(É incrível como o cérebro humano se comporta no seu subconsciente.
Ao escrever sobre um sonho que tive, pensei ser uma boa ideia para uma história de terror mas, só meses mais tarde, ao encontrá-la "perdida" no meu computador é que percebi sobre o que realmente se tratava.)
She saw something special in me. I knew it because of the way she looked into my eyes. I had never seen her in my life, at least never noticed her before. Tall, long gold waves of hair and a set of blue (maybe green) eyes that gave her an eastern European kind of exoticness. Maybe it was the clothes she wore, making her look almost like an odalisque.
I guess her looks aren’t important in this particular story, the story of what she did to me. Looking back now, it must’ve been a way to attract her prey, to indulge me, to get me under her spell. And it worked. How could it not? A beautiful creature staring right through your soul like you’re the only person in the world… if I had a better self-esteem it might’ve never happened, but, the way she contemplated my being, still makes me think it had to be me.
She chased me, in my mind. The nightmares, asleep and awake. The mysterious phone calls from a number that seemed made up, maybe just from too far away for me to recognize, but every time I saw it displayed on my phone, calling once again, it was like going back to the start of everything. I didn’t know what she wanted; she spoke in this strange language, so strange it seemed ancient. I remember her attempting to communicate in an idiom I could comprehend, but her thick accent and poor knowledge of it made it just too confusing for me to understand, and filled her with more of that calm wrath.
But now she was truer to her anger, she screamed into my brain and screeched in frustration. She was getting to me, to my mind more and more often, even when I was with other people, with my family and friends. The ones I think she threatened with that endless, incomprehensible, mad whisper, like a gust of wind creeping into my soul. I couldn’t live my life anymore. I was being guided by her, by that. But trying to stop her didn’t work, she got madder and angrier and how could I persuade someone with words they had never learned? So I went, I entered the dark rooms, I defused the bombs, I fought for my life, which wasn’t worthy of that name anymore, so I think, in the end, I was merely and solely fighting for everyone else around what was left of me.
All the horrible things she put me through were for her, maybe to keep someone by her side. The lonely monster that saw something no one could ever understand. I keep thinking that I should be flattered, humbled by its pick. But in all the horror, the casualties always speak louder; the smallest shred of innocence is lost and, these things, you can never get back.
I only wish that, for a while you felt you weren’t alone. I hope you had fun.
Hoje em dia este velho blog anda a tomar mais forma, ainda que pareça uma confusão. Ando a usá-lo cada vez mais para partilhar os meus contos, poemas que surgem a horas inoportunas e, no fundo, qualquer coisa que me passe pela cabeça.
Por isso mesmo criei mais umas tags para poder organizar minimamente tudo isto e como web design não é propriamente o meu forte (infelizmente não sou esse tipo de nerd), vou deixar aqui transcrito para aqueles que estiverem interessados na parte mais "artística" do blog:
There was a tree, an old ever ascending tree, and with all its splendor it stood in my yard. My back yard.
And on its branches sat a boy. A lonely, naive, young boy. He was growing, but his mind layed still with his thoughts. And I, the broken, coming of age girl, what could I do but stare, just watching this set, like a play that plays itself. I was no better, though I could've joined him in his melancholy, flowing like the wind through that ancient tree's leaves.
I was just a girl, he was but a boy, nothing but lone strangers. But in our minds we were part of something bigger.
The day I decided to become a writer...Oh, who knows when it happened? At this age, one tends to go back and forth, trying to make up her mind. But I remember some of those days, usually after a great film, when the credits were rolling and I could see the names of directors, producers, screenwriters,... Such an honor, don’t you think? That wasn't really it, though, what changed me. Writing a movie script felt too much like a one time sort of thing.
But in the middle of all this messy pile of blockbuster-y like inspiration, there was this really great show, with this really great cast and the most talented crew. And the concept - what a simple and thrilling idea – the travels of a mad man in his stolen, magical blue box.
That’s when I found out, that was the precise moment when I knew what I wanted most of all things that onced crossed my mind: to imagine and dream such worlds, and make that clever boy run.
É assim que me despeço do último dia de descanço antes do começo do novo ano letivo. Por um lado, não vou poder ter muito quality time, o que se traduz num sentimento do género:
Mas por outro: SENIOR YEAAAAAAAAAR!
E isto foi a minha tentativa (razoavelmente bem sucedida?) de expressar o meu ponto de vista relativamente a este ano. Espero que tenham um bom início de escola/trabalho/whatever. Se for uma seca, aconselho que mantenham as expetativas baixas, o que fará com que tudo pareça mais excitante...oh, what the hell! As estrelas são o limite, certo? Have some fun!
“The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real … for a moment at least … that long magic moment before we wake.
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to Middle Earth.”
Já tinha visto o trailer deste filme há algum tempo mas nunca tinha sentido aquele impulso para simplesmente o ver. Não sei se sou só eu, mas de vez em quando perco-me no YouTube a tentar encontrar um filme com aquela vibração indie e são tantos que acabo por ficar apenas por ali.
Mas hoje, com 104 minutos para preencher, resolvi passá-los com esta fantástica, estranha e bela história sobre um escritor e a sua criação que miraculosamente ganha vida.
É difícil explicar-me, acabo por reter tanta coisa que acabaria por me perder, mas deixo-vos com uma das mensagens finais do filme (que acredito não ser um spoiler mais do que o próprio trailer poderia ser), algo que acho ser bastante fácil de nos relacionarmos, especialmente aqueles de nós que se divertem a dançar com as palavras...