Home from Home

For the past two weeks, all I've been doing is looking for a new place to live, my 7th in London. Looking is an understatement: you've gotta get all geared up and go to war for that, because apparently every Londoner favourite pastime is to scour the city for a suitable dwelling. And boy, these people are ruthless. Properties with simple requirements such as normal-sized windows (so you can have a tiny bit of rare daylight coming in and not spend all your ages in electricity bills) and rooms slightly bigger than shoeboxes (so you can actually move around without tripping on your already sparse furniture) are snapped up faster than Louboutins on sale. In one of the hottest, most thriving property markets in the world there's a a horrible shortage of decent accommodation, and worst of all (and probably because it is what it is), what you will pay for a bedsit in a hot area would probably get you a mansion with sea views anywhere else in the world.
(except in Balneário Camboriú, the city I come from in Brazil, where the property speculation is as ridiculous as in London).

But one zillion phone calls and dozens frustrated viewings later, I've finally managed to find the perfect place to move all the piles of shoes, books, and magazines I've accumulated in almost 5 years of living in London. And this time, unbeliavably for the first time in this city, it's just me, my junk, and him. And my two fur balls, Nick and Quincas.

I can't barely remember the last time it was just us. The two of us. I remember back in Brazil, when we were in the height of passion and barely out of our teens. We were 19, and we had these beautiful and spacious 2 bedroom wonder at the chicest neighbourhood in town, a brand new car, and all our lives in front of us. But I wasn't happy. I was small and spoilt and scared, and I wanted to know what other surprises life had under her sleeve. It didn't matter that I would have to leave all the glitter behind and start from scratch in a dirty, obscure corner of New York City - the unknown seemed so much more exciting.

It was - and it wasn't. There's no amount of warning that can prepare you for life in the big city, even less if this is a foreign city. I remember my first day in NYC, without knowing a single soul, feeling all the despair slowly creeping up inside me after being literally dumped with two enormous suitcases by the taxi driver in a smelly, grubby street of the Spanish Harlem, under a 38ºC sun. The room I misguidedly took for a "vibrant accomodation with views to the Central Park", found via a "findaroomate.com" sort of website, was on the 3rd floor of a disintegrating building with no elevators (and no views to the Park, except maybe from the firescape) and my new roomie, a Chinese-American woman who supposedly had a job at Morgan Stanley in Wall Street, wasn't coming down to help me. It took me 25 minutes and two buckets of my own sweat to negotiate those horrible stairs, and it didn't get any better once I was in my new flat. My room, that cost $500 a month, was no bigger than a broom cupboard and as "vibrant" as only the inside of a pre-heated oven could be. On top of that, the Chinese woman seemed not to have a single cleaning gene in her DNA, for the whole place was covered in dust, and she had a charming habit of hanging her washed granny panties in the middle of the living room. Aparently, they dried faster when in full view of street passer-bys.

I, being the good Brazilian middle-class child of the 90s I was, comfortably wrapped-up most of my life in a cozy blanket of daily cleaners, meals cooked from stratch and airy, bright, spacious apartments, was appalled. Horrified. Shocked, dismayed. So much that when, right after I arrived, I decided to go out to find a payphone to call home (and plead to go back), I ended up walking from the 111th to the 32nd street - 79 blocks in aproximatelly 5 hours, almost non-stop. I don't really know why I did that, but what happened during that walk changed me forever. It wasn't that I was stalked by a black guy for 5 blocks, or that I cried uncontrollably for another five when I couldn't get the calling cards to work, or even that magic moment when I turned on 42nd street and found the bright lights of Times Square for the first time, followed by the amazing Public Library later in the day. It was simply that in my exhausted, overwhelmed mind, I knew I could never go back to my old life, because it would never be the same again.

I lasted exactly 45 days in that fetid Harlem flat, and moved to several other over-priced, decaying, hideous other flats in Boston, Cambridge and then London, most of them populated by normal looking people that almost always revealed themselves to be mischevous, wacky creatures with several unhygienic habits and a penchant for self-deception.

But two countries, eleven homes and countless obscure neighbourhoods later, I look back and I don't recongnize that young girl that dreamt of leading a sitcom life in the big city. She was anxious, worried, and self-conscious in way that I aknowledge, but find it impossible to identify with. I had all the stability in the world and was never comfortable in my own skin. Today, 6 years later, my world is much more vulnerable than it ever was, full of risks and unpredictability, but I never felt more confident, more assured that now I am leading the life I was wanted to lead. Better still, in a place, a possible home, that reflects exactly who I always wanted to be and didn't know.

It's a life not as similar as in those American sitcoms I used to dream about, but the feel-good factor is pretty close.


(more about the new home in the next post).

Things that are still wrong in my life

- I don't write enough about the most important people in my life.

- I don't write enough about the (extra)ordinary stuff that happens in my life.

- I'm still unable to fully demonstrate how much I love some people. Specially my mum.

- I'm still unable to cook a simple meal, other than grilled chicken and steamed veggies. 

- I'm still unable to be myself,  completely, fully and entirely. 

- I don't write enough.

Another Inspiration

"[...] The most subversive thing: to be out in the mainstream and get away with it"

Terry Richardson.

Restless

I get restless.

I always do, when I come here.

