and mild version of the Christ statue. The tropical, stale heat of his body embracing my old familiar coolly body, we’ve been swept apart by the righteousness of the destiny for a really long time and we could still remember the feeling, we could still see the scars and the disruptions in the mirror.
All I heard was his sharp, echoed voice.
“I’m so blessed to be with you still, Querida.”
I held his hands; he tells me how sad he is because of my sister. I tried to talk; bit my lips, I always knew how to hide my feelings but felt a knife tear my throat apart. It wouldn’t come off.
I said softly and to him only, “God, why it wasn’t me on the plane?” I could swear I felt my throat soggy with regret and my eyes soggy with tears.
Roberto loathes when I cry. And though it seems absurd to him what I have said, he speak low to me: “Life it’s what it is and we can’t change that, but trust. Things change.”
I could only look at him helplessly. In a princedom by our glass house, he just hugged me swift and in his arms the thorns in my chest can’t haunt me anymore. In his arms, I eventually might as well get use to it.
“I brought red roses for you, by the way.” I said drying my tears.
I watch him take one rose and smell it. We always love the red ones. His fingers were a luminous pale Ivory as his snatch out the roses, and slowly he walked across the room towards the window. Then he put the roses in a small jar illuminated by the moonlight coming through the window, and the jar was in a strategic position where the sea can see the roses bloom. Roberto sits over the table fiddling with one dim rose, as auburn pearls of this rose fell in a ringlets form all over his blue jeans. Still deteriorating the rose he turns to me and pulls me to sit next to him. We ate cold fish, salad and fruit in the kitchen watching Rio from a balcony, and the balcony overlooked Copacabana, and we could see the beach getting lonelier and lonelier. We saw a couple dancing on the beach above of the unoccupied blue moon, in a particular moment that couldn’t be found anywhere else. Their body swayed as the waves in the sea. Thus mischievous, thus blot out, the vision acquired an especially keen charm that made me suppress all sickens I has ever seen. I began to accept that this was what my life was supposed to look like.
“I never saw you dance,” Roberto said, with an invitation in his voice.
I said that I would dance with him if he brought me a red bird.
“Nobody touches birds,” answered Roberto, touching my right leg.
This morning after breakfast Roberto found the picture of Maria, the one that I was looking for. I felt the implausibly delicate texture of the photographic paper carry my childhood pleasure. He left the things of Maria that he pick up with my mother at the steps the room, I opened the box hoping to found her sugar smell, feminine. Is impossible to remain positive when you realize that miss someone means tidy up the bedroom of the deceased son, miss someone is try to immortalize something that cannot be replaced. My mother told me she hadn’t washed Maria’s clothes because the smelling on her clothes somehow keeps her alive, somehow it brings her back. Her smell bears a delicate spell that can fairly easy to return all her lost enchantments back to us again. Sweet and fresh. She could be immortalized in divisions of Polaroid portraits because deal with the truth its way harder than believe in an occasional myth. Despite myths give hope and prevent remorse, only the truth releases. The cost of accepting the truth it’s that it will broke your heart. I’m not better than my mother, if you want to know the truth. The myth that I chose to believe was time’s travel. Maybe someday I will wake up in my grandma’s garden and this time, I would like to be in that photograph. I would like to hug my grandma and say to her that Copacabana will never be the same without her. I would beg her to stay a little while. I would make her laugh saying that she can make the iciest man love again. But, deep down, I know that my mother will never wash my sister’s clothes and I will never stop imagine me and Maria in our grandma’s garden. It is our myth. It is our hope.
I glimpse at Richard secretly through a glassed slit from balcony; he was leaning with both hands in the pocket, careful hanging his black notebook under his arm. Serene, and without hope he dissolved in the sun, he gazed seaward across the outer-reef, and the beautiful clouds rocked with the waves. The water trembles while he stays defying the waves to destroy everything around, indeed, this is it as well his alert periscope to the sea that he can be stronger than the nature force. He can cause a shipwreck. With an abrupt movement a series of police sirens go by, relentless red flashes illuminate a constellation of cars in the distant road. Richard shivers, he turns in my direction and looked at me then, noting with satisfaction a flicker of strangeness, to the east, across the cove, the warm sunlight don’t let me see him clearly— it all drifts out of sight. He makes his way till my balcony, and there is a momentary chill, he had changed— the face of a man who believes he will never love again.
