A Cordilheira

O mundo, e não você, me deu esse terrível direito, esse desmedido dever, esse presente despido de dizer quem é você.

Você é um anjo negro vindo do mar,
por ondas escuras em largas braçadas,
de asas encharcadas
e botas pretas de couro pesadas como carvão.

Sobre a areia da praia branca, você aterrou estacas,
hasteou bandeiras cansadas, desatou os cadarços
e se tornou cordilheira.

Os primeiros habitantes te ofertaram o sangue dos cordeiros
A noite do mais denso nevoeiro
Te erigiram, como homenagem, fogueiras de sal e pedra.

Nada habita tua montanha frágil como o sono dos ventos.

Durante séculos és o espírito que dorme em desníveis de escuridão.
Mas a velhice também acomete as forças debaixo da rocha,
e começas a brotar flores pelas frestas.
são todas miúdas, amarelas,
nada do que se conhecia como teu.
O teu povo secou nas serras, morreu em brasa,
partiu em pequenas embarcações.
A ilha resta intacta, esteira de dias, paragem de pássaros.
Um dia elas brotaram
A velhice do teu espírito deixou que entrassem,
saíssem
As calmas delicadezas que nunca tuas foram
As almas de fadas e duendes, a pequenez que desconheces
brota de ti por cima dos anos, para além das tuas memórias de deus.

A encosta a escarpa a crosta
se racha
Tua morte desperta lenta do pesadelo da montanha eterna:
não serás infinito, se assim não o quiseres.
És livre para deixar-te.
Abre-se a terra, e de dentro das rochas sai o anjo torto
de botas pretas de couro,
passa as mãos escuras pelos cabelos de terra
boceja
Estica os braços na direção da fonte, e bebe da tua própria terra a juventude
Ela cora, desajeitada, a fonte de frontes leves e azuis
Tua amante casta de cantos fluentes
todas as línguas dos braços de rios.
Suja a tua fonte de terra das tuas mãos,
lava teu rosto e se lembra o gosto de tudo o que era antes de nascer o calor.
E ali mesmo, tomas a decisão:
desse instante em diante nada mais recordarás
Do Mar
Da Estrela
Do Centro onde nada vibrava em uníssono, e você nasceu
Com uma pedra afiada do riacho,
talhas a primeira asa
talhas a segunda asa
arrancas do corpo o que não é corpo:
toda liberdade vem do corte, toda finalidade vem do ato fatal de despedida.

A ilha treme, o chão quer abrir para te engolir de volta
Ele que é teu, é teu corpo e tua voz, ele que é você
Te desespera e agarra pelos gritos dos bugios, o eco da cachoeira nas cavernas que nunca te habitaram.
Mas o mar estala tuas ondas, e tua carne já não sabe mais da terra: reconhece o couro
o trabalho das mãos,
reconhece o sangue, o arranhão
reconhece o nome da ilha, escolhe um nome para o chão:
te tornas homem feito de coisa de gente
esquece a cada passo o peso da rocha.

Encontras, na praia, o barco que deixaste, intacto
Duzentos mil anos, ou mais...
De um só empurrão, teus braços de tronco enviam-no ao Mar
E teu corpo segue, de passos largos,
nas tuas pretas botas de couro,
debaixo do Sol.

A mim foi dado o presente, o angustiado dever, o papel esferográfico de te ver
daqui de cima da esfera que encerra e revolta-se
O ciclo que cumpro
Em torno do nada, acima do chão
Nada me deu que justifique conhecer-te daqui,
de onde nada se ouve, de onde nada se fala.
A tua história é esta, anjo da escuridão.

