Architecture in Helsinki part 4 – The Boatman

The second time K met the angel it was even more impressive. At first he thought there were no pyrotechnics involved this time. He was wrong. It was a simple afternoon, one of the last ones of summer. Even if summer was already over. It was a late afternoon. K and the angel were just sitting on the grass, on a kaiseniemi park, he telling her about his existential doubts, while she told him about the ennui of being an angel. She was wearing the same tap-dancing shoes. No wings, thought. Some passer-by who saw them would imagine they were two normal people sharing a bottle of wine and some stories. Except that she suddenly got up, as if getting tired of waiting for something to happen and touched the closest tree. It immediately became entirely yellow. Yellow like a dream. She then proceeded to another one and did the same. Except that this one didn’t turn yellow, it turned red, as red as sorrow. “That seems right” thought K, without saying anything “fate brings the fall”. She did so with most of the trees in the park. Then she signed him to come, to follow her as she was leaving the park. At the exit she looked back and blew the park a goodbye kiss. Most of the leaves, yellow and red and green, fell. K couldn’t tell if they had fallen in love or if they had fallen dead. It’s basically the same anyway, isn’t it?

“Where are we going?” Asked K.

“It doesn’t matter, let’s just walk. Our feet can only take us to the places where we belong, after all. And besides, it will be nice for me to exercise them for a change”.

And walk they did. Better yet, they drifted. Down kaiseniemi, up Kluuvi, through the cathedral square, where Fate didn’t even take a glance at the church, as if avoiding it. Then down again at Snellmann, near the cafés and the little cinemas. Those three or four streets seemed to K as the heart of the city. But, of course, that was only the case because he was truly and unconsciously egocentric. Fate touched every tree on their way, making them show their true colors. One of them, a seemingly old maple-tree, became a light shade of yellow so utterly completely that the branches and the whole body of it seemed like black veins of time connecting a meat of faded lost hopes.

Then, they went to the seaside. They walked through the street fair, Fate paying careful attention to the scents, like a connoisseur, and K dazzled by the shapes and colors, like a little kid. They listened to what people were saying, but neither of them understood anything.

They drifted again. This time towards the central station, danced almost unperceivable to the immigrant songs. Drifted even further, to pretend-land, observing the drunkards and their happiness and madness and the poetry of their unsteady steps.

They parted ways at the Glass Palace. It felt as if they had nothing else to talk about. They had been silent since the seaside. And their goodbye didn’t require any words. Fate went up Mannerheimtie, the only way she knew K wouldn’t go for sure. He stood there, watching her, as she touched many trees on her way to god knows where. They would meet again. And again. People, even angel-people, have needs, and company is one of those.

K had to drift alone, then. Except he felt like he had drifted enough. He listened to the boatman’s call, he listened to music. And his feet followed the sounds, carrying him to where he belonged. Carrying him to the same pretend-land of the drunkards. Carrying him to a great dim-lit hall, facing an empty stage. It reminded him of that David Lynch movie, the one with the song that goes on even when the lady isn’t singing it anymore.

His eyes drifted through the empty stage, through the room. Until they reached the marquee. There he saw the Lioness. Then he realized that all the time he was walking with Fate, he was trying to find her. Trying to find the magic in all those places. Trying to find rapture.

He ran to the stairs, he ran up the stairs, but found nothing up there. As always happens when someone searches for rapture.

He went out. He tried calling Fate, but she didn’t answer. He wanted to talk to someone. But wasn’t even sure if the things he felt could be made into words. But he needed someone to talk to, so he talked to himself. Throught Arkadia and then back to Runenberg, just like a few days before.

Then his phone rang. It was Fate calling back.

Architecture In Helsinki Part 3 – I wanna be adored.

K was walking down Runeberginkatu. He was drunk, after a party. He left it early. It was just too much for him. Too much fun. Too much people dancing and drinking. He never really learned how to deal with other people’s happiness. And he was never happy, what means he just never learned to deal with his own happiness as well. Drinking only led him to talking to much. Most of it crap. And to doing stupid things. Mostly concerning only himself, but not always. That night he simply wasn’t on the mood to risk doing something stupid that might involve someone else.