He calls out with a Brazilian accent, “Olá, Querida.”
"You adore following me, didn’t you?” I said through the balcony.
He nodded and said, “You invited me to come and you know what they say… Every woman gets her wish.”
And he was right.
When he steps in my home, every muscle of his face were rigid, teeth clenched, and he walks weakly until the short-lived smooth sun light that was enjoying the balcony, like a period of rest. The sunset is multicolored behind him. “I like to see you, you look just like her.”
We’re drifting looking to the beach once more; the sky where the birds are flying is scarlet like flame of a dragon, a civilized eery glow above the unnatural beauty over the dying sun. “But taller,” he says.
“You’ll never find anyone like her,” I say.
He frowns. “Except you grandma, she was just like her. The same black eyes.”
I agree and he smiles, while sticks his hands far down into his pockets. “And you too, you’ll always look that way,“ he says.
“I’m lucky then.”
“Where have you been?” He asked. It felt like a lifetime since I’d seen him, thought it had only been a month. I didn’t knew perfectly when he would come to Copacabana, but I couldn’t help wonder what he had planned out so carefully. I kept hearing about the plane crash over the radio and at the office till I couldn’t get her out of my mind. This must have happened with him.
“I’ve been alone…” I said and Richard met my eyes and I saw shame in them. He knows exactly what it’s like not being able to heal your own self.
We sit in silence, as if we’re broken by life. Richard speaks, tiredly.
“I had hard times too.”
“It’s these clothes,” I told Richard. “I just can’t face these clothes.”
My house was surrounded by a vast, misty sea of clothes that belonged to Maria. I’m not kidding. Between those clothes, our memories are metamorphosed into an enlighten era. Richard can barely help his face be disfigured by his emotion; we hadn’t the heart to look for something to love that wasn’t her. I felt sorry for Richard. I felt like he had enormous desire to express his restrained love. The type of energy that made Shah Jahan build one of the Seven Wonders of the World for his dead wife body. It seemed impossible to Richard because he is not the emperor of India, but I can’t help think what he’d build for her if he had the power of an emperor. Instead, all we could do were eating tangerines and drinking wine in the kitchen because the balcony was too rowdy. The funny thing is, though, I was sort of thinking that eating tangerines with someone that understand my grief is more fun than go slamming and lurching across two or three awful oceans just to build a palace in India for my dead sister. Partly because people aren’t eternal. I’m lucky. Maybe Shah Jahan could feel better eating tangerines in the kitchen with someone that loved his wife the way he loved.
I and Richard was about share a bottle of wine at the kitchen table by the time Roberto arrived, and he looked denied and lonely, just like the wine ad. Roberto first question is, “Where is my wallet, by the way?” We didn’t have an answer. Wallets didn’t make sense to us. Almost instantly, he started to look in the TV room and found his wallet in the motorized sofa, underneath the full of old and familiar clothes of Maria. We were opening another jar of wine when we heard a door slam. Then Roberto appeared in the kitchen. He stares from Richard to me; he gave an extreme gaze in the jar of wine, the jar itself gathering all the copper substance, his eyes glance blankly a flash of liquid refracting pressurized by the power of the glazed wall of the chalice jar. He seems to be pissed off that we’re stoned. He’s twenty, but his heart is much older. He’s a suburban man from mars. Playing the angel style, archetypal shy man, low-key. The unusual. Roberto just sits there with us, holding the wallet and eating tangerines.
Richard smiles at Roberto. A strange, invincible, adult smile.
“That.” Richard was pointing to the jar. “That’s the light of my life today,” he said.
Roberto looked at the jar, he looked at Richard, and he said, “Light like this does not exist. You don’t understand anything about light.”
“What do you mean?” Richard asked. “Everybody need some light, buddy.”
“Maybe we should sleep with the lights up tonight,” Roberto said, trying not to laugh.