We have never been together, nor have we ever been apart.

like grown-ups do

we started it all well thought out
I live in the outskirts of your gigantic town
We built the bridge out of flesh, there was nothing
could stop the need for this tree cut down
I was sure none but us had a clue
we planned the building from the first draft
just like grown-ups do

I can still remember the taste of the sea water that way. How you let me climb onto your back, and promised to love me one day.

we married each other, if I may say.
out of spite and love, in a mixture of promise and waste
in imagination: our friendship is bigger and wider, a nation
just like grown-ups do

I hated your politics, you hated my mother, I was a pacifist, you chased merit and honor
We disagreed and made plans, we stepped over our desires and each other's necks
just like grown-ups do

But I can still remember the way you would drag me down the stairs in the movie-theater,
with my eyes closed, screaming and laughing, my miniature roller-coster
your clothes
You took so long to love me back, I thought I might've died.
I rested on your shoulder and you said I knew you better than you knew yourself
you lied
We made up and made love
We walked out and got lost
had a picture frame, on the side of the shelf
Just like grown-ups do

We tied each other's hearts and nested each other's wounds
We let each other down and broke each other's fate
We never lay too far apart, you fell asleep when I cried
I fell asleep when you waked
Just like grown-ups do

I was histeric, you were aloof
I was too much, you wouldn't move
Just like grown-ups, no excuse.

We broke up and made up
more times than we could count
we tried it, and faked it, and cried our eyes out
Your found someone else, We said we'd marry one day
We promised to break our promises
Just like grown-ups do

We let it sit, we built that wall,
I can still see it from the moon
You wanted to have coffee
Just like grown-ups do
I said I don't drink coffee,
And neither do you.
You left after a storm,
I can't remember what year it was
I stood in the rain, till it washed me of you.
I wanted to have coffee
I didn't have a clue
I wanted to be friends, bought a present for you
You told them not to bother,
That I'd never get through
I wanted to ask you
Why, when and who
But we let it sit forever
Stale ruined love
Like grown-ups do.

The tale of the days before is the tale I would like to take home
When we didn't try to play house, when we weren't so alone
The days when there was no bridge, no building, no plans
When we were just kids, waterfalls and sun-tanned
("how many steps from here to the house?" "guess what time it is" I'd get it right. I loved that look in your eyes when I spooked you out, in such random insights. I was a witch, you knew it. I can still feel your eyes on the dragonfly that landed on my chin. I remember your fake name written on sand, I do)

You may say we should've stayed kids,
It's tempting to agree with you
I miss sharing the mattress, the blanket, and the head-phones, I do
But our mistakes are ours, and hours of flight, like you said.
And I will sing you forever what I sang the first time:
"She's the kind of girl you want so much it makes you sory,
Still you don't regret a single day"

I would never regret the distress you caused me
The things I put you through
I would never regret the days we were unhappy
the pain we went through
I would never regret us trying to be what we thought we could,
who we thought we were,
the mistakes we made
just like grown-ups do.

I would never believe I could live
the way I now do
in the eternal process of knowing
there are no grown-ups

I'll sit with you
and open my boxes
if you sit with me and open yours too.
We'll never be grown-ups,
but now I can show it
all the things that were hiding, and the things that you knew
and I hope you can trust me,
and I hope you can show me,
and I hope to see you.

Eye to eye for once, heart in hand
close enough to see the ripples, true enough to make amends
just like children do.

scene 12. take 3.

- do you still love your ex?
- yes.
- which one.
- all three of them.
- you've only had two boyfriends.
- yeah, well I still love someone who was never my boyfriend too.
- does it hurt?
- Sometimes. like having arms and legs and a kidney, and a head, and lungs. sometimes you get a head-ache, sometimes your arms get sore, eventually you might even have kidney-stones, or lung cancer. People you love become organs. I've never had any intention of un-loving anyone. It would be something like ceasing to be someone's daughter, sister, mother. It would be like unliving a whole year, or ten. It would be like chopping out a limb, out of pure spite. I don't intend to mutilate myself. That's why I stopped shaving, by the way.

eu sei que vou te amar
por toda a minha vida eu vou te amar
sem desespero algum

cada coração que nasce em mim expande explode, vira a esquina um mar
será teu pra sempre
o corpo se fecha então, por sobre a carne, treme, arqueia, contrai, arde
e concebe um novo coração
que eu dou de presente
como a boca, o cabelo, a buceta, as mãos e os poemas, pra quem eu quiser
antes que se feche a porta, te peço, leva

e recomeço.

