The salad dressing

Here I am in front of my salad dish and with the difficult task of preparing a sauce for it. Nothing seems more complicated once I am unskilled and not willing to resort to those industrialized dressings. Science and art are required and, what is more, the simple act of creating it reveals much of one´s personality and style. Shyness or excess, bitterness or mildness, focus or absent-mindedness, the character is unfolded as the liquids are poured.

More than the choice of the vegetables the preparation of the salad dressing shows the drama of linking two ends: the one which is known and loved and the other that holds everything that can be lost since bound to the uncertainty or the abandonment of oneself.

one way or another

…as he walks and counts his footsteps
now that mirrors are lost
finds doors in streets
so far so high as the lamps
in the image a-coming

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[with ‘Preyed Upon’, by Tanita Tikaram in mind]
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photo: Paulista Avenue, in São Paulo, by Ricardo Imaeda
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Countdown

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It seems you must be ready for a start or an end. Something going on any time. Like riding on a bike, wheels in a constant movement. Blade runner in the real life. Such is the rhythm they have in store for those willing to survive.

The sensitive ones may wish to step down. On a beautiful day the decision is matured and the countdown begins. The destination is not known since the take off is the primary concern. To get out is quite more essential than to meet a better situation.

Go.

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In a word

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No. I would ever say no because it is an achievement. After so long a denial can be a means of redemption or renewal. How many times did you say ‘no’ to an elusive offer? To a misleading person, a propelling leader? It can be hard, almost impossible some times. But once spoken its power echoes. It feels as if you were among mountains.

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Which way?

Requiem for the real world

There are some days when it feels like floating in outer space, apart from the everyday life. It seems as if you were alien to people and buildings, and the rat race for surviving is paralleled to a distant videogame. Actually it can be a glimpse of the real world, a sort of Matrix effect. When you try to say something an ancient song comes instead. Could be terrifying but you just sway into the rhythm and let it lead you. All is there and at the same time only your mind is real.

Some days can be harder. They can take those feelings away and leave you a ticket.

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Today is the day to be reborn

An afternoon in the museum

Visiting the exhibition on Charles Darwin’s life and work can inspire vocations and strengthen confidence in observation and science. But most of all it enchants anyone by unfolding the wide variety of forms of life on Earth. Only a few are pictured there, it is true. Sufficient to draw lines to whatever direction you might think.

Among samples of animals and plants, living iguanas and turtles, facsimile edition of his books and a reproduction of his studio in Down House, the thing that captured my attention in a vivid way was a sequence of slides of the ‘sandwalk’ Darwin created in his park. He used to walk there everyday while thinking of his theories. It is awesome to contemplate the paths over which the scientist matured his findings and insights. More than ever the sandwalk shows how walking can be a way of reflection.

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photo: Museum of Art of São Paulo (Masp), by Ricardo Imaeda

Convergent

:><:

Different settings and covers but people seem similar
The aims are near, searches coincide
Whatever they pose the inner side denies
A possible pair, a constant match
Stands as a meeting of minds

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Along the same line

It is getting pretty cold in São Paulo. This chilling autumn nearly convinces me there’s a way out. Not to an airport or some, but an inner path. Like a solitary tree standing among industrial artifacts. When I look at one of them I sympathize. I feel as if there were a bond between us, in spite of the number of wounds, the carelessness of thousands, the loss.

Listening to ‘Why does my heart feel so bad?’ by Moby. Cold winds seem to tear me to tiny pieces. Days turn quickly, spinning wheels.

Chlorophyll and beauty, she is still there. Still to remind me the possibility of escape in all weathers.

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photo: São Paulo city centre, by Ricardo Imaeda

On the verge

There is a time when you stop waiting. No one will ever come, it dawns on you. And what once seemed wide and open narrows to a blade’s edge. You realize there is no support wherever from. Ahead a history to unfold and no mysteries to taste. A fine long line rests in front of your shoulders.

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Grounds

At the end of the day the first is yet to come. Even late he is the one you’ve searched for. No more time left but proof is there. And still you don’t believe. You’d rather be down on earth. Any way.

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To trust in word

And I walk through the maze in a constant rush foreign to myself and my own city. It could be worse in case words were lost. But there I go day by day searching for something missed a long time ago. Unprecise time and space. Maybe a bunch of nice pictures – kind faces, pleasant sites – which would yield punch to keep on going.

Corner past corner the hurly-burly seems to weave its own logic or lack of. My footsteps sort of gain autonomy now that the lyrics of a sympathetic song take over.

Paths get narrowed as light dims, as memory blurs. Yet the lines may still be relied upon.

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photo: São Paulo city centre by Ricardo Imaeda

Which one?

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If ever I see you again there won’t be soft cello soundtrack on the air. Into your arms a tiny rumour may arise. From a heartbeat or a signal of hunger it will be overheard by anyone near, provided there’s someone there.

If ever I see you again would there be some? Or would it be just a second-hand same?

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Switch

If ever your sweat would run thin
Against my other sinful drips
Days could be drier
With all that treat
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Wayward

[please listen to ‘Natural blues’ by Moby when you read]

Maybe it is destiny. Something far more complicated than home or plans. That’s what you’ve got when you are on your sole track, differences highlighted. No roads, no maps. You let go relying on some intuitive feeling about where to turn to. In a way it means a reconciliation with nature, that old good nature. Devoid of determinism or any kind of outer forces. Just a simple match: your own sense of direction and the wind lanes. But how?

