D. sequences –
by cecilia Erismann
“There is no good in politics, when there is no will for a common good”, she wrote in her notebook, while drinking coffee in her balcony. The coffee was almost cold and she was drinking it without almost any pleasure. She stopped. She drank another sip and took a long-loud breath. ‘I don’t like cold coffee’, she finally concluded, as if she was really dialoguing with some friend, ‘but I enjoy so much to drink coffee slowly, that for the sake of the process, I end up almost always drinking it cold. And then, I enjoy it. Maybe I just enjoy it because it is my coffee, and it is my process – and I must…’ She stopped again, as if her friend would have interrupted her and changed the topic, not really caring about what she was saying…
A bit shocked with her moment, she looked around. Her plants, in her balcony, were all dying; death was all over her and in each moment, she felt it. She took her pen again and tried to write about her moment. The words were not coming – the moment was it, finally it. No smell, no color, no words that would be able to express her deep feelings.
‘The essence has no flavor – the divine is it. I am living my moment ‘it’, it is going to change… Maybe my moment is like the birth of a new language: a smell one can fell, and one can follow, but never really arrive – since it is not yet there. Not yet there, already gone. We are never doing something new – we should never do something just for ourselves… As they say, we must go to the edge of our existences, so the essence can express itself through us… Or, better said, the new meets us at the same time we meet this new and for this to happens, we need to be open, we need to be in dialogue – to be in some kind of edge – to be – life is always… ”
Her sentences were so distant one from the other – as if life were not made by sequences, but fragments. Fragments in time, she felt like maybe death wasn’t the right word for what she was feeling – maybe life would be the ultimate expression of her feelings, in that moment. She was for sure in some kind of edge – somehow, she was renewing it from the inverse of what people normally say…
She sometimes liked to enquire life, already knowing that she would never find a clear answer, but just more and more questions – she agreed with what they say: one should never find final answers, but one should constantly save the questions one already have and go deeper and deeper on it – the process is always so… She stopped briefly. She kept going… She liked occasionally to sit in some public space and watch people choreograph their collective-inconscient dance – down and up the streets of any city. ‘Sometimes, I feel we are living our lives as if it was a short-contain-story, always trying to evoke our own ‘single effects, meanings or moods’. I would prefer to write my life as a romance, where I have more time and space to take care of others around me, where the plot is as much important as the mood, where there is…’
She stopped. She would like now to be able to dialogue with as much people as she would be able to and ask them for more love. She would like to not feel so lonely just because her moment was so hard… She would like that people could recognize the beauty that exists inside of each human being. She was a dreamer – but she liked to think her self as ‘a dreamer how dreams with her hands’.
She stopped again – she felt like she would have given birth for more life and hope, if her moment was not one of deep research for what was going to be – but was still not there, it was not a moment of… Silence. A pause. A break.
She took her pen, she stopped again – to not stop would require her to give sequence in her moments, and for sequences, she had no strength. She finally change her attention and she thought for the first time about him – she thought what would he say, if he knew her moment ‘it’, if he knew that life was full of death, if he knew how much his hug had carried her through her moment. The strange fact was: she knew almost nothing about him – but she could remember. His smile and his sweetness were still running trough her body.
Some times, we don’t need time to know – in the touch, there is always so much more… Silent dialogue – caring, sharing and some funny feeling of gratitude for what it was – and what it was – it is – and is it. The divine is it – maybe it is when there is no superior or inferior in the relationship – when there is a real space for all the will for a common good.
She breathed loud again, starting to be exhausted. She took her pen and opened another notebook: ‘the day I tasted him – his taste was sweet – and made me feel like home. He was home for the time we were together. He is more than memory, he is the fine line my heart found to hold in this process – the fine reason to still be able to believe in some future near by – and future as a sequence of present moments, smile-present-moments would be the best. It feels like home, maybe it is home. And it is sweet, and maybe will be nothing else; fragments, sweetness kept in time – as a sweet promise, a sweet memory. Does not matter. Right now, it warms up my heart, let me be a speaking being – being speaking for some taste of love.’
She turned the page and stopped again.
It was still early afternoon – or late morning, but the days were passing so fast, that soon that day would be over. And she would eventually find strengths to work a bit in her own papers, she would have translated some precious documents, she would have eat, talk, smile and wished for better days.
She stops again – it is night.
Some one knocks in her door.
‘Come in! Oh, you… How are you?’
‘Who else at this time of the night would have knocked in your door? It is only you and me in this house!’
‘Oh, thank you for coming! I am still feeling withdrawing from life… Can’t wait for the new to come! Leave the door open, we never know when it will arrive…”
“I missed you too, my dear sister! Still working in descontinuities?”
“Yes – I would say, disconected sequences. I am waiting to celebrate all the good moments that just happened am I still not able to – maybe some feeling of community is missing… This life is too vast for just you and me!”
Her sister smiled, she also missed this feeling of sharing, caring and being more than one or two – like if the whole world was home, and each place – or city – or house – were rooms with open doors. She agreed silently, enjoying that utopic moment after work and left the room.
She went to the kichten and turn the radio on. Caetano Veloso started to play, as if all the lonely people were singning with him:
‘You don’t know me,
Better never get to know me,
You don’t know me at all…’