As if I could write!

AT RAU'S HOUSE

2012-03-10T22:50:00.000Z

In the mysterious woodland, it stood out as a shiny colourful magnet. Anyone entering those woods was bound to end up at that unexpected oasis. Not a single soul could ever find itself lost in that particular forest for every path had one single direction and designated destination. Every road led undoubtedly to Rome but it led through Rau's house first.

Once you went passed the violet trimmed gates, you were transported to a land of curiosity and possibilities. There was a welcoming feel in the surroundings. Dancing lilies offered cocktails and coconut water and butterflies dropped assorted dry fruits here and there leading you on. You knew you were meant to climb the tree as soon as you took a glance at it. At the top of the tree, an open door, invited you in. Stained glass windows let the sunlight flood a tiny library with rainbow reading lamps where a swinging hammock hung from one fairytale book shelf to another.

Sure enough, you would find yourself welcomed by not one but several versions of the same elf. Rau was and elderly elf, retired from the magical world, but eager to please visitors and perform a trick or two, for old time's sake. "Please read me a fairytale", each version would plea and visitors were expected to lay comfortably in the hammock for hours on end and read countless stories, pretending not to notice the recipient was one and the same. These different characters, the host's multiple personalities, competed with each other every day for the best host award. As the panel was composed by the contestants themselves, they took turns but made sure one of them always won.

In the evening, the replicated elf hosts would entertain guests with dancing acts and magic tricks and later on, every single one would retire to a chamber at the side of the house, where they merged into one to fit in the elfs tiny flower bed. Guests would then feel the house empty without their presence and sense the faint lavender odour gently fade away, wishing for it's hasty return. I know this to be true, for I was once this elf's guest. Once a guest at Rau's house, no matter where you are, you will always find your way back.

Penny Lane

2012-02-01T00:10:00.001Z

"A penny for my thoughts Monsieur?",Michelle enquired accentuating the r's in her charming french accent, as the gentleman descended from the carriage. "Out of my way child!", the man shouted, as he pushed her aside, while placing his black top hat on his head and extending his supporting forearm to his female companion, as she stepped down and inevitably brushed her pale petticoat into the muddy and busy lane in the outskirts of Liverpool. "I wonder if you, might be interested in my thoughts Madame? A mere penny Madame! No? Just a penny Sir!" Michelle just couldn't understand why no one was interested in her thoughts for such an inviting price. Perhaps she should lower her price, she admitted to herself. "Excuse me Sir...half a penny for my thoughts? Sir?" Insistingly approaching pedestrians, holding out her hand, Michelle's eloquence due to her upper class upbringing and her kind manner were totally ignored, under her warm dark woollen cloak.

If any of the approached passer-byes had paid a penny for Michelle's thoughts, they would've been surprised at the amount of thinking a young girl was capable of. They would've found out that by this time, she found herself wondering why no one was interested in buying any of her thoughts. Her father had constantly enquired for them. When he was alive that is... and had always offered a penny for them, as if they were the most treasurable of bargains. These very thoughts were abruptly interrupted when a young man placed a penny in the palm of her hand. "Why thank you Monsieur... well, let's see... I was just thinking how worthless my own thoughts must be. A penny for yours Sir?" The surprised gentleman, slowed down his pace and could not withhold his laughter for this sudden turn of events, as Michelle gently handed back the tiny penny.

"My thoughts?", he replied bearing a broad honest smile. I suppose I was just thinking how refreshing you amazingly turned out to be. "That's just what my father used to say", Michelle thought, as the gentleman would find out as the penny exchanged palms again. Of course, she left out the part of how handsome he was, as she suspected she would blush far more than acceptable. A fair amount of penny swapping would take place until the gentleman would reply "Why must you always know what I'm thinking woman!????" Of course, they'd been married a few years by then!

Searching my dreams

2012-01-30T22:28:00.000Z

I wonder off into the inviting forest, in search of my dreams, seeking magical creatures, sparkling misty lights and fairy dust silver shimmer as the sun beams cross ancestral waving beings in their white attire. The wind recognises my presence and lets me hear the trees whispering. Adorned by the snow, their welcoming chant takes me by surprise.

Glittering fairies and helpful elves come to my aid. The forest casts a potent magic spell. I become enchanted. As the sun rests and lets the moon take its place, the iced stream shines a glowing path. "Follow the path under the moonlight", the transparent winged creatures say. I instinctively obey.

Within the forest's misty cold atmosphere, I am a princess, the lady of the lake, an enchanted swan, a kind fairy of the woodland. Majestic white horses lead me to my dreams across the snow, in a shiny silver carriage. I am almost there.