I forget who I am, what I like, what I carefully built along the years. My idiosyncrasies, my personality traits, my odd but remarkable history. All irrelevant, like they belong to someone else. Someone I’m not interested in.

I can get no satisfaction.

Instead, I become who I used to be. An insecure, ugly little girl, desperate to please, to be noticed, to be one of them. Obsessed with everything that doesn’t matter, that is not important to anyone but still rules everyone’s lives. Everything that made me run away, until I found a place where I could be myself in peace.

Somewhere I could be proud. Of myself.

Like that saying ,“It’s never too late to become who you really are,” or something along those lines. I travelled far, mastered the languages, the crowds, the overwhelming rhythm. I proved not to anyone, but to myself, that I AM strong and smart and beautiful and endlessly interesting.

But I’m nothing here. In the smallest of universes, I feel like a curious creature, an oddball, no more. Something to be looked at from afar, to be distanced from.

I cheated myself
Like I knew I would
I told you I was trouble
You know that I’m no good.

I was weak, and selfish, and silly. I wake up 6 o’clock in the morning, breathe hard, walk from room to room, read the same paragraphs over and over, check obsessively the same websites. Can’t stop thinking.

This time, I was careful enough not to share the details with anyone. I don’t want anyone but the mirror to see the shameful restlessness in my eyes.

And now,

All I need is a glimpse of reciprocity. A spontaneous evidence of the same. Then maybe, I could go back to sleep.

Living twice

When I look back at my life, I feel that if I really wanted, I could be a good blogger. My world turns upside down in a incredibly speedy rate, enough to entertain the most hardcore of Big Brother fans - but I hesitate. I keep asking myself, "What's the point of telling the world what I'm going through? Why would I give them the freedom to build on judgment and prejudice and whatever negative feelings people feel towards other people, based on what I choose to write about or photograph? Am I an exhibitionist? Am I expecting people's approval? Why do I need it anyway?"

Since I chose to write a blog back in 2001, I walk around carrying those questions on my shoulders like a heavy block of stone. I generally forget the answers, until I find a quote in a book or a website that reminds me why humans in general need to document life. As Isabel Allende, that blessed Chilean writer, said, it is because it helps us remember what happened. Because memories are the thread that keeps the flimsy, stubborn fabric of our souls together, and if we can't remember things it is as if they've never happened. Writing (photographing, painting, creating) helps us remember, and through remembering the events of our life, we are able to live twice.

Also: through writing and art we find a way to arrange the pieces of a giant puzzle in a way that we can understand, that makes sense to us. Life becomes easier.

I'm not saying writing a blog is a form of art, but, just the same, it bears all those qualities attached to nobler forms of writing like novels and memoirs. It helps me build memories, it helps me remember, it helps me make sense and understand. And most of all, it helps me live twice under the watchful eyes of the world.

Just a Reminder

"why tackle a memoir? Because I need to remember. What I don't write it, I forget, and then it is as if it never happened; by writing about my life I can live twice. "

Isabelle Allende, reminding me why I should keep on writing a blog. At least that.

Pills

The doctor, an English blonde woman, gave me two choices: I could take the super new drugs, with virtually no side effects, for 3 months, until I felt stable enough to get on with my life. Or I could try therapy and "reeducate the way I see life and the world." Or, if necessary, I could have both. All free of charge, a gift from the enlightened British government. I said, Can I think about it? She said, Call me in a week's time.

I don't think I'll be going back there anytime soon.

The big D

Right. 

So after all my optimistic little phase, I went to my GP for the first time in five years today, and her diagnosis was "mild depression." Well, well. No shit, Einstein. If anyone read my blogs' archives from back in 2002, all the clues would probably lead to the same conclusion. Mild depression. What does that mean, anyway? Being a little sad for long periods of time? Or feel very down, hit rock bottom, for a couple of weeks? Or maybe have short bouts of paralysing anxiety in crucial moments of your life, followed by months of light but piercing self-deprecation after the anxious episode made you totally screw up? Does it mean feeling powerless when you can't go back in time and changes things? Or feeling worn-out when you look ahead because certain things will never change?

I always thought people with depression would wear pajamas all day, and have dark circles around their eyes, and sleep during the day after long nights crying their eyes out. They would not go to Yoga classes like I do, or eat their vegetables and grilled chicken like I do. They wouldn't call their friends and make jokes about their own stuck-up situation like I do, or put on make-up before leaving the house like I do. They wouldn't make love before falling asleep, or take the cats to the garden in the morning with a mug of hot tea just so they can all catch a tiny bit of sunshine like I do.

I thought depression was something a like a permanent heavy weight on your shoulder, not that quiet desperation that hits you when you're not trying to get busy with anything, so you'll stop thinking. I thought it was something that stopped you from doing anything else, like a barrier that stops an overflowing river, instead of just silently following you like a weightless shadow while you try to get on with your life. 

I thought depression was as clear and easy to identify like a broken mirror, not a set of puzzle pieces scattered over 10 years. That's how long it took for me to realise that maybe something was up. And it took 10 minutes for my GP to say what it was. 

Inspiration

Ex-stripper, now Oscar winner. She's, like, a dream, man. 

Calm, cool and collected.