cabem em mim, fora de mim, todos os amores do mundo
o ciclo está no meio, o pêndulo quer enxergar.
aqui tem um novo, pequeno coração
em torno de mim, nada
em torno de mim, todos
todas

ali todos os corpos do mundo, todas as iris, todas as línguas, todas as voltas todas as ondas

nunca, nem por um segundo, deixei de amar quem tomou-me-tomou-se a mão
não é roubável,
é confecção própria, coisa que não quer ficar em si
todos são presentes

há corações para dar e vender,
esperando dentro das células

eu tenho tudo.

A cidade, por baixo do corpo,
se descortina aos poucos

tocada de ataques sutis,
nas suas diversas zonas erógenas,
a cidade de edifícios foices
não se percebe anoitecer
não atenta ao próprio aterro

racha o asfalto
arranha o marco zero

a cidade, distendida de dentro,
remodulada,
moldada pelo corpo,
abre frestas.

O mundo, enfim,
como a lagoa Rodrigo de Freitas,
tem nome de homem
mas é mulher

don't worry, it's not addictive

the first time it was strange

your taste didn't go down right with mine,

you opened your mouth way too wide,

the smoke made me cough, got into my eyes.

then I started to laugh, in the mist of the fog

It might've been the second, or tenth time, when I finaly felt it:

the strawberry after-taste.

you made me say stupid things, feel drowsy,

and held.

Habit's the bitch, they say

glues your ass to the couch,

I could never get away.

It always started the same:

You're confused, I feel lonely, okay.

We could've written a thousand books, or one page

our friendship's minimum wage

on all the philosophical reasons

for my midnight terrors,

for your back-and-forth-forcefield

and we'd never have gotten anywhere,

past the living room window,

past the fire-escape stares

Baked, cooked, drunk, sweaty.

I held my own hand, when yours wasn't steady.

Like any addiction, we decided to quit

half of us, anyway.

I wanna grow up, you wanna grow it

You wanna grow up, I wanna grow old

no harm, no faul, no goal.

You don't need it when you're okay, you don't need it to celebrate,

you need it while you're trying to write, you need it when there's noone in sight.

And to sum up the pop song cliche:

you're strong, though you look just like the soft stuff.

last time I did you, I had such a bad trip,

with only a puff,

that now I get scared of the cliff just by getting near,

just by saying hello.

Can't remember your medicinal uses

that you can cure cancer,

depression

and, at times, even hunger. 

What went right,
when we were supposed to turn left?
I was never in love
I was never your best friend
We were never in the same continent

so why can't we ever see each other again?

14-year-old

you're used to feeling hot
I'm used to feeling cold
if it bothered, once or twice, it also soothed
I used to think you're hot
You used up all my rope
You're used to acting cold, I'm used to heating up
I used my heated voice,
you dropped in like a cup.
Won't you believe it's just my luck

I licked you in the dark,
You're talking while you suck
I drove you to the bus stop
Can't feel it when you cum.

You've fucked a lot of girls
I've cut up many throats
I fucked up all the timing
You're panting and you're whining
I climaxed waiting in line
You fuck your own body,
not mine.

I called you in the 90's
You emailed me a poem
on a tipe-writer.
Gimme a song, one song I can sing
Show me your bones
I'll show you my skin.
You could've been broken
I could've kept clean
I could've told you off
We could've stopped the caugh
You could´ve read the sign
No one here was caught

I can't remember your name,
you can't remember mine

procrastinação e plágio

Não é pra você que eu escrevo, bem.
A boa trepada é a terceira.

