How To Dazzle A British Man

July 2010 - written for my American girls (not to be taken seriously!)

(couldn't be bothered about being too good on the chav, and I suppose the whole overall opinion is pretty biased - guess towards which direction! - it's not meant to be taken seriously, at all. None of it, truly. Don't follow my advice. You will definitely fail at dazzling them boyz.)

#1: Case Of The Music-Lover

You’ve met him, the man of your dreams, the man with the accent… and to make things – unfortunately, harder – he has explored every nook and cranny of Britain’s music scene. You’re treading on thin ice, a simple mention of You-Know-Who (in this case, Miley Cyrus) might send him running. So get knowledgeable, submerge yourself in the wonders of the Beatles, Arctic Monkeys, Pigeon Detectives, The Kooks, Hadouken!, Dizzee Rascal and Elton John. You throw in a couple of “the first album was better” and “Definitely The White Album,” and “Yeah, I love Dubstep!” and for the perfect first date you take him to a small gig in Camden Town to listen to an upcoming innovative indie band.

#2: Case Of The Pub-Hogger

England is notorious for its insane binge drinking and lively pubs. The man of your desire is known as Beer-Belly-Bob or Flushed-Out-Fred, and when he decides to take you out, you expect champagne and heels but instead find yourself drowning in Guinness and thick working boots. You dazzle your man by ordering two pints of the best and cheapest beer in the pub – for yourself. He takes this as a challenge and orders three, to which you reply by ordering four more. And so the evening goes, until both of you are attempting Karaoke and accidently stabbing each other with your cigarette ends while you engage in a passionate snogging session in the bathroom stall. The end of the night ends with a lot of projectile vomiting – but hey, at least he introduced you to his pub-friends… He got your name wrong, but that’s only because his veins were flowing with more alcohol than blood. And heck, he texted you saying he wanted to do it all over again next weekend (at least that’s what you managed to decipher). Imagine the look on your parents’ faces when they saw you two together… So you think to yourself “He’s a keeper!”

#3 Case Of The Chav

You met him at the kiddie-park, which is a little bit strange, but he was bullying a little four-year old, and you felt adamant about making him your next man. You always liked the bad-types, and this one takes bad to a whole new level. He looks wimpy, yet he wears tracksuits even though his only sport is watching football. He chain smokes cigarettes and uses so much slang you constantly consider buying an electronic translator. He keeps calling you a slag, and you’re hoping that’s a good thing. He tells you you look better with three inches of foundation plastered onto your face, and before you know it, people start calling you Vicky Pollard. You wonder, is that Victoria Beckham’s nickname? The key to his heart is to do what he tells you to do, no matter what the cost (although we can cut that short when it involves lethal ends). He calls you babes a hundred times a day (and counting), so you reckon that despite the small signs of future domestic abuse, this lad is definitely worth the extra pounds, matching couple tracksuits, and four cotton balls you waste every night taking your new face off.

#4 Case Of The Posh Boy

You met him – surprise, surprise – at a polo game that your friends dragged you to under the pretext of meeting rich young gentlemen. Score! He’s rich, obviously, he has a soft almost pretentious British accent and you swoon at every word he says. To keep him locked up safely without having to fear all the other more beautiful, richer and more posh girls around him, there are three things you will need. Jewelry, Polo, and Croquet. Just remember to remain civilized and stuck up at all times. All times. He’ll ask you out on a second, third and fourth date, and as long as you keep up your preppy image, you’ll be wearing a ring on your finger in no time.

#5: Case Of The Camden Punker

You meet him in Camden Market, and he helps you win a bargain between you and a stubborn salesman. He proceeds to hauling your foreign ass all across the market, pointing out the best places to buy cheap things, without getting carded (wink, wink). You leave the market with your pockets full of stolen goods, a mischievous look on your face and an eccentric boy’s phone-number. He’s all into piercings and darkness and getting involved with the po-po (although you should avoid publically using that term, because Kesha is not up to his standards) and is definitely all for emotions. To best master this man, you are best to channel your inner darker deep soul and bring out the rebel within you. Start smoking – a lot. Cigarettes, weed, lavender pollen, anything that blows out smoke is a pass. Start stealing – start with cheap 1-pound goods and slowly progress to diamonds and banks. He’ll notice you’re high on the bad-ass scale and you’ll definitely be a keeper.

You Never Even Knew

July 2010 - for Tia Vonka (Veronika)

The sight of your smile,

the softness of your locks,

remain imprisoned in pictures,

engraved in their minds.

They bring you along

wherever they go;

with memories of life

and tales of love…

About how you fell

in the arms of a man

who stole all your youth

and caused you great pain.

What if you had kept

what was to be yours?

It came all too soon,

and was gone before noon.

I wish I could see

your smile and hers.

Identical joy

and shiny bright eyes.

But you left far too soon

and left nothing behind

but poetry rhymes

that I wish could be mine.

I hear how they whisper

about wanting to regain

the fresh little memories

of your laughs and your tears.

