os meus amores são três poemas de Matilde
terça-feira
a vida como uma série de desentendimentos
algumas coisas são feitas para ser sentidas
outras nem por isso e é apenas isso que são, o que são
i think it's interesting how we as humans struggle with meaning
want meaning
die for meaning
even better yet, we die without a meaning
wither
cry
mas o vazio do não-significado tem tanto de pacífico como de assustador
um não-significado inerente
podemos dar às coisas o nome que quisermos mas elas são em si aquilo que são
porque nos é tão difícil olhar para uma coisa e vê-la como ela é
segunda-feira
pra frente é que se anda
a ideia de que tudo na existência se move em direção à complexidade está entre as coisas que me assombram. do mesmo modo que abres uma porta e mesmo que a feches nada muda o facto de que a abriste e estás agora ciente do que existe para lá dela. que só nos movemos para a frente e para o mais complicado. às vezes gostava muito de voltar a 2009, ter dezasseis anos e estar na minha secretária (que eu odiava por ser alta demais e volumosa demais) a ver o concerto dos Florence + The Machine em Glastonbury e a fazer scroll no tumblr. quando tudo parecia ser mais leve e feito de forma tão pouco calculista, apenas feito porque nos dava gozo ou nos fazia felizes. quando andávamos aqui para falar uns com os outros. longe de IG stories, de jogos emocionais, de ter de calcular distâncias antes de dar um passo, longe de polaridades, longe de dormências, de FOMOs, longe de caras e dedos pregados na telinha de seis polegadas. “num sistema termicamente isolado, a medida da entropia deve sempre aumentar com o tempo, até atingir o seu valor máximo.” às vezes penso que é para aí que caminhamos, para o caos total.
(ok, tempo de meter travão nisto e ir ver um filme do studio ghibli e fingir que não se passa nada)
quarta-feira
sou apaixonada por comentários de youtube
Takes me back to a time when I had no worries, no real cares. Sitting in the back seat of my parents car, driven by my high school age sisters, taking me out to get a frosty mug of root beer served by car hops. This was playing on the AM radio, and my sisters singing to this song. Best of times.
domingo
googling how to take up space at 01:08
Across from me at the kitchen table, my mother smiles over red wine that she drinks out of a measuring glass. She says she doesn't deprive herself, but I've learned to find nuance in every movement of her fork. In every crinkle in her brow as she offers me the uneaten pieces on her plate. I've realized she only eats dinner when I suggest it. I wonder what she does when I'm not there to do so. Maybe this is why my house feels bigger each time I return; it's proportional. As she shrinks the space around her seems increasingly vast. She wanes while my father waxes. His stomach has grown round with wine, late nights, oysters, poetry. A new girlfriend who was overweight as a teenager, but my dad reports that now she's "crazy about fruit." It was the same with his parents; as my grandmother became frail and angular her husband swelled to red round cheeks, round stomach, and I wonder if my lineage is one of women shrinking, making space for the entrance of men into their lives, not knowing how to fill it back up once they leave. I have been taught accommodation. My brother never thinks before he speaks. I have been taught to filter. "How can anyone have a relationship to food?" he asks, laughing, as I eat the black bean soup I chose for its lack of carbs. I want to say: we come from difference, Jonas, you have been taught to grow out, I have been taught to grow in. You learned from our father how to emit, how to produce, to roll each thought off your tongue with confidence, you used to lose your voice every other week from shouting so much. I learned to absorb. I took lessons from our mother in creating space around myself. I learned to read the knots in her forehead while the guys went out for oysters, and I never meant to replicate her, but spend enough time sitting across from someone and you pick up their habits- that's why women in my family have been shrinking for decades. We all learned it from each other, the way each generation taught the next how to knit, weaving silence in between the threads which I can still feel as I walk through this ever-growing house, skin itching, picking up all the habits my mother has unwittingly dropped like bits of crumpled paper from her pocket on her countless trips from bedroom to kitchen to bedroom again. Nights I hear her creep down to eat plain yogurt in the dark, a fugitive stealing calories to which she does not feel entitled. Deciding how many bites is too many. How much space she deserves to occupy. Watching the struggle I either mimic or hate her, And I don't want to do either anymore, but the burden of this house has followed me across the country. I asked five questions in genetics class today and all of them started with the word "sorry." I don't know the requirements for the sociology major because I spent the entire meeting deciding whether or not I could have another piece of pizza, a circular obsession I never wanted, but inheritance is accidental, still staring at me with wine-soaked lips from across the kitchen table.
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