“Don’t let it,” said Richard.
I’m simplifying, I know. But the wines taint everything. He just is trying to replace his old light. Maria has always been his light. The fact that Maria was the light of his life can sound romantic: But it is not. It cannot be questioned; the way Richard is falling in pieces. Richard was her lover, as well as her child. Maria always wanted a child but she never wanted to have a child with Richard, which was lucky for Richard, since he given everything a woman usually wants to Maria, people wouldn’t understand: she never wanted to have a child with Richard because he was her child. Unfortunately, now that he’s an orphan, he is feeling the pain of not being her child anymore. Now he has to be an adult, it’s time to cut the umbilical cord. At least, that’s what Roberto told me. All weekend I thought about it. Do we need something or someone to live? This is a hard question to answer. They always say we have to be on our own. We can’t trust anyone or anything but to be honest all we really want is something to trust.
Roberto said that Richard was always heartbroken. Roberto said Richard yelled at the sky. Night after night he drinks a cup of wine with me in the balcony, arms folded, staring hard at the sea and ignoring the sky. The wine has taste, only the wine has light. Hour by hour, minute by minute, he drained the light of the sun away of his life, the sun that had already worn his eyes dim. He was so mad at the sky that he was angry even with the constellations and the celestial bodies. To prevent his grief, he plucks out his own tears of his eyes and shouted with the sky and reached out his heart to the sea to heal his heart before it was too dark. The raging sky and the things it carries stole the only girl he loved.
At 4:30 in the morning, smoking cigarette after cigarette, we opened the gate to reveal the Atlantica Avenue and we drive till Búzios, following unknown streets for three consecutive hours. We crossed a cobblestone street and, in the pink light of dawn, passed the port of the Orla Bardot. Morning fog misted the Brigitte Bardot statue. Near the subtle monotony of the palm trees at the water’s edge was our boat. He loaded the small boat when the wind blew and rowed downstream with movements elaborately repeated. Silent still in the unconscious of the rising day and the creeping shadows, I watched my reflection in dark waters slide by. Richard has his divine right of sovereignty of contemplate the sun rise once more. Then I turned my attention to embroideries that the birds were drawing in the sky. Richard support were the silver gilt sea, beautifully touched by the oar, and profusely set with blue enamel fishes and silver shells from the deep upon the sea.
We neared Richard’s floating home where the Praia da Armação meets the Praia dos Ossos. His house was a tidy boat, white-hulled as ivory with a pistachio-colored body and the green weeds of the sea coiled round it; and the salt glistened upon the top of the boat. And ahead where the beach curved to the left, I dropped anchor and Richard followed me into his house. He wrote a poem when we entered his floating home. It was a bittersweet poem, pretty, I suppose.
He simply said, “Give me a red rose and I’ll write a poem about you.”
“But there’s no red rose in the sea.”
One day later we came back to Copacabana and I gave a red rose for him. He gave an amused smile and wrote a poem about red birds.
Richard gave me one red bird last year. He learned welding before Maria died. He made a bird cage in the form of a cylinder, it had stiff, ponderous, intractable metal, the texture of the golden color covered the bars, it squander on my fingers. I wanted to bring the bird he promised to me properly. Still, Roberto he has forbidden me of having a bird, but one morning when Roberto was out of town visiting his father, Richard purchase one bird and I called her “Ruby”, whose wings reddish even in the dark were similar to the arms of the queen all covered with rubies and pearls. I stayed with her all day long, also the night, I remember everything, was August. She was happy with me: being fed, singing happily in my balcony, tended to, adored to. As it was, she only sung when her cage was in the balcony, close enough to the sun; but when the night came and the sky turned dark, I had to put her inside my room because she was too afraid of the darkness and the harvest moon.
When Roberto arrived in the morning, he opened the cage and set her free. “I told you to never imprison anything, birds are made to fly,” he said.