WARNING: this post contains long doses of self-pity and auto-therapy bollocks. 

---***---

Folks, I've got an announcement.

There's a new phenomenon happening this year, absolutely unfamiliar to me up until this point of my life: the absence of guilt. For reasons unknown (as The Killers would say), every now and then my mind becomes strangely empty during several stages of the day, forcing me to pay attention at whatever is happening around me. 

No, really. I pay attention to strange things, like old ladies crossing the street, or the tracks of the trains outside London Bridge. Hell, I even read the orkut profiles of extremely boring people. Waste of time, right? But I explain: 

I am, or used to be, one of those people that never, EVER, stops ruminating about everything, endlessly wondering, questioning, scrutinising, trying to find a reason for that permanent feeling of inadequacy. In my regular, day-to-day perspective, there is (or was) always something wrong with me: my curly hair, my apple-shaped body, my disproportionate face, the clothes I wear, the subjects I studied, the jobs I've worked in, the places I hang out, the people around me. Why couldn't I be prettier, fitter, smarter, cooler, more successful, stylish, intelligent, desired, all at the same time and preferably NOW? WHY?

Laugh as you will, but the lack of confidence here was that big. And writing about it now, I see that my insecurity had ridiculous proportions. I mean, think about it: what I've always wanted to be was PERFECT. Full-stop, no negotiation, no second-place-should-be-fine. No. 

Now imagine the proportions of my frustration. As you might have noticed, that never happened, or got even close to happen. Or ever will.

I would need several years of therapy to trace precisely the origins of that enormous self-doubt, but I believe it all started at some point in my childhood, when my also very insecure mother would drop me off at my rich cousin P. for play-dates. Only instead of playing with her huge collection of Barbies, she would spend the afternoon showing off her walk-in closet with everything organised by colour, and discussing the benefits of weekly blow-dry appointments at her mom's hair salon. We were 7 years old.

These days, she is married to the richest guy in the state, a brainless good-for-nothing who inherited all his family land and money, and they both lead a very meaningful life swapping Ferraris for Porshes, delegating orders to servants and nannies, attending endless hair/manicure appointments, organising children birthday parties, and shopping, shopping, shopping. I'm not too sure they travel a lot, but I wouldn't expect them to go far off the boundaries of midwest Brazil, where they're known as the one of the most powerful couple of the region. 

Without a single second-thought, I wouldn't swap places with her, not for a minute (seriously, I'm being honest). Maybe bank accounts, but that's about it. I don't want to be her - no, to be precise, her life is the exact definition of hell on earth to me, the absolute opposite of everything I've ever chased. Or at least I thought so. 

Looking back, all I've always wanted was to feel certain, to be assured, convinced, satisfied (and whatever synonyms thesaurus can find). At least for a minute,to not think about what else was out there, and why the choices I made were wrong. 'Cause even If my life was absolutely different, If I was tall, with great hair, a stable family and a stellar career, I'd probably find something wrong with it, and would obsess about it. 

As it is, a classic case of "the neighbour's grass is always greener." Status anxiety.

Well, not anymore. Not for now, anyway. In matter of weeks, it feels like I've managed to grow-up more than I've done in 25 years. Don't know if it is for real, if I'm gonna go back to being a scared little monkey anytime soon, but I'm quite enjoying being this indifferent, calm, cool and collected being.

Okay. Thanks for listening. 

 

  

I'm so over being me.

It's crazy how a single book can change your mindset. Since I read Siddhartha, the holy bible of the hippie generation, during my holidays in Brazil, I have, unbelievably, sort of developed an ability to stop thinking ahead of time. No, really. I sort of entered this state where I just don't try anymore to measure how much time I'm wasting by not doing what I actually should be doing. It seems that I've been living like this for so long (or should I say *not living*, because moaning about the past and freaking out about the future shouldn't be considered as such), that I must have had something like a mental breakdown. Like, "Huh?! Am I developing body rashes because of what doesn't even exist yet? HELLO?"

It was probably just another manifestation of my erratic and bored personality, which makes me throw the towel as soon as I see no point for keep on doing things. If there's a thing I'm good at, no, GREAT at, it's quitting, so I simply quit thinking about everything that is not the moment. Simple as that. And I didn't even need a lifetime of meditation to get to this state. I bet Siddhartha would be jealous. And my dad, the biggest fan of that self-help bestseller, THE POWER OF NOW, will definately be proud.



Of course I didn't reach the nirvana or enlightenment or even started sleeping any better (I can't remember the last time I slept a whole night uninterrupted, but with a hugely deviated septum and a spine that resembles the Thames river, who would?), but I've been enviously calm and lighthearted, taking everything in as it is. No overanalyzing bollocks, no scrutinizing shit, apart from these blog posts, which will be become more regular from now on - I'm not perfect, alright?


--


Oh, I also quit my job. Whilst I was at my "quit thinking" momento, I also thought I should stop wasting my precious hours at dead-end jobs because of irrelevant stuff such as "career", or "CVs", or "status", or worse of all, "money", so I arrived from my one-month vacation in Brazil (taken during probation period) and handed in my notice. No offense, I quite liked the people there, but, I mean, only wankers hand over their lives in exchange of the aforementioned stuff, right? Or maybe the only wanker in the story is me, one of those people who only complain and never do anything about it. I couldn't stand my own self.

