About letters

I can hardly imagine the day technology could substitute the pleasure of sending and receiving letters or postcards. No secret I am a big fan of this practice, and facing the lack of adepts among my friends, I ended up joining Postcrossing (which I find a brilliant project!).

Sure Skype does a great job in connecting people, that is indisputable (Skype has in fact been my most frequent companion in the past couple of years). But I feel that the paper brings a more poetic presence of the person missed - and this has nothing to do with the writer linguistic skills. It is about the emotion of finding an envelope when coming home after a long day, those few seconds of anxiety to discover the content while tearing the envelope that feels like ages, the feeling that this piece of paper carries bits of someone and that it travelled all the way, across countries and oceans, only to bring you that message. 

I cry a river whenever I receive letters from my grandparents and my aunt Laiz, from Brazil. The letters are not sad, quite the contrary. Full of love and care, they always comfort me. Choices I have made in life have set us apart, and I miss them everyday. Today I received another letter full or art, as they always are.

with love, from Atibaia

About the day of the imprisoned writer

Today I attended a very insightful event. The Irish PEN and Front Line Defenders co-hosted this evening to remember the day of the imprisoned writer. Writer Brian Keenan, poet Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill and journalist Justine McCarthy read from the works of writers from different parts of the world who have been jailed because of their courage to speak out. 

Journalist Justine McCarthy

It was simple and brilliant. I was specially touched by the words of the Iranian journalist Jila Baniyaghoob, who is serving a one-year sentence for her work as a journalist and human rights defender, covering the post-elections demonstrations in Iran. Justine McCarthy read a letter written by Jila to her husband, who is also a journalist and also incarcerated.

About my first protest

There I was, at the entrance of the Iranian embassy in Ireland, when my colleague asked: so, how do you feel in your first protest in Dublin? -  It is actually the my first protest ever! Although I have always admired those who join public demonstrations, for some reason I had never joined any myself. Yesterday we were Iranians and non-Iranians, but we all wanted the same thing - freedom for Nasrin Sotoudeh, an Iranian human rights defender and lawyer, winner of the 2012 Sakharov Prize for Freedom of Thought by the European Parliament, who has been in hunger strike since 17 October in protest for prison conditions and increasing harassment against her and her family.  

  

A souvenir from yesterday’s vigil for Nasrin Sotoudeh.

Memories from the rainbow nation

How could I know what awaited for me when I learnt that I would spent a semester in South Africa?

As a good friend wisely said once, I went from hell and back and beyond. I travelled to Zimbabwe with four other wonderful researchers, I produced a short film with the most wonderful team mates one can wish, I spent one week with picteists in the Drakensberg, one of the most special places I have had the chance to see. I met wonderful souls, and fostered friendship bonds I know will be carried for life. It was a journey to a part of the world previously unknown to me, but perhaps more importantly, it was also a journey into myself.

I finish these notes with the sweet memory of that sunset by the Great Zimbabwe ruins. I can nearly hear that melody again if I close my eyes.

Local music and dance, Great Zimbabwe ruins, March 2012

About the romanticisation of things

... and of a time in the past, of a political ideology, of a condition. Some time ago I was a following a very heated debate (about an issue that is not exactly relevant now) when all of a sudden I felt a slap on the face: one of the speakers accused the other of romanticisation of poverty. That rocked me! It ringed a bell and it made me think over whether I could possibly be doing just that, not only towards poverty but also, for instance, towards communism. I must admit that I have never dedicated much of my time to better understand any of these, neither socialism nor communism and even less poverty. And this whole romanticisation thing definitely deserves some more reading, too. 

Last weekend I finally visited the Memento Park. I had been meaning to go there since I moved to Budapest - which now makes exact 5 months - but kept postponing it, so typical of me. So I did, and it was magic. Some could say that this fascination with this period of history would not persist have I lived in those times or under its late effects. Maybe, maybe not. For the time being I will keep flirting with these ideas.

One of the statues at Memento park

I took a few pictures there, surely fewer that I would have liked to. My poor fingers could not remain gloveless long enough! I will arrange them on a nice Flickr album all of their own, soon hopefully.

Has this story reminded someone of Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris? :)

post scriptum: an album for the beautiful statues of Memento park

About an erratic bird

One month has passed since the bird flew away from those odd lands. It had been an interesting year over there; not an easy one, though. But the bird is never satisfied: if life runs too smoothly, the bird will either get bored or start thinking its time is not being used efficiently. Later, after filling its days with a wide range of different tasks and projects, the bird will enjoy the hectic days only for a short while: it will soon fall in exhaustion. While dreaming with the day it will build its own permanent nest in a very sound tree, the bird keeps finding reasons to constantly move here and there. It seems to be a vicious cycle.

I think the bird has the soul of an itinerant, a gypsy, while its brain hopes for a permanent settlement. If the bird only knew there is nothing wrong with that... I should tell it some day.

A note from kuş to aslan

I like to put a saucer on my mug while the teabag rests inside. After several minutes (I have the - bad? - habit of letting the teabag resting a bit longer than what is recommended on the pack) I open it and the steam was turned into drops. And they promptly jump from the saucer; not always back in the mug, though. I slowly turn the saucer clockwise and the sight of that movement reminds me of you. I could nearly see your big, strong hands turning in such a delicate manner the white saucer that accompanies that lovely white heart-shaped cup you gave me years ago not to let the coffee grounds spill out of it. And then I felt an unbearable need of listening stories about birds and roads and stars and girls written not in good Latin, but in coffee grounds.