But here I am now:

missing you more,

missing you and the baby,

like never before.

You never could tell me,

(you never even knew)

that I’d dream of a world

with you in it too.

Nature's Decay

July 2010

I think about

Beauty

Rather than destruction

And creation

Rather than decay.

Yet, there it lay,

So I brushed off the sadness

Enveloping my body,

Filling up my mind,

Leaving happiness aside.

Fragile crunchy brown

Became

Sturdy soft emerald

Until truth manifested and

Nothing was left to do.

So there it remained

Dead

And weak

And forgotten.

It’s fragility an old lady

Whose bones were too weak

To support her wrinkled body

And heavy weighted soul.

I hated that leaf

And the sadness it held,

The promise of decay:

Of a fast-approaching end.

The rebuttal of Forever.

So I peered at the treasure

- My treasure –

I stole that very day

A blue and black feather

Of a bird gone astray.

The fate of the bird

Was one left unheard;

I think for the better.

For if it had been death

That had brought upon this loss,

I believe that my faith

In this splendiferous life

Would have been forever lost.

Some call it beauty,

I call it strife,

For it’s hard to see

True Beauty

In this self-destructing life.

Shooting Star

2009, English Assignment on Betrayal

“I dedicate this song to Catherine, my everlasting star” said the voice on the radio. And then the song started playing.

Rachel stared at the mahogany vintage tub radio, not daring to turn down the volume dial down. Her eyes did not budge. Her hands did not twitch, in fact she was completely immobile. She could not move. She could not feel. Or rather, she simply did not dare to. All at once, the tantalizing song filled the room up with nostalgia; unwanted memories that she had pushed away for so long rose up again, drowning her in her dire past. The amorous lyrics whispered false truths into her ears, isolating her from the present, dragging her, forcing her to remember the bitter betrayal.

It was five months ago, to the date. Five months ago and it still painfully seemed like just yesterday. They had been known no longer as individuals but as “Rachel & Tyge” for 16 months then. Rachel felt a burn in her heart, the hole inside of her grew wider, despite her vain efforts to keep it intact. Back then everything was so blatantly perfect, she never would have anticipated his betrayal. Tyge Riley was a guitarist in their town’s biggest local band.

Though he was four years older than her, they frequently went to the same parties, shared mutual friends and more than often bump into each other in town. It was simple serendipity. It was not love at first sight, but Rachel had never forgotten his friendly face and shaggy mahogany hair that drooped over his eyes and the way he would flick his head to get rid of the golden strands covering his blue eyes.

They started by exchanging smiles, nods and shy glances and ended up exchanging feelings, promises and kisses, one night after a shower of shooting stars. Since then, they were inseparable. She always went to his gigs and he always waited around for her to finish her everyday chores. People around them gawped at their perfection, at their simplicity. Some would say that they completed each other. Where she was shy, he was outgoing. What she knew about academics, he knew about music. She taught him things he didn’t know and he showed her things she’d never done before.

After a few months, small things changed the way they acted around each other, but Rachel was too blinded by the light to notice anything. Tyge’s band had gotten signed, and they started getting more and more gigs outside of the comfort of their hometown.

He had been in Dublin for the past two weeks, and she hardly ever heard from him. She hid her sadness easily, and led on with life as if he were still beside her. And in her mind, he was.

“Hey pretty, I’ve written you a song, it’s called Shooting Star” he had said one day on the phone. “The lads think it’s going to be a hit. I’ve sent the lyrics to your email address and I’ll play it for you when I get back, my muse, my love, my shooting star.” And if she had ever felt any doubt about his love those past few weeks, it all disappeared then. Night after night, she read the song and imagined his voice singing it, just for her. It was her song, only her’s. There was nothing more she wanted now.

More weeks passed until the day of his arrival. Rachel had planned the whole day out. She hopped on the first bus to Heathrow Airport, and waited at the Arrival Terminal for two hours before his plane had even landed. She wore his favourite outfit, wore his favourite smile. One by one, his band mates came out through the revolving doors, suitcases and instruments in hand. She must have missed something, because Tyge wasn’t among them. She told herself he was probably still waiting for his luggage, blocking out the other ideas from her mind. Her everlasting smile died away when David walked towards her, with a look of sorrow on his face. She convinced herself to stay put: it surely wasn’t anything serious.

“Rachel…” hesitated David.

“Hey David! How was your trip?” she forced herself to stay cheerful.

It was great,” he smiled, despite himself, “but listen, I’ve got to tell you something… It’s about Tyge.”

“He’s okay, right? Nothing bad has happened to him, right?” Rachel rushed.

“Well, yeah he is okay… That’s the thing… Rachel, He’s met someone. He stayed behind in Dublin. He left the band behind, left everything. I tried to talk some sense into him… But he… There was no alternative. You know how he can be so stubborn sometimes… He told me to tell you not to call, that he’s sorry. He just can’t deal with this right now… I’m sorry Rach, I didn’t want to do this…” he stumbled on his words, and awkwardly offered her his arms for comfort.

