joanaestrelablog

[joanaestrelablog]

2 de Outubro

Há alguns dias que acordo e a primeira coisa que faço é olhar para uma app no meu telemóvel. A app diz-me aquilo que já sei — que o meu período está atrasado. Não é que possa estar grávida, só se fosse por obra e graça do espírito santo, mas sou uma pessoa pontual irrita-me que o meu útero não esteja a horas. A app também me diz que “variações de 3-4 dias no ciclo estão dentro do normal”, mas eu sei que há qualquer coisa que não está dentro do normal dentro de mim. Tenho lido e relido as listas de sintomas de PMDD e estou convencida que tenho estas 4 letras presas algures no ventre. Nem que seja porque é uma doença que tem uma sigla e tenho impressão que o meu corpo não sabe apanhar coisas simples só com um nome, que todas as minhas maleitas precisam de abreviação. Dei passos leves na madeira do corredor, que geme sempre um bocadinho, e ouvi as notícias na cozinha, com a porta fechada para não acordar o Fabien.

O papa quer beatificar o Rei Baudouin da Bélgica porque ele abdicou do cargo durante um dia para não ter de assinar uma lei de despenalização do aborto. A Bélgica ficou sem rei durante um dia. Foi despedido e admitido logo a seguir. Fiquei a pensar que a fasquia para a beatificação está muito baixa, e procurei fotos do rei Baudouin só para ver como ele era. Era bonito. Às 10, fui à fisioterapeuta e mostrei-lhe a mão que operei e ela mexeu-lhe. A mão que não operei ficou pousada na marquesa à espera que a consulta acabasse. Depois liguei à minha mãe. Vou ligar-lhe duas vezes hoje, ambas a passar pelo mesmo parque. Estou de bom humor e ela deve ter reparado porque me perguntou se o período já me veio. Almocei os restos do jantar de ontem e fui para dar aulas de inglês. É o meu primeiro dia na escola, mas também é o primeiro dia deles. “Eles têm mais medo de ti do que tu deles.” — pensei nisto sem me aperceber que era o que me constumavam dizer para não me assustar com insectos. Sentámo-nos no chão e perguntei aos meninos se um pato pode conduzir um carro (“Can a duck drive a car?”) e eles riem-se tanto que não resisto a experimentar a mesma piada com a turma seguinte, que tem a mesma reação. Mais tarde contei a piada à minha mãe ao telefone (durante a segunda chamada do dia) e ela não percebeu. Jantei as sobras do almoço dos restos do jantar de ontem e fui para a cama. Às 3 da manhã acordei em sobressalto com um barulho no meu quarto e apercebi-me que não estava sozinha. Estava um homem de pé, entre a minha cama e a janela. O homem era a cara chapada do rei Baudouin da Bélgica. Parecia ter estado à espera que eu acordasse, e parecia ter todo o tempo do mundo. — Pensei que estivesse morto. O rei fez uma expressão de desagrado. — É complicado. Levantei-me com cuidado e vesti o robe sempre virada de frente para ele. Uma amiga disse-me que nunca se pode virar costas a um rei. (Lista mental das coisas às quais nunca se pode virar as costas: 1.Reis, 2.Tigres, 3.Oportunidades.) — O que é que o traz aqui, sua majestade? — Isto é uma anunciação. Vim anunciar. — Anunciar o que? — Penso que já sabe, Joana Ele sabe o meu nome. — Tem a ver com o meu período? — Sim. — Estou grávida? — Por obra e graça do espírito santo. — Pois, só podia ser assim. Sentei-me ao fundo da cama e contemplei a minha barriga e o meu futuro. — Mas eu não quero ser mãe. Tenho medo de ter um bebé sozinha. — Ele tem mais medo de ti do que tu dele. Irritou-me um bocado que ele me dissesse aquilo, e a frase ficou a dar a volta na minha cabeça, cada vez mais rápido, cada vez mais zangada. Afinal, o período ainda não veio, ainda estou na fase lútea e nas oscilações de humor nível seis na escala de Ricther. — Não vai acontecer! A lei da despenalização passou. Eu não tenho de o ter! — É verdade. A escolha é tua. — disse ele com tristeza. Segurou-me nas mãos — na mão que foi operada e na mão que não foi— e a ira passou-me e comecei a chorar, não por estar grávida do próximo messias mas porque de repente tive saudades do meu avô. Ele usava o mesmo tipo de óculos anos 60 que o rei Baudouin, e desde que ele morreu, mais nenhum homem idoso me deu assim as mãos. Despediu-se de mim e desapareceu. Deixei uma mensagem à minha mãe para me ligar quando acordasse e voltei para a cama.

