Written

Tonight, Monday, I had the luxury of not having to work late and to sit and watch a movie I haven't seen in years. In fact, the last time I watched it was when I was 17, in the deep south of Brasil with one of my aunts who claimed that I was about to watch a movie that could quite possibly have the power of changing my life. Ironically, it landed in my hands once again, ten years later, to change my life yet again. Il Postino.

The first time I watched it, like the character Mario, I realized that I was meant to write. That there was nothing more I wanted in the world than to write so beautifully and delicately like Pablo Neruda. And like Mario, I expected nothing more than to simply be heard by the person that could love me for the metaphors and words that I could conjure. I never expected to be published, I still don't. I find it more enthralling that those that know me best are the ones that read what I write, whether it is in this blog, in the brief emails I send out, the periodic poems I send to you from time to long stretched time.

And again, I am in love with the idea of words, with the possibilty of writing, with the innocence that you must observe life with in order to come up with emotions or the descriptions to create the surroundings I see and feel on a daily basis. I am also saddened that the world we live in doesn't lend space to the written language as much as it should. That time, work, daily needs, consumes and constrains us so much that we can't stop to look, to feel for a moment of what is around us and to express it, verbally or written. I long for more time to sit and write, to meet people who are just as addicted to language, to see beyond simply acquiring a language as a tool and instead using it as oxygen, realizing that it has more power than we care to give it. My job is to teach people to speak a language that is foreign, that is worth money, but I also want my students to know that it means more than that.

I wonder what happened to the notion of writing a letter. Why is it so scary to express to someone how much you care with language, why people think it is much too romantic or unnecessary when actions can speak louder than words. And yes, actions can speak louder, but I believe that words are just as strong and for me, they tend to be even stronger. I mean what I say, I choose my words carefully, and when I tell someone I care, I miss them, I love them, I mean it from the center of my being, because I know they are worth more than what money can buy.

I may never be published, my words might forever remain locked in the pages of my diaries, lost in the world of blogs, but the words I write, the time I do take to write them is worth gold.To me. Because I don't want language to be lost. I want to keep falling in love with metaphors and with words that open my eyes to notice an orange sun on fire at dawn and to somehow hand it to you via language.

And it was at that age...Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when, no, they were not voices, they were not words, nor silence, but from a street I was summoned, from the branches of night, abruptly from the others, among violent fires or returning alone, there I was without a face and it touched me. Pablo Neruda

On the eve of things

Imagine this:
You wake up early on Saturday morning, much earlier than you are used to and suddenly, overnight, the weather has dropped, the streets and shop windows are decorated with extravegant christmas objects and you are miles and miles from home. Thousands. You stretch your tight limbs and decide to attack Diagonal street on a good smooth run. You step outside and realize that it has rained the night before, one of those sneaky rains that doesn't stir your dreams, that simply lowers the tempature and cleans the dried leaves off of the street.

You start a slow jog, enjoying the early smell of a winter morning. You reach a park at the end of the long path, after running half an hour straight, and are in awe of the beauty of this quiet moment. Wooden steps lead you up to a park filled with roses everywhere, the benches, beautiful rose colored wood, wet in the soft sun, invite you to sit and catch your breath. The golden leaves fall and crackle all around you and suddenly you feel so alone. There is absolutely no one around, except for the old men at a distance playing bocci ball, laughing, momentarily breaking the silence and all you want to do is be home...home home, because it is Christmas, suddenly, overnight it is christmas and you want to be next to those you love and depend on so much. Eventhough, you have gotten accoustomed to this new life of yours, to the wonderful people around you, to the time, the food, the music, the weather, the streets, you need home more than ever.

Later that evening, your friend who has been there through all the good and bad, calls you and you set up a time to meet in the center and look at the Fira de Sant LLucia, an incredible artisan's display of christmas supplies. Evergreen, bright white lights, santa clauses and crapping statues decorate the streets and stands. For the first time since you've been here, the streets are filled with people from here and not tourists. Family and friends gather in cafes drinking hot chocolates and eating churros, children squeel at the toys and shops, adults try on hand puppets, excusing their childish actions, explaining that it is for their kid, nephew, niece, whomever, but knowing they secretly want one too...you want one.

You walk through narrow streets, old, centuries old that really add that christmas feeling. But as you say goodbye to your friend and tears well up in your eyes, you know that something essential is missing that no hand puppet, tionet (a crapping log...catalanes are infactuated with crap and christmas...and i mean crap literally), or perfectly thick hot chocolate can replace, the friends and family you have at home. Christmas isn't Christmas without them. And so you start packing up your bags and counting the days to go home, leaving all of this romanticism behind for awhile, and going to a place you know so well, to the arms of people who know just how to hold you and know how to make you laugh loud and strong. On the eve of all this holiday cheer, there is nothing you want more from papa noel than to be home for a few weeks.