Rachel didn’t move. She didn’t feel. Or rather she simply didn’t dare to. Her life was both emptied of all reason and filled up with a permanent feeling of loneliness and loss.

With a sharp gasp for air, she was pulled back to the present. The song on the radio was her song and that girl had stolen it from her. She didn’t know whether to feel thankful or hateful. The young man next to her offered her his arms; though this time, she gratefully leaned into them. For the first time since Tyge’s betrayal, she felt tears fall down her cheeks. They were tears of sadness. They were tears of self-pity. They were tears of betrayal. But most of all they were tears of understanding, or rather of misunderstanding. She had been his shooting star. But shooting stars are stars that died, that the sky decided to throw away; and just the same, he had thrown her away, and she had fallen. Though she knew that shooting stars never find their way back into the sky, a part of her clung on to the hope that one day she would be able to. That one day the darkness inside of her would disappear and leave place for a new glowing light.

“Don’t you know who you are? You’re my shooting star” she sang along, in a whisper. And the hurt inside her began to manifest itself again… Though it was slightly less painful this time.

Eu me lembro, I remember.

July 2010

I remember reading The Little Prince in three different languages.

Le Petit Prince

O Pequeno Principe

The Little Prince

I remember switching from Portuguese to English and from English to French in order to fill in the missing words and feelings I wanted to describe.

I remember associating my mother’s moods to each language.

Portuguese when she felt passionate.

English when she felt hyper.

French when she had nothing else to turn to.

I remember teaching my father French and correcting his Portuguese.

I remember discovering in Portuguese, teasing in English and loving in French.

I remember that movies dubbed in Portuguese sounded softer than those dubbed in French.

And yet, all the voices were the same.

I remember dreaming about emotions in English.

About worries in French,

About fantastic delusions in Portuguese.

And in times of desperation and loss,

I remember that I have something to feel.

In French. In Portuguese. In English.

Give Me My Sin Again

July 2010

Here you come again

through my window,

and under my canopy bed.

Your eyes make me want to

melt in a daze –

and I’m wishing,

and I’m wanting.

So we run.

run away from time

to fall into the arms

of Eternity.

I think we’re flying

but nothing is an issue anymore

because

we are free.

But time is always an issue,

and clocks are always ticking,

and I fear there is

no more time

for you and I.

From the distance,

I hear:

“I fear

her freedom

might be

her only restraint.”

Do you hear Africa?

Or is it just

The beating of my heart?

My feet dance by their own accord,

and your lips

taste of all things sweet.

But every one of us

are like little bubbles;

beautiful but permanently temporary.

I am gone and so are you.

Our heavy hearts

and burdened souls

chime harmonies seldom heard of.

Here comes the heartbreak

of a thousand souls.

A young lover

Once told me:

“The only thing you have to do in life

is breathe.”

The lump in my throat

slowly chokes me.

I need you like I need air

but air isn’t coming

too easily

right now.

And I’m slipping away into

mad oblivion,

my tears erupt into

fountains of gold.

And as the pressure

of our history

comes tumbling down

on my weakened body,

I remember

You saying:

“I’m tired and all I want to do is leave.”

And you asked me not to follow you, not this time.

Yet you still call my name

wherever I go:

you silence my joy

as you wail in despair.

You haunt me,

but it soothes me as well.

Lost and found,

amidst the cocktails

and ballroom dances

I’m slowly

disappearing

and soon I’ll be gone…

I’m my own hallucination.

A Room Full Of Strangers

Maybe you'll remember
My hands flicking through
A thousand pages of the past;
Reading the paths of
A thousand futures.

Maybe you'll think
About what I last said,
And try to misinterpret it
So that you can understand me better.

Maybe you'll see me,
Just for an instant.
I might remind you of a pressing place,
An urging sensation.

Maybe you'll recognise me,
Drifting among the other strangers.
But I gave up on expectations
Long before we entered this room.

The People in My Heart Are Abstract.

24th March 2011

What is this Love you always write about?
The closest thing
I have only ever known to it is Pain.
I think Love has been far too busy,
perhaps caught up in foreign love affairs,
to pay attention to my awaiting Heart.

But I don't want my Heart to feel left out,
so instead, I fill its rooms up
with different guests.
I try to keep guests like
Melancholy and Nostalgia
for as short as possible,
Their heavy weight makes my
Heart rather unbearable,
and overbearing.

My favorite guest,
Serendipity,
makes her occasional and
unpredictable
visits;
and always brings along
Adventure, Luck
and Surprise.
It's easy to know when
She's here,
Because she leaves
A bright light in
my eyes,
And a broad smile
upon my lips.

I believe that Hope has been staying
in one of my rooms
for quite a long time now,
As has Patience and Dignity,
But they seem eager to leave,
and whenever they attempt to,
I find myself begging them to stay,
Explaining that my Heart needs them,
And reassuring them that,
Upon his arrival,
Love would indeed
be a perfect match for
Each one of them.

I wonder if they know that
I'm tricking them.

Time permits it
sometimes.