Ella Foice and the paranomasia of the civet

 

Ella Sickle and the Numbered Days

Tomorrow is September 11th, again, and then it will be October 25th and 26th again, then it will be April 10th again. They left with a bang, the sound of being ripped from the incarnate, so that we may learn to value the lives that add to us. So many terrorist attacks. Mowed down by an arbitrary and mysterious scythe. Where did they go? And I ask them: are you listening to me? They insist on not answering me with words. And they silence my longings with signs, synchronicities, and an intuition so, so keen, that I come to believe I am with them in this room, painted in darkness, where the shadows dance with the last streaks of light coming from outside. Inside, everyone talks to me, tells me everything, but you know, I never believe them, I never take them seriously. A lifetime listening to them ramble on, some I recognize by their relentless humor, and others by the memories of what they were as they walked on their limbs, like you and me, still. Sometimes I see an elephant. Or an elephant in THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM. Other times, a sunflower or Peter Pan himself, holding hands with Wendy. Still others, Grandma Bina sleeping, as she unlaces her fingers, between before and after; in others, Chico, transformed into an Indian, covered in freckles; and in others, Domingo himself, synchronous with happy heroes on the other side. The old are happy and commendable. Worried about terrorist attacks on our account. That we are being targeted for this and that, it's as if to say, we make ourselves available.

Do you remember the garden in our house? A piece of life here, another there, that's how they appear to me, arranged. No weeds in the midst. Only those that serve as support for bolder flowers and intoxicating perfumes.

Yesterday, after listening to Rik talk about the astrological aspects of the week, before listening to Ablas Roland, I returned to Castelo's backyard, where some pots hung on that wide, weathered wooden railing. I know that physically nothing is the same anymore, the same as it was, but there, supported by the threshold of memory, I dragged myself to those stairs, also made of wood corroded by rain and cold, and froze there. I know that circumstances are never the same, but the war in Iraq and the Persian Gulf were still raging. I could still see Artur Albarran, beyond the hotel's shell, on the top terrace where he was reporting on the war live, with a cocktail in one hand and a thin, medium cigarette in the other, to ease the stress. He was three years and twelve days older than you, who came from Mozambique and left in 2022. It always seemed to me that he, too, was the target of a defeatist attack because of his courage and daring, and that bit of humor that no flabby man dares to possess, with shells falling on his head. He became the talk of the town like a journalist on vacation in a wartime climate. "The tragedy, the drama, the horror." Back then, there weren't yet swarms of drones, or his bald head would have given way right then and there. How audacious, the Mozambican journalist. The irony is that everything has more perspective. He was crushed by his audacity, the ugly and facile judgment of a sportsman and a bad journalist. He died a little from the venom and gossip of those who didn't know his courage. They did to him the same as to Manuel Alegre. He was persona non grata, no matter how talented, no matter how much poetry he brought to the nation, who had disappeared from the war to denounce it through his divine gifts; they did worse to Saramago and Maria João Pires. They've ostracized us. We only have value if that value is attributed to us by foreign countries. And people say that a lack of recognition is like a tick drinking any bit of blood. They bleed, wanting to have what they are. How do you take from someone more than their possessions, but also their own worth, their character, their personal brilliance? So many have died, victims of the heartburn and sympathy of those around them. I recommend baking soda to everyone who suffers from this. The whole bottle.

Every day we suffer attacks, we are targets and scapegoats, sometimes circumstantially, sometimes premeditatedly, by mere strangers or by people we've known our whole lives. I'll correct you on that one. Knowing people, the amalgam, this shapeless mass—the more numerous, the less quality the product, which, in disorganized and characterless groups, grows visibly. The others too. The other groups of people like Ella Scythe. Who woke up.

I hear on the radio that Cristiano Ronaldo is like this and that. Villains. The envious are opportunists. And they expose themselves unintentionally. I'd like to see them, those who machine-gun him for not being present at Jota's funeral, for pushing a microphone, or for seeing their privacy invaded, otherwise they would all respond defensively. In the impulsiveness of a moment, defense emerges. And when Pedro talks about Paulo, I always know more about Pedro, remember? And for those like me, a Martian, defense can come in the form of attack. Here they are, rooting for the downfall, the envious, some emaciated, others bloated, they don't fit into the shapeless mass of vain desire for evil and begin to nourish and distill pet hatreds and rages. They live with us all our lives, and we never see them as they are. To the masked ones. I don't miss the living. Except for you, who you were, I correct. From the past, I am born of nostalgia. Other times, other, more human beings.

I miss them all, ours who always leave without hugs or warning. On the other hand, I, who am in my corner, always quiet in my corner, always trying to meditate, always without bothering anyone, and unable to enjoy the pasta and the "old men of Restelo," return to the backyard balcony, in frozen mode, where I preserve you, listening to the music ascending the stairs, I feel, once again, your arms around my neck, like two pincers squeezing my contracted muscles, your arms, your breath, and a joke. You sat beside me, there, in frozen mode, which is always better than fryer mode, and I revisit the plants, all watered by your mother, I try to raise my eyes to the trees, on the steep climb to the hill, but I see thick glass that blurs my vision. I look the other way and get up. You're no longer there, perhaps you've returned home, perhaps you heard someone calling you and you also left without warning, and, standing upright, I climb the top step until I see the cypress trees surrounding the cemetery. There they are, their tops swaying in the wind, in a waltz only I can hear. I soar into the sky, spreading my wings, and circle around until I enter the small clearing where the sanchas were gathered, among the pine needles and the pine cone stubble. There I am in the past. I fold in my wings and return to my bare feet in the fresco of that afternoon. I dare, like Albarran, to be courageous and audacious, leaving you post-its everywhere, in times of war. I am a war graffiti artist. A caricaturist of the uncomfortable and the particular, in the steel that wants to be gold. Of the donkey and the bull. Of the donkey who drinks bagasse and then claims he's unpunished, that he only makes fire, the arsonist. Of the Parish Council and Coiro. Now, let's be honest: From Vila Meã, before the thaw, only Agustina, whispering to me about Charo and nonsense. From the shale to Malhoa's painting. Ah, fado, that fado was very quiet. I'm not one for Cidálias, I'm more one for Amálias, I'm more one for sunflowers and dahlias. I'm an outcast.