[joanaestrelablog]

Nunca, em toda a minha vida adulta, corri sem motivos para isso.

Há coisas que se começam a fazer aos 18. Não preciso de dizer quais são. Há coisas que se deixam de fazer aos 18. Em mim foi correr. Correr sem propósito. Acelero o passo a um atraso. Já fugi de pessoas. Sou capaz do ocasional sprint para o autocarro. Mas o meu atletismo tem sempre uma missão. Um dia, isto mudou. Perguntaram-me “Queres ir correr?” e eu disse que sim automaticamente não porque quisesse realmente ir correr mas só porque gosto de me sentir incluída. Foi a primeira vez que corri sem razão nenhuma.

A minha primeira corrida durou 45 minutos. Não parei até parar. Durante 45 minutos fui inspiração e expiração e um pé à frente do outro e balanço de braços e buracos no passeio. Enchi-me de mim, mas não da mesma maneira que se diz que alguém é cheio de si, de uma outra maneira em que eu sou eu e sou só eu. Senti-me no ali e agora que a aplicação de meditação me diz para estar mas onde nunca vou. Não porque não queira ir mas porque não sei o caminho, e pelos vistos para ir até lá é mesmo preciso ir a correr. E isto teria sido uma experiência transformadora, semi-religiosa, de descoberta de paz de espírito não fosse o meu joelho, que também estava naquele ali e naquele agora, ficar visivelmente alarmada com o que aquele ali e aquele agora lhe pediam para fazer. A minha primeira corrida foi a minha última corrida.

[joanaestrelablog]

We have been writing lists, in the writing club. This is the one from this week:

15 minute stretch knee pain release

1 — It's normal to feel pain. 2 — These stretches will relieve your pain. 3 — You should do them once a day. 4 — You will feel the difference in a week. 5 — You don't need any props. 6 — Except maybe a belt. 7 — You don't own a belt. 8 — You don't even remember the last time you owned a belt. 9 — You are getting older. 10 — You are getting older, and yet you own fewer things than when you were young. 11 — A towel is just as good as a belt. 12 — You suddenly remember you also had knee pain when you were a teenager. 13 — You then remember you had knee pain when you were a teenager because you were growing very fast. 14 — It's unlikely your present condition is due to growing pain. 15 — Unless we think of growing pain as a more metaphorical concept.

[joanaestrelablog]

Art Expo

I used to go to a fancy yoga school in Châtelain, the area in Brussels where all the Parisians move in. I was there, too, by pure chance, subletting someone else's room for a couple of months. I say this because the fact that this was a fancy neighborhood with a yoga school plays a big part in this story. Let me get to it. The school had a lot of students—or, as they say, yogis. And I mean, a lot. There were at least six classes per day, with 60 people attending each class. That’s a crowd. It's not that the space was big, just that they tried to squeeze the most profit out of every square meter. Some incredible Tetris skills were needed fit all 60 yoga mats in each room. When we chanted "OM" at the end, it reverberated on the walls and involved us all. You felt it in the body. I liked that we were many. Everything you do feels more solemn and grand if you do it in a crowd, even if it’s just sitting cross-legged and breathing. I’m probably the kind of person who would quickly join a cult if the circunstations arose. That said, I’m also pretty sure being in this yoga school wasn’t like joining a cult for one simple reason — people weren’t friendly. They weren't unfriendly either. It’s just that everyone kept to themselves.

