Sunday Brixton Snapshot

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Can the sound of a road turn into a riverlike comfort? I fall asleep to it now, contemplating with my ears, the swooshing by of cars, waves, coming and going.

A guy cat called me today, the English way. I was walking back from yoga and a young guy in hoodie crossed the road to say “Excuse me, good morning! Do you have a boyfriend?”

My South African neighbour with the two kids hugs me when we meet on the stairs, then tells me to have some children of my own. Maybe I will.

The Merman takes me to central to meet his friend for icecream, we have vegan pistachios and black as night chocolates. Then wander around in dizzying crowds until we’re drained.

Back home is the sound of the river road, and a dear friend’s voice from far away, like small silver bells.

Liquid nights

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Some places are sweeter to

drink in

than others

Mont Martre

Paris, Lapa, Rio

always with no roof

so the stars can freely

dust you dreamy

while spirits melt the city

and turn you liquid too

to sway into the night

to transmute energies

of the Wonder who

rips apart

artists

and other

receptive souls

 FR7407 to Luton

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I’m packing homemade flower remedies from mum, chocolates, artist brushes, glitter, herbal tea, 6 menthol lip balms. 

For the road my friend equips me with a tinfoil wrapped bread roll, an organic apple, a tiny box of raisins and November’s issue of Eurowoman with an article about being from a beautiful place but not feeling at ease there, and making home elsewhere.

I tear up as I bite the bun, sat in my blue and yellow Ryanair seat, already mid air. A girl in a tank top is riding on her mum’s shoulders on the commercial on the wall, the sun is shining, arms stretched out she looks like she is flying. To me now it looks like something that would be really hard to return to. I fumble for my head phones and blast a funkão carioca to remind myself why I chose that, and how it chose me too. Somewhere inside, my PC feminist scratches her head… But who has the time when the beat is this great? If you can’t twerk it sure aint my revolution.

 Tchau & Bjão Dina, vai se ver por aí!