Olha,
você é tão bonita quanto o Rio de Janeiro
em maio
e quase tão bonita
quanto a Revolução Cubana

Look,
you're as beautiful as the city of Rio de Janeiro
in May
and almost as beautiful
as the Cuban Revolution

From Cantadas by Ferreira Gullar

Sigh.

I don't make a good ill person. You know how some people are just naturally good at it, resting their angelic curls on a pillow, sleeping like a baby, smiling weakly at visitors, taking their medicine regularly?

I'm not one of those. Taking my medicine regularly, yes, mostly. Sleeping like a baby - no, unless I'm VERY ill. Smiling - being a Northerner is my excuse. And no angelic curls either.

And for the past two days I have been ill. Not terribly ill, but just ill enough to feel dizzy when I walk, with a bit of a temperature, but not ill enough to just doze off into a coma and then wake up feeling a bit better.

I have tried to read but I feel dizzy when I do. I have watched old TV series to the point of despair. I have looked at old photographs, stretched my legs, bought paracetamol and lemons. I am incredibly bored and restless and uncomfortable and have decided that I will be out of the house tomorrow no matter what.

So, as I said before, I don't play the ill role very well.

A bit over a year ago I was pretty ill for a substantial amount of time. I had a fever and tonsillitis and swallowing was very painful, so I barely ate for a few days. It was terrible. It was also a difficult time for me in other ways - you may recall from a previous post that February is the worst possible month in the year for me. And other things on top of that didn't help.

In the midst of it all, when I was unable to eat and could only sleep (and badly at that) and grumble and produce puss and snot and tears, a very special someone, despite having a bit of a hard month or so himself, came to sit on the side of my bed and spoon-fed me. He fed me some soup with such gentleness and it was one of the most beautiful, selfless and loving acts I have ever been at the receiving end of.

And tonight this grumpy, restless mess of a woman wishes that very special someone was here, so that she could tell him in person how much she loves him.

Loved up

I don't remember a time anytime in the recent past that I've read as much love-related literature as I am this week: on love as a philosophy and a way of life (Erich Fromm), Colombian love poetry (Dario Jaramillo Agudelo), and today I received a book of Finnish erotic (!) love poetry in the post (Tommy Tabermann).

What cosmic force brought these three authors to me this week I won't even try and attempt to guess, but I am truly grateful for their company. Especially since the year is only 3 weeks old January is a good month to cuddle up in bed with a book or something to write with and reflect on your own life philosophy and attitudes.

So...I'll reflect and get back to you.:)

Kolme Haikua

I

Malta, aurinko:
rakkaani nukkuu yhä,
huokailen yksin.



II

Herääthän aamun
tuoksuun. Ihosi maistuu
pihlajapuulle.



III

Kirjoita minut
silmäripsiisi, sitten
itke minut pois.

Suzanne

Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she's half crazy
But that's why you want to be there
And she feeds you tea and oranges
That come all the way from China
And just when you mean to tell her
That you have no love to give her
Then she gets you on her wavelength
And she lets the river answer
That you've always been her lover
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you've touched her perfect body with your mind.

And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body with his mind.

Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the mirror
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she's touched your perfect body with her mind.

Leonard Cohen

Very Good Thoughts On A Very Bad Day

Stumbling on a cozy café you have always known existed but had never entered. A former lover a new-found friend. A candle-lit face. Looking into your loved one's smiling eyes, so close you have to squint. A silent house when you don't want to hear your own thoughts. An awe-inspiring thought creeping up on you.

Hearts

I bought two hearts in a box - one for you, one for me. They may last a lifetime...or I may get greedy and eat the one that belongs to me before you even open yours.

Variations on the Word Love

Variations on the Word Love

This is a word we use to plug
holes with. It's the right size for those warm
blanks in speech, for those red heart-
shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing
like real hearts. Add lace
and you can sell
it. We insert it also in the one empty
space on the printed form
that comes with no instructions. There are whole
magazines with not much in them
but the word love, you can
rub it all over your body and you
can cook with it too. How do we know
it isn't what goes on at the cool
debaucheries of slugs under damp
pieces of cardboard? As for the weed-
seedlings nosing their tough snouts up
among the lettuces, they shout it.
Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising
their glittering knives in salute.

Then there's the two
of us. This word
is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse
to fill those deep bare
vacuums between the stars
that press on us with their deafness.
It's not love we don't wish
to fall into, but that fear.
this word is not enough but it will
have to do. It's a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside. You can
hold on or let go.

-Margaret Atwood

Maldita Resaca

In a desperate attempt to fall asleep again, she counts the freckles dancing on his back. His skin smells like man and yesterday´s smoke, the beat of the previous night still thudding between his ears. She smells of him, her fingers of intoxicated cigarettes.

Every morning after the night before, almost without fail, she wakes up at 9 am and is unable to go back to sleep. She counts the number of drinks she consumed - not too many but, as usual, enough to keep her from having her much looked forward to Saturday morning lie-in.

She insists on staying next to him under the covers for what seems like hours, then gives up and goes out onto their little balcony to up to fill her lungs with the torrential rain that has not stopped since destroying their collection of herbs the previous afternoon.

The neighbourhood wakes up and stretches its limbs. Construction workers start their sporadic, lazy drilling. Unhappy little people are dragged by their grouchy mothers to look for unhappy little boots for the rainy season. The trees want to lie down and curl into a ball, drenched and tired by the continuous downpour of rain.

He wakes up and sees her on the balcony, a blurry naked figure hunched over a forest of droopy pot plants.

"Good morning," he says.

Maa, jota ei ole (Edith Södergran)

Ikävöin maahan jota ei ole,
sillä kaikkea mikä on olen väsynyt himoamaan.
Kuu kertoo minulle hopeaisin kirjaimin
maasta jota ei ole.

Maasta, jossa kaikki toiveemme täyttyvät ihmeellisesti,
maasta, jossa kaikki kahleemme kirvoittuvat,
maasta, jossa vilvoitamme raadeltuja otsiamme
kuun kasteessa.

Elämäni oli kuuma harha.
Mutta yhden olen löytänyt
ja yhden olen totisesti voittanut -
tien maahan jota ei ole.

Maassa jota ei ole
kulkee rakastettuni, otsallansa sädehtivä kruunu.

Ken on rakastettuni? Yö on pimeä
ja tähdet vapisevat vastaukseksi.

Ken on rakastettuni? Mikä hänen nimensä?
Taivaat kaartuvat korkeammiksi,
ja ihmislapsi vajoaa äärettömiin usviin
vastausta tietämättä.

Mutta ihmislapsi ei ole mitään muuta kuin varmuus.
Ja se kohottaa kätensä kaikkia taivaita korkeammalle.
Ja vastaus tulee: Minä olen se, jota rakastat
ja aina olet rakastava.