Of honesty and thriller

I remember this father-daughter moment. We were by the balcony, he was smoking and imparting knowledge. Giving me advice, he said. The trouble with you, he added, is that you don't hide and seek. And in love people like the chase. You just give and say everything right there. With you there is no mystery and no excitement. He told me to change, to be more evasive and aloof. Time and again I tried to change. I got sick of it and gave up.

But guess what, dad? I don't need it. I'm outspoken and I don't pretend. I don't like playing games, I never have. I'm honest and true from the get-go. And someone will love me for it and find it just as thrilling. Or even more.

On joy :)

Happy silences

Por vezes fico muito calada. Como se tivesse zarpado para fora de mim. Um sinal a dizer Volto Já à porta e a conchinha vazia. O corpo não reage, o sistema desligou. Offline. É o que parece. E a pergunta vem sempre: Estás bem? Ficaste tão calada de repente. Estás triste?

Não. Pelo contrário. O corpo não se move porque a alma não respira. Não tem espaço para isso. A felicidade espalha-se do interior até às paredes de pele. Mais e mais a cada dia. Sufoca e engole palavras. Cristaliza qualquer tipo de resposta. Fico com um sorriso idiota estampado no rosto e mais nada. Também que mais é preciso? Sou feliz e basta.

The unexpected self

I have lived most of my life indoors and inside myself. So I kept thinking, picturing, imagining how I would be out there. How I'd feel and what responses and reactions I'd have. Theory became so clear that I was positive there was no room for mistake. I knew myself inside and out and was sure of it.

I was wrong. Thank God, I was so wrong! It turns out I'm bigger that myself. Much, much bigger. So many times this year I thought I'd freeze or pull away and I didn't. Numerous times, I didn't. Some little spark in me pushed me forwards into so many things that turned out to be great. Because a tiny fraction of myself - something that now grows without fear - decided to not be afraid of the unknown. And that made all the difference :)

No ouvido # 4

On loop for days

Watch how I soar*

Today, when looking for my CV, I came across a wide range of half forgotten things. Audio files, videos and photos of several things I've done in the past few years. Little by little I have touched so many things that I love. Sang in a choir. Sang solo. Danced a lot. Did two little plays. A musical and a musical medley. I have grown out of that feeble little girl that yarned for the stage and spotlights but never even dared to try. I have tried. I loved it. And I love myself for it.

*Serenity

What are you hiding, my friends?

Sometimes I look at sentences for ages, staring and wondering what do they truly mean. What is lying under the surface. Mmmm...

Be happy, funny and whimsical

Life's too short for seriousness.

Dear visitors

I would love to write here. To post. And I bet that if I tried it wouldn't be hard at all. But somethings are better left unsaid. Or at least unshared.

If you want to help, don't help!

Sometimes it's true that if you want something done right do it yourself. It's easier and quicker than having someone "helping" you out and then cleaning up their mess. I want help, of course I do. I've had eight years of this and I'm beyond and beyond fed up. But if you want to help, please, don't make it worse. Thank you.

SYTYCD 7 - Lauren (Spoilers!)

At Last

It takes a village

Where I grew up the policy was to always help others but never ask for help yourself, unless it was absolutely unavoidable. Each person should learn how to fix their own problems. A person's burdens, secrets, problems and worries should be kept private. No telling or sharing, no asking for a helping hand. Also displays of affection where uncommon and perceived as unnecessary; people should know for themselves their were loved and that was it.

I'm not like that. Nor do I want to be. I'm more of a it takes a village philosophy. People helping each other, talking, sharing and letting other people know they care. I ask for help all the time. Not because I can't handle it on my own (of course I sometimes can't; what to say? I'm only human), but a lot of times because I want to let people in, to let them be involved in my life. If helping others makes me feel so good and useful (and happy for the other person that no longer has a problem) why on earth should I feel embarassed to ask for help myself? And I'm a blabbermouth about my life. Seriously! I share my troubles like you wouldn't believe. Yes, sometimes I go a little overboard. But what are friends for if not to tell me to shut my big yapper? As for affection; I'm still getting used to it. But I'm bound to get there someday soon :)

I like people. Honest! Big fan here! And I want to let them in. It's that simple. And why not a village?

Let the sunshine in*

Imaginem uma janela fechada com as cortinas corridas. Agora peguem nos puxadores e abram-nas de par em par. E imaginem que o que vêem é a paisagem mais bonita do mundo, que é algo que vos deixa mesmo felizes. Agora cantem com esse sorriso.

It's time to open those windows. To let in fresh air and happiness. It's time to feel good and be happy. Worries and troubles be damned! Life is short and it's yours. No one's gonna live it for you.

*Hair

Whatever gets you going :)

Follow the firefly

Joana pick what you want.

I keep hearing this in my head. It's all mine. Everything this family ownes will eventually be mine. And I don't mean this in a greedy materialistic way. I mean to say there is no one else. When they're gone I'll be alone. It's a sad truth to accept. This family is done for, I will be the last one standing. Try as I might I can't put how it feels into words. The impending loneliness. One day I will be without a family. Can you imagine that? No safety net. No people to belong with. No clan.

