a vitória do extraordinário

Sim, este é um texto sobre o Amar pelos dois e sobre a vitória dos irmãos Sobral na Eurovisão.

Rendida a tudo o que a canção transmite desde o primeiro momento em que a ouvi, nunca imaginei que tivesse qualquer hipóteses de ganhar fosse o que fosse. E esta minha perplexidade diz muito do meu preconceito para com os outros, que julgava serem indiferentes a algo verdadeiramente belo, por tantas vezes testemunhar tantas outras belezas serem ignoradas por fugirem às modas e ao normal. Esse preconceito fez-me crer que junto do espalhafato sonoro e visual que são regra na Eurovisão a canção dos Sobral cairia no vazio. Aqueles eram, aliás, os motivos que me faziam ver, rir e julgar o programa Europeu, acabando sempre por me preencher por uma enorme vergonha alheia e fazendo com que desligasse a televisão antes sequer de saber resultados, mesmo quando havia músicas de que gostava ainda em jogo.

O meu preconceito não me permitiu pensar que a composição de Luísa fosse ganhar, precisamente por ser de qualidade. Independentemente de se gostar do estilo, da voz e dos instrumentos, qualquer pessoa que tenha uma formação musical consegue perceber a beleza da canção. E o meu preconceito partiu daí. É que a música de que gosto, aquela que sei que é forte em termos musicais, que tem letras lindas e com significado, qualquer que seja o género, raramente é aquela que a maioria aprecia. E isso, como em qualquer outra coisa, pode tornar-nos arrogantes de certa maneira, ao pensarmos que só nós sabemos o que é “bom”. Aqui entramos no que o Salvador disse várias vezes (e não apenas quando aceitou o prémio), e na arrogância que alguns lhe apontam por negar a música de plástico, dos artifícios, feita em laboratórios electrónicos quase sem resquício de instrumentos musicais fisicos, em detrimento da “boa” música, a que tem sentimento, a que ele faz. Como já se deve ter percebido, eu não podia concordar mais com ele. Mas penso que também já mostrei que compreendo, até certo ponto, que este preconceito pode ser visto como arrogante. Não posso, contudo, rotulá-lo nesses termos, quando não foi mais do que consistente com o que havia dito e redito durante todo o processo Festivaleiro. Mas adiante!

O meu preconceito partiu daí, mas também partiu de outros aspectos da minha vida, porque não é, de todo, do que entendo por boa música aquilo que pretendo falar aqui. É desta vitória do extraordinário e do incompreendido. Do bom que não quer fama, apenas um reconhecimento de que o seu trabalho tem qualidade; do estranho que diz o que pensa; daquele que tem uma visão idealista do mundo e a quer partilhar com todos, continuando mesmo quando é ridicularizado e desprezado, porque essas coisas não interessam, o que importa é a mensagem passar. E passou, oh se passou.

O orgulho e a felicidade que sinto não se devem apenas ao nome e a música do meu país serem reconhecidos internacionalmente. Não, não, o que me fez verter várias, muitas, tantas!, lágrimas não foi só o ter sido uma vitória com boa música, de um bom cantor, de uma boa compositora, de uma língua maravilhosa. Não. Foi o ter sido também a vitória do fora-da-caixa, do diferente, do simples, do humilde e do trabalhador. Não existiram chico-espertices, nem máscaras. Não houve exageros. Foi a pureza de algo e alguém incomuns que conquistou a Europa no sábado à noite.

Pelos meus olhos, esta foi uma vitória dos desadequados, dos estranhos, dos inconformados, dos genuinos. E é por isso que a vejo agora como minha, e não tanto por ter sido de Portugal, em Português. Foi uma vitória dos constrangidos e dos desajeitados. Foi uma vitória de tudo o que durante os últimos meses têm apelidado o Salvador, mesmo que eu não concorde com metade do que lhe chamaram. Afinal, num ano em que se celebrava a diversidade, venceu um alguém verdadeiramente diferente, extraordinário, num troféu que me dá uma bofetada na cara, porque afinal os “outros” ainda ouvem alguém fora do comum. E se gostam do que ouvem… O Salvador ganhar foi para mim algo que tenho dificuldade expressar seja de que maneira for. Já tinha rabiscado este texto depois da canção ter sido apurada para a Eurovisão, e agora tive mesmo de acabá-lo. É que mostrou-se que, afinal, os desajustados importam mesmo, as nossas vozes, mesmo contra maré, podem ser ouvidas. Vale a pena tentar que a nossa mensagem seja ouvida, custe o que custar. E o mais bonito e irónico disto tudo é que ele conseguiu que a mensagem dele passasse de uma forma tão despercebida que pareceu quase sem querer.