Nights were getting colder but, probably due to the drinks, he couldn’t really feel it that time. Maybe he was simply getting used to it. That was a optimist view. One that he certainly couldn’t allow himself to have. Down Runeberg K got to the Opera House. You know it already. You know what it means, don’t you? K was confronted with a choice. Turn left would mean getting home, to the warmth o his bed, in which he probably would sleep as soon as he lied down (which was a new and rewarding experience). But it also meant loneliness. Well, not exactly loneliness, to be honest, loneliness was common, loneliness was good. Going home would mean have to deal with the demons he created himself, with memories and lost hopes, and stuff like that. And he didn’t want that. If it was his only option it would have been better to stay at the party, drinking and numbing his senses like everybody else. But it wasn’t his only option. If he went the other way he would get to the stone church. To the lioness. He hadn’t been there since he met her. He didn’t really know why. Maybe he couldn’t choose when to go there, he could only climb the church’s walls when the statues wanted him to. That night he felt them calling him.

Climbing the walls half-drunk proved itself way harder than he had expected at first. The cold – for him – wind didn’t help any bit as well. It took him time, and when he got there he was feeling cold, his lips were probably blue, and his arms and legs ached terribly. He didn’t want to think about getting back down. He just stood there for a while, watching the city from above. Taking deep breaths. He didn’t feel drunk anymore. It was surprising how places grew on him. How in a short amount of time some places became dear, became meaningful. He hoped that the Lioness would reach him again this time. She didn’t so he went looking for her. He found lots of statues, lots of gargoyles. All of them were really made of stone and none were a Lioness. He couldn’t understand, he felt the magic up there calling him. He felt disappointed. He took a leak on one of the roof’s edges, as most of people need when they are getting sober, and took care that no one was down there. Then he lied on the roof, protecting himself from the wind. He closed his eyes, almost unconsciously. And he drifted away.

But not for long. Through his eyelids K could sense a light. At first he thought the moon had left her hideout on the clouds. But it was too bright, usually it wasn’t supposed to be that bright. And it was only getting brighter. He had to fight his laziness to open his eyes. He was so tired he could probably had fallen asleep right there. But he didn’t. Instead he opened his eyes. And as he did so, he thought he was dreaming, for what he saw was impossible. It was an angel.

Most of people don’t know this, but you can tell which angel you are actually looking at by the color of its eyes. Though, K didn’t need that much to know which one was that. It was the Angel of Fate, that was obvious. It had long hair, fair features, and, even though angels are not supposed to have sexes, K would have said it was a woman. Apparently he wasn’t able to meet real women, only mythical ones. Probably metaphorical ones. That’s supposed to be a kind of madness, isn’t it? Just like talking about yourself in the third person.

As the angel descended, her great bright wings became smaller, she became more real. K said nothing. He simply stood there gazing at her, trying to find out if it was real or a dream. Silly boy, indeed, to think dreams are not real. And sillier still to think angels are somewhat more unlikely than statues coming to life. Her tap-dancer shoes touched the roof with a gentle sound. Almost too gentle. It didn’t go well with the face she was wearing. As if she was bringing bad news. “But fuck, of course she is bringing bad news, she’s the fucking angel of fate” thought K. And he was right.

K wasn’t able to speak the language of the angels, so they had to speak in English. Most of what she said was known to him already: “It doesn’t matter how many good things come across you, you’ll always be sad” the angel said, and “you’ll travel, many things you’ll see, but your needs will never be satisfied, for you are one of those who need what they want and need to want always, as a famished monster.” Some others were new, and K didn’t believe them. Because we never believe when someone tells something about us that we don’t agree with. Even when this someone is actually an angel. K knew that very well, most of his life people didn’t believe in what he said about them. Even when they knew he was a good observer. But that’s just how things are, right? K had to interrupt the angel as she was saying what he thought as bullshit – and was actually true, as most of the things about ourselves we don’t believe in – and tried to get her into a conversation. He was good at it. In no time he was telling her all of his problems. If you can’t trust an angel to hear your confession, who else would you trust?

The boy even get to the point where he was telling the angel about his philosophies, about how he believed the world to really be. Some of it were shit, like when he told her that “If you are an ugly guy like me, it’s better not to be nice, ‘coz if you’re nice no one will ever want to fuck you, they’ll want to be your friends instead”, and that left her speechless, and shocked with how stupid he could be. The rest of it was just as shitty, but she could understand how that made sense to him, like when he tried to justify her predictions. At least the ones he believed in. It was a question of choice. We would never be able to cope with being something else than what he wanted to be. And sadness was the only one that really felt as a choice. And how he wanted not to be simply loved, as everybody wanted, but to be adored, remembered.  Well, there’s more to that than it, of course. But most of it is useless. Most of it you’ll read, or listen, or realize, in the near future, certainly.

The angel gave him a hand to get back down. She even gave him her phone number, in case he needed someone to talk to. Most of conversation in heaven was so boring. And maybe next time they could meet at a café or some other place a little bit warmer.

K then walked up Mannerheimtie singing Bowie’s Rock N Roll Suicide: “Ah, you’re not alone”.