People, oooobviously, started babbling away like robots the questions "what you're gonna do now?", "what's your plan?", and "how you're gonna pay the bills?". Hell, who cares. I've always been able sort myself out, even if it requires "underground measures" - so nothing to worry about. For the first time ever, I've no studies or job to agonize about. I can do whatever the hell I want.


Never been happier.


---

Then, on my first day of freedom, I saw Juno. Gawd. She is like the dream teenager. If I had been as witty, self-assured and coolheaded as her when I went through the same thing, my life would have been SO much easier. The scriptwriter (Diablo Cody, all the rage now. Bitch. Stole my thunder.), obviously never went through an unwanted teenage pregnancy.

Yeah, yeah, there it is. I went through it. Twice. And the biggest irony of all is that they were

 only "unwanted" because of the previously mentioned irrelevant stuff (should I call it "the big CSM"?). I mean, DUH! If I could only have had a glimpse of my future at 25 when I was the teenage version of the little miserable shit I am used to be, I probably would have saved a lot of wretchedness and anxiety over nothing. Or maybe not. I’ve always been a little retarded on the emotional camp – thanks to my lovely parents, who deeply instilled in moi an overwhelming fear of rejection – so I’m totally sure I would have become a melodramatic wreck anyway, had I had, as Juno calls it, "the thing".

Oh, and for those who are wondering, yes, I’m not proud of it. And, hell yeah, I totally, TOTALLY, regret it.

---

Ah, the bittersweet taste of maturity.

Saudades

This post needs to be in Portuguese, because, unfortunately, "saudade" is a word that doesn't exist in English - and that word means the world to me. 

*

Começou o pânico. 

Toda a vez que eu venho passar férias no Brasil, a última semana vira drama. Pra começar, a última semana nunca é a última de verdade, porque no último minuto do segundo tempo eu acabo trocando a data do meu vôo pra dali 10 ou 15 dias. Não tem como tirar férias em casa por duas semanas quando a sua casa fica espalhada por um território 26 vezes maior que o Reino Unido inteiro. E mesmo assim, algum quarto, alguma "dependência", como se diz, acaba ficando de fora do roteiro. Nunca dá tempo de ver tudo e todos. 

Mesmo que desse, o pânico se manifesta anyway. É o medo de morrer de saudade.

 

Daí hoje, domingo a noite, dia oficial da nostalgia no Brasil, deitei na cama sem sono e sem ressaca e fiquei lembrando de tudo o que já havia acontecido nesse quase 1 mês de férias. Até então eu estava me mantendo maravilhosamente bem, algo inédito nos últimos anos: conseguindo segurar minha cabeça no presente, quase que totalmente, sem reminicências ou antecipações, Carpe Diem na prática (influência, essa, de Sidarta, o livro de Herman Hesse que finalmente, 15 anos depois, resolvi dar cabo - mais sobre, depois). 

Mas aí virei pro J. e falei,  "tô morrendo de saudades de todo mundo já." E ele virou pra mim e soltou essa jóia: 

"A gente vive de saudade."

Eu nunca tinha pensado no quanto essa frase define o que eu sou, o que somos. Do jeito que eu conduzi a minha vida até aqui, meu destino sempre vai ser esse: viver de saudade. De alguém, de algum lugar, de um hábito, de um momento. Tem gente que vive no mesmo local a vida toda, com as mesmas pessoas ao redor, e vez ou outra sente a famigerada dor no peito, o nó na garganta, quando alguém se muda ou morre. Mas eu, eu não. Eu convivo com o tal do Nó desde os meus 10 anos de idade, quando minha mãe saiu fugida do Mato Grosso do Sul pra fazer a vida em Santa Catarina. Foi o primeiro Nó, um dos mais doídos, porque pra trás ficou sangue do meu sangue. Depois, veio a Internet, e os laços (antes do Nó, vem o Laço) foram se espalhando por lugares diferentes: São Paulo, Rio, Curitiba, Brasília... Tudo, claro, gerenciável. Por mais que a distância era longa, tava tudo dentro do mesmo país.

Daí eu inventei de morar fora. 

E a saudade, que com o tempo crescia a olhos vistos, de repente tomou proporções sufocantes.  Se no começo dava pra matar a saudade com um estilingue, agora tem que ser no mínimo com um fusil AR-15. Um sem número de gente e de lugares e de coisas  e de momentos, em 3, 4 países diferentes, milhares de kilômetros, e datas, e cifras sem impondo entre todos nós. 

Se eu pudesse, juntava todo mundo numa bolha quentinha e confortável e carregava comigo. Não posso.

Posso é continuar minha caminhada mundo afora, colecionando mais gente, mais momentos, mais paisagens... e morrendo, aos poucos, de saudades. 

About Brazil

Yes, I’m in Brazil.

Last time I set foot in this gigantic green land was exactly two years ago, and although being away for such a long time (5 years in total) slowly kills me, it also has some positive sides. For instance, the way I perceive what it used to be my life. I was telling this girl I sort of know (never met, but I read her stuff) that I feel a bit like Neo at the end of the first Matrix, when he started seeing everything in green codes. What a difference, how incredibly weird my life was. Everything, from the smallest peculiarity to the biggest political scandal, has to me the luscious flavour of a new discovery. The culture, the people, the habits, all that has always made Brazil for what it is, all that made ME what I am – even if it means being the opposite of all things Brazilian – doesn’t cease to amaze me.