Os irmãos Sobral não são heróis nacionais. Provavelmente também nem se revêem neste texto, nem é esse o objectivo. Este é o significado da sua vitória para mim e ninguém consegue diminuir ou retirar-me esta força que me deram, assim, sem estar à espera. E estes são os sentimentos pelos quais vale a pena viver.

Sim, este foi um texto sobre o Amar pelos dois e sobre a vitória dos irmãos Sobral na Eurovisão. Sim, foi também o meu primeiro texto (neste blog) em Português, porque é isso que este momento, este sentimento, pede de mim.

-A.

[crónica publicada pela primeira vez a 17 de Maio de 2017 no P3]

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help a chicken out

Most nights in this house I can hear

an owl

at my window.

The song calms me down.

 

But one night

the song didn’t come.

Instead, I heard a chicken crying

somewhere where it shouldn’t be.

 

The others answered her,

brothers and sisters

(or maybe just neighbors),

wanted to come to the rescue.

 

But the giant cage in which they rule

didn’t let them move

and so I fell asleep

wanting to help that chicken

find its owl

 

 

(this is not made of metaphors, there is literally a owl outside and a chicken did call for help somewhere far away… Don’t worry though, it’s fine, it came back)

the one that got away

“the one that got away”…
That’s an expression
I’ve heard since I was a child.
Never truly understood it,
Until now.
Or have I?

Romantic at heart,
yet I don’t always accept love.
In fact, with open eyes and fighting tears,
I said “thank you” and hoped you could forgive me.
I watched your face as it faded into a million pieces,
With it, your heart.
And I said “what?”, “thank you”, “goodbye”.

My new best friend, shattered, just a piece of paper crumbled on the floor.
And I hope you can forgive me.
For I have been there too,
I know how the pain twists and burns inside you,
and I saw it in your eyes.
Or was it reflecting my own burning pain?

So we make amends and try
to be just like we were before.
My new best friend!
Until voices gather around us, screaming “lovers”…
And I say “what?”, “thank you”, “goodbye”,
turn my back on my new best friend,
broken, shattered, crumbling on the floor.

But forgiveness came, and with it new thoughts
and conversations about this frightening world,
and the deepness of the human mind,
of your mind.
Even with all the fights and arguments,
I realised that maybe, just maybe,
I could love you. Because love grew
Like a seed grows into a tree,
Or a…..

But love isn’t a metaphor.
Love isn’t a “could”
Love isn’t a “it would never work out”
And so… you never knew that I “could”.

When you said “goodbye”,
my face fade into a million pieces.
With it, my heart.
And with open eyes and fighting tears,
I said “thank you”, “goodbye”.

Romantic at heart,
There’s an expression I’ve heard
Since I was a child:
“the one that got away”.
Never truly understood it,
Until now.

Or have I?

 

under anesthesia

I think that throughout the 21 years that I’ve been alive I had very few moments when I completely blocked out. There are things I don’t remember of course, not because I passed out in those moments but because my brain can’t grasp everything it lived through.

There was, however, that time, somewhere between grade six and eight, when someone kicked a ball right to where my head was and I passed out. To this day, I only know this story of my life, I don’t remember it.  I’ve heard it a million times, just like I’ve heard other stories of my childhood a million times and either I never remember them or I think I remember it – it seems like a memory, but in reality I know it isn’t quite right, I feel like it’s probably someone else’s memory, not mine.

It’s not only that I’m afraid I’ll someday get amnesia… I guess it’s also because I’m just afraid I forgot a lot of stuff from my past not because of someone hitting me on my head, but because I didn’t enjoy and savour those moments enough. And because of this I want to write down another story, a more recent one, where I lost consciousness:

Last Autumn I had a surgical emergency and obviously was knocked out. That was the first time in my life and it scared me. I haven’t talked about this bit a lot because it truly scared the hell out of me! One minute I was there, the other I was gone. I was really nervous, and it might have been the nervousness of having to go through a surgical procedure,  or it might have been the absolute fear of having my body failing to function as it should have, either way all I know is when I started to wake up, I didn’t remember anything that happened before. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to know or remember how it felt to have surgery. What scares me is that my brain seemed to be shutdown during that period… It’s like I was dead somehow.