I've never liked politics. Because it breeds unscrupulous men who, under the pretense of serving the country, use it to climb the ladder of rottenness and filthy, debauched audacity. There are no friends. There's a lack of modesty and spine. And of honor. Which is measured when you catch a worm saying don't do this, and he secretly does it, profiting from the blindness of those who believe him. What we have, in the outskirts of power, are friends with privileges, who can arrange anything for themselves, a boar like a duck, a plot of land without a temporary PDM or TPM, because we're all fools, and they receive perks because they know too much, and then a pit is created for them because they know too much. Isn't that what the powerful do to those who know too much and are found messing around in the baptismal font or in the minstrels' pen? It's not good to know too much. The Netanyahuites, the Trumpists, the Putinists (if I tell you what I know, you'd have to kill me) multiply. And those who can, kill; those who can't, they cripple! Damn! It's modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah. They're artists, from the demolition circus! Not that anyone knows too much. But some knowledge is inconvenient. It's better not to know. I've always defended transparency and I dare to fight for it in life. That's why I sing you this song, from the wind above the treetops, which goes like this: I've had many hands in mine, beautiful hands, divine hands, the ones I didn't want returned, only yours never again. And it must come from the sixteenth century, when those who set sail for their wars left behind broken hearts, feelings and emotions of absence and despair, homeless, destroyed chests. Who never surpassed those who departed, neither to the other side nor to this one, many of whom were left in awe, with double and triple lives, across these seas, inland continents, filled with children of longing and peace, who sought at the summit a moment where they could appease themselves with God and fall asleep. Oh, if these shoes would come off my feet right now, voluntarily, how happy I would be. That relief in tight shoes.

They say small men are scoundrels or dancers. I don't see it that way. What I believe when people wrote that saying was that they were referring to the size of man in his smallness, in his lack of scruples, in his militant gluttony. And isn't it true that even those who are tall are tall? They're all pillars of the same penny! In the scarcity of ethics. Men without character are like gardens without flowers. Like a school without students. Like my silhouette drawn in this clearing, trying to gather scallops for the rice and no longer reaching you. Not your bearing, or your eyes, the mischievousness of your smile, the sweetness that dripped honey from your hands onto my skin before the day ended. You have few friends, my friend. I've never believed in envy or anger, in masks, or in Carnival. I've always preferred to believe that you either defeat them or you don't join them. I don't join them. Remember Aníbal, who isn't Cavaco Silva? Well, he's small, is he ugly and envious? And he doesn't like you at all. You see, he sent me, without my permission—I never included him or gave him the confidence to stretch—recipes from a clinic, just so I'd think it had something to do with you. I sat here thinking: Don't tell me the cook escaped between vomiting and spitting, between chicken soup and a francesinha à Penafidela, after a fado at the local slaughterhouse? Well, it didn't seem right to me. I told you I never liked politics, but it's politicians I really dislike, because they eat our guts, deceive us with their tricks, hide in the alleys, put on angel masks. This one must be a friend of the Magalhães family, from the time of Sócrates, not the philosopher, the one with friends who give them apartments not in Sourbonne, but in Vila Meã, which is where the smart guys are most, which must have an Ínsua somewhere, where you can see rocks unfurled by time, by wickedness, and musical lusts. The world of music is beautiful, but those who use it to pose as musicians are yellow. May their uniforms shine in the sun, they're taking fishing lessons, trying to make a buck with your business, my boy. I'm calling on Agustina. Not the neighbor. Paranomasia is improvised, but since it doesn't serve as a wing, let it serve as a telescope, so you can see where so many Pinocchios live. Poor Gepetto, the mountain gave birth to an insect!

I dissolve into the mist, being a Sebastiana, and return to the diner in that ill-fated area, but one that's full of real people. After coffee and cream that's never been to Belém, I meet a true artist from the other world. It was raining heavily, just to make a fuss and divert attention, and people passed by, some in T-shirts and shorts, others with umbrellas, and still others honking their horns to the driver in front. I laughed, trying not to cry, because that was all the weather was doing for me. It wasn't bad weather, but the rustling of karma that's coming, riding on all fours. And Mr. V... comes around the bend, catches me stubbing out my cigarette halfway, in the street ashtray, in no one's kicking room, getting off the boat, and smiles at me: Wow, doesn't it rain for those getting off? And I, smiling even more, blessed by the rain that I hadn't showered to save on the water bill, concluded, "For now, it only rains for those who go up!" I winked at her and thought that the cemintendes were full of people who had climbed so high they were forced to come down someday.

Now that I've struggled, I'll tell you what I saw even more: Them, anointed on a sheet of short sticks, serving as a mattress for the afflicted, while they screamed their intestines into an immense barn! The curtains close. The author reverses the acts. Plagiarism of artifacts and inspiration like drunkenness, with shitty, shitty samikazes, from the works of Gil Vicente, the fool sits at the helm, tears up the ultimatum received, and urges the entire frigate to its preferred destination.

May no one touch you with a finger. Only if it's with a book. I also understand magic (it's this moon in Gemini, which protects us both) and I transform all our enemies into bats! Kisses from Ella Sickle, who came to reap and separate the wheat from the chaff! Au revoir.