Leap Year

2012-01-22T11:56:00.001Z

Every so often, a year that's so financially impaired (or to use the politically correct denomination, "economically challenged"), it leaps instead of sprinting by, turns up, out of the blue, or in this case, out of the calender... Struggling against all odds, it surfaces amongst other time-line athletes and is even awarded an extra day for the effort! Apparently, it's completely delusional, and thinks it's a Dragon! Personally, I'm thankful no one shoots it in the leg... and it's not limping... instead of leaping... I'd hate to think how economically challenged that year might be!!!! So go on!! Leap, hop, skip or jump away 2012, but for God's sake... please... get to the finish line! Oh... and... good luck, or... break a leg! :)

Windy pleasures

2012-01-16T20:49:00.000Z

I love boats... The way they just slide away... effortless... across the water. Especially, sailboats. Like the one I'm watching this very instant, as I write this, going up the Douro river... No motor, no sound, but the water hitting the hull, the wind hitting the main sail... just sliding bye, with its tall sail up in the air, breezing away, leaving nothing behind, but a trail of pure envy...

Oh, to be a sailboat...Rivers have a will of their own, and it's destination, is seldom unknown, being it one of two directions... The quietness of a lake however, allows the silence of those inevitable wind absent days, to point out guidelines for your journey within the confinement of the lake... And then, there is the open sea...

Oh, to be one with the wind and the waves... Just imagine for a moment... having the wind, stubbornly waving your hair in your face, constantly reminding you that if your eyes are blindfolded, you may not see where you're heading, but you're still moving towards freedom... indulge me, and let the wind win a battle or two, close your eyes and trust the Ocean, the wind, and the water under your vessel... you are free...

Oh, to indulge in windy guilty pleasures... And now, you're crossing swiftly what you know to be a vast repository of timeless promises, dreams and sorrows, scattered bottled messages with unspoken words... pebbles thrown in rage... whispers shared with seashells... secrets best kept at the bottom of the ocean... each of them, forever locked within a wave that travels tirelessly to the shore, and back again... endless waves of secrets of different shades of blue, intertwining, like braiding on a summer dress...

Oh, to have not shared one single secret... still, you float above them... like driftwood that refuses to sink, in spite of all the tears shed for centuries on distant beaches... Alas, the pier keeps me tied up with one of those intricate knots, sailors use...

Oh to cut the rope... Would I go off, into the distant horizon, would the wind have dropped by then, or would it blow me back to Póvoa de Varzim every single time?

Oh, to be reunited with my hostage heart... Did I mention , I love boats?

Blaming the mistletoe

2011-12-28T09:11:00.000Z

It was a rather disconcerting find. I’ve actually lost it!

Stop smiling! Yes, you! Stop it! Ok, that’s enough! No more thinking to yourselves that you already knew I wasn’t all there in the first place! I didn’t mean my mind! Although... sometimes, I could swear that’s gradually going too... nevertheless, I meant my shadow ! (no, I don't mean my radio cassette player I used to carry around behind me everywhere I went, in my youth...) Yes, the actual dark image upon a surface made by my body intercepting rays of light! Stop with that “she really has lost it, pour thing” again! I mean it! I’m warning you readers!

Well...where was I? Oh. yeah...For those of you who are curious as to what happened to my shadow, let me warn you right here and now... the images I will produce in your mind could be considered pretty horrific! You've been warned! Proceed at your own risk...

First of all, a correction is in order. I didn't really loose it (here we go again...), it would be more accurate to say, that my shadow has lost itself. You see... It was about 8 years ago, shortly after I turned 40, round about Christmas, when it happened. It is a well known fact in Never-Never Land, where I seem to reside more often than not,that sometimes, shadows just up and go or hide in the most astonishing places. This my friends is not, I repeat, not what occurred to mine! Instead, the silly tag along just happened to mingle with Santa Claus shadow in the shopping mall's wall quite by accident. Santa was pacing up and down the isle, ho ho howing, when he suddenly stopped behind me, while I was admiring a shop window.

Coincidentally, there was some mistletoe hanging in that very spot...well, before you could say supercalifragilisticespialidoshous (ok, bad choice of a word...), they kissed, fell in love, and as if my shadow wasn't fat enough, they joined together and the two of them became one, ever since!!

Couldn't they just have eloped to Spain for a quick romance? Did they have to merge as one, embarrassing me, every time I'm in the spotlight? I presume Santa gathers his own shadow is still hiding in the mall or stuck in some chimney somewhere, waiting to be rescued... I'm the one that need to be rescued! I'm fed up of being some kind of shadow host. I mean... let's face it... suppose they start a family! Ugh!!!!!

I know you must be dreading this horrific image of a shadow twice Santa's size, becoming even larger... I apologize. Every now and again, one of them goes off somewhere... usually in the summertime (coincidentally, while I'm on a diet, not that I can see any connection...), but not for long... Like any young couple in love, they cling together like glue, each separate identity lost for ever...

Only four days ago, at a family gathering, the shadow mesh made a public appearance on my living-room wall!! Right above a photo-frame with prehistoric evidence of me and my elegant shadow I miss so dearly. Have they no respect for my reputation? It annoys me terribly. Always lurking... like a Hitchcock profile... why can't they just hide, when there's a light on, or go for a stroll by themselves in the sunshine?

It's ever so awkward having to explain over and over it's not really just my own shadow reflected, I mean honestly... who could believe that shadow fatter than St Nicholas was just mine? So, I tell everyone my "unlikely" tale and spend about five minutes wiping the smirks off their faces... I wonder why? It's all true I tell you! Have you forgotten anything is possible in Never Never Land? Doesn't anybody believe me??