First, the women. One of the biggest clichés, the most tiresome slogan that defines the country along with samba and football is that here live the most beautiful women in the world. Unfortunately I’m beginning to believe it’s true, as much as I now believe Jazz divas are destined to live tragic lives (unfortunately, yes, because I’m not one of them). Naturally blessed with good genes brought by a melting pot of European, African and Native Indian blood, Brazilian women are also increasingly obsessed with their appearance and go about trimming themselves endlessly, hair to toe, tits to fanny. There are hairdressers and beauty clinics in every corner, always full of stunning, tanned, long-haired, white-teethed and big-butted girls asking for their weekly manicure-pedicure-waxing-blow-dry combo. And that’s when they’re not making appointments with plastic surgeons for their annual nip and tuck, a little fix that 3-hour daily workouts aren’t able to shift. I don’t blame them. The heat during the summer is so overwhelming that it literally demands you to get rid of all garments, and that means exposing your most private bits. Also, beauty treatments, massages, gym, and plastic surgery are, if not cheap, absolutely affordable. As with everything else, Brazilians pay for stuff in small instalments that sometimes extend up to 24 months – beauty and fashion mortgages.

My other surprise is most of my friends/acquaintances are, if not successful, well-established in their own area – none of them working in 9-5 jobs. There’s the tattoo artist, the designer, the DJs, the photographers, the writers, the filmmakers… most working as self-employed or running their own business, earning not only enough to support themselves, but also to have time and fun. In my concept of Brazil, this kind of thing doesn’t happen here: it happens in London, Berlin, New York, Paris. Art, music, fashion, film is stuff that Brazilians don’t grasp, don’t associate with career/profession. Well, it seems not anymore. This people, my people, are proving me joyously wrong.

Then there’s the permanent notion of pleasure that it’s part of the country’s mentality. The Brazilian will suffer if necessary, and DOES suffer a lot, but temporarily – because they always find a way to obtain pleasure from the small things. In their perspective, how can anyone live without eating great food, lying down under the sun, spending time laughing with family and friends? Brazilians need to treat themselves as they need to breathe. They will work hard – because the idea that Brazilians don’t work hard is mistaken; they do give their blood when it comes to make their businesses work – but they will certainly want to enjoy their worth at the end of the day, the month, the year. The British, au contraire, spend every day of their lives complaining about their own bad cuisine, the grey sky and the lack of time to see their beloved ones, then counterbalance by drinking and partying like there’s no tomorrow, so they can spend the next day nursing headaches and massive hangovers.

Then, there’s religion. According to Veja, the Brazilian Newsweek, atheists are the biggest victims of prejudice, more stigmatised than gays or black people. It’s easy to validate in daily life. I say I don’t believe in God, they pop their eyes out and yell “WHAT!? HOW COME, WHAT DO YOU DO WHEN YOU HAVE TO ASK FOR SOMETHING, OR SAY THANK YOU FOR A BLESSING?” It’s such a naïve, silly idea that it verges on the absurd – similarly as in Muslim countries, but without the killing and the bombing part (that’s football and drug traffic’s business).

And what surprises me even more is how religion fits in the country of pleasure seeking – because I’m sure indulging oneself gratuitously must be a SIN in any religion (maybe not for the Universal Church, the biggest evangelic community in the country, as they preach GREED is a virtue). But there is an answer: here is also the country of the “jeitinho”, the “little way” Brazilians find to make things work for them, even if it means disrespecting laws. In the case of Christianity, you only need to say you repent, ask for forgiveness, and everything is alright. Your place in Heaven is safe and sound, where the fun will continue for the rest of eternity, is safe and sound.

As much as it revolts me, at the same time, it doesn’t bother me much. It’s all part of the amusing soap-opera that life here is. Five years ago I left Brazil thinking that life in the First World was much, MUCH better: full of educated, well-read people that didn’t need to resort to corruption to make things work, because there was trust – in the people, or in the government when the people would not be reliable. But I forgot that there are certain things in each country that are not transferable, but nevertheless make life lighter, more bearable. In the UK is the immense variety of cheap literature, the amazing diversity of opinions disseminated by the great number of newspapers, the profuse creativity in the arts and fashion, stimulated by those in power, the certainty that the government will not look away when one needs a helping hand.

In Brazil is the year-round sunshine, the strong perfume of the vegetables and fruits, the two-hour lunch break that you take at home so you can eat home-cooked rice and beans and then take a well-deserved nap, the parties that start at 1am and finish when the sun is high, the cheapness of cosmetic treatments (although fashion is ridiculously exorbitant), the friendliness of its inhabitants, always willing to exchange a smile and little snippets of talk, ready to give an advice or a helping hand, the heightened sexuality (with so many beautiful people, it’s only natural), the instinctive ability to dance all kinds of dance and play football like a dancer, the conscience that, no matter how difficult life is, what is important it to be happy – and happiness, the Brazilians proved to me, is their expertise.

Is this it?