Richard wrote the poem sitting up in bed, he supported the black notebook against his crossed legs and he speed the pen in the paper, when he finished he decided to go back to the balcony and was raining and the rain swept restlessly against our balcony window. I let him alone, went back upstairs and rushed me to sleep. When I woke up the clock struck half-past five, Roberto lay cleanly subtly beside me, with each petty artery in his body recovering at bed’s border, making him look quite solemn with the wrap dark cloak covering his body, free from fear and captivity. Soon he woke up and had to go to work. I was in the habit of wandering about our sea shore every dawn on watching the wallows flitting and squawking. I had long cherished an affection for ravens, but their existences in Brazil were emphatically denied by god and fauna so had to content with the swallows. I went as usual into the sea shore and the sky were gray, something is floating across from me… it’s an empty, wet, white plastic bag. Watching the plastic, I picks it knowing that soon will be another there again. Knowing that soon it won’t be just plastic, knowing that it will be oil. Just like in the northeast beaches.
From the corner of the plastic I could just see the balcony at distance, and now and then the shadows of a body was trembling across the long white silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, it was as if the body was dancing with such flamboyance and then writhing flailing so often that it never got weary of changing position. The body looked as a strong tower with the power of moving without falling. It makes me wonder of how immobile the twin towers were, their strength was in the power of their own presence, but when the terrorists struck with the sudden wild impulse in the collapse 9/1, it was too much, not out of weakness, but out of lack of protection, or maybe even out of a human common sense that something with so much strength doesn’t need protection. When the towers fell, their strength had suddenly ceased to signify anything, it looked as if the measure of the disaster to the right was the measure of the disaster to the left. Just as the fifth hermetic principle. The twin towers reigned united, were connected —were by blood— were codependency, and by that fact, were destroyed together.
When I looked across the window to see of whom the shadow belongs, I was thunderstruck… A few paces from me stood Richard in a pink dress that belonged to Maria, slouching but not shivering. He looked as slim and sodden as a swan and slightly aggressive with his unclean black shoes. No one could see him; dancing so contempt and acting just like her, even in such a remote way and then turned around. He seemed so frozen with terror at the sight of me. He did not attempt to say something, did not budge, did not make the least motion to explain himself. He looked like an exotic and sad version of Freddie Mercury. I never thought that one day I would see Richard wearing Maria’s pink silk dress. We continued to stare at each other through the window; I impulsively got inside and felt the smell of Richard that seemed like alcohol, step after step, Richard expression grew sadder and sadder as I got near him, he knows that wear her clothes is a original sin.
“You look good but smells like trash.”
“What do you mean, ‘good’?” Richard asked with a filthy drunk voice. “Lots of her things look good. Her hair looks good. Her voice looks good. Her smell looks good. But what does a shitty smell matters when once I had it all?”
“With her, I had it all too.”
“At least you’re here. We will always be friends. You will always look like her.”
“Why you are wearing her clothes, Richard?”
“She can be here now,” chuckled Richard. “As best she can.”
There is a certain cold beauty to it, he holding her tight, pulling her into himself and preserving her for all time. He once more seemed to see her wearing this dress, not the despair about the plane crashing in Manhattan this time, but sweeter reverie, coming from a chaotic distant sky as he brushed the dress and the sweetness of the silk, aside. “Want to join me?” he asked singing: red-danger, cherry pie, she is dressed in all of me.
In the next morning we laugh about the event of the previous dawn. And soon Maria’s clothes had acquired a completely new meaning. Richard worked hard and slept well and went about his business and behaved decently since then. The Christ statue never turned his back for the north, as it always had been; the crowd stands in a circle around him. Once again my mom came to visit me and proudly, by the evening, Maria’s clothes were dripping wet in the balcony. The sea shone violent. Soon it was December. Roberto filled our beach house with red roses at Christmas.