Shells under the skin

2011-10-30T01:00:00.004+01:00

Chestnuts lay on the padded leafed ground making no sound as they fall silently, willingly with their protection gear, defensive, aggressive shell. Those who walk among them will tell.. There is a maze to be conquered where it is safe to walk. Paths are so easily deceiving. And as you carry on a safe trail, chestnuts keep falling in your way. They fall from every chestnut tree beside you, to guide you, on a path of thorns... must they come with a shell?

Chestnuts and chests with shells... protective lining, so binding... Beware of thorns going through your shoes. Perhaps you might get hurt. Many a heart has been pierced with less. As your feet undress and squeeze the shells off... beware of spikes making holes in rubber or leather soles and finding their way through unguarded souls, as you choose a safe route no doubt, often to no avail, for slight ou much pain it must entail...

They call them chestnuts, for good reason, a protected nut lays at rest inside a chest... In any season, chests bear treasures and unexpected pleasures as in bare chests you will find treasured hearts. And the path starts and will sometimes end with the wrong chart, a misguided dart... And within spiked protective shells you rip apart you may cut open a chest to restart a frozen heart that has stopped beating, seeking, believing... only to unveil an organ that has shells within, under the skin, letting no one in...

Autumn Leaves

2011-09-20T01:27:00.003+01:00

"I'll race you to the ground!", said one autumn leaf to the other.

"Ok. On yours marks... get set... last one to hit the grass is a bird's feather!!"

But only one leaf fell...

"Hey! What happened?", it shouted up.

"Sorry... I'm not ready to let go yet...", replied the remaining leaf.

Red in anger, its fellow leaf on the ground called out "Yellow!!!!!"

The horizon calls my name

2011-09-02T12:14:00.003+01:00

The horizon calls my name as the summer heat extends an invitation for a stroll along the lake after dinner.The crickets sing an old favourite tune of mine. How I've missed their chanting... that reassuring sound every night that accompanied the rarely existent but much desired breeze through the mosquito net in my open bedroom window... That reminds me, the mosquitoes will soon have a feast at the expense of my ankles. It can't be helped, so be it... Sandals off! Ah... immediate pleasure... The land is still warm. The earth beneath my bear feet feels like home. Every time, I walk barefoot on the heated ground, I am myself again. Maybe it's the native Indian girl I was meant to be... I love the roughness of different textures scratching and massaging my feet, the dried grass, the gravel, the soft leaves, the cool smooth stones contrasting with the warm earth...

The air is unbearably hot. The only thing missing is a late night swim. Clothes off! There is something quite magical about swimming in the nude under the stars, with no light other than the moon. And the sound of crickets every time your head comes up for air... I surrender and float... Although I gaze up above into the starry night, for a brief moment I am truly in heaven.

The grass is always greener on the other side

2011-08-28T18:23:00.001+01:00

Tommy the squirrel, was gardening in his patch of land one day, when suddenly, his neighbours garden caught his eye.
"That grass is greener than mine...", he thought to himself as he waited 'till his wife Mary came back from the walnut factory.
"It's not greener than ours", Mary said, when confronted with his findings, "we both stole the seeds in the same spot, planted them on the same day and always watered at the same time. It's exactly the same colour as ours", his wife said, as she nodded her head.
"You're wrong, it is greener!", Tommy insisted, "I'm going to buy that tree hole of his!"

Once Tommy the squirrel, set his mind to something, there was no turning back. Mary knew this to be true, so she began packing their stuff, that very instant. And indeed, by the end of the month, he had convinced his neighbour Larry, to move into a better home (his own...).After the initial excitement and welcoming party, Tommy and Mary settled in and relaxed on their front branch.
"Mary?" he said quite suddenly, "don't you think that Larry's grass looks greener than ours today?"
"But... it just looks the same Tommy!!", Mary gasped.
"No, he's done something to the grass. I know my own grass and that grass is greener than ours I tell you!", he said. "I'll have to convince him to come back here... we must go back to that tree hole now! ", Tommy decided.
Mary took her apron off, shrunk her shoulders and shook her head. She loved Tommy dearly, but it was about time someone told him, that squirrels are colour blind...

Letter to Mother Nature

2011-07-22T12:48:00.004+01:00

Dear Mother Nature,

I’m 300 years old. The width and rings in my trunk give my age away. There is no plastic surgery for trees… only amputation.
I’m old… very old... I have grown mighty and tall and I am proud of my branches and roots.

Though my surface has many scars, I remember each and every one of them. I remember all the young boys who attempted to climb me and all the lovers who carved their initials on my trunk. That has been my life… to withstand the test of time and witness the follies of the infesting inferior species of weeds, the so called humans…

I have seen violence in the shape of an axe.
I have shed tears for fellow trees, chopped down for yet another highway…
I have seen flames consuming friends and neighbours, helpless...

I have seen nations rise and fall,
men in battle and men in love,
I have seen it all...
I have seen their insignificance,
their lack of respect for nature,
their predictable extinction…
all this I have seen, and still, I live.
I have seen enough…

I pray lightening will someday strike my tired soul and take me, so I may return to the ground, oblivion of such matters,
I pray a virus will finally destroy all these infesting inferior weeds, self proclaimed, inheritors of the earth…
Perhaps then… my planet will have a chance.