I read an article somewhere about how rich people tend to isolate themselves because they don’t need a wide social circle to get help and support in times of need. They can afford to be individualistic. And at the time, I decided this must be the reason no one ever talked to each other, and I accepted it. The school didn’t, though. They tried to shake things up by putting posters around the common areas that said, “A smile goes a long way” and “Greet your colleagues.” They really weren’t subtle about it, but nothing changed. I always opened their newsletter. Sometimes it had discounts, although it was often just advertisements for workshops and teacher training that I would need to pay extra for. They were always signed by Pierre, a mythical owner I had never seen. That day, the newsletter announced Pierre's exhibition opening. It turned out he was not only a yoga capitalist but also an artist. I was curious to see what would come out of this, and I marked it in my calendar. On the day of the opening, only people from the yoga school were there. I recognized their faces, even if it was strange to see them in plain clothes. The exhibition was just a big pile of stuff, all gathered in the center of a white room. At first, it seemed like trash, but upon closer inspection, I realised there were a lot of water bottles and clothes. Here and there, a bracelet, a backpack, a hair brush... We all started to walk around it, and slowly, it became evident that this massive pile of things could have only come from years and years of lost and found items in the yoga school. Nike leggings, sport socks, a shampoo bottle. Even a pair of boots. —Who would forget their boots? — I commented out loud, and a lady next to me started laughing. I knew her face from Ashtanga Level 2, and she told me one day she left with somebody else’s sandals by mistake. The crowd, initially puzzled and surprised, was now conglomerating in small groups to discuss the ethics of exhibiting all these items. They discussed privacy concerns, and posited on what was the meaning of the work. An ecological message, maybe?. I stood silent, noticing how many things in the pile were branded and almost new. The buzz of the conversations filled the room, reverberated in the walls, and I felt it all through my body.

[joanaestrelablog]

In a workshop by Speakeasy, the theme was mental health and they asked us to write a poem to ourselves with advice for what to do in a bad day.

Dear Joana, This is you from the past. Do not idealize me. I am a real person. I mean, I was. Now I'm you. Put one foot in front of the other. It's so obvious, it can be easy to forget. No grand solution. No magic trick. We are all in rotation. A person once told me their husband was an astrophysicist and he had to keep reminding himself, while at work, to have some perspective. Not even the Universe is that important. Even astrophysicists need it. The weeds on the sidewalk. The toddlers on the bus. The moment when you grab the dishwashing detergent, and tiny bubbles fly out. Shiny, suspended, about to burst.

[joanaestrelablog]

List of things that are easier with two hands: Folding bedsheets Peeling an orange Using shampoo Mopping the floor Several yoga positions Putting groceries inside a backpack Buttoning and unbuttoning Tying shoelaces Opening jars Applying lotion to certain parts of the body Slicing tomatoes Putting the cap back in the pen Turning pairs of clean socks into balls Moving furniture Covering one’s face in shame Holding something big Holding something fragile

[joanaestrelablog]

Home away from home

The WIFI password was yourhomeawayfromhome. Because that’s what the hostel was, your home away from home, especially if your home usually had drunk French reaping havoc, then it would definitely feel like your home away from home. They were instructed not to call the tourists tourists. They were travelers. The bread was fresh from the bakery, and the Nutella was white branded. She had all her meals there to save herself time and money. Sometimes, she also slept there. There was a bedroom for staff. It was almost like the one for guests, except it had no windows. Her job was to make sure everyone who was supposed to leave left, and give keys and explain the rules to the ones who arrived. Check-ins after 14:00, check-outs until 11:00. Breakfast is served from 8:00 to 11:00. We keep a 5€ caution on the keycards.

The hostel needed repair. Some faucets didn't work, bed frames kept breaking, and one of the bunk bed staircases had nails coming out of the wood where you were supposed to climb, like some tetanus trap. The owner didn’t seem to care, and she always had to fake surprise whenever a guest pointed these problems out.

Hours went by with nothing to do. They had one of those shelves where people exchange books. By now, she had read all thrillers, ignored the travel books, and moved to erotic novels. She was reading one about a woman who gets kidnapped by a Scottish lord and slowly falls in love with him. His penis is abundantly described, both directly and metaphorically. She’s fascinated with this. She hasn’t seen a penis in two years. And, even then, it was in the dark. She’s unsure how she would describe it. It was white. She started fantasizing about getting kidnapped by a rich Highlander but then realized that was not so different from her current state, precariously dependent on a lousy salary from a man who inherited this building from his family, built a hostel in it, and kept her there. Only sex was missing.