For the first few weeks, I didn't care. Everything and everyone was new, and I was learning new things everyday. I was proving to myself and everyone else that I was capable of doing something else, something different, and that I could change the course of my life whenever I felt like it. I could take the plunge. More importantly, I could show everyone that even if I got a few bruises on the way, I would survive (I always do) - as would anyone else who had the guts to do it.

Then, the Routine slowly crept in, as she always does, walking on her tip-toes and then, slowly but suddenly, she engulfs everything with her giant mouth. It starts when the Repetition, that chubby old lady with gray hair becomes a regular visitor, until she transmutes herself into Predictability - her more sophisticated version. Then Repetition/Predictability's lover, Boredom, arrives to keep her company for as long as he is able to stay, until Crisis, that lunatic but extremely seductive chick, storms in the room and drives everyone crazy. That is, if the sweet Depression - or as I like to call her, The Darkness - doesn't jumps in front of her to show off her little trick of making the colours of everything fade into a lifeless gray.

Now, I'm bored.

I'm on that famous stage when that three-word question keeps popping inside one's head: IS THIS IT? 

The days fly by, one after another, endlessly and meaninglessly. I just keep on going, looking for distractions: alcohol, shopping, magazines, small talk and mindless conversations with semi-strangers. Almost everyone around me is a semi-stranger. I don't know what they want, what they like, what they're thinking most of the time. What is important to them. And to be honest, neither do they about me. Not that either sides are interested in knowing all that, anyway.

I don't feel like saying "sorry", or "thank you", or "excuse me", the trinity that holds together British civilization and which I have proudly absorbed in my own daily vocabulary (an achievement, considering Brazilians traditionally reject their own version of those expressions). 

And it's been only a month and a half of the new life.

But there's a positive side to all this: I'm no longer afraid of throwing the towel. Predictable as it is to start making plans every end of the year, I can soundly say that my hours now are being spent daydreaming and lining-up all the catalysts for a new life. In 2008 I want to eat well, exercise often, sleep better (not necessarily more), lie down in the sun, see more friends, have great conversations, have sex more often, read great books, and write as much as I can. I want to have all those small but essential things that make anyone happy, whatever the background or class is, but that are absolutely scarce once you become a Londoner.

In 2008, I'm gonna get out of London for a while. 

Paris

So, Paris.

I went back. The last place I visited when I left the UK, the first one to visit after such a long spell stuck in the island. My third visit.

It was a last minute thing, planned before I could even know it, and it was the best decision I've made this year (and I've made MANY decisions this year, of all years).

There's something magical about that city. Forgive the banality, because everyone thinks Paris is romantic, magic, blablabla, but that city fascinates me in a way New York used to before I left Brazil (and found out that no, people don't live like they're permanently inside Central Perk - as in the iconic cafe from Friends, not the pArk - or do they?). But it should be mostly because Paris is simply NOT London. It's absolutely the opposite. People there seem to live smaller but better lives. You grow up in your arrondissement going to the same cafes, butchers, fishmongers, cheese shop, book shop, whatever the local business is, but which nevertheless is LOCAL. You don't see the tiresome, ultra boring chains like Starbucks or Boots or Tesco - the law doesn't even allow them to open branches inside the city. There's the love of all things that matter in life constantly present: they cherish their food, their drink, their artists, their social circles in which no one ever cares much what you do in life, as long as it is meaningful to you.

Meaningful. The idea I get everytime I go to Paris is that this is it, life happens only once, and you better make the most of it while you can.

***

On my second day I finally went to Shakeaspeare and Company, the legendary bookstore for expats with only books in English. The place is just heaven. Books pile up from top to bottom on every inch of its old but increadibly cozy shop floor, spread in two floor. Among infinite shelves, beds complete with duvets and pillows wait for the next reader to curl up with a book. The beds are in fact there for the staff, peniless writers (most of them Americans trying to emulate the Hemingway experience) who work shifts of 2 hours at the shop in exchange of shelter in the most inspiring workplace imaginable. That said, the shop is constantly crowded, so I'm sure the resident writers must struggle a bit to produce anything, what with the lack of space and silence. But there are always the cafes nearby, with their characteristically small tables, great food, and clouds of smoke, providing that longed-for Hemingway-nian atmosphere.

I would love to be able to spend sometime there as a writer in residence. It's so impossibly romantic and unnatainable that it should be worth the lack of proper food, sleep, or any living arrangements, for that matter.

Who knows. Paris inspires people to try romantic things...

Grown-up. Grown-up?

I remember mentioning here earlier, maybe months, maybe more than a year ago, that the hustle and bustle of everyday life was not enough anymore to make my foundations tremble. Daily or routine problems, like sorting things out with banks, landlords or demanding colleagues/relatives/flatmates/whoever is close wouldn't make me bat an eyelid. I think I even said I was growing up. Ha. How mistaken I was. Not caring about problems did NOT mean I was growing up - it meant I was just delaying it. Until I could not avoid it anymore (hell, I'm even getting my first wrinkles), and then here I am, living grown-up life and bloody hating all the stress it involves. The problem with facing up to your responsabilities means you could never be a perfectionist. Meaning, you SHOULD NEVER expect things to go your way, because if they can avoid it, my friend, they will. But as the nice responsible tax-paying adult you are, you will do your best to make things work for you, and my god, do they stress you out!