Yours truly,
Tricentenary oak,
Portugal,
Planet Earth

Love is (almost) blind!

2011-07-15T00:26:00.000+01:00

Cupid lay down on the sand enjoying his mini-brake. The clouds went swiftly bye as the wind was in a hurry for its morning shower somewhere in the tropics. He had always enjoyed the beach, but was seldom allowed a few days off. Since Psyche had run away with the mail man he had accidentally hit with an arrow while practicing his marksmanship in the back garden, he had concentrated all his energy on his job. And love was very hard work. It only seamed to increase over the centuries. He was a bit tired to be honest, but he felt he couldn’t let love down. He just needed a short rest and he would be back on duty in no time.

He stuck his bow and arrows in the sand and went for a swim. The wind must’ve reached its destination for it was now a bright and sunny day. After a few minutes in the refreshing salty water, his foot got stuck in some seaweed and as he struggled, it got more and more entangled. He began to panic. There was no soul in sight. After all, he had chosen peace and quite on a deserted island. He called out for help, but it was useless.

A seagull ignored him completely. It has to be said in her defense, she blamed love for her recent heartbreak and was not about to save the innocent looking angel from a much deserved, in her opinion, violent death! He soon realized he was going to drown. He thought of all the couples he had yet to join together and how he planned to retire one day to the Allgarve.*

Being a male specimen, he naturally did not intend to cry. Instead he shouted, swore, cursed, blamed the seagull, his boss, and yes, even his father…and then, he began to weep. The tears just flooded the ocean as no river could. They were so many, he almost drowned in them, but he struggled and floated as best he could. The tide soon rose and delivered his bow and arrows back to him. Trying to set himself free, the clumsy angel accidentally shoots an arrow through his own foot (honestly...). Contrary to popular belief he didn’t always hit his targets in the heart (this explains why when you fall in love, your stomach might hurt). In fact, his eye sight was so bad, that soon, the expression love is blind would acquire a whole new meaning... he once hit a mans reflection in the middle of a pond when aiming at a fairy! I think the man’s name was Narcissus. He was almost fired for that incident, but the Gods took pity on him, and gave him a second chance. Shooting himself however (again), was an entirely different matter. The outcome was unforeseen (or, if you’re a moviegoer...totally predictable).

A mermaid was soon to surface and they fell in love quite instantly. She helped him get back to shore for his soaking wings to dry off. As any James Bond at the end of a 007 adventure, he sent a message to the Gods, saying he had been tied up, but had the matter in hands, and carried his beloved on to a run-away cloud for what would become a very romantic month. Sadly it didn’t last. He accidentally shot the plumber who finally came to fix the hot water and she was off! He really needed to get his eye sight checked. Again he blamed the blacksmith who made the golden arrows, the travel agency, the run-away cloud, the entire mermaid community and yes, even his mother! Rumour has it, the mermaid created a blog. But Cupid, became very distracted ever since then, missing his targets entirely and mismatching couples... love was never the same...

I guess that explains a lot...

*A British province, considered idyllic by some, where you can occasionally still find rare native dialects such as Portuguese.

A boarding house in the middle of nowhere

2011-07-08T00:36:00.000+01:00

One night, a travelling salesman who had been driving around in the rain, for several hours and felt quite sure he was lost, decided to take a small road towards the beach, hoping to find someone who could give him directions. He continued to drive for many kilometers and still there was not a single house in sight. Suddenly, he could see a shimmering light. He had to stop for the night (no, it wasn't hotel California...). As he approached, he could see a quaint old cottage by the sea. A picket white fence surrounded a little garden at the front, and some more at the back. The wind was howling and the arts and crafts styled bed and breakfast sign swung to and fro, with that "eary", rusty sound to it, you immediately associate with a haunted house. He opened the small white gate and walked up the stoned path, with his by now, wet suitcase. The house had a welcoming feel to it, but looked poorly maintained or even abandoned… The light was on, under the porch, but the shutters were closed and there was no sound from within. He banged on the door.

"Yes?" came a voice from within, "May I help you?" said an elderly woman peeping though the small opening in the door.
"I want to spend the night. Do you have a room available?" the man inquired.
"A room?" the woman asked surprised... as she slowly opened the front door.
"Why do you look so surprised?" the man asked smiling, as he noticed her astonishment, “Don’t you get many guests around here?"
"No", she said and smiled back.
The woman stood in the middle of the door way, a hand on either side, like a statue...
"Well...can I come in then?" the man insisted, puzzled that she had not yet given way for him to walk in from the rain.
"I'm terribly sorry" the woman said, but didn't budge.
Just as he was about to be slightly rude...he heard her say "we're all booked for the night!"
"But" he said, "you just said...you had hardly any guests....Look, I'm lost, I'm soaking wet and tired...couldn't you find me a room somewhere? I'll sleep anywhere" he insisted, "even on the couch...please?" he went on and on convincingly enough... you must remember selling was his thing.
"It's been a while since I let anybody in..." she said, "the last occupant stayed for an extended visit and never paid his bill... I tell everyone I'm booked ever since then!"
"I see" he said, "but don't worry, I'm a man of my word...I always pay my debts "he explained. Of course, he failed to mention those times when he hadn't... but even if he had, he would've certainly pointed out, that this time it was entirely different, and that he would never, ever betray the woman’s trust...