[joanaestrelablog]

Sunburn

The square has those fountains that burst from the pavement, gushing water in a choreography that changes rhythm from time to time and making everything around them wet. The city only turns these on in Spring and Summer. At night, the water jets are lit, and the colours change slowly from yellow to blue to pink to yellow again. But right now, it is just after lunchtime. The square is almost empty, and the stone where he sits waiting for her is warm. All the water jets are surrounded by birds lying on the wet floor, some with their wings half open, catching the spray of the water. They all looked so ruffled and relaxed. When she arrives, he says: — I had never seen pigeons do this! They agreed to go for coffee but ordered other drinks. There are things one must ask when you are in front of someone new. What do they do, where did they first live, for how long have they lived where they live now, if their parents had other children, he dutifully asked one thing after the other and answered the same about himself, all the while wishing they could jump the beginning to the moment he could ask what Are you most afraid of? How do you want me to touch you? Are you happy? And, after that, to not ask anything, just search for the answers in silence. The conversation lasted enough time for the sun to change places and a red mark to form on the back of his neck. Sunburnt, he said goodbye and walked by the water fountain again. By now, the pigeons had been replaced by small children in underwear.

[joanaestrelablog]

Shy Apples

They had run out of things to say to each other: —What’s your favourite fruit? —You are going to make fun of me. —Oh my god, is it apples?! She covered her face with her hands while the other laughed. ��But it’s not any apple, it’s a specific kind of apple! It only grows in Portugal, they are small, and green with a little bit of red, as if they were blushing. —Shy apples, then. —Yes. And you only have them in Autumn, that’s important for a fruit to become your favourite fruit, it can’t be available all year-round. The wait is a big part of the pleasure. They returned to silence, one thinking about the soft smell of Maçãs-Bravo-de-Esmolfe, the other thinking about the waiting time for pleasure and how their knees were now touching lightly.

[joanaestrelablog]

The resin box wasn’t always there

I’m not sure where it was kept most of the time, but it felt professional when we had it in the room. The stones looked like rare precious crystals. I crunched them with my feet until they were just dust and walked to my place followed by a trail of white powdered steps. We were three, and each one had their own spot in the barre. It was organized by height and I was the tallest and the last. That never changed. The girl in the middle was Tatiana. Her mother owned the ballet school and was more motivated for her to take classes than Tatiana herself. The shortest was Sara. She once showed me a syringe she carried in her bag in case she had an epileptic attack, and the teacher would need to punch her with it. She told me she wanted me to know where it was, too, just in case. I felt that special rush of happiness in being trusted, and a part of me wished it would happen.

[joanaestrelablog]

Desperate

I was about to leave the house. — You have a new jacket! — No, it’s old. — But she hadn’t seen me with it yet, so it was new again. A trecking raincoat that has never been used for its intended adventurous purposes. She had never shown so much interest in a piece of clothing I wear before and I stood still, like a playdoll, while she opened and closed all the pockets, fastened the velcro straps, buttoned the buttons, pulled the cords that make the hood snug and carefully slid my hair inside so it wouldn’t get caught in the zipper. Then she said, mockingly, ”So desperate for attention…” It pierced me through all the clothing layers — the raincoat, the other coat inside the raincoat, the sweater, the shirt, the bra, it may have gone as deep as some layers of skin and at first I was ready to refute and say something like “Look at me leaving you for the storm.” but when someone reaches under all the water proof covers there is not much to hide behind, so why figh it, I am desperate. Rain your attention on me. Please. And then I realized she was talking about the cat, who, in the meantime, laid belly up at our feet, so in the end I didn’t say anything at all. I got my bag and my umbrella, we kissed and I left.

