You asked me to come swimming but then you let me drown.

"The time with Wild Woman is hard at first. To repair injured instinct, banish naïveté, and over time to learn the deepest aspects of psyche and soul, to hold on to what we have learned, to not turn away, to speak out for what we stand for... all this takes a boundless and mystical endurance. When we come up out of the underworld after one of our undertakings there, we may appear unchanged outwardly, but inwardly we have reclaimed a vast and womanly wildness. On the surface we are still friendly, but beneath the skin, we are most definitely no longer tame."


"De início, custa-nos estar com a Mulher Selvagem. Restaurar o instinto ferido, eliminar a ingenuidade e, com o tempo, tomar conhecimento dos aspectos mais profundos da psique e da alma, reter tudo o que aprendemos, não virar costas, defender claramente aquilo em que acreditamos... são tudo coisas que exigem uma resistência mística e infinita. Quando emergimos do mundo subterrâneo após uma das nossas tarefas por lá, exteriormente pode não se dar por qualquer diferença mas, interiormente, recuperamos um vasto território feminino e selvagem. À primeira vista, continuamos amistosas mas, sob a pele, deixámos de ser, claramente, criaturas amestradas."

- Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Women Who Run With The Wolves / Mulheres Que Correm Com Os Lobos

Protagonist of a story

  He had blue eyes, clear like the ocean. The kind you could get lost in. His dark hair, almost black, was perfectly short, and his figure was tall and not too lean or too athletic, but in balance. A balanced body to contrast with his unbalanced mind.

 When he was young, he was told his parents had died and then began the bumpy travel between foster houses. He was adopted and could not love his foster family more.

 Right out of his teens, he had a specially marked personality: his appearance was tough and his heart was strong. He walked like he did not have any care but his smile dictated his kindness.

  The dark thoughts about the past were like flames on his mind and he would take those and create music. He loved to dance, too. Not everyone knew this, well, not everyone cared, but he would say that dancing set his soul free. He dreamed about being completely free, away from arrogance and lack of wisdom.

  He presented himself as ordinary, while he was destined to great things. Pure honesty came from his lips; he would say what he was thinking and respected good arguments.

 The intelligence he had, it could not be learned, it was all him, as his persuasion and determination.

 He cherished his friends, who were fun and inspirational like him, even when they got mad at each other, as he sometimes would prefer to be alone.

 I guess his tragic thoughts unveiled his tragic destiny. 

Wonderful Day

On a bright and cold autumn day, Monica left the house. She was going to the grocery store but she forgot something: the car keys.

 As the car was right in front of her white-fenced house, she quickly decided to leave her eighth-month baby in the stroller by the car, while she went inside and grabbed the keys.

 Coming out of the house she stopped for a second to breathe in the fresh air and contemplate the vivid and colorful leaves all around; it was ten o’clock in the morning and it looked it was going to be a wonderful day.

 Already in the car, she laughed at her baby’s weird reaction to the song that was playing on the radio and mentally made a list of what she needed to buy, as she had forgotten the real list at home.

 After parking the car, Monica grabbed the stroller from the trunk and placed baby Henry in it, while locking the car. Right near the entrance of the grocery store, she felt a hand approaching her left arm and immediately looked to see who it was. She didn’t have time to do anything because in a matter of what it seemed like three seconds, she had been grabbed and thrown into the grocery’s ground, close to various strangers. The person who grabbed her was a stranger too; she didn’t recognize the armed man that was now threatening to kill her if she did not stop screaming. Her screams resulted from the fear of being killed and the fear for Henry who was left outside in his stroller at the entrance of the store. She could still see him through different types of food, drinks and other products that were perfectly organized before the all-glassed entrance.

 The aggressor had locked the doors and she felt an instant urge to ask him:

-         Why are you doing this? Don’t hurt my baby!

-         Shut your mouth! I just need the money and I am out of here! Everyone do what I say and no one gets hurt! – said the armed man.

While looking over her baby, Monica tried to memorize everything about the man, while he was forcing the store’s owner to hand all his money to him. It was such a cliché, she thought. Just like the movies, and she knew she had to behave according to what the man wanted. He was tall and lean and had a mask, so she could not see anything above his shoulders but a dragon tattoo on his neck.

 It was getting unbearable in the store, people crying and losing their minds and she could not even concentrate on her thoughts as she tried to plan an escape.