I didn’t want this to seem so dramatic, it wasn’t that bad and I know there are things far worse. Still it lingers with me, that fear of being oblivious as to where my brain was during that time. I also know there are scientific explanations to everything I just wrote, but that’s not the point, really. Why? Because I’m talking about that specific feeling, that I can’t shake off. It was one of the weirdest moments of my life.

The few stories I know where somehow I lost complete consciousness of what surrounded me make me very afraid indeed. The oblivion, the nothingness of those moments might scare me the most since they are constant reminders of the other something else I can’t shake off: that I live my life constantly under anesthesia.

-A

 

you have a nice heart

Today I walked a lot because of two books I needed to buy  for some courses I’m taking. I didn’t know I had to walk that much, since I honestly thought I knew where the official university press was, but apparently the store I knew has closed last year. So, I went to three different (and very apart) bookstores, and only at the third did someone tell me where I should go to buy what I wanted.

The third bookstore! It’s a nice little bookstore like the ones seen in films: you walk inside and the door touches a piece of metal that makes a little sound and you look up and see tones of books of different sizes and full shelfs everywhere. It smells of old books and new ones (which is normal since it sells both). And then the nice lady appears and asks if you need help.

Which I needed. I told her what I was looking for and she immediately started telling me what I needed to know, even drew on a piece of paper a tiny map. I already knew her, because that same bookstore used to be somewhere else, and I’ve always known her to be nice, but today we talked for hours (literally, we were two hours talking, until a couple got into the store). She remembered me, even though I’d last been at her shop two years ago. At first we talked about university and books, and I guess I thought I should stay and talk to her because she seemed lonely and in need of a chat, or of somebody to hear her. But then I realised, maybe, just maybe, I sort of needed to be there and listen to her…

It was so weird, but I really felt like it was destiny to be there, hearing her, letting her stories be part of my own. And I know how cheesy this sounds! I’m not one to believe in such terms and mysticisms, but, boy, that was weird! Also, the way she talked and the way she saw through me was unbelievable… I know how easy I am to read, I can’t really conceal my feelings or some thoughts if I have them in the moment, but to have someone, who barely knows you, say things about you and your family that she must have realised in the moment, is just so weird!

I won’t write about what we talked, it was too much and a bit to personal somehow, but I’m writing this post because I was so surprised with the feelings I kept having throughout our chat. It was also very enlightening and interesting. I really enjoyed it because she genuinely seems like a nice person: there was this bit where she almost brought me to tears and we hugged, and then we kept talking about something else and time flew. I kept thinking I had to tell her how nice she was, how her heart is so beautiful and nice, but in the end I didn’t. That’s also why I’m writing this.

These few hours were so great, not because I was there instead of being home studying or doing something else, but because they’re rare. It seems to me it’s very uncommon to go to a bookstore and stay for two hours talking with the worker, when you barely know each other. More than uncommon, it’s unlikely.  But today it happened to me, and just like the bookstore reminded me of the ones in a film or in a book, so our conversation reminded me of stories I knew so well sometime ago. The chat itself was uncommon, but beautiful at the same time. I appreciated it a lot and I sure will come back to that place more often.

In the end, when some tourists walked in, we said goodbye and both mentioned how nice that time had been. Then I left and was overwhelmed with the feeling of goodness that the chat we had gave me. But still, I regret not telling her she had such a nice heart. I really love to meet people who are this great, it warms my heart!

-A

now it’s official

So, I finally decided to start a blog…. Again.

So, I finally decided to start a blog…. Again. Let’s hope this one goes better than the ones I used to have. It probably won’t, but that’s okay.

I don’t really know what this blog will be about. I have so much trouble just choosing the genre of it, in that step where WordPress asks it. But hey, here it is. It isn’t much, but it’s a little bit of me.

This was supposed to be in my native language, Portuguese, but somehow I started writing in English. This was also supposed to be a place where I’d write down whatever I wanted without any editing, completely raw and with my natural confusion, and I guess I’ll manage that (one point for me!).

I don’t know what to expect of this, so I can’t really tell you what to expect of it either. I don’t know who you are, if there’s any “you” at all. Me? I’m a daughter, a sister, a friend of many; I’m a student of the third (and last) year of Archaeology at uni. But mostly, I’m a 21 year old, currently sitting at a cold attic-room, who has to write since she can’t fall asleep.

I won’t promise to write everyday, or every night, or every month, since I don’t know what I can really do. But I will write more – hopefully something more interesting than this first post.

 

-A