This space once was called vômito público, and it was a window to share some of my unfiltered writing, mainly in Portuguese. I decided to recycle it. The plan is to start again sharing here escrevinhanças and scribbles. It will be a virtual home for some of my short stories, almost poems, recommendations of books, and presentations of my ongoing projects and collaborations. It will host both the pieces of the self that inhabits Portuguese and the ones that dance with this foreign language.
An old woman or the last betrayal
by Carol Stampone
blame? My eyes? My eyes were lying to me. They did not help me to see
all the words anymore, even with the glasses. Still, I knew that I
only had myself, so I did not give up. I know that I
was wrong. I
should have stopped driving when my eyes starting to betray me. I did
because I am use to betrayal. My mother was the first one to betray
me. First with that little lie, “ice cream for you, my sweet pie”.
I loved ice cream and Mother knew it. It had been a tough day for
her. She wanted to protect me. So the offer of ice cream. But we had
no ice cream. How mother could offer something that she did not have?
Old habit, her whole life had been like that. Always offering what
she did not have: extra blanket, unconditional love, ice cream, more
time. That evening, after dinner, mother gave me cream, with that
fake smile. Fake smile to offer fake ice cream. I was only four years
old, but I could see that something was wrong.
_ Where is
_ He went to
buy more ice cream, for you, my sweet pie.
I tried the
fake ice cream and I figure out pretty fast that it was the stuff
that father like to have with his coffee, and Mother use to say that
it wasn't healthy to have so much fat every day. He uses to nod and
to have it anyway. Then, he use to leave and he just came back some
time when I was already sleeping.
evening Dad did not show up. Neither the next day or the next or the
next. Weeks, months, years went by and Dad did not come back.
The truth is
that I never saw Dad again. After a while, I stopped waiting for him.
But Mother never stopped waiting. She couldn't. Each day that she
waited she disappeared a bit more. First she lost weight. The big ass
and the legs, that before looked like two strong trees, disappeared
first. Later was the time of her fluffy arms. Her belly went inside.
At last, her face started to disappear. In the end she was a
dead-alive. She lost her joy, she forgot the meaning of a dream, she
forgot her plants and our cat. Somewhere in the middle, she also
When I was
fifteen Mother left me, for good. I came back from school and Mother
was on her chair, cold, her eyes open, still waiting for the return
Mother's funeral I heard, for the first time, about Dad's
disappearance. There were no prove, but a strong probability that Dad
had being killed. If by one of the 'betrayed husbands' or if by one
of his illicit business colleagues, no one knew.
that she would take care of me. I believed her. But then, I was so
empty that I decided to let John touch me. Maybe I would feel
something. John said that he loved me and that he wanted to have
something special to remember me, to remember us. I knew that it was
a lie, but I desperately needed to feel something. Anything. So I
said “yeah, go ahead, but bring me some ice cream before you start
it, some real ice cream, no cream”. He ran to the grocery store and
came back all sweaty. I didn't care. I ate chocolate and vanilla ice
cream while he put a baby inside me.
belly started to get bigger and bigger Grandma said that I was a bad
girl and that I need to leave. I had being betrayed again. She had
told that she would take care of me.
I waited the
months that the baby needed to become a proper person and I made
force to put him out. The nurse told me that it was a boy. She asked
what was his name. I didn't know. I decide to give him no name. I
gave him away. I was unable to love. I need to let him go. During a
few nights I thought about his destiny. Then I decide that it was
better to forget about it and let him go.
I grow old,
alone. I survived. I took care of myself. I never ever let anyone get
too close again. If it was just me there would be no space for
betrayal, for tragedy. Right? It is always the others who brings
tragedy to our lives.
never imagine that my own eyes would bring me my final tragedy. I did
not see him. When I stepped on the brake it was already too late. His
body was still warm, but there were no life inside it. He was gone. I
had killed a stranger. My eyes had betrayed me, and now, a stranger
did not exist anymore.
por Caroline Stampone Hemingway confrontou o suicídio durante toda a sua obra. Por fim, resolveu repetir o fim do pai suicida, acabando com um tiro de espingarda. Virginia Woolf foi temida por muitos. No fim matou-se. Encheu os bolsos do casaco de pedras e entrou no rio, sem intenção alguma de nadar. Hunter S. Thompson inventou o jornalismo gonzo e deixou escritas muitas verdades sobre a mal cheirosa sociedade burguesa. Um dia resolveu dar-se nada mais nada menos do que um tiro na cabeça. Desde então, deixou de existir homem de carne e osso. Sylvia Plath encheu a arte de confissões e o próprio corpo de narcóticos e gás de cozinha. A sua obra inteirinha grita uma inquietação de quem não pode caber nesse mundo. Mário de Sá Carneiro suicidou. Assim como Giles Deleuze, que nos apresentou a esquizofrenia social. Gérard de Nerval enforcou-se num beco em Paris. Camilo Castelo Branco, após contrair neurosífilis resolveu acabar com a própria vida. David Foster Wallace ap
Um filme que traz até nós as contradições de uma mulher, que pensou, amou e lutou pelo o seu espaço no mundo. Quando assisti 'Os amantes do café Flore: Beauvoir e Sartre', fui atingida com muito mais verdade por aquela que vem primeiro: Simone de Beauvoir. Ela é a primeira a aparecer no filme e é também a última a ser mencionada. O foco do filme é ela. Enquanto Sartre é exposto quase sempre como o possuidor de certezas, ela é exposta como um ser humano que duvida, um ser humano que é mulher e é também outra mulher. Uma mulher parida por seus pais, pelo seu tempo e pela sociedade. E também uma outra mulher, uma mulher que tenta refazer a si mesma. Uma mulher que pensa e ama. Uma mulher que, tem horas, encontra lugares impossíveis, lugares nos quais ela tenta fazer caber o amor e a si mesma. Uma mulher que por carregar também a outra mulher, teve dificuldades em amar com liberdade. Uma mulher que apesar de recusar o casamento como mais uma das instituições burguesas
'O sangue dos outros', livro da escritora, filósofa e feminista francesa Simone de Beauvoir, traz até nós um pouco da história da França e da Europa, assim como pontos da história da filosofia. Mas, o que realmente conta quando lemos tal livro é o fato de que ele mete na frente da nossa cara, do nosso coração e do nosso pensamento velhas questões essenciais, que não cansam de repetir-se: qual o sentido da vida? o que significa existir? o que significa resistir? o que é o amor? qual o nosso lugar na história? 'O sangue dos outros' é a história de Jean, um burguês. Quer dizer, um ser humano que nasceu burguês, mas, que escolheu fazer-se outra coisa. Jean abre mão do seu lugar de privilegiado para juntar-se aos operários. Ou ao menos tenta. Não é fácil. Em grande parte porque aquilo que somos, depende também de quem fomos, da bagagem que carregamos, além de depender dos outros, de como os outros nos vêem. Marcel, o cínico artista, lembra a Jean: "haverá se