"The light fell either upon the smooth, grey back of a pebble, or, the shell of a snail with its brown, circular veins, or falling into a rain-drop, it expanded with such intensity of red, blue, and yellow the thin walls of water that one expected them to burst and disappear. Instead, the drop was left in a second silver grey once more, and the light now settled upon the flesh of a leaf, revealing the branching thread of fibre beneath the surface, and again it moved an and spread its illumination in the vast green spaces beneath the dome of the heart-shaped and tongue-shaped leaves."

'Kew Gardens' (1919), Virginia Woolf 

Alarms

In a dorm room nobody wakes up early. The alarm clocks begin to ring at 7:30 a.m.. One, two, three different ringtones. Everyone starts trying to get their mind out of the wonderland they were in and back into another day’s travels. They roll around for a couple of seconds trying to convince themselves that they should get up and have a shower before a queue forms, but it’s no use. They tumble back into the cosy and welcoming world they left moments before.

Not long after the alarms sound again. Grunts and yawns, even a few stretches can be heard but no one moves No one is able to leave their cocoon.

Third time. One or two people who had planned to get up later start to become restless, starting to remember all the disadvantages of sleeping in a Youth Hostel’s dormitory.

But wait, this is it – someone manages to leap out of bed and stumble their way to the bathroom, trying to be careful and as quiet as possible, while secretly feeling like smothering her friends with her pillow.

‘Victory!’ the others think, rolling over, while preparing themselves for another ten minutes of sleep. Now begins the period in which everyone secretly hopes another brave soul will volunteer to have their shower next, leaving them yet another ten minutes to rest.

It’s funny how even when in the most exotic of places people can’t quite grasp the importance of waking early and doing their sightseeing before everything and everywhere is crowded. How they can’t work up the courage to get out of bed.

Late checkout anyone?

Para o Bruno, Gabriela e Leonor ;)

Walls

When I travel, I always worry about my neighbours. I always hope they’re respectful people who won’t listen to my telephone conversations. For that reason, I always call hotels before booking, to enquire about the composition of the room walls. Ideally, they should be between 4" and 4.5” and minimally soundproof.

You see, after having travelled my entire childhood and young adulthood, I know what it’s like to hear everything your neighbours say or do in the room, or in the bathroom.

I prefer the rooms to have double locks, and I am always extremely careful so as not to forget to place the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door before closing it, in order to avoid any unwanted visits from the housekeepers at inopportune moments, that they seem to have a knack for choosing to clean your room at.

In my line of business all these precautions are absolutely necessary.

I make quite a few calls a day, all of the utmost importance and secrecy. The details that are usually exchanged could bring some serious complications if they fell into the wrong hands. For that reason I have started speaking with code words, which are previously agreed on with my customers. This did, and still does, from time to time, generate some mix-ups, especially among the new customers who sometimes forget the agreed upon words and end up going to a completely different place, leaving me waiting, generally in a secluded street, raising suspicious glances from passers-by, with goods in hand that could get me into serious trouble. However, when I’m certain that the walls of my room are thick enough for none of my neighbours to hear me, I can be a little less strict, which is why I always call the hotels.

But why, you may ask, do I take these precautions, and what merchandise am I distributing that could bring me these so called dilemmas? You see, as a member of the Russian Mafia, I can’t afford any slips, which is why I won’t be telling you what it is I negotiate about with my customers, because if I did, my bratva⁽¹⁾ would probably play Russian roulette with my life.

⁽¹⁾ Russian mafia gang; brotherhood.

A Little Fable

"Alas," said the mouse, "the whole world is growing smaller every day. At the beginning it was so big that I was afraid, I kept running and running, and I was glad when I saw walls far away to the right and left, but these long walls have narrowed so quickly that I am in the last chamber already, and there in the corner stands the trap that I must run into."

"You only need to change your direction," said the cat, and ate it up. 

Franz Kafka 

William Blake 

The Tyger

Tyger, Tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger, Tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Tintoretto

O Carlinhos tinha dois anos e nove meses, tinha cabelo loiro encaracolado e olhos azuis penetrantes. Parecia um querubim saído de uma pintura renascentista.

A sua mãe tinha trinta e três anos e pintava desde os treze, idade em que abandonou a escola.

Um dia, o Carlos decidiu pegar nos pincéis da mãe e deixou a sua imaginação fluir para o papel em branco que se encontrava à sua frente. Ao fim do dia, a mãe entrou em casa, e viu o seu desenho no chão.

—Carlos, copiaste este desenho de algum dos teus livros?

Ele limitou-se a olhar para ela, com os olhos esbugalhados, incrédulo, ao ver que ela não acreditava que tinha sido ele a desenhá-lo.

A sua mãe ficou aborrecida ao ver que o filho, que ainda nem tinha consciência total das suas emoções, era capaz de criar obras dignas se ser expostas no Museu do Vaticano.

Passado uns dias, entrou na sala e viu-o a desenhar, de maneira que deixou de ter dúvidas que o Carlinhos era mesmo sobredotado, o que a deixou ainda mais invejosa.

No mês seguinte tiveram visitas em casa que ao passear pela casa, viram as pinturas expostas e sem saberem que eram do Carlinhos gabaram as pinturas do Carlinhos. A mãe não foi capaz de dizer, por vergonha, que as obras que elas tanto gostavam não eram dela. Não conseguia suportar a ideia que o filho era melhor que ela, que já pintava há vinte anos, de maneira que logo que as visitas saíram deitou fora todos os seus materiais de desenho e pinturas, suas e do Carlos, para que ele nunca mais pintasse e para ela