Peregrinação em plena marginal às 6 da tarde
rádio-trânsito toca todas:
a boiada é larga e o mar ta longe.

esqueci de botar o zona azul no transatlântico

a multa é sua, o samba é meu

(curto toda identificada, não sei escrever sem cola...)

um beijo, vou aqui, botar na segunda.

libras

sei das milhoes de luzes num ceu urbano
sei as regras, uma por uma
sei dos acontecimentos históricos,
anotei.
sei do pequeno passo na lua que não teve
dos retratos, do palito de fósforo

sei que havia deuses, um barco de papel,
o retorno à casa de ulisses, a partida do audaz navegante
as margens pouco claras de um rio branco

a fala versa
contro-rever-sa livre-se associa
ondas
estado que indecide:
 líquido
gasoso
 líquido

pra falar de mãos a imagem
dança indu
não há nada em lugar nenhum:

uma casa pega fogo no meio da neve.

para cada porção da palma, uma sílaba
sibila por trás das folhas

o rio branco, o mar

eu não sei mais falar,
ouça.

Vamos?

- vamos?
- não estou pronta.

procuro a bolsa por debaixo do edredom, encontro setenta e oito fios de cabelo, começo a colagem. Falta os sapatos, o eixo. torço a coluna vertebral por debaixo, acerto o olhar no ponto fixo para pirueta.

- vamos?
- não. ainda não.

tudo cai para fora dos bolsos, eu transbordo demais, tento conter, será enchente trágica se abro essa porta agora e voa pra fora do quarto a água da torneira há sete anos aberta. volume morto. alerta para os sons da rua, a minha voz desafina, procuro o ré, não acho.

- vamos?
- espera, não estou pronta.

pela janela voam os lenços, eu não vou encontrar nada. debaixo da cama tem muita poeira, espera eu varrer, espera. não tem tapete. não acho tapete, não tem por onde. pra dentro dos bolsos, e de lá pras xícaras, e elas se espatifam no chão lá embaixo e... oito segundos de ausências esparramadas no sofá. é por isso que eu não tenho um relógio de pulso, valha-me deus e a ponta dos pés.

- vamos?
- espera, ainda falta...

não tem desarranjo, se o arco do pé fosse maior, a cervical menos doída, se eu tivesse nascido em capricórnio, de olhos castanhos, ou a mãe, o pai, a tia o cachorro não tivessem feito os rasgos nas meias, eu. a estante, procuro nos índices os lados certos, avesso da manga. tem manga na geladeira, pega uma enquanto espera. eu não achei a cera, nem a lâmina, nem a vontade de ser todas elas. vai faltar.

- vamos?
- mas... calma, vou acertar.

acabou o pó de café que eu nem tomo, a coluna não acha eixo não existem casacos cascos caramujos o suficiente nem que eu quisesse sei descrever essa parábola. eu não terminei o livro, nem de lavar a louça. não achei as botas, nem a porta de saída da primeira casa. não queimei as fotos, não encontrei de novo aquele último pra dizer as desditas, não entendi como se fica da janela olhando sem cair. vou errar a mão de novo e queimar o brigadeiro, vou desfazer as certezas de primeira, vou riscar mais forte do que queria, vou ler no olho o que não devia, vou concluir e cortar a última página. não encontro a chave.

- vamos?
- ainda não estou pronta. vamos.

arranha

procrastina, por uma palavra menor
que tirasse o peso
que fosse rasa
que acalmasse a alma, o almoço

pra frente em projeção que salta dias, meses
me inverto, detesto o verbo
des(-)calço des(-)laço des(-)integro

tudo pra amanhã, pra ontem.

escondo as contas, o sexo, a cara de gozo
por baixo dos panos, toalhas de mesa, por baixo dos líquens pedrasobrepedra
não engulo
não verto
não cuspo
não falo mais que três sílabas

excesso de própolis, digestão. escorrega a carta por baixo da porta
nada nessa mão, nada nessa mão
o sinal as luzes as cores os olhos, não.
não tem calma, nem eira
não tem mesa, lápis, cama
não passam o pássaros.

inverno-me. desgosto de maçã,
carvão, cera, depilação
nada nessa mão, nada nessa mão.

desvio os olhos, desprezo o homem,
faço de conta,
des(-)caso, mascaro, des(-)afago afogo

agulhada por baixo da unha
minha impaciência,
meu desejo
teu desejo meu desprezo
a glaciação

chãos esponjosos, de nada, boa noite
des(-)isto ou aquilo
nada que coma, nada que chupe, nada.

