Por favor, Portugal. Adeus. Até breve!

I had a truly amazing time in Porto. I'm busy now, so instead of writing how smashing it was, I'm just posting a few photos below.

If you want to see more photos, click here. And do listen to this.

"An attack of alienation, but a gentle one that touches most people transported into a foreign place. A sense of otherness of the world, a conviction that nothing happening around takes me into account, that I am superfluous, rejected, and even ridiculous with my grotesque intention to see the old church tower.

      In a state of alienation the eyes react quickly to objects and banal events that do not exist for the practical eye. I am surprised by the colour of mailboxes, tramways, different shapes of copper doorknobs, knockers on doors, stairs always winding in a dangerous way, wooden shutters whose surface is crossed by two straight diagonal lines, a big 'X', and the four fields of the big 'X's alternatively filled with black and white, or white and red paint."

This can spell only one thing: travelling. And, yes, I love doing it on my own. I'll be busy packing tomorrow, so won't be blogging here.


Talk to you in a week or so! I'm leaving you listening to this. And this is my goodnight to you.

My Beautiful Niece

I spent a few hours with my gorgeous niece today. Here you can see a few photos of her; however, my backdrop was all wrinkled and - as I truly hate ironing - I had to deal without it. 

Listen to this and this. 

She's Got Flowers!

"Are these tulips for me?" I wanted to know.
"No, no! They're for home," the sound bounced off the wall, landed on my left ear and crawled inside it.

This short exchange made me laugh. I decided to place the bunch by the lady I painted 17 days ago. And just look how the colours of the flowers and the leaves accentuate all the purples, yellows, reds and greens in my painting. What an incredible match! I love it! 

If you click on the photo to enlarge it, you'll easily notice that the focus is on the flowers, so my lady appears blurred. Just what I intended!

Thinking about different hues, tints, shades and tones often brings this old song to me. I always fail to grasp the meaning of the lyrics and trying to make links with 'The Canterbury Tales' (well, apart from the obvious) is just beyond me. And it's good to know your limits, I reckon. 

A Meeting

I've got a silly meeting
with my spiteful cells
at UHW next week

You told me I should 
ask 'em for a divorce or sumfin,
but I'm not that angry with them
I'm for a civilized chat
with my tiny enemies

I'll look into their eyes 
with forgiveness 
and 
understanding
After all,
it must be hard for them
to feel 
so unwelcome and unwanted

I'll listen to their tale
of unrequited love, 
just like I do 
when I pay attention 
to every word 
uttered by the elderly lady
no one wants to hear from

I'll admire the enormity 
of their strength and fight 
crushing my lungs 
and leaving me speechless

I'll accept them and hug them
I'll be kind

              Just to balance out the whiteness outside...

'Words do not express thoughts very well. They always become a little different immediately after they are expressed, a little distorted, a little foolish.' (Hermann Hesse)

I'm not saying anything then. Back to translation or - more precisely - to what's lost in it. 



 Guess why I'm sticking to this cool instrumental tonight.

I love photographing water droplets and crowns; it feels refreshing, clears my mind and teaches me patience. I took these pictures about two hours ago. They should enlarge if you click on them.

If you like these photos, here is my slightly different take on wetness from 2012 (and two pictures of the flowers that managed to dry).
                                                                                  Listen to this

My Wings

                            
With the bright green hedge clippers
you lubricated for me
five days ago, 
I cut off my wings 
and it didn't hurt


They damaged my spine
when I kept bending 
under their weight
and
it was too hard 
for my colleagues 
to pass me
in the narrow corridor


The doctor told me 
the wounds would heal
before spring
and
the raw scars 
(treated with the latest argan oil ointment
that smells so divine)
would pale 
to embellish 
my olive skin
and to complement it 


In an arctic airtight pocket 
of my favourite jeans
I keep the seven stem cells
that I extracted 
with my slightly webbed fingers
as an embryo
Just in case I need my wings back
in a new life


Check this song out

On the fourth of January
the sky is grey
but it can't be bothered to cry

I trip over your pride
and 
sink into 
the Kingdom of Oblivion 
failing to reach the bottom
and greet my forgotten friends

Poor memory of my impeccable manners
embraces me fondly
so I can swear
not so solemnly
but expressively and sincerely

Three hours later
unbearable lightness of being
stares at me 
insolently
from an empty bookshelf
and
fades away
to die peacefully 
with a bushy spider
in my arms


Listen

Mother,
He didn't want to see your pain
when 
             you
                         were 
                                       dying
and
danced on
ever so smoothly

I could smell his drunken breath
and feel the tiniest droplets
Of his salty sweat
falling on my 
T                    E                   B                   I                 G 
           R                   M                  L                  N                     knees

His laughter vibrantly echoes 
in my ears
to tell his story of
Betrayal
every evening


Mother,
Where was I?


Listen

I woke up quite early today and felt like painting... Well, this is what I've just created.

                                 Click on the image to enlarge.

  I love this song, but who wouldn't?

‎"Three things will last forever: faith, hope and love; and the greatest of these is love."

                                  Happy New Year to all!


Listen 

Recently, I've been thinking about all those unnecessary 'howareyous' with no space for answering and (equally common) 'extremelywelling' of every so-so. Because I don't want to shatter words' illusion about their meaning, I won't ask anything unless I want to know.
To change the topic, I'm sharing my poem written a few hours ago.



No! 
You don't understand
My tomorrow's already happened
And there won't be any replacement

My tomorrow joyfully pulsates in my veins
And loves telling stories of what it was

I like 
its round shape filling my breath tightly
its vibrant colours calling for vigorous dusting every day
and
its tranquil voice singing a lullaby
when I can't fall asleep

Its flame's too cold to be felt or noticed
but it's still burning my weary hands


Check this lovely oldie out!

Secretly
My friend's growing a maple tree 
on her arm
Every day it's expanding

Its branches are mounting  
almost reaching her elbow

Look! This budding twig
is still bleeding
But the leaves have fallen
                                                             

                                                             Just listen to this

You smiled at me from the sky
Again
And I heard your laughter
in the poem I've just read
(about forgiveness)

Brushing the darkest eye shadow
gently over my eyelids,
I'm painting your face over mine

It isn't subtle
It isn't delicate

It's obvious

         like remembering you


                                                    Listen to this brilliant song

Merry Christmas to All!
Thank everyone and tell them how much you appreciate them.Tomorrow may be too late, “Let us hurry to love people; they depart so quickly!”. And don't forget to contact those who may feel lonely, sad, forgotten or unappreciated at this time. Spread your love around! Merry Christmas!

Check out My Christmas Song

My new poem about choosing between losing your sight or hearing. Pretty easy choice for me, but what would you choose?



Oh, there is so much music
in Silence
She's my friend. She is.
I can hear
the emptiness of your words
the shallows of my smiles
all sounds of this clutter and
the Big Unnecessary of my existence

But to lose sight?

Life is about light
Life is about colours
Life is about moving away form darkness
and 
seeing my mother's ageing face.

Hello,
I must start cleaning my house, but because it (the house, not house cleaning) always reflects how I feel, I can't do it just yet. Instead, I'm posting my new poem. Or two poems. Wallowing in my little sorrow? Maybe, but expressing it is really letting it go. Well, let's see.



I'll have to slice this sorrow
No, no, no, no! I'll dice it

Its blood is sticky and so freshly warm
you can smell it

There is no grace in its dance
No music in its voice
I look away and

smile


.........................................................................................................



Under this layer of smile
Sleeps a thickness of sadness
punched with

the joy of your youth

the peace of my ageing

and

this big hole of nothingness




Listen to this