Places to be

I feel that a special bond arises out of a visit to a town or a country. As if they were part of me or some special friend to whom I were strongly connected. It may be a sort of affection due to fascination or sympathy. But in a way it also helps soothing the path of loneliness through this world. They play the role of phantoms always remembering pleasant experiences, inspiring bold behaviours, promising wonders.

Towns and countries I once travelled to are not only scenery but also and mainly characters of my best stories. Those based not on real facts, rather on would-be ways of living. Escape routes. They are the few frames still alive of a film almost completely forgotten.

My travel memories help me keep track of the roads not taken. In the past and while passes allow.

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photo: pottery by Mieko Ukeseki, from the town of Cunha, Brazil

Then again

It feels like travelling in a double-decker heading for the unknown. Most of the time on the ground floor, busy, in a constant thrill, looking at many directions. Once in a while you go upstairs and from the first floor perspective daily problems seem to weigh less, since the great truths prevail. The journey seems less obscure and therefore you may be tempted to go on, but actually you end up messing around on the ground floor where in fact you earn your living. Maybe you hear a call for jumping down. A loud call. Louder than all the mumbo-jumbo and the hustle and bustle you are supposed to go through.

That bus doesn’t make stops. Some views may be rewarding. Sort of soothing, sweeetening, swooning. They allow some breaks that give way to travel other scenery that entertains you and cheers you on.

Your journey seems to pay off on theese experiences basis. And it has come the time to get off. You just start thinking of the best place to quit and then all the sights seem to gather in a very familiar picture. Those same old streets and scenes. And you are sick and weary, not knowing what to do. But you continue.

A sole link

What if we ran out of supplies, no friendly faces could be found and faith was lost? Would we just sit down and cry?

The road is long and winding and it’s getting darker and darker. No soundtrack available. No remedies. Only a sense of direction and a stock of words. Will they build a story to pass on?

Unless it's all right

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April is not the cruellest month. At least here below the Equator where we live Autumn time. Even considering climate changes due to.. you know what. So the poet had a slanted view on human decay. It doesn’t matter whether class-oriented or hemisphere-bound...

Fruit keep on coming, Earth is still spinning and yet when it comes to civilization it seems the hollow does not meet the void any more. Hollow men are just empty, completely disconnected from nature. They lost that sense of void, i.e. the meaningful relationship with everything else that brings awareness of the oneness of life and universe.

April should never be blamed. Unless flowers or fruit insist on defying men’s will to power.

A weaker sort of balance

I spend hours of a week day afternoon doing nothing. Rather, being an opposite to any role I am supposed to play. Drifting sideways in a quick flowing world.

Some day it will be over. In the meantime it feels like sliding on slippery soil. Restless. Reckless.

A loose loner. Longing for a lounge
... and for leaving.

The unusual suspects

When you have enough time thinking about life can bring you sorrow, concerns, boredom but also some insights that can help you through the journey. More often than not there comes a word or an image apart from the daily routine. It doesn’t matter if they result from weariness. They can be nonsense. Inspirational nonsense.

Words or images alone may be used as starters, food for thought when you are high and dry. A glimpse at a tree nearby can remind you of your connection to a larger reality – in fact, to the so neglected nature. Or take you back to old days home. Can make you move.

It seems the more distant the more powerful. Remote control? Elective affinities? Maybe just the overlapping forces of the universe.

So far so near

Overlooking is somehow
Being at their feet

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photo: Andes Mountains, Chile, by Ricardo Imaeda

Walking, not following (since Ice Age)

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After searching creatures who would have respect for him Syd finally finds a large group willing to worship him in a sort of ritual scene in ‘Ice Age 2’ [directed by Carlos Saldanha]. He is delighted and worried at the same time. It is either too good or too bad, says Syd. Needless to tell the rest of the story.

The message is delivered in a very funny way, as the whole film. And how smart! It also serves as a reminder of the perils of managing power and a large amount of followers (or even a single one). Any kind of follower.

Actually following something or someone seems to have nothing to do with respect. But in some way they are seen as being intertwined. As respect is so hard to get nowadays people try to gather as many followers to gain some sort of control and, they might think, respect. A tricky path (un)consciously taken.

Syd stumbles and slides as he walks. Aside from a style his steps help us know him better. He’s got a playful way of living, which enables him not only to survive but also to learn. About anything that matters, including the risks of following the steady footprints of others.

Heroes: so many, so less

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And so it goes...
Here we have a politician (rather than a president) who calls any single category, the adressed-of-the-day, as a hero. Might be Ministers or businessmen, blue collar workers or survivors of the urban violence. In our meaningless reality no one seems to complain. Let them be heroes. But why is that so appealing for him to say such a weakened word?

In the TV series ‘Heroes’ those so called have special abilities: mind reading, flying, foresseing the future and so on. But they are more inner oriented than compassive or trying-to-help people. What is left of old good heroes? Were they captured by the individualistic wave as well?

Sounds like myths. Or classics, divas, best bands... Heroes as devoid of meaning and heart. A label to catch audiences not to be caught so easily any more. Just another trick, just another tasteless device?

When you stroll around your town you may find many heroes along the way. You won’t recognize them though. They lack chances to reveal themselves. And a proper window or screen. And what is more, they lack naming.