txt

Txt

teu sorriso de papel
que não serve de nada, que não despe ninguém
que nem é de papel
não sinto raiva, que ódio de não sentir raiva, que tédio de não verter-te em.
te jogo de novo uma flecha e você responde corta
a locação fecha, virtual
o boom ta aparecendo no alto da página, eu sei.

não é teatro, meu bem, não é verdade
é ficção de passado, fixação sem erro
eu jogo a flecha e você nem fere nem agarra nem arde
guarda, pelo menos, a carta
que raiva, não sinto a menor raiva.
teu sorriso amarelo redondo que nem é sorriso, é só um não
lembro quando eles respondiam mentiras pelo menos
entra no clima, escuta billie holiday, volta um pouco a fita
a gente brinca, só, pra dizer que ainda dava tempo
dava tempo despontar naquele canto um dente, uma voz, dava tempo de ver
teu cabelo sumindo na multidão

sorriso é pior que reticência
mastiga tua maçã azeda,
me perde na biblioteca,
pingos nos ípselons

eu continuo com cheiro de ontem.

Txt

teu sorriso de papel
que não serve de nada, que não despe ninguém
que nem é de papel
não sinto raiva, que ódio de não sentir raiva, que tédio de não verter-te em.
te jogo de novo uma flecha e você responde corta
a locação fecha, virtual
o boom ta aparecendo no alto da página, eu sei.

não é teatro, meu bem, não é verdade
é ficção de passado, fixação sem erro
eu jogo a flecha e você nem fere nem agarra nem arde
guarda, pelo menos, a carta
que raiva, não sinto a menor raiva.
teu sorriso amarelo redondo que nem é sorriso, é só um não
lembro quando eles respondiam mentiras pelo menos
entra no clima, escuta billie holiday, volta um pouco a fita
a gente brinca, só, pra dizer que ainda dava tempo
dava tempo despontar naquele canto um dente, uma voz, dava tempo de ver
teu cabelo sumindo na multidão

sorriso é pior que reticência
mastiga tua maçã azeda,
me perde na biblioteca,
pingos nos ípselons

eu continuo com cheiro de ontem.

como prova o Galileu

Primeiro foi o corte. o choque de perda, o rasgo.
first, the gunshot, right through my ear

Depois, o golpe de ar que falta, o medo de ter tido
o de-re-s-piro
then the blink, the untouch of faith, what if in reverse.

Então vieram raios
after that, the raging comets that killed the dinosaurs

E a placidez quase repentina, o descanso das tréguas azuis
que gestam-se alastradas, vastidão de coisa justa.
the breath of winter mornings, the absense in its might,
the calm fresh water spaces between.

Por fim, algo se move. em sonho, o silêncio se percebe
nenhuma palavra entre então e agora, o mudo violão em eco.
estátuas de pedra asceleram-se inertes, a necessidade ríspida
de mover os móveis.
At last the room notices itself, the whiteness of walls, the need.
eyes in rapid movement distress after the essence of the push,
the agent of shift is gone, his shadow claws over the furniture

Strong hands that cause subtle earthquakes
Admito sem nenhum pudor: preciso das suas desordens

To write!

A Primeira Chuva

as chuvas que começaram,
começaram com ela.

ela não avisou
o metálico cinza anterior acostumamos todos a subestimar
ela duraria poucos minutos, deixaria as plantas com sede
os corpos desrespeitosamente quentes.

não foi o que aconteceu.
em algum lugar, eu ouvi uma sirene:
descobri que era preciso correr
não de, mas para.
porque a rara oportunidade se revelava.
é quase impossível ter motivos para correr,
bons motivos para desfazer-se.
eu precisava, quase desesperadamente,
de água.

fiz o convite e esqueci de ouvir a resposta, era preciso e precioso tomá-la inteira, e só.

ela foi certeira em sua decisão: não passam daqui as camadas secas de cal
não passam daqui as desculpas,
não passam daqui as muitas vozes que não dizem nada.
ela me silenciou, num sorriso descansado e lépido:
"eu quero ir para fora de todas as portas."