Unless I start a family of my own. That is the shining light I focus on. The little firefly I follow. Friends and loved ones. I will not be alone.

The corners of my mind

I look at things and have this familiar feeling that it means something. I push my brain and strive to remember. The names of my dolls. The handwriting on old letters. The pictures of people that have my nose or my hair. And my mother. Finding her pictures. Learning what kind of books she enjoyed. The stuff she knitted.

It's odd. And as much as I sometimes want to leave it all behind and start anew and on my own, the fact is that's where I come from. I should give it a chance. Even if it's painful to remember.

The house of old, the house of clutter

There is a house (technically, there's two houses) where my family used to live decades ago. The house where my grandfather grew up, where my dad took some of his wedding pictures, where we lived for a brief moment after my mother passed.

The houses are old, practically falling apart. And now it's time to empty them, since we've basically been using them as a very old and decrepit storage space. Two huge attics. I've spent the morning walking around and going through boxes and boxes of toys, books (so many hidden pearls), old photographs (first time I saw a picture of my great grandfather), and so many other things. It has the exact feel as something out of a horror movie; every single time I had to open a closet or a closed door I half expected a corpse to fall down on me.

But still it's history. My history. And I'm the only one left to keep it going. If I don't show an interest or if I fail to learn it, it will die. People in old pictures will be just people. Random strangers smiling at us. Names on letters will be just names and special objects will lose their meaning. I feel like Vergilio Ferreira in Aparição. And it's sad.

Up, up, up and away

I want to live. I deserve to live. To claim my life as my own property. To spread wings and fly. To crash if need be. And then get up and try again.

A toy story

Growing up I had the strongest of bonds with my toys. They were my world. My friends and buddies. Once I fell out of my bed because I've tucked all my playmates with me and when I was done there was little room left. I don't remember them all I had so many (not that that means extra happiness in any way, shape or form). But here's some of what I can recall:

There was this huge stuffed dog I was given the day I was born. I called her Lassie. Her stomach was empty (presumably at some point she must've had little stuffed puppies that were long gone before I could remember). Lassie was my partner in crime (or in my case, glutony). I used to walk into the kitchen with her (it's amazing how much you get attatched to these things you can't use it) in my arms, me all big eyed and innocent looking. Then I'd hide all the candy I could find in her stomach and ran hell for leather to my room to eat the goods.

I had Polly Pockets (the regular size, not the humongous things one sees nowadays) and lost them practically the second after I got them. A few Barbies but no Ken, so the poor things were so damned lonely... in those days lesbian wasn't a word (let alone a concept) a kid like me was very exposed to. Back then there were no Barbie houses or means of transportation (except for a pink carriage that got out when I was about six), so I used my rollerblades as cars and glued some matchboxes together to make the furniture.

There was a pink skipper and a pink bycicle (so I was a girly girl...) that I took ages to learn how to ride (my dad used to grab me by the collar and run alongside me so I wouldn't be afraid... needless to say he never looked more fit in his life).

I had one Nenuco (the regular one with no specials features... the only thing it did was blink its eyes) and a big yellow bear I nowadays miss for the sole reason it was were I used to read; I'd lie down on my bed with my back against it and I'd spend a whole afternoon there with a volume of Clube das Chaves in my hands. Sometimes I'd fall asleep it was so cozy, nestled against the yellow bear. Stuffed animals were a big thing in my bedroom; my uncle was specially gifted with The Claw (was the green aliens in Toy Story call it), and so I had tons of them.

Of all this (and of the many others who will go unmentioned) the one I will always cherish is my Simba. Yes, it was a stuffed little lion from The Lion King. I got him (there goes the it out the window) on my 9th birthday and he was the greatest thing ever. I slept with him, took him everywhere with me, told him all about my life. He was my Woody. It's the one toy from my childhood I never threw out nor do I intend to. It's old now and stays in a box 364 days a year. On Christmas Eve he gets out and keeps me company during Home Alone or The Nutcracker.

And that's my toy story, the childhood buddies that meant so much to me. My safe haven, my playground. I don't know, but the new Toy Story movie just got me all worked up about this...

Cool like Fonzie

I don't like to be evasive and keep to myself, but where I grew up it kinda comes with the territory. Right now I'm on bright and shiny mode. Except finding time to study (really, being home alone with my brother kinda comes with a lot of chores) my life's not half bad. The tricky part is that all the sparkliness has to fade away into a state of coolness when people get home. And I hate it. Right now I can't find a downside to it. But if I don't switch off bright and shiny I'm sure I will.

People who need people*

First morning home and I'm already bored to death. There are tons of things I could do. Read books. Study (heck, there's something fun!). Watch movies. Watch tv shows. Play sonic or tekken. Read manga. And so on, and on, and on. But I want people. I miss and need people. Despite what is commonly thought, I'm no hermit. Well, no born hermit at least.

*Funny girl

Lobsters

When I was kid I believed in lobsters. Then adolescence kicked in and I grew against the whole notion of lobsters. Now I'm back into believing, only because I've seen a fair share of them and it's a nice sweet dream to believe in. And who knows?...