Monday, 25 July 2011

Grandma, I miss you.

The best time of my childhood appears to me in the memories I have of my grandma; they are few and precious.

Her name was Serafina, but everyone knew her by Remediana - a word created by derivation of Remedy - because she used to be quite a healer as a person and also she knew about some old remedies that the ancient used. She was quite gifted: a crafty seamstress and exceptional on goan cuisine.

My found memories of her, go back to when she lived with me, when I was less than 9 years old; she used to take care of me and afterwards of my brother too (he was born when I was almost 6).

I used to sleep in the same bed as her; she used to make this funny noise with her mouth when she was sleeping, it was like she was blowing off candles of a birthday cake. Perhaps that's why I've always been insomniac...

Anyway, by day, we used to stay at home and she would ask me to pull out her grey hairs, one by one, which I did with all care (just in a simian-like ritual) and they would pile up in a big and fuzzy roll of silver strings. She used to knit also and I watched her to try and learn something.
In the warmer days, we would go to the park and I'd buy her favorite ice-cream which was lemon flavored.
We would encounter some neighbors and while I played in the park, she would sit and sometimes chat with some other elders.
And it seemed that everyone liked us a lot, and days  seemed so sweet in those tender moments of so much simplicity, that were the only ones sheltering me from all the harm would follow.

She was born on 12th November around 1920 (not sure about the year, 19, 20 or 21?), and she died on August 2003; I wasn't there in either moment, but the ones I spent with her, were everything to me, and this  so felt and difficult to make, is my homage to her, better yet, my thank you, even though she knew I was so thankful for having had her in my life, I miss her...


As I write so consciously the date, I realize that there's an entwined power in the small lines that draw its numbers.

I had forgotten how much pleasure I used to take from writing with this pen. There's nothing like writing with this pen. There's nothing like writing by hand; having the opportunity of drawing a dance of letters: a romance or a fight, all depending of your state of mind in that instance.
What happened, that made me forget? Was it the new technologies? The hurried schedules?

I just want to rest now. Settle down for a while, in the company of my stainless steel ball pen and who knows what else is to come...

Tuesday, 19 July 2011

Dream, think, question, acknowledge.

Why think life, if living it as we want to is impossible?
Why live life as it is presented to us, if what we think of everything is so different and all we get is disappointment and frustration when we face the facts?
Why to dream of a better life, when in reality things will never be as dreamed?

All this loud and numerous ways of communicating and supposedly connecting, and yet everyone's much lonelier.
It's all so damn stupid and ultimately pointless.