foi então que começou
lavaram-se, de início, os brilhos especulares dos prédios mais altos.
burocratas, secretários, as businesswomen com seus terninhos e os homens pendurados em andaimes para limpar vidros
olhavam espantados, de papéis e celulares nas mãos, a devastação das suas janelas
que aos poucos tornavam-se calamidosamente transparentes.

depois as pequenas casas, das menores vilas, receberam as gotas baldes
e se despiram despercebidas, das suas cores mais vivas
amarelas, vermelhas, esbranquiçavam
deixaram de saber coisas antigas, incutidas repetidas e restritas
silenciaram a bandeira de ser ou não ser.
os nomes das ruas também foram lavados
levados a rodo na enxurrada
ladeira abaixo

As roupas de todos os que passavam, grudaram molhadas
e, afinando,
mostraram grandes fomes, pequenos amores, maiores dúvidas
o meu vestido tirou-se do calor cansado e me devolveu umas gotas alegres de ar,
as vontades de estar e de não estar, a calma que têm as crianças que correm
só por correr, não por pressa alguma.

a maquiagem de todas as mulheres escorreu.
eu, que não uso maquiagem, tive que ver escorrer a camada de achismos de cima da pele
e aquela, a mais fina discreta indizível rasteira, a pele primeira.
fiquei só os olhos
azulando uma chuva tão real.

de lá o verde dos não-campos em que passeio
sustentando-se em sua cor, receberam um furor branco
tough love
para as camadas que a chuva não deu conta, as pedras
de gelo branco desceram velozes e estalavam saltitantes
tingindo de branco o que não se dissolvia.
se não será suave, será no corte.

eu sorri durante o processo, não tinha entendido bem
a que vinha tanta água
a que vinham rasgos do céu.

cessada a chuva que desfizera por fim todas as máscaras,
eu alegre e inocente no meu ar agora respirável,
encontrei dois homens.
por causa dela, não existia mais cal, terra seca, cor nas paredes,
cílios sobre os olhos, meias palavras.
o primeiro provou apenas que não existia.
o segundo
o segundo.

deslizamos sem muita consciência
para dentro de uma terra escura que a chuva abriu
para baixo de mundos rasos e ensolarados, onde se pode dizer de si.
para mundos anteriores aos mundos, onde as forças correm de dentro dos peixes.
viramos, sonâmbulos, chaves desconhecidas,
atravessamos rios sem nome, e falamos idiomas esquecidos.
comemos seis sementes de romã.
e depois de quase sufocar nas palavras sob as quais tentamos nos esconder,
e de tê-las transformadas de escudos em espadas, e de espadas em forcas, e de forcas em laços e braços
talvez até mesmo macios,
encontramos o caminho de volta.
voltamos em silêncio.

...mas há cânticos antigos que dizem de tudo isso,
eu queria apenas falar da chuva.

Errei a mão

Peguei a sua ao invés da minha

the day of the dog

I was sobbing.
It was dirty, the very dirty, thick, disgusting, translucent and transparent desperate sobbing.
My living-room feels like it's made for one person, less than one person. It bothers me. I always ask myself if I shouldn't move everything around and make way for some kind of coffee table, coffee tables presume people sitting around them. My living room is a line. I paced this tiny line of a living room, and sobbed, loudly. Sometimes I wondered if the neighbours - the couple and two children, the dog - could hear me, and then I remmembered always hearing them scream at each other. I take sobbing over screaming at each other any day of the week. So I sobbed louder. My eyes , then, fell upon the dog. Not the neighbour's dog, my dog. My porcelain dog figurine.