The old lady reluctantly let him in, wondering if he would take off in the middle of the night with all the silver in the living room. After all, the last guest had taken all her family jewelry. She gave the man a home cooked meal and showed him to his room on the first floor. The atmosphere was worm, cozy and welcoming. The man felt right at home. The following morning, the boarding lady, woke up, bright and early, opened all the curtains, let the air in (something she hadn't done in ages...) and started to prepare a feast for breakfast. It occurred to her, while baking some bread, she hadn't peeped in on the silver. "Nonsense..." she thought, "such a nice young man. I must be paranoid..." but she nevertheless, left her dough, and went to check her precious items in the living room. They were all there... all the photo frames, candles holders, platters and bowls she had collected over the years. "I knew I could trust him" she thought to herself and went back to the kitchen. The coffee was brewing and the table was set, when she decided to fetch some flowers from the back garden. And so she did. The last time she'd cut some flowers from the garden, had been quite some time ago.

She came back with a hand full of lilies and looked for a vase that was the right size to put them in. As this was proving difficult, she opted for her secret money hideaway, a bright green mug (to match the kitchen) where she kept her savings, and you might say, her few hopes and dreams, like one day, actually going away on a holiday). The mug was there, in the usual place, but the money was gone, she looked at the mug in silence for a moment and shoved the flowers in the dust bin. She then went calmly upstairs to check if her guest had left. He had. Another bill left unpaid...

She changed the linen, closed the windows and although it was still morning, all the shutters she has previously opened in the entire house. In the back shed, she found some ladders and a spray of red paint. She came round to the front and attempted to remove de B&B sign, but it was too rusty and wouldn't come down. So, she spray painted a bright red X on the sign. She then, spray painted the words no vacancy in bright red letters on the front door. To top it off, she spray painted the white front gate with the words closed indefinitely. And just in case the message was not clear, she sprayed the letters not welcome on the door mat! She hoped she'd made herself perfectly clear... and went inside the house.

When the man returned from his usual morning jog, he was astonished at all the red keep away hints. He couldn’t believe his eyes. In fact, he even took a photograph at all the red signs. He hesitated whether or not he would ring the existing bell, he could now see clearly in the day light. He had not wanted to awaken the old lady so early and left without so much as a sound (or a trace...), and gone jogging. He could've left a note explaining all this to the sweet boarding lady, but to be honest, as his wife often put it, it just never occurred to him.

The truth was, he couldn't actually afford the entire bill, he had found out earlier in the morning, while reading the price list on the wall (something he had failed to do the previous night). He had no intentions of paying his debt, it was too much for him, and had every intention of just getting in his vehicle and driving away with the entire content of the green mug, but for some reason, he became worried that something dreadful had happened to the sweet old lady in his absence. He rang the bell. Once. No reply.

"I wonder what happened to the sweet boarding lady? What on earth could've happened for all this?" he thought to himself. Once. "Beets me...oh well...back on the road!"

The time machine

2011-07-01T23:02:00.000+01:00

Until that particular day, she thought, under the circumstances, she was doing quite well. The writing was keeping her busy, and focused on everything but the pain. She had convinced herself she would gradually get over living without him. And then, it happened. Quite unexpectedly, that afternoon.

As she returned back home after her usual coffee after lunch, she walked into the lift, in her flat, for the usual uneventful short voyage. It was then, the familiar confined cubicle, she regularly shared her comings and goings with, became a science fiction time machine. The moment she stepped inside, it hit her. That mere hint of a fragrance... that put time into motion. The faint odor had been left behind by some recent occupier. And it had lingered... She knew instantly, with all certainty, it must've been a visitor, a guest or a new tenant, for she knew all the colognes, after-shaves and perfumes of her neighbors, and this particular scent was new to the building. But it was not new to her...

In the few seconds it took to reach the second floor, she had gone back in time. Memories of past pleasure intertwined with the pain in the present. She found herself suddenly sobbing ... uncontrollably... as tears found their way down her tortured facial features at a stubborn, but constant, almost metronomic pace. She had forgotten his aftershave until every cell in her body recognized it immediately... and it took her back to another lift, where once two strangers shared an uncontrollable desire to finish that, which had not yet been started, and how the stranger had taken her hand, to climb yet another flight of stairs. It would be quite some time, untill he would willingly, take her hand again, she recalled... She took her time taking it in, inhaling repeatedly, as the scent began to disperse and as it became fainter and fainter, so did the pain grow deeper and deeper... "if only, grief lingered on, just the same amount of time as this scent in the lift", she muttered. Eventually, she composed herself and exited, hollower than the space she had just left...

The story fountain

2011-06-22T11:17:00.004+01:00

There is a fountain in a little village in rural China, the villagers call the story fountain. It is said, if you listen carefully, you can hear a different story coming out of the fountain every single day. Eager to attract the wandering tourists, they tell of an ancient story of how this fountain came to be, quite suddenly, on a winter’s night, five century’s ago.