[joanaestrelablog]

Almost like a flight

It’s not that I fell out of the bike, it’s more that the bike slid away from under me and my body decided to continue the journey without it. I’ve heard people describe accidents and say they saw everything happen in slow motion. And it’s true, it’s something about the brain working faster in a moment of crisis, but maybe this wasn’t a true moment of crisis because time didn’t slow down for me, I was barely aware of what had happened until I was already on the ground and people started to gather around me. And then I remember thinking “wow, this is really happening.” It’s a bit like being kissed for the first time, you are not really in it, you are more of a bewildered witness. Someone asked if I was ok, I said “yes, thank you” and immediatly realized I was not, no, thank you. They told me not to move but I wasn’t trying. I heard a voice describe me as a young person to the ambulance dispatcher, and I was suddenly reminded that everyone around me is going to tell the story of how they saw me fly out of my bike when they go back home, at the end of the day.

[joanaestrelablog]

This week the writing group's assigment was "Evil Baby", this is what I managed to write:

The conversation had run out of words and they both looked out the window, staring at nothing really, just noticing the afternoon shining orange on the parking lot pavement. He was the first to break the silence: – I bet you were a difficult baby. – What do you mean? – You know, the kind that never sleeps a full night, or has belly aches or ear infections and is always crying. She laughed and shifted in her sit so she could face him. – Where are you getting this from? – Just your general vibe. And also the fact that you don’t want children. – How is that related? – I imagine your parents telling you the story of how they couldn’t sleep a full night for years. And all the family remembers how you interrupted church services, and restaurant dinners, and birthday parties and eventually they stopped trying to bring you to things, because you were impossible, as a baby. They say this lightly, of course, because they love you and it’s been so long it’s funny now to think you used to be so tiny and get so red and scream so loud. But you grew up with these stories and came to think that that’s what it is to be a mother, and your son and daughter will be like you the same way you resemble your mother a little bit more everyday. Not physically, but in the things you do and say, like on the other day when the mailman complained of the strikes and you shrugged your shoulders and said “it is what it is.” They looked outside again for a moment, a van was trying to park and several people stopped to wave instructions at the driver. – And you, were you an easy baby? – There are no easy babies.

[joanaestrelablog]

Small Record

— Ask me something, I’m bored. I was tidying the bedroom and she was lying in bed. I asked: — If you where to break any Guiness World record, what would it be? She didn’t pause to think: — When I was a child I read about the world record for most snails held in someone’s face, I don’t remember how many they were but I remember thinking I could do more. — And now your face is even bigger. — Exactly! I looked at it and tried to divide her skin into parking spaces for snails, leaving enough space for the eyes, mouth and nostrils. Perhaps 14. Maybe more, if they are small. We looked it up later and the record is only 8 snails. The same person who broke this record also broke the record for most gloves worn in one hand. They were 7, which also feels unimpressive. But maybe this is one of those things that is trickier that it seems at first. Putting on gloves, holding snails, entertaining her while she lays bored in my bed — there is always some mastery hidden under small actions. I gathered all the gloves we have at home and tried to put them on. I didn’t know if latex counts and I decided it didn’t. I managed to fit 4 in my right hand. I’m halfway to being exceptional.

[joanaestrelablog]

"The suffering of transformation is equal to the suffering of being the same" he said at the start of the session. His voice filled the room, left no space untouched. I only heard the other women in the breaks, although we barely talked, we just handed each other teacups and nibbled the biscuits they had for us. It's been 5 weeks since I started the cure, and I can really feel it in my body. I even walk differently. People come to me and say, "Something changed!" They want to know if it's my haircut, or my weight. but I tell them I found my place in the chaos, I embraced the universe, and it's all thanks to him. Good thing he decided to guide us. He alerted us to all the things that kept us from being free — Family, husbands, money, processed food, clothes that need to be ironed. And we gave it all away.

[joanaestrelablog]

For years, we had a big plastic cactus in the corridor of our house. You didn't need to water it. It was a good imitation because you barely need to water a real cactus.

This was long before my mother discovered her green fingers. Or better yet, this was long before my mother's fingers turned green. The change came with the menopause. Her fertility transferred, somehow.

[joanaestrelablog]

1 It's a cold night, but we just got indoors. The lights in the corridor were off. I forgot to press the red button.

2 There's no sound except our boots on the floor, and that just quieted. Everyone must be asleep.

3 He is leaving. He doesn't leave. He is leaning. I turn my face just before. He kisses me on a spot under my left eye.

4 I close the door. I want to be small like a mouse.

5 Maybe I didn't turn on the corridor lights on purpose.