the windows are low down by the park

by the bench that has no seat

right next to where the people leave their cars to pasture

while someone’s standing bass is letting out

tones so low that they fill the street

And never have I seen animals so skittish

as the lurking Portuguese cats

that run low to the ground

as women wrapped up in old scarves

ride by on rusty cruiser bikes that were manufactured and sold

brand new and shiny in the early nineteen forties

Passers-by screech “Good day, good day”

and I mutter my regards to their mothers

The fashion is bright and the colors are few

but the houses make up for the darkness

And the only light that filters through

is that which comes from my monitor.

That old World

Being back in Portugal is a strange little experience. I call it a strange little experience because everything is strange and little. This is a small nation, and concerns itself with small things. The houses are small, the cars are small, the people are small. Even the minds are small (for the most part that is, I know there must be lots of big thinking, open minds; but they are hidden elsewhere; in the big cities most likely). This week, the papers reported that one of the politicians made a gaffe about the need to suspend democracy for 6 months in order to reform the bureaucratic apparatuses.

But on to other matters…

Next door lives a heartbreaking story. A girl I used to play with in my childhood lives with her grandmother in a tiny little house right beside me. I used to play with her for countless hours when I came to live here. I was six, she was eleven or so at the time. I remember that I shat my pants one day because I just couldn’t tear myself away from whatever game we had devised. (I was 6 for god’s sake!) The only time I got really angry at her was when she threw my favorite dolls into the mean old lady’s yard, which was right next to ours. That mean old lady’s damn yippy dogs would save me the trouble of ripping the dolls’ heads off by doing the work for me.

My friend was born with a mental disability, and her mother left her under the care of her grandmother because for whatever reason, she couldn’t give her the care she needed. The ‘girl’ is now twenty eight, and her grandmother is well into her eighties. The grandmother has some health problems, and so now the girl does her best to take care of her. The two of them live there in almost complete isolation. One day, the ‘girl’, named Ceu, came over to hang out with me for a little while. I took out some pencils and paper, and we sat at the kitchen table drawing together. I walked her home after nightfall. As we walked into her dark kitchen, we found her grandmother sitting in her wheelchair by the table. She was angry because she was left to sit in the dark and cold while Ceu was out at my house. She couldn’t light a fire in the hearth by herself, nor could she reach the light switch from her wheelchair. I apologized profusely for having kept Ceu with me longer than I should have.

My heart broke in that cold dark kitchen.

Ceu makes no bones about the fact that her mother does not care about her. She lives in the same small town, but rarely comes to see her. She told me that sometimes she can’t keep herself from crying when she passes by my house and finds that we’re not there. There is no subterfuge with her. None at all. Some would call her behaviour child-like. I call it unvarnished honesty. There is something about her that allows her to surpass the shame of taboo and simply tell it like it is. I wonder what will happen to her after her grandmother passes away. Who will she live with? I hope to goddess that she will be treated well, but there is no guarantee that anyone will even offer to live with her.

She can boil potatoes with the best of them, she can wash and clean and cook and work just like anyone else, but what she tells me that hurts her most is the loneliness. The only remedy for that is unconditional love from someone who has their company to offer. Meanwhile, I’m going back to Canada to continue with my life. It will be up to luck and fate to take care of her. I’ll only know about how she is when I come back to visit the next time because Ceu is illiterate, and so is her grandmother.

Ceu makes me realize just how I get so caught up with my own life that I completely forget about those who are left behind. When it comes down to it, I succumb to powerlessness much too easily. Sending a postcard is so facile, so meaningless, but it seems like it’s the only thing I can really do.

The Lizzard Speaks

When I bake bread,

I’m a breaderfly

When I butter my bread

I’m a butterfly

When I make mistakes

I’m a blunderfly

When I scream like a banchee

I’m a bleeterfly

When I make my world famous soups,

I’m a blenderfly

When I dance

I’m a breakerfly

When I’m PMSins

I’m bloaterfly

When I menstruate

I’m a bleederfly

When I make love

I’m a blisserfly

When I’m high

I just fly….