In this village there lived in the fifteenth century, a wise old man. This wise old man, had developed over the years, the habit of replying to all those who sought his infinite wisdom, with a riddle or a story. Each and every time, one of the villagers turned to him for advice, his stories either old or new, were his only answer. The years went by, and the old man became a legend in his time, as travelers came from thousands of miles to hear the storyteller, as he became known. He did not want for much, this man, for his needs were met by the generosity of others who repaid him with goods such as rice and fish.

On one rare occasion, when he went to a local market, he was approached by a young girl, poorly dressed with big sad eyes. She put her hand out, begging the storyteller for some money or some bread. He looked at her and smiled. He then sat beside her. His story began. Her eyes lit up as she was absorbed by the fairytale. When the story ended, as the old man got up, the girl began to tell her very own fairytale. Her imagination was captivating, and surprisingly refreshing and as the storyteller loved stories himself, he was enchanted by this young girl and her tale. As they parted, he thought to himself, he would return the following day to see what would happen. And so he did.

The girl did not recognize him, he thought, for as he approached her, she again reached her hand out begging for food. He smiled as he had the day before, and sat beside her. His story delighted her and all those who overheard it, and afterwards, as anticipated, she too, delivered a story. For the next five days, this scene would repeat itself on the same particular spot of the market place. On the sixth day, the old wise man, hurried down the path towards the market, only to find, to his surprise, a fountain where once, the girl used to sit. The villagers joyfully sat round the fountain listening to its story as the water rushed out, before collecting water from it. He asked for the young girl. They informed him she had died from starvation that very night. He then remembered, how each time she had reached out her hand. Humbled, the not so wise man, sat and listened daily to the fountain's story. It is said, he never told another story again.

in Memory of The Big Chill

2011-06-15T11:22:00.005+01:00

THE BIG CHILL

15th June 2009 - 15th June 2010

She first met Google, years ago. He was a dashing, colourful young browser. All the girls loved surfing with him. She took a fancy to him almost immediately, but never let her passion be known. He never took any notice of her anyway... Gradually, he began to glance towards her every now and again and soon, they began dating. Their relationship was an on and off kind of affair and was mainly kept secret. Publicly, Google denied having any relationship with her and in fact, never aknowledged knowing her at all. Still, their relationship continued... and blossomed... and they were blessed with two blogs together.

Due to unforeseen circumstances, she began to spend less and less time with him, and it wasn't untill some months had passed, that she decided to search him again. She googled her name for the first time in ages, and there it was, in all its glory! First page, top of the search!! Her eyes couldn't believe it! "He loves me! Google loves me!", she whispered in disbelief. "He even highlighted the name of our firstborn child to match the colour of my eyes!" , she cried. She didn't even know he had finally admited publicly to knowing her!! "Wow! This must be his way of telling me he misses me!", she thought. She could now tell all her friends, that the most famous browser on the planet not only knew her personally, but loved her dearly!

"Wait a minute! What the...?". As she began to read the whole page, there was her name alright... in the midst of many, many, many others (how common can a name be??), bearing the exact same name!!! How dare all these other women have her name? "Why... they're nothing but frauds!" Fakes... misleading fellow bloggers, friend and complete strangers... Facebook? Tweeter? Not her! She had always been true to her one and only love, Google. "Who do they think they are?? Impostors! That's what they are!!!"

She soon came up with a flawless plan, as the first impact of her jealousy subsided. If he couldn´t tell the difference between her and all these others, put them all indiscriminately on the same page, and refused to recognize how unique she was, it was time she left him. "I'll show Google!..."

Soon she would be arrested and convicted for murdering their eldest offspring, and everyone would know about it!! There would be no texting about anything else, but the famous blog murder. The groosom details, would send a big chill up readers spines, and her fame would have no boundaries. Finally, her name would stand out from the same-name crowd and in time, as intended, it would no longer be amongst those impersonators, for she was reclaiming her name back as unique, unsearchable, and private ,as she knew full well, Google would be too embarassed to be associated with a blog murderer, and like St Peter, he would very soon, deny ever having had any knowledge of her at all... sentencing her to gradual obscurity.

"There's something to be said about anonymity...", she said wisely, to her younger child (that Google, never, ever recognized, as his own, never having mentioned it once).. Unfortunately, it too, would perish due to neglect.

"Have you any comment on the fact that Google says you don't exist and have never existed in his life?", she was asked, a few years later.
"All browsers are liars... that's all I have to say", she replied, not commenting any further.

Santo Tirso, June, 2010

Mysterious mornings

2011-06-10T18:19:00.001+01:00

She sat on the bench, by the beach, admiring the calming view. It was one of those summer mornings, when you know it will soon clear up, but it was still damp. She could almost taste the sea air. The sun was there, she could feel it, but it still hid behind a mysterious veil of mist, like an organza curtain waiting to be pushed aside.