Ps.:

Pondo de lado o pragmático da palavra
Tempo fica, não passa, pois se assim fosse
Por esse verso já seria, pois, passado

Questão de conjugação

o dia inteiro eu não saio da cama
já você, não fica parada
é questão de conjugação:

Eu estrado
Você estrada

Vergiss es nicht

Eu sou a faca entre os seus dentes
Você é a flor entre os meus dedos

Índio vs Civilização

O homem civilizado encontra o índio deitado no mato:

_ Ô índio, vai trabalhar!
_Trabalhar pra quê?
_Pra ganhar dinheiro!
_Dinheiro pra quê?
_Pra comprar as coisas!
_Que coisas?
_As coisas que você quer, pra te dar conforto, pra fazer o que você quiser e ter mais liberdade!
_ ¬¬'

(história de autoria desconhecida)

Architecture in Helsinki – part 2 (Somewhat Slightly Dazed)

In the middle of his huge room there was a rug, a carpet, and K was lying on it. The floor wasn’t cold at all, it was always warm, especially then, in the middle of the afternoon. K was lying there, staring at the ceiling, wearing only jeans. On his mouth was a leaf of bread, held there by his teeth. The bread was covered in blueberry jam, but he wasn’t eating it, maybe he had even forgotten that it was there, or else he was setting a scene no one would see. His arms were open, almost as he was crucified to the floor. The hands, out of the rug, lie on the ground. Even if he was staring at the ceiling, he wasn’t paying it any real attention – most of times, when we stare at things this way, we’re actually seeing nothing at all.

His mobile phone, over there, on the table, suddenly rang rang rang. Usually, when he was focused on something, it was easy to scare him but not this time, the only muscles in him that expressed any reaction were those related to the eye movements – his glance went from the ceiling to the table where the phone was ring-a-ringing. It was certainly one of his friends. His was fond of them but his body would not answer his mind’s orders. His unconsciousness urged him to stay there, on the floor, as if waiting for an epiphany. He ignored the phone. No epiphany ever came.

***

The Opera house was a huge building, it had the kind of grandeur only possible for things surrounded by open spaces. It didn’t remind him of an Opera House at all, It wasn’t even slightly Wagnerian and, just as churches must be gothic, opera houses must be at least a little bit Wagnerian. It looked more like a pinacothèque or something like that. The boy, K, enjoyed the view and, most of all, he enjoyed the fact that, right there, where he could watch the building, was also the place where he could get the cheapest good sandwich around. Just as he previously held the leaf of bread by his teeth, he now held a whole sandwich, and, just as before, he wasn’t eating at all. There, with the sandwich in his mouth he watched the sun set behind the opera house. The wind, which seems to be terribly strong in this town, blown his hair. It wasn’t really possible to mess K’s hair more than it already was, looking like the king of dreams own hair, and it was nice to feel the wind caressing him, heading towards the sun, as if saying farewell to it.

If K headed left, he would get home in no time. To his right there were things to be seen, to be touched, to be discovered and fucked over. K wasn’t the kind of person who resisted the appeal of adventure. Though, he didn’t have to go far. He came to a church, one that was, apparently going through some kind of renovation. It was a stone church, older that any he was used to see. And, as he saw the church, he had an idea.

***

Even late in the night, the city was still alive. This was a fact that surprised K. It was the first time he walked about so late. Still, even if there was live out there, it was still possible to find a place no one could see, and K did. He wasn’t used to climbing stone wall churches, but with a little care, which was hard since he was listening to Unwashed and Slightly Dazed, from Bowie, a song that always made his feet move, he managed to get to the top. From there he could watch the whole area, especially the one around the modern art museum. He hid behind the gargoyles and observed as life went on beneath him. Most of the statues were bears. And a few fishes. There was even something that seemed like a lion, but K didn’t realize that there was a lioness until it got close to him and scratched his back. This time K got scared. What could touch him like that up there? The statue took the form of a woman, pretty much the same age of K, with hair as wild as his. Her eyes had colour impossible to precise in the dim light of the church roof. Her facial features left no doubt that she was actually a lioness, and not a simple person. She had been there, just like a predator, waiting for someone to gather the courage and madness K did, to get up there and make her company. K’s heart beat faster, but he controlled his hands, his nerves, as the lioness set beside him. The wind was ravaging up there and K didn’t have control enough over his own body to prevent from shaking. Was it nervousness or just plain wind-chill? Doesn’t matter, the lioness got closer to him, held his hand, not saying a word, and there she shared her warmth with him. “Can statues really feel this warm?” though K. And, as things proceeded, K felt as if loving the city itself.

Samba da Coxinha

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