It had belonged to my mother, many years back. No idea how many, one day the little blond girl had finaly worked up the courage to ask: can I have it? I had always wanted the dog for myself, and I had thought of it as something precious, some kind of treasure my mother owned and was lucky to own. I had thought of it as hers, and as her property and her right, and I had loved it deeply for years, or at least what seemed like years for a small child. I had loved it in secret, or so I thought, even when I played with it in public, along with other less important objects (pens and boxes) on top of my mother's bedside table. Her table was ornate with japanese or chinese drawings of two women, a bridge, and a house. I sat in her bedroom for hours creating stories on top of her bedside scenario. The dog crossed the bridge, next to the pen, who was obviously a woman or a man... The dog was the only one you didn't need to imagine, he was a dog. Yes, he was a he, he had always been a he. As I played there I was watched by the distracted eyes of the man and the mermaids in the painting on the wall above my mother's bed. They were mysterious and magic, just like the table. The man was bathing in a pond, and three red-haired women came to him, naked, pulling him into the lake. It was beautifull, and haunting. But the dog was my favorite of all of these mysterious characters. I loved it in silence, and I put it back. Not that he had such a specific place, nor that my mother expected me to care for him so much, I cannot recall this ever happening. I do recall thinking he was special, fragile, and not mine. So one day, I don't remmember when or where (if we lived in the first house, or in the first country), I worked up the courage and asked her. She said yes, or of course, like it wasn't a big deal at all. I was surprised, happy of course, but a little put off: wasn't this dog the most speacial thing in the world?! Wasn't it her treasure? Should she be giving it away to me just like that? How could she be so generous? or... why didn't she care?

Why did I care? What was it about the dog that wrapped so tightly around my heart? Looking at it now on my small living-room shelf, I thought his charm was actually quite obvious: the missing ear. Ever since I can remmember, he had a missing ear. (Or did he? Had he fallen? Did I see that? Did I cause it? Here memories, imagination and logic mix, and I'm not quite sure.) But in my crude memory, he had always missed one ear, and that was one of the reasons I loved him. It was his charm. He was small, very tiny indeed, and soft to the touch, and he missed an ear. Also, he was thin, athletic, and he was running. He was a running beautifull porcelain dog who missed an ear. So I got him, as a gift. But it was more, and less than a present: it was something I asked for, something that belonged to someone else and I decided to ask for myself, and they had said yes. In a way, he had been conquered, he had been decided, he had been won, like a prize, or, he had been won over, like a love conquest. On the other hand, why had it been easy? Putting it into words now I can see how hard it is for me to explian why this dog was not only my love, but a mystery, throughout my childhood. We had, later, a real dog, with flesh, teeth and two ears. She had almost the same colors of my porcelain nameless dog, she had a similar body structure, and once or twice I remmeber voicing their similarity (and right afterwords, thinking it wasn't true). He wasn't her, he was something else.

As a teenager I once imagined this short science fiction film. The story was about a girl who meets a woman for only one day, and later finds out this woman was herself, when older, who had gone back in time. Her face would only be revealed in the last scene, and I was trying to figure out how that would work. As was already my style at that age, I never got down to actually writing the script, but I imagined most scenes in detail. One of them had the woman going into the girl's house and finding, on our old yellow shelf, the little one-eared dog. It was supposed to be a metaphorical scene, and it was supposed to be deep and meaningful, and very european-cinema-like (in my teen head), and I never -quite- knew why it was so meaningful. I still don't. Symbols are more liquid than they are obects, they are tricky, vague like memories, and they hide. And maybe if you unveil them you will see nothing, but the veil itself, falling at your feet.

I kept the dog as I grew up, I took the dog where I went, to all the houses where we lived. He never fit. Eventually he lost a leg, I can't even remember how. It didn't matter, he could still stand, as far as figurines go, and still look like he was running, and eventually he lost his tail. I cared less for the tail, and less for the leg, than I ever had for the ear I had never seen (or had I?). I cared less for him, as hard as it was to admit. He was becoming, more and more, an obbligation. Not to anyone, but to myself, to my old love for him, to what I could maybe call integrity, authenticity, coherence, consistency. I wanted to be consistent with my love and my choices, and yet he looked back at me finaly with the eyes of a real mystery. Real mysteries are not loved, real mysteries are problems waiting to be solved, forgotten, or passed on to the next generation.