It felt good to be back. The sea was always relaxing. It felt like home. Her eyes closed for a brief moment as she took a deep breath. When they opened again, there was an unexpected companion at her side. An elderly woman had sat so very quietly on the other end of the bench. They smiled at each other and nodded good morning. The poetic state of contemplation and self-absorption had been disturbed and the scenery had somewhat lost its glamour, by the simple fact that she was no longer alone. So she decided to observe her companion instead.

The woman looked tired. Not tired as if she had carried a heavy load of groceries, but rather a heavy load of life occurrences. She simply appeared tired of living, you might say. As sometimes, one does... As she examined her more closely, she began to notice a remarkable amount of similarities between the two. Their hair was the same texture and cut the same way, the shame of their bodies was identical, the way they sat leaning against the bench while folding their arms, even the colour and similar style of the inexpensive clothes and shoes reminded her of her own. Her posture, her long sighs, the same gaze into the horizon. There was something in her washed out blue eyes that looked familiar. They reminded her of her own grandmother. But it was not her grandmother. She looked more like her own self, but older. Yes, that was it! She looked just like herself! She too was wearing a silver ring on the same finger on the left hand. And she twirled it in the exact same way. She even had a birth mark in the exact same spot on her lower left arm! They never spoke as they both indulged into their private thoughts. But it was as if she could read her thoughts... and guess her every new move...

A seagull caught her eye for a moment and she looked up into the sky. The mist had begun to subside. As she looked back, the woman had gone. As mysteriously as she had appeared. She hesitated at the thought of mere coincidence. She concluded she had had a glimpse into the future, a vision of herself still sitting alone on the same bench, living off memories passed. Just as she was about to pick up her inexpensive big white handbag and leave, she saw the woman again at a distance. She was greeting who appeared to be her grandchildren and continued to walk with them on the sea front.

She sat down on the familiar wooden seat again and sighed... a reassuring smile emerged. It was nice on the bench. She'd stay just a little while longer. She turned her head again, and all she could make out in the distance was a big white handbag.

Message on a piece of paper

2011-06-04T11:28:00.000+01:00

The questions had been at the back of her mind for a few days now. What was on that piece of paper? Who had left it there? Why was it still there? She lit her bedside lamp, and fetched a cup of hot cocoa (she loved her hot chocolate), and a couple of biscuits, and sat back in bed. As she gazed into the photographs on the wall, the questions remained. It was just so puzzling… She could not delay her curiosity any further! Tomorrow she simply had to find out!

You see… the very first time she saw it, six days before, on her morning stroll by the river, it caught her eye immediately. There it was, so unexpectedly, a little piece of what appeared to be white paper, not much larger than a post-it, carefully displayed on a rock on the river bank. The rock was in the midst of a continuum of large rocks of rather difficult access. And yet… someone had bothered to leave a pebble, on top of the little piece of paper, just large enough to prevent it from flying away. This intrigued her from the beginning. What was so important to be left with a stone? Was it a message for someone? And if so, why was it still there, after six days?

The weather was about to change and it would be raining in a day or two. The message would then be lost for ever… Her romantic nature led her to believe it might be a love note. What a pity if it should never reach its intended reader, she kept thinking…

The following day, sure enough, the paper was still being hostage by the tiny pebble, in the exact same spot. She gagged across the rocks. Took the pebble in her hand and read the paper. There they were… three little words…

She could feel the rain, slightly at first, but rather steadily… it wouldn’t be stopping any time soon. If she replaced the paper, it would very soon be erased. Her heart rate shot up and she began to panic. What if… it was no accident that she was now the sole recipient of this important message? She had no alternative; she took the pebble and began to engrave the message with it, on the actual large rock itself. It took some time and perseverance... but it had to be done. She sighed of relief when it was finally finished. Soaking wet, she looked back at her mastered accomplishment. It was clearly visible, even from a distance. It read: Dinner in fridge.

He´s just not that into you

2011-05-27T09:42:00.006+01:00

Miss blinded by love, was woken up by someone knoching on the front door. She slowly dragged herself out of bed and proceeded to open it. On top of the welcoming mat, there was a package. “Handle with no care at all”, it said on every side of the parcel. No bow, no card. She peeped to see if she could catch a glimpse of whoever might’ve left it. But there was no one in sight. And as she stood in the doorway in her sheep pyjamas (not a spelling mistake, I mean the kind that has sheep on the front, mind you... they weren’t that expensive either), she couldn’t help noticing her next door neighbour nodding her head disapprovingly, as she said good-morning. The mystery was soon to be unravelled.

In this strange looking box, there lay, wrapped up in fishing net, her own heart! “That’s odd” she thought “I didn’t think I had misplaced it...” So, she put it back in the box, wrapped it up, and even put a bow on the box (who ever heard of such a thing as a gift with no bow anyway?). The parcel was sent off to where it belonged and was left on another doorstep. Soon after, it would be returned. She felt it must obviously, be a postal delivery mistake, and sent it off again.