Christmas was wild. With impenetrable delights, with abstract colors and sparkly livid lights, especially those hanging in the trees or in the roofs of the buildings that possess similar power and presence as the European castles, this Christmas had carried one of the greatest decorations. The rest of the days grew lonelier, especially the end of the New Year. Today is February 6, 2020, the day that Maria would make 25 years, in that case, my birthday too— the feeling that, for the first time, she will never be alive to celebrate our birthday again. I know that won’t pass a day of my birthday that I won’t sit and wonder who she would have grown up to be. My birthday now is like celebrate Christmas without the colors and the lights; it is like going to the beach without entering the sea. An irrevocable date. I feel that my birthday will never again be to me all that it had been in the past. And I never want to feel that again — or see Richard crying. Richard did not seem today like anything you could count on. I may say frankly that I’m afraid of go near Richard — afraid of look at him. Maria used to say his eyes are green fishes beneath the ocean. She is the ocean. Richard didn’t knew that he would not have an ocean anymore; he didn’t knew that we would sit for hours together in the balcony, he didn’t knew that he would have to pretend to be happy in my birthday, he didn’t knew that he would have deadly fishes leaning in his face.
The sound of the Bossa Nova came from the bar. Richard paid his bill and took a quick drink from the flask. He dragged the last smoke from his raveling cigarette and then, he took the key by the table and put in his pocket, he turned round, and came and stood near me.
“Twenty-five years old,” he murmured. “There should be a ceremony, shouldn’t there? A place, some dancing, a prayer, a something.“
"No, there is no need to have something.”
Richard didn’t dare insist and I did not press him. If he wanted to celebrate and was strong enough to get through the feeling, he would. He gone then with shame to his floating home and said that he needed to be alone.
Roberto on the other hand obliged me to celebrate: the café to the beach of fresh tangerine juice, fried bananas, cold fish, and cream cheese; we wrote poetry on the nearly empty beach, friendly dogs, skin diving and smiling faces; we made bad jokes on balcony; long movie; the clear cocktails of Zona Sul with him listening his favorite song, “Strangers In The Night”; late dinner with us wearing black in the dining room, looking out over the Copacabana Sea; and dances behind the balcony. Roberto, such as he was, called me to dance with him again, this time I didn’t asked for a red bird. We began to dance the same song over and over again. His hands around me, moved each time the song connected with our steps, we moved as if we may never dance it again. As if this time could be the last. As if we could die in a plane crash soon. Our feet’s move, again and again. Two steps to left and two steps right. Some plane flies meanwhile, again and again. Upwards but sometimes fiendishly, abruptly down.
Roberto rocked my loneliness for a moment till he left me alone in the beach. I was watching the children’s play, the wind grew stronger, and the children was running and playing, talking loud, laughing loud, feeling like kings and queens while their mothers knew that they were safe and that there was no rain today. Moving on, watching them pass like clouds in the sky; they move with no mercy, no mercy shown, this motion, unlike an adult, smooth and innocent emits nothing. Heaven knows it’s got to be an inside kind—wrapped tight like skin and speckled like infancy. Then there is a danger that roams when you grow up. It can turn away in silence. It is life rebuilding, on its own. A naked and confronting half of self abandoned too soon where all hopes sank. I saw flawless plane above me and, in a prosaic renunciation, I felt chilled. I was overcome with a desire to enter in the sea, to swim into the waves and disappear. And I did it, I yield to my desire. I yield to the sea. At almost the same moment I ran to the sea, I fell, very suddenly in the cold waves silhouette. I fell in the extravagant variety of waters that glittered and gushed and crashed and whistled. The last twin tower finally fell. Now I let myself drop, for better or for worse, entirely without hope. As I swim to the surface, I see a baby bird floating dead, drown by the sea. It simply disturbs me that I can touch him but I don’t want to. The face of the dead bird destroyed me with the same intensity of a plane crash. His eyes and beak were closed, his body without feathers. The water took his feathers away. In my hands, he was so precious and innocent; I realized that we can’t touch birds because we do not deserve it. How something so frail can be so free? Suddenly I remembered how it used to be when Maria was alive; the sun would fill up the sky, wave after wave after wave, singing the sweetest song to her. The future gleamed impeccably candid and pure. The sky surrendered to her every time.
That old school love 💕
azulik resort, Tulum Mexico
you made everything feel different.
please soar with me again one day
I wonder where i’ll be in 10 years.
I’ll be here or there
Or somewhere i never imagined.
Whatever happens or wherever i may be
I hope i’m happy.