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!

Going home, and then coming back home again

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I’d felt so homesick. And when I left the airplane and stepped into Kastrup airport tears started streaming from my face. I met my friend who was flying out two hours later and we talked about our futures and desires, just like I used to do with a natural assumption about them being infused with possibility and fulfillment.

The months of crushing disappointment, passportlessness, worry over paying the rent of a shared room in a shared flat, and fearful clinging on to the worst job I had in my life melted out of me, dripping from the plastic airport seats and unto the ground where, this being Denmark, surely someone would be paid a minimum wage of 90 DKK, having pension plan, 3 months dismissal notice and unemployment insurance, would come and clean it up with an ergonomic mop.

I turned my head from looking at my friend as I exhaled deeply, careful not not taint her radiant being with the despair I was finally able to let go of…

The city centre waited for me, free of people, open and bland. Nørreport station beautiful and shiny in its new white oval shapes, washed of the decades of pee and yeasty beer smell that used to ground it so firmly into the solitude carried by the residents of the street. There were nobody there, except for two unspoiled young guys with blond hair and delicate features on display through the new glass facades of the 7-11 shops.

How overwhelming are the silences of Copenhagen, so many of them. I wanted to go home.

Nørrebro received me with the same populousness silence as I cycled over Dronning Louises bro without battling other cyclists for the space, or needing to dodge any dogs or baby carriages. Tuesday 9pm, people where at home, I suppose. Mart and Alb’s flat in Rådmandsgade, two floors under where mine was. No place more familiar, a little table I once picked out from the neighbor’s trash and painted turquoise with a stylized pink uterus was now in their living room carrying books about photography.

As I sat across from Albus laughing and eating pasta I realized that my life wasn’t in this place anymore. So when I later went down to the basement to move my things out and into the basement of another friend, I decided to move on instead.I reduced the space I allowed for nostalgia to one box. The rest of my things I tied to the back of my bike with a scarf and made three runs to a second hand store to unload.

Three days later, deeply nourished by my mum’s TLC and the sureness and possibility I was fed by my friends I woke up 3am in my sleeping bag. I washed my face to wake myself up, and, as I left, whispered a silent goodbye to Rådmandsgade 40C, knowing I had been living there right up until now, and now I wouldn’t any more. I left the door unlocked behind me as I made it into the black streets anticipating the premature spring dawn.

My chest tight.

Until I arrived in Luthon, looked around me with my head open and drunk from sleepiness, and, surprised felt my ribcage expanding an extra inch and peace filtered from the air to my blood, and from my blood to my tissue.

Home, for now.

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Casa…

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When a mum’s heart opens for you it rarely closes again… ever… I found the one of my Baian mum as warm and tender as I left it. Mine too…

Cheguei a ser reunida com minha irmã, cheguei aos braços da minha mainha baiana

”Sabe o que a Mie é?” Pergunta ela a um dos sobrinhos ”Ela é a minha filha” tô literalmente sentindo o coração dela abrindo pra me abraçar, as duas tiramos lagrimas.

De todos os tipos de encontros lindos que existe numa viagem, aquele aonde se fica mesmo assumido, adotado numa família é o que mexe mais comigo. No meu mundo de impermanência e insertezas  é nesse momento mais que os outros que meu espíritu, voando por cima da vida, pára e cresce um raíz, se torna parte daquilo pra sempre.

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Coming home to Brasil: longing and belonging…

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I thought a lot about how I would describe what it felt like coming back to Brasil after 5½ years of intense longing for this place which somehow had become my reference point for everything: food, culture, people, music, nature… Everytime I landed somewhere new during these years I’d compare it to Brasil, sizing it up and always feeling a melancholic sting of something missing…

When I was around 15-16 years old I got a new mum. At that time I felt like the world was a pretty unfriendly place, but my new mum had such a warm and nourishing energy that many times I’d barely step in the dore before I’d start to cry, feeling safe, welcomed and a little defenseless.

So a few days after I arrived to Brasil I’m sitting on a mountain, where a river flows down over the rocks, forming small currents and pools. My bikini clad bum planted in one of the small streams and facing the sun and the rounded mountains below, covered in lush green forrest, the impossible amounts of yellow butterflies catching the sun on their wings.

I put my palms on the rock under me, go into my heart, and from there I let my love travel down towards my mother…. ”hi there…” I tell her. Not much more to begin with. And then I feel her streaming up towards me, her answer a pressence more than a message, so much love. I feel my heart cramping up and  pushing out dried up tears from very deep inside.

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Painful. I wash my face, don’t want to talk about it. Then I open the gate and let all the love I have inside pour into her. The sun from above and the mountain and water below communicate through me in two simultaneous flows, upwards and downwards. More tears, from long years of longing to belong. I’m home now. So much it doesn’t even matter that I’m not going to stay…