So here I am, purely stressed out, mostly because of small things, insignificant details, because they are the ones which nag me the most. I want everything to work perfectly, they never do (they never DID for that matter!), therefore I suffer.

I'm ashamed of it, though.

What I have to learn is not the NOT CARING thing. Is the LETTING THINGS GO thing.

Silence

There are several things that make me anxious. Lack of money is an obvious one. Lack of time, lack of sleep, bad hair day, fear of rejection, not knowing what to say, not being able to see my loved ones... the list is gigantic, and that probably says a lot about the person I am. But the one thing that probably bothers me the most is lack of silence. Not being able to hear my own thoughts and make sense of them, or absorb information and understand my own feelings, drives me crazy - and generally, I can only do this when there's silence around me (or something near silence. People working on their own things with low background music, is fine - but not ideal). After all this years living in London I've come to realise that silence is probably the only and most difficult commodity to obtain, of all the others: money, status, security,family, friends, they all will probably come to everyone at a certain point in life, if they work towards getting them. But silence, in a city like London, only becomes harder and harder to reach with time. Look at my own life: I have a partner who lives with me and (now) four flatmates and two cats; I work full-time in a environment full of people and telephones and and music, day and night. The public transport is similar to warehouses packed full of suffocating chickens, and on buses there's always someone imposing their own repulsive musical tastes (normally hip-hop and R&B) on everyone else via their mobile phones on loud speakers. At home, the TV is constantly switched on, normally plugged in on the dvd player and the x-box, and when it's not, then the iTunes is playing something on one of the 6 Macs currently in the house. Outside, there's the traffic, the people talking, the background music literally everywhere you go... you get the picture.

Right now, while writing this post, two different songs are playing in the background: amy winehouse in the main background, and a dodgy r&b tune from 3 years ago on the cloackroom man's laptop speakers.

I've tried to train myself to switch off and concentrate on my readings and writings while the world shoots and bangs around my ears, but after 4 years, I don't think I've improved much. I remember working in magazine and newspaper offices and nearly crying from not being able to write good pieces because the constant noise was so distracting. It might have been one of the reasons why I gave up the journalistic career so easily: because I wouldn't be able to work competently amidst everyday chaos. I am one of those people that NEEDS to be in close touch with the inner workings of their own minds, so I can be fully satisfied with whatever comes out of it. Not many people need or even understand this urgent need for alone/silent time, so I've always had a hard time trying to make the people in my own circle comprehend my demands. For the man in my life to understand that I wanted to be left alone sometimes, it took a few years. With friends, it was me who had to learn to cherish time with them without worrying if I would eventually get time for myself as well. Sometimes, I would simply ignore phone calls, messages, invitations, or simply withdraw mentally from a social gathering when physically I still had to be there (like seating in the sofa with the paper when there's 20 people talking around you. Horrible, I know). As a result, obviously, I 've been branded anti-social, intolerant, unadaptable, whatever is associated with people who have a weakness for isolation.

Remember that book I've been trying to write? It hasn't gone much far, and I blame the permanently disturbing noise that is part of daily life in London.

And in the end, I don't think I'm asking too much. I know that if I get 2 hours on my own every other day, I'll be the happiest and most sociable bunny in the world - because ater isolation, I need to interact with other people in order to dish out whatever my mind has decided to work on.

---

Maybe I should just start waking up at 5 am.

Faux Pas

Every new job is the same bloody thing. There's always the nice people, compassionate souls who are ready to extend their kind hands when you have that look of despair in your face; and there's the patronising bitches, who can't wait to see you making a mistake so they can tell everyone behind your back how dumb you are, after coldly throwing your faux pas back in your face. No, I'm not naming names, are you crazy? I never do. But I like to acknowledge, even when no one that matters in this particular subject will read this, that I am an extremely observant and sensitive person, therefore, I most certainly WILL spend the rest of my day ruminating specific attitudes from specific people in my head - until the next faux pas happens.

But hey, believe me, I care less these days. I didn't even cry when I thought I was supposed to, which is fairly amazing. Two things might be happening: a) I'm really growing up, and b) I'm learning to manage my monthly hormonal mess.  These are good news.

==

Normally I don't really mention here the books I've been reading - mostly because I read several at the same time, and depending on my mood, I might get through one a week or just leave it aside -  but tonight I will, just because I feel like. 

I'm reading Clarice Lispector biography, "Eu Sou Uma Pergunta" (I'm a question), written by a PUC (a brazilian private university) student as her MA final project. I haven't read much of her work to this date, and I have always made a mental note to read everything carefully because her style resembles that of my english favourite, Mrs Virginia Woolf. But then I wanted to read more in Portuguese, as my use of my own native language is in a steep decline, and I've decided to have a lo

ok in this book that's been with me for at least 2 years. The writing style is a bit shit, to be honest.  The author tries her hardest to be faithful to the documents she used for the  research (On the morning of 12 of December 1941, Clarice signed the document blablabla), while trying to make her amazing life story flow - and that's where I try to focus on. Her story is just... astoundingly inspiring. It's everything I wanted to do and be (well, not everything, but a lot of it). I want to have that devotion to my own art, and the discipline. I want to be able to translate my pain, not simply minimise it to get through my days in this cold land - like she did so competently. 