Everyday, she sent her heart to the same destination, and sure enough, every day it was returned. After a few years went by, she started adding a few items to the box, before wrapping it up. First, she slipped in some dreams she had kept in case they were ever needed again. This was one of those occasions. But still, the box was returned, the dreams shattered. Then, she added her hopes and carefully tied a green ribbon on the box. She had forgotten she had hopes left over, but there they were, behind the Christmas cards and photo albums. The box was soon after returned again, only this time, the hopes were missing. In desperation, she added her life. The gift was returned as usual and though her life was not missing, it had been irreversibly altered. Under closer inspection, she found her heart to have deeper scars every single time it came back, but still, it was sent off again...

Each time the box was returned, it was shabbier than the last. “After all these years, you might’ve thought the postal delivery service would’ve improved and finally got the address right!!”, she said out loud one day, standing on the door step, in her worn out sheep pyjamas. Overhearing her, (quite by accident as neighbours do... yea right!), Mrs Unlikely, who lived next door, replied ”you know dear... have you ever thought that maybe... just maybe... he’s just not that into you?”

The day after the storm

2011-05-04T01:34:00.003+01:00

I waken to the sound of seagulls, that soon disapears...
in this inward land I live in.
Quietness broken... painfull purple bruises to my ears...
Such deafening echoes across my skin...

Images of tempestuous winds the night before,
harboring safety on land, inviting experienced wings,
for a tour so far from the shore,
unwillingly towing on memory strings.

Reemerging friendly characters from my poems, it seams...
indulge my twisted, tortured soul... let me hear your seagull call!
Bring thou, an invoice from the sea front, to suit my dreams?
Perhaps, a carrier, shall let a coded message fall...

If only this longing cancer could be surgically removed,
and blood could circumnavigate without it's pumping ally
No blade on Earth, would be left unused...
to ensure each vivid memory would die.

Anatomy has failed us miserably, I find,
providing a single heart, easily wounded frail soldier...
Centuries of evolution have yet to grant a twin organ to mankind
Surviving an aching heart is thus left to each individual creature.

Oh, the irony of the ancient greek myth at its best...
A bold and fearless amazon warrier,
A queen, who's lust for marksmanship led her to slice one hindering breast,
merely to improve her archery career.

If all is fair, when hunting with bows and arrows,
Could not the target be as dispensable as the bow's resting place?
The queen's breast was redundant, as the tale clearly shows.
Must this target hit with the potent arrow, have such perpetual burden to face?

Do they not coincide upon my chest?
Poisonous venom continues to spread at every beat!
My weary heart claims its rest.
I lay down my weapons, recognizing defeat...

The seagulls mistake my white flag for a fairwell gesture...
I wave it vigorously at Time, to whom I have surrendered!
So far from home, at dawn, they prepare their departure.
Untill the next storm, their cry, will no longer be heard.

They return safelly, to their haven by the sea,
countless winged travellors up above.
Though the wounds inflicted shall outstand eternity,
one blown kiss joins their flock in haste ,heading towards my love.

A calendar page

2011-03-24T00:01:00.007Z

Melody Gardot - Deep within the corners of my mind

Perhaps it is true that the river banks are as violent as the current itself...
or a pair of chinese red dragon bookends emprisioning a classic erotic novel
desperatly holding the past together like a glued trophy on a shelf

Or two innocent calendar pages compressing carefully picked roses
on one particular date, drying under 58 volumes of life's encyclopedia.
tighter and tighter, as more roses are added to each extra volume as it closes...

Or a picture frame squashing a photo between the glass and it's cardboard back
preserving a particular moment in time, locked up for timeless posterity
rendering escape to oblivion, a repetitious cul-de-sac.

Or any four walls brought closer by every memory deathtrap
compressing your lungs to an incomprehensible limit
reminding you that between then and now there is an immeasurable gap.

As if you could force the river flow in the opposite direction...

A lighthouse in a vase

2011-03-24T00:00:00.002Z

Like a lighthouse shining in the distance,
bringing radiant reassurance to those who seek its presence...
Sailors and travellers, returning from a perilous journey,
awaiting its proximity to land, to home, to safety...

This, I aim to be.
Do not hide amongst the shadows of ancient monsters of the sea
as turbulent waters tend to rock your vessel to and fro.
A wondrous yearly gift I bestow.

Like a beacon of light, constance its only certainty.
Daily presence far at sea, slight comfort, of that wish you refuse to see...
In moonlit nights, you can see it far beyond the pier...
Yet, it remains there still, in charcoal stormy nights, year after year...

Look out the window... can you see it in the distance?
Mist may cast a misterious dance...
tides may come and go, yet in the wind it will remain standing still.
Flowers of love, flowers of memory, if you will...

An innocent bouquet of roses...
have no fear. ..no promises to keep or threat, it poses.
No expectations, no words left unspoken...
A single symbolic token...

A mere reminder that life is dear
and death and love are quite near...
Like a bridge over troubled waters... let it ease your mind,
like a dolphin traveling right behind.

Like the day follows the night, so the light shines on, as is the case...
And as the flowers wither, a lighthouse vision, will take its place.
Under a rotating shining lantern, red and white stripes rise from the sea!
Though it flickers... it never sinks... you see?

In your veiled unguided distress,
may there never be a moment of total darkness.
And in those white nights and weary hours,
may it guide your ship to safer harbours.

Eva Gonçalves

Santo Tirso, 24/3/2010