The night of the 1001 cousins. That's what I call the dinner party on Sunday in Lisbon. Sandra had the idea of bringing together a group of paternal cousins with whom I had grown up. Most of them I hadn't seen since my father's funeral in 1996. I didn't know most of their children, although a couple of them I had met as babies and toddlers. Two of them were now celebrating 18, and one also the fact that she had a driving license!
It felt a bit like childhood revisited, although all of us had a few more wrinkles, the men with a few more kilos, and the women still quite fit and smart! Who said that men age better than women? Only on TV! It reminded me of one of those birthday parties of long-time-no-see ago, the way we scattered all over the place, as if it were an indoors picnic. It felt easy to talk, no awkwardness at all. Mind you, I was a bit nervous before getting there.
Georgie mingled so easily with her cousins. It was special to see our children playing together. David, Sandra's youngest, said to Georgie "just call out cousin and everybody will come to you, don't even bother to learn all the names". It was sweet and to the point.
I thought of my father. What would he say? I genuinely think he would be happy. I wished he could be there to see us. Because these are the things that really matter, the thread and substance of life. Love, friendship, feeling, hands, eyes, mouth, nose, ears.
I hope to keep in touch with my 1001 cousins, on my mother's and on my father's side. They are the closest thing I have to siblings and the truth is that all over these years of sometimes emotional exile I never forgot them for a second. They remain part of me. Tucked away or out of doors, they're truly part of me.
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
Saga Lusa III
I read a book by Adriana Calcanhotto the last night of our stay in Lisbon. Saga Lusa. Does it need translating? I would guess not. A Swedish and a Portuguese word in one sentence. Just like me and Jarl. Trying to make sense. Looking odd side by side, yet so right.
I had been out having dinner with my cousins and drank two glasses of Coke. Enough to keep me awake for the night. I went looking for an antidote in the form of reading and found the book in Manuel's collection. The irony, or coincidence, or fate, or destiny - I never quite knew the difference between all these - was that the story was about pill-induced insomnia. How appropriate!
I read the book in about two hours. The book reads like a long, addictive, gigantic personal e-mail, or a long diatribe against the flu virus and anti-inflammatory pills. Sounds what, lame? But it was really entertaining, although far from high-art. Would it have been published if the author had been someone like you and me? Hell, no! But this is the era of celebrity culture and even a special musician-poet-composer-singer like Calcanhotto falls into the category these days.
I read it all and fell asleep. And there's nothing more to say.
I had been out having dinner with my cousins and drank two glasses of Coke. Enough to keep me awake for the night. I went looking for an antidote in the form of reading and found the book in Manuel's collection. The irony, or coincidence, or fate, or destiny - I never quite knew the difference between all these - was that the story was about pill-induced insomnia. How appropriate!
I read the book in about two hours. The book reads like a long, addictive, gigantic personal e-mail, or a long diatribe against the flu virus and anti-inflammatory pills. Sounds what, lame? But it was really entertaining, although far from high-art. Would it have been published if the author had been someone like you and me? Hell, no! But this is the era of celebrity culture and even a special musician-poet-composer-singer like Calcanhotto falls into the category these days.
I read it all and fell asleep. And there's nothing more to say.
Saga Lusa II
We stayed with Manuel, Gonçalo and their son Guilherme. They gave us their usual bread of tenderness to eat and made us feel at home. Gonçalo told me that their street used to be called Caracol da Penha de França. For those unfortunate enough not to speak portuguese, I agree to translate: the Curl of the Peak of France. It sounds royal, yet it's so simple and straight to the point. The street raises and falls like a mighty curl, and the penha is like a peak indeed, bursting out of the soil, full of buildings like teeth inside a giant's mouth. From now on, that's how I'll refer to Rua Marques da Silva. A curl is a curl, and it can move imaginations, like a spring. Pling!
Carla and Zé came for dinner on Saturday. Carla came with her two children. Zé came with his lovers, in absentia. We talked and laughed. We talked about our kids and our lovers, past, present and future, who knows... Then we laughed about our kids and ourselves, and our lovers, all tenses confounded. Zé said he doesn't want to fall in love. Ever again. It reminded me of that song by the Fine Young Cannibals, "never fallen in love with someone, never fallen in love, in love with someone, never fallen in love, in love with someone who's never fallen in love with. Did you ever fall in love? Did you ever? Did you ever? Did you ever?". And then my heart went on to sing, but so, so very low and softly, that I could barely hear it myself above the fray of his speech and the cars outside in the streets:
"Some day he'll come along, The man I love, And he'll be big and strong, The man I love, And when he comes my way I'll do my best to make him stay! He'll look at me and smile; I'll understand, And in a little while, He'll take my hand; And though it seems absurd, I know we both won't say a word! Maybe I shall meet him Sunday, Maybe Monday, maybe not, Still I'm sure to meet him one day; Maybe Tuesday will be my good news day! We'll build a little home Just meant for two, From which I'll never roam; Who would? Would you? And so, all else above, I'm waiting for the man I love!"
That's by George and Ira Gershwin, and I'm sure you knew. I didn't say a word. I just sang it softly with every breath I took. Can you imagine me not saying anything? I almost can't. Pourtant...
Carla and Zé came for dinner on Saturday. Carla came with her two children. Zé came with his lovers, in absentia. We talked and laughed. We talked about our kids and our lovers, past, present and future, who knows... Then we laughed about our kids and ourselves, and our lovers, all tenses confounded. Zé said he doesn't want to fall in love. Ever again. It reminded me of that song by the Fine Young Cannibals, "never fallen in love with someone, never fallen in love, in love with someone, never fallen in love, in love with someone who's never fallen in love with. Did you ever fall in love? Did you ever? Did you ever? Did you ever?". And then my heart went on to sing, but so, so very low and softly, that I could barely hear it myself above the fray of his speech and the cars outside in the streets:
"Some day he'll come along, The man I love, And he'll be big and strong, The man I love, And when he comes my way I'll do my best to make him stay! He'll look at me and smile; I'll understand, And in a little while, He'll take my hand; And though it seems absurd, I know we both won't say a word! Maybe I shall meet him Sunday, Maybe Monday, maybe not, Still I'm sure to meet him one day; Maybe Tuesday will be my good news day! We'll build a little home Just meant for two, From which I'll never roam; Who would? Would you? And so, all else above, I'm waiting for the man I love!"
That's by George and Ira Gershwin, and I'm sure you knew. I didn't say a word. I just sang it softly with every breath I took. Can you imagine me not saying anything? I almost can't. Pourtant...
Saga Lusa I
I was in Lisbon last weekend. I took Georgie with me. She is great to travel with. We had fun together. I love holding her hand walking down the street watching people go by. I know, I wrote this here before, but I really do. And it sounds like a song. I loved showing her the light of Lisbon, the way the sky bends at the horizon. We went to the Oceanário and saw the sharks, the manta-rays, the sun-fish, the penguins, the puffins, the oters, the fish, the fish, the fish. We also saw the ghost-fish, who shone in the dark. A bit spoky those fish.
We rode the telepheric at Parque das Nações and laughed like crazy all the way up in the air. Like hot air balloons. And then we went to the book fair inside Gare do Oriente, where I bought Caím by Saramago. Ah, the pleasure of buying a book on the Index of the Catholic Church... diabolic pleasure without the smell of sulphur. A book can still move mountains. It's good to be reminded of that.
We saw little children, and big children too, play violin at Reitoria da Universidade Nova de Lisboa, nearby Lisbon's Great Mosque (which looks so much prettier than last time, with a proper minaret shining bright in the evening sky of Praça de Espanha; and go tell that to the Suiss who voted down a month ago the sight of minarets among their ozone-layer-depleting cows!). It felt good to be sitting there next to Guida listening to Christmas music, from Bach to Little Star. Our friendship is like a heart-shaped red box of chocolate pralines. Georgie loved the stripped gloves she gave her. It made her look like Emília, the super-smart, silly-naughty doll in Sítio do Picapau Amarelo. This was centuries ago, when Brazil arrived at our doorstep in the shape of a magic place on TV.
We heard Berstein's West Side Story on the stero in our bedroom. I fell to my knees, tears about to cry, when the shooting gun was heard and the last song was sung. I sang with all my strength "there's a place for us, a time and a place for us, hold my hand and we're half way there, hold my hand and I'll take you there, somehow, somewhere, someday". Something like that. Emotion is never accurate, only it knows what it feels is real. I shared this moment with Georgie. She became a fan. She is a bit of a drama queen too, like her papalu. I'll always be sorry for those who don't fall on their knees with tears in their eyes, with Lisbon in the background, and the sun like a shield of gold, and the sky with clouds the colour and the shape of cotton, when on a stereo plays a record by Berstein with West Side Story. Where do they get their tears from?
We rode the telepheric at Parque das Nações and laughed like crazy all the way up in the air. Like hot air balloons. And then we went to the book fair inside Gare do Oriente, where I bought Caím by Saramago. Ah, the pleasure of buying a book on the Index of the Catholic Church... diabolic pleasure without the smell of sulphur. A book can still move mountains. It's good to be reminded of that.
We saw little children, and big children too, play violin at Reitoria da Universidade Nova de Lisboa, nearby Lisbon's Great Mosque (which looks so much prettier than last time, with a proper minaret shining bright in the evening sky of Praça de Espanha; and go tell that to the Suiss who voted down a month ago the sight of minarets among their ozone-layer-depleting cows!). It felt good to be sitting there next to Guida listening to Christmas music, from Bach to Little Star. Our friendship is like a heart-shaped red box of chocolate pralines. Georgie loved the stripped gloves she gave her. It made her look like Emília, the super-smart, silly-naughty doll in Sítio do Picapau Amarelo. This was centuries ago, when Brazil arrived at our doorstep in the shape of a magic place on TV.
We heard Berstein's West Side Story on the stero in our bedroom. I fell to my knees, tears about to cry, when the shooting gun was heard and the last song was sung. I sang with all my strength "there's a place for us, a time and a place for us, hold my hand and we're half way there, hold my hand and I'll take you there, somehow, somewhere, someday". Something like that. Emotion is never accurate, only it knows what it feels is real. I shared this moment with Georgie. She became a fan. She is a bit of a drama queen too, like her papalu. I'll always be sorry for those who don't fall on their knees with tears in their eyes, with Lisbon in the background, and the sun like a shield of gold, and the sky with clouds the colour and the shape of cotton, when on a stereo plays a record by Berstein with West Side Story. Where do they get their tears from?
Thursday, 26 November 2009
small blue thing
Today I am a small blue thing, like a marble or an eye. Suzanne Vega used to sing this, when was it, in the 1980's? I like to sing it to myself in sotto voce when there's rain outside, flowing like tears down the Chicago windows of our living-room.
There was a hail storm today when I left the office. I bought flowers under the storm. A hazel storm. Flowers to give to Susanne who picked Georgie from school. I'm all on my own this week while Jarl is in Sweden visiting his ill father. Still ill.
I hope you make it out of the hospital real soon Bror! Tell me again about the Romans and the British hunting for javelins, and the Christmas drawing that you made of the little flat in Lund where you and Ulla first moved in. Tell me about the window-pane of your first car and about your typewriter. And the photos of the children, and your times in Geneva after the War (the second, the biggest, the ugliest, the hopeless, the ruthless).
Like a marble or an eye. A small blue thing. I think there is a galaxy named Vega, or a star, or a planet in my imagination. Or maybe it is real. The planetology of the mind trickling down like a tear of rain under the grey skies of Brussels.
Just picture me in the dark of Winter, burnt by hail and wind, running fast with a bouquet of orange flowers in my hand to catch a taxi in Rond Point Schuman. Then add some strings and listen. A singer in the NYC underground. Blue. Marble. Star. Today I am. Blue. Marble. Star. Burn. Small. Thing. Rain. Hail. Hazel. Eye. Marble or a star.
There was a hail storm today when I left the office. I bought flowers under the storm. A hazel storm. Flowers to give to Susanne who picked Georgie from school. I'm all on my own this week while Jarl is in Sweden visiting his ill father. Still ill.
I hope you make it out of the hospital real soon Bror! Tell me again about the Romans and the British hunting for javelins, and the Christmas drawing that you made of the little flat in Lund where you and Ulla first moved in. Tell me about the window-pane of your first car and about your typewriter. And the photos of the children, and your times in Geneva after the War (the second, the biggest, the ugliest, the hopeless, the ruthless).
Like a marble or an eye. A small blue thing. I think there is a galaxy named Vega, or a star, or a planet in my imagination. Or maybe it is real. The planetology of the mind trickling down like a tear of rain under the grey skies of Brussels.
Just picture me in the dark of Winter, burnt by hail and wind, running fast with a bouquet of orange flowers in my hand to catch a taxi in Rond Point Schuman. Then add some strings and listen. A singer in the NYC underground. Blue. Marble. Star. Today I am. Blue. Marble. Star. Burn. Small. Thing. Rain. Hail. Hazel. Eye. Marble or a star.
Monday, 23 November 2009
Luanda
My mother is leaving to Luanda this evening. She will stay there until the end of January. I thought I might be able to see her down there. There had been a work-related mission in the planning, but the Presidency canceled it today. I was disappointed.
I wanted to see my mother's childhood house in Bairro Operário now that it has been redone. Some other time. It would be fun, and a bit strange, to stay there together. "We'll find you a mattress in a corner somewhere", my mother said on the phone. Her little childhood home in that place of dirt roads and no gardens.
I thought of the earth the colour of ocre, and the bay, and the sky expanse above it like a pulsating heart filled with light. Good to fly, just ask the cranes. Maybe next year I'll go to Luanda, the town of my birth.
I wanted to see my mother's childhood house in Bairro Operário now that it has been redone. Some other time. It would be fun, and a bit strange, to stay there together. "We'll find you a mattress in a corner somewhere", my mother said on the phone. Her little childhood home in that place of dirt roads and no gardens.
I thought of the earth the colour of ocre, and the bay, and the sky expanse above it like a pulsating heart filled with light. Good to fly, just ask the cranes. Maybe next year I'll go to Luanda, the town of my birth.
Saturday, 21 November 2009
Agneta's saying
This evening, Agneta came by for a late dinner. After eating, we sipped tisane with Swedish honey and lit the candles in the leaving room for that extra winter cozy feel. We had a long conversation about many topics. We talked about her pending retirement. Next week is her last week at work. So much to think about. So many challenges. So much excitement. So much time ahead of you and no office to go to. Maybe a long trip on the horizon to Latin America.
We ended the night talking, as usual, about Belgium. Just before leaving, Agneta said the evening's sentence: "finalement, ce pays est facile à vivre parce qu'il est tellement compliqué! ". It is, in a nutshell, just how I feel about Belgium.
We ended the night talking, as usual, about Belgium. Just before leaving, Agneta said the evening's sentence: "finalement, ce pays est facile à vivre parce qu'il est tellement compliqué! ". It is, in a nutshell, just how I feel about Belgium.
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