  

The Haircut Theory

I've got a haircut. "Oh, really, Einstein?", you might ask. To what I proudly answer, yes, I did. I've chopped off more than half of my long and heavy and tyrannical locks. To most women, and at least most ordinary women, going to a hairdresser regularly for "maintenance" is probably one of the most trivial of feminine beauty habits, one that belongs to their routine as much as brushing their teeth before bed, but to me it is more like a metaphysical experience. It represents much more than a simple decorative method of improving one's image. To me, it represents the most immediate act of rebellion, an emblem of internal transformation, a symbol of life's continuous and inevitable metamorphosis. In the beginning of this month, I've decided to turn my life around, and as soon as I saw the mechanisms of this transformation being ignited in meteoric speed, I knew it was time to bring that idea to the outside. First, via my hair. 

To understand the dimensions of this seemingly commonplace act (after all, which woman doesn't get a haircut when she thinks her life needs a shake-up?), it is best to give a little explanation. I NEVER go to hairdressers. I seek one once a year, when the situation is too calamitous and I need a little help in order not to look like a bag-lady. In my teens I used to be my local coiffeur's best customer, changing lengths and colours according to my hormonal moods, but since I've left Brazil I simply decided to let the thing grow freely and do whatever I needed to do on my own. It was a decision firstly based on money, obviously, and then later based on the principle that I would not waste my precious time worrying about my looks more than I was already obliged to. I could be reading a book instead.

But 4 years down the road, and I actually realised that my long unrestrained hair, which got endless compliments from people who would always say in the end "Don't ever cut it!", was actually imprisoning me. The longer it got, the more demanding it became. The more I took care of it, the more attention it got, consequently, the more pressured I've felt to take care of it. 

If there's one thing that defines me as a person, this is thing is my resilient insubordination. I DON'T like to be forced to do what I don't want to do. I get depressed and bitter if I see myself wasting time by not being myself (which is most of the time. It's not that easy to be original in Western society). And MY HAIR was doing that to me. It was time to do something about it.

So after calling my previous job and saying "Sorry guys, I'm taking the rest of the week off. See you whenever," I went to Central London and wandered in the first dodgy hair salon I found in one of those narrow SoHo streets. There were four hairdressers labouring over the heads of skinny and tanned over-40s men, so when the affected giant black men asked me if I had any preference, I simply said "no. Whoever is available first."

A blonde, nonchalant woman was the first to finish. She got my overwhelming mass of hair out of my low ponytail and said "So, what you wanna do?", I promptly replied "Just get rid of it. Or at least half of it." She didn't bat an eyelid. I took out my mobile phone, started making a few phone calls, and half-hour later I remembered I had a mirror in front of me. The final result was definately not the most amazing haircut I have ever had - it actually reminded me of the first time my hair was stylised in endless layers back in 1991, making my 9-year-old self look like a midget wearing a monumental wig - but it was different enough from the girl who has been a slave of her own long manes for the past 5 years.

Not many people have seen it yet, and the ones who have didn't say much more than "Honey, it's a matter of time until we get used to it." To my immense satisfaction. Because one of the most rewarding realisations is knowing you did what you wanted to do without giving a single thought to what other people think of it. 

The Job.

So. I got the job. Yeah, yeah, I know.  That romantic unemployed moment became, well, just a moment. It's funny how everyone come to London to try and make dreams come true, and it rarely happens. Not that it doesn't happen. It's just that it takes so bloody long, and that is simply because London, on top of being everyone's promised land, it also happens to be the second most expensive city in the world, just behind that other crazeee metropolis, Tokyo. You want to do your shit? Pay the price, mothafuckah. You can do whatever the hell you want in London, be in the most talked about , courses and events and places around the world in London, see and maybe meet some of the most important and watched people in the world in London, and who knows, YOU may become one of those people that make London be one of the most juicy and yummy capitals in the world, but before that happens, you've got to pay your bills. No, that's an understatement. You've got to have money not just to pay the bills, but also be able to attend the events/places/courses where the so-called important people are. Because it doesn't matter if you want to be a writer or a cabaret dancer, a chef or a fluffer, you have to know the right people and be in the right places to get there. It's all too well wanting to be Charles Bukowski, penniless and worse for wear and using that as inspiration for writing poems and novels, or being George Orwell, giving up all comfort and wealth to write a book about homelessness in Paris and London, but these days that's rarer than Victoria Beckham's smiling. Without connexions, my darling, I'm afraid you won't get past the kebab shop on the corner, unless you happen to be very lucky and meet your personal messiah right there, gobbling down one giant chicken shish. 

So, that brings me to the job. 

And this one is proper. With proper contract, health insurance, pension contributions, and even travel and clothing allowance. Clo-thing A-llo-wan-ce .  The works. I couldn't say no. As I said before, and I will keep on saying forever and ever and ever: if someone throws an opportunity in your hands, even if it is not at the right time, JUST TAKE IT. Go on , have a look, try it for a bit, if it doesn't work for you, you can always say "sorry, it doesn't work for me."  Just don't sign anything. And if you do sign, then, oh well, try to be responsible, for a change. It's quite an OK experience. You can always use that as inspiration afterwards.