 The armed man was pointing his gun at the store’s owner, she was trying to avoid the smell of mangos right next to her and police sirens could now be heard as numerous cars got close to the grocery.

 Monica sighed with relief for her baby that would now be safe; and the police shouted:

-         Drop your weapon and come out with your hands in the air! You are surrounded!

Apparently, one of the scared strangers had called the police and the robber entered a desperate state: he let his gun fall with a strange clink on the ground, and as he cursed out loud, he gave up and opened the doors. The police arrested him right away and Monica silently watched as the man cried inside the police car. Everyone had stood quiet during those moments and Monica stood up and ran to the stroller that had stayed in the same place.

 The tears came down her face and a smile appeared as she got near the stroller but the smile turned to a gasp as she realized Henry wasn’t there.

-         Where is my baby??!!??? – She asked every policeman that was on the parking lot and searched everywhere. She was told that no one saw her baby and since the robber had been arrested they did not know anything about that.

 Monica then fell on her knees, not believing what was happening because she saw Henry and he was alright but now he was not there.

 Henry had died exactly a year before.

The dawn is warming up a background
And I'm waiting here,
Between a crisp breeze and pretentious leaves,
A silence breaks its way into this.

Show me your hiding place
Where no soul is found
As you are bound to it
And its fantasy chaos.

I look at the dancing trees
And I wonder if what is near
Composes another great take.
I'm waiting here.

Through the cracks I can see the way you carry yourself
As you don't possess a care,
How could I recklessly dare
To escape?

Effortlessly stopping the world in the endless night
To disregard what is common,
With your gaze you ignite
Your fatal charm.

A memória

“O Nelson Mandela está a perder a memória e não vai lembrar-se nunca mais de que é um homem sagrado. Morrerá anónimo para si mesmo, indiferente ao mundo e ao quanto ajudou cada um de nós. Vai desconhecer como foi perseverante, como conquistou a lucidez, não vai saber da sua inteligência superior ou da magnitude da sua beleza.
Leio a notícia enquanto atravesso uma extensa sala de casino em Macau. A alcatifa florida engana o chão. Julga o chão que é perfumado, que vive de alguma forma, que sonha. Pousam as mesas e as cadeiras onde os homens obstinados agem automaticamente, como máquinas de estender e recolher fichas. Ausentes. Sem nada dentro. Penso que estou num lugar com corpos sem nada dentro e que o Nelson Mandela ficará assim, ausente, uma máquina de si mesmo apenas para respirar mais um tempo, até não respirar.
Faltava comover-me em Macau, se é verdade que me ando a comover nas terras todas. Passei de olhos no jardim do chão, a fazer de conta que o jardim se levantava e que punha o mundo bonito para que a minha tristeza fosse acudida pela sensibilidade que nos inspiram as coisas bonitas, as coisas vivas. Queria que a vida aparente fosse efectiva. Que a vida se inventasse por um desenho, se criasse pela semelhança.
Somos todos ainda feitos dos mais absurdos preconceitos. Ainda vamos na primária quanto ao respeito e à aceitação. Somos horríveis para as diferenças, os diferentes, sem entendermos que para sermos iguais disfarçamos tudo, para parecermos iguais. Somos contra os gordos e os feios, os sensíveis e as mulheres, somos contra os pretos, os amarelos e os vermelhos, os de olhos em bico, os morenos, os muito brancos, as loiras, as crianças, os funcionários do McDonalds. Somos contra toda a gente. Metemos nojo.
Eu queria ser merecedor do Nelson Mandela. Queria que, se algum dia me tivesse visto, pudesse achar-me imperfeito sem tragédia. Apenas imperfeito e muita vontade de chegar onde ele chegou: ao lugar puro de sentir, de pensar. O lugar puro de se ser. Quem se objectiva por menos, pensa mal da oportunidade de viver.Quando as notícias vierem dizer que o Nelson Mandela já não sabe quem é, tenhamos a fortuna de lho dizer e de o dizer a toda a gente e para sempre. Quem não tiver a fortuna de saber acerca do Nelson Mandela anda vazio dos bolsos da alma. Tem muito menos hipóteses de se engrandecer à altura da incrível ocasião de existir. Penso assim, que são homens como ele que apontam o quanto é incrível existir. O resto pode ser apenas aparente. Um casino de flores falsas e gente perdida para dentro da sua própria couraça. ”

Casa de Papel, crónica
Valter Hugo Mãe
revista 2, jornal Público, domingo, 24 de março de 2013