sinister people

I was in the kitchen this morning when it occurred to me that there are quite a few sinister people around; sinister people like the archbishop of Malines-Bruxelles, the highest Catholic Church authority in this strange country called Belgium, who for so long, together with his other pals in frocks, has been hiding the cases of sexual abuse of children by priests. Hiding, concealing, lying, transforming reality, like the worst of Stalinist communication experts.

A man who dares compare the situation of sexually abused children with that of children raised by same-gender parents, or born through IVF. I mean, how can someone be so stupid to actually equate abuse with love?

A man who says that AIDS is a sort of "immanent justice", as if those suffering from the disease were to be made responsible for bringing it upon themselves. I know this is the obvious question, but what does he think about children, or people who were contaminated via blood transfusions, or women who are forced to have unprotected sex? But even those who engage in risky sexual practices more or less consciously, do they deserve to get sick and die? What kind of god does this cruel man serve? Sinister.

And to think that the lawyer for this shit of a person lives in our building... how does he sleep at night? Drunk with shame I would hope!

Sinister, creepy people, all around us. One must be able to say it, and to shout it to their face, so that they realise that they can't fool us with their blessed crosses and rings, their mantles of silk, like veils covering the truth. The truth always ends up coming out. I can hear them tremble. I cherish their doom.

Upstairs, Downstairs

BBC TV revisited Upstairs, Downstairs this Christmas. Three new episodes with brand new stories about the Bellamy Family, a lot of new characters and a few old faces. Thank you, thank you, thank you for this revival. I loved the new series.

I used to watch Upstairs, Downstairs as a child in Portugal in the late 1970's. It was called A família Bellamy. The whole household, well, just my parents and I really, used to stop everything to watch this quaintest of shows, so far removed from our daily reality, our history, our culture, but yet so close to us, with all the humanity that poured through the screen.

The new series was simply perfect. The actors fantastic and the story lines enthralling. It had been a long time since I had enjoyed myself so much in front of a TV set. I particularly enjoyed the more serious take on history - the situation in Germany just before War World II and the spectre of fascism hanging in the English air too (Mosley et al.).

I was getting used to the characters, but after three days in a row the entertainment stopped. I suppose it's better that way. Better to miss them than eventually get bored by it. Anyway, it was a perfect moment of TV.

Barcelona - Promenade Concert

Today I wrote to Zé (my former partner) and to Paulo Filipe (a friend of ours), to tell them this:

"I'm listening right now to Promenade Concert by Carles Santos and it brought me memories of our holidays in Barcelona, centuries ago. Do you remember? I bought this record at the Miró Foundation, on top of the Mountain, Montjuïc. Georgie loves this performance-like revolutionary music; passionate, scarlet red in the lit-up night. Who would have guessed? It's not an easy piece, but it's irresistible.

It brings back memories of the Ramblas, the profusion of flowers and birds early in the morning; of the newspaper stands open until late at night. Memories also of the small pensión where we stayed. Of the suffocating heat in the bedroom. Barrio Chino, wasn't it? I recall the infinite sun; the first "dark room" in some gay disco somewhere near Via Diagonal. I recall we had all the time in the world in front of us in the hot summer; the promenade in Parc Güell.

It brings back memories of shorts, and cheap pizzas, and "in" restaurants, unending days and the flavour of suncream on the lips ajar; ice-cream breathing rhythm. The immense will that inhabits us every summer.

I couldn't resist writing about it. What good is to feel if we can't share?

(from Brussels, with lots of snow freezing the heart outside)"

the river lit by the city lights

Why this title? Because I heard it in a song and I liked it. I still find time to feel tears gathering around my lashes when I hear a beautiful song.

Tomorrow I'll start my Winter holidays. Almost two weeks. I need it. The past four months I felt like a moth flying in the dark. I need some light to dazzle me, no matter how burnt I get.

Work has been hard. I had to learn so much new stuff it literally made my head hurt. It's a good job but it hurts. I'm not sorry for myself, I'm just saying it the way it feels.

Denise was here yesterday from Strasbourg. She always brings a load full of laughter in her bag. I love hugging her, feeling her body under my arms. I love kissing her. Denise's skin is so soft, at times it almost feels brittle; it's the absence of any stubble I guess.

I sometimes dream of a river lit by city lights, just like in the song that I heard this morning, again and again, when driving to the office with Jarl.

Georgie is in the living room with Mona, her French teacher, banging on a drum; tam-tam! I can hear their voices while writing this post. It's soothing. The light is fading and no cars can be heard nor seen outside. Mona is singing and Georgie is listening. Mona's voice like a river. Georgie's eyes like city lights.