The mess I had made of myself on that phone-call (hence my sobbing in the living room, and not in my bedroom, which is the appropriate place for sobbing, even if you live alone), the mess I had made of the strings given to me by all sides, by both sides, by third parties, by the dead and the living, by the relatives I met only in black and white pictures, the mess was huge, clear, obvious, infuriating. I had no one to blame, although I could point my finger at infinite agressors, I had no one to scream at, although I knew they could all be declared guilty. I couldn't face lying again about my own pain, and I had, finally, become angry at myself for allowing it. I'd be lying if I said I had "finaly understood". I haven't, to this day, understood, I don't intend to understand. I just finaly felt. All of it. The weight, the haste, the pressure, the solitude, the fear, the need, the anger, the empty house on sale, the open door at night, the white curtain flapping, the big dinner table and the screams around it, the line gone wrong, the two women, the two men, the baby, the boy, the iability to cut to the chase.

I kept the dog all those years as a reminder, as something in the back of my mind, as a scratching sound coming from the basement. The dog with the missing ear, of the missing years. This was not love, not any longer. This was a reminder. He stared at me. One eared, three legged, tail-less, and small. He stared at me, the left over image, the dog-ear in the right page of the book. Come back, read this.

I took it in my hands with haste. I could hold it between two fingers, it was insignificant. It was no longer a he, or I didn't want him to be. He was only still a he because he stared, because he stood and scratched the trap-door. I walked to the kitchen and took the hammer in my other hand. When my grandfather died, I took the hammer from his house. Just like the dog, I took it, and it had belonged to someone else. I don't remember asking for the hammer, though, and I don't remember thinking it was special. I took a cutting board with me, and proceded to the halway floor. My line-shaped tiny living room made for less than a person is visible for all of my neighbours, and the execution had to be private.

I was certain, I was secure, I was angry and I felt no love. This should be easy, I thought. But no execution is easy, for someone who built a life-time belief in peace as an absolute value. I placed the dog upon the board, I held the hammer in my right hand. It was so small, it had always been so very small. I remembered the dream, so vividly as if I had fisicaly experienced it:
 standing on my bed and asking desperately for the sledge-hammer, rats running around the floor, taking the hammer and banging it with more strenghth than I had ever had on the glass window, until I was much too tired to continue. Then, realizing the window was not the window in my rrom, but the beautifull big window in our first house's living room, and it was not made of glass, but of ice. And as I realized it, I let go of the hammer and touched the thick block of glass, pushing it strongly, until I too was sliding out of the window, into the garden, where water poured from plants, where it rained, and opening my mouth I drank and I drank and I drank.

With the hammer in my hand I remembered the dream, but I did not remember the ending, and I would never be able to push through the glass. I needed more. It became harder, my conviction faltered for a second and I sobbed even more desperately, now that my hand was risen, now that I was ready. I felt sorry, so desperately sorry, and I felt afraid it might break into two pieces and still look like a mutilated body, and it might still look precious, broken, deserving of love and care. The anger was gone, the noise of the scratching from the basement was gone, there was only that rest of love, the pitty, the need and the fear of losing whatever was left of it all. He now looked sweet, and he now looked like a he, poor creature. But I had decided, and I must've had decided for a reason, even if I didn't quite grasp all the consequences or motives. It was already done, I just needed to... do it. And so, sobbing and muffling a scream, I dropped the hammer, with one quick, painfull and straight motion, into his head. My fear vanished: it smashed into thousands of tiny little pieces. There was no body, there was no mutilation, there was nothing left. There was relief, for a few seconds, and no, it didn't hurt, not for me. I quickly picked up the tiny pieces, cleaned the floor, washed the cutting board, and threw it all in the trash, outside my apartment.

The freedom lasted for maybe even a little over an hour. The noises in the basement left, and I was a righteous executor. But a symbol is a symbol. It is stronger than some actions, more straight-forward than many words, and more powerful than a thousand departures... But it is never quite all of it. Alexandre the Great, after cutting the Gordian knot still needed horses and men to conquer Asia.