We're together for 20 years now! Thank you!

Once I met this person. It was a lovely person. They told me then I only owned flats and flats were not good shoes for exploration. This person called themselves “mountain goat” so they had a taste for climbing and adventure. I was an adventurer, too. I just did not know then. I thought they’d like to know that now I have more sneakers and boots than flats. I’d love to tell them that I can climb mountains – dry or wet and walk long distances without losing my breath (or undoing my hair, my beautiful curly hair that now also does not need any blowing to look fine). I don’t know where they are now – I hope they’re safe and exploring the big world they so much loved. As to myself and my pretty exploring shoes – oh, boy! – ain’t no mountain high enough.

« – Have I gone mad?
– I am afraid so. But I’ll tell you a secret. All the best people are. » - Alice in Wonderland.



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“You used to be much more..."muchier." You've lost your muchness.”
― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

You used to be much more and your muchness was taken, then. What would say if they came for it again? Would you sacrifice it? For love? For glory? For sympathy?

Take hold of what belongs to you. You are the smile in the pictures before he was. You were the music you heard before he stole the meaning to all those beautiful lyrics of love and devotion. But still you’re the one smiling upon the sand, which was my sand and my beach. It’s an exercise in painting the world your colors again and claiming what was once taken and untangling the fibers of reality – this belongs to me, not you. Rewind, erase. This is me and my borders over this country of affections that was not meant to be shared. It’s mine. You were the beach and the girl in red lipstick you are the hyacinth girl, no sir, I am not a single comma in thought. I am a running mad sentence full of verbs with no noun.

First was the verb. Poïesis . Oh, the beauty of it all – the words tumbling down your head like a pagan shower of ritual sacrifice: drops of unseen flowers and chants of unheard goddesses. Sankirtana. Have you ever really stopped believing your powers, little Morgana? In the darkest hour – just before dawn – weren’t you with the apple orchard and the young witch apprentices by the mists waving to you and only you, weren’t you always the one by the lake you dried by choice? Death by water.

Lady, I swear by all flowers! You are a mistress of your own world, you built reality upon the snap of your fingers. The characters of your stories used to woke you up riding lightning and their eyes of storm blazed through the void. It’s the blue flower, so old so old so old. Sturm und Drang. You’re boring, Werther… Before he was you took possession of all you wanted and you took pride in being a witch and it had nothing to do with future and prophecies. You had a lake full of inconsistencies and those inconsistencies of thought were like little children you fed and loved. They were not flaws. How could you? Flaws! Your very scars!There were no freckles in my thoughts and they were bold and brave and my mind was sharp like the swords of Lancelot and Beowulf; and Beowulf and Lancelot used to pay visits to you in dreams and laughed of your stories but they fancied them. Once a professor read a piece of my work (more bad work written over my broken heart) and he said “I like the blood and the swamps – it’s a dirty and cruel thing. Very creative.” Oh, yes, I liked the blood and the mud and the semen,  I was such a perverse little writer. The world was very calm then and everything was very still but my mind – it was always swirling in a vortex that sucked all into it and covered the voices of the living in a dust of insignificance. Nothing means nothing. What really is? My Elis – the high priestess of water, full of wrath and visions is more real than everyone around me and she matters because she’s mine. She’s me: reckless and rude and she loved with such a barbaric intensity that it was hardly love. It was like hate in a low key.

Elis used to follow me to my Niteroi. Yes, it was my Camboinhas and it bored so many ideas for my never published nor finished romances it could get a place as a character in any of them. I used to lay with my face to the sun covered under the kanga, my closed eyes all engulfed in red gloom and ideas popped like the translucent seeds of a pomegranate, beautiful as if beads on the necklace of a harlot queen.  I am queen. Queen of wands, queen of fire and my batons are ever burning under the memories. ( It’s not about what you remember, but more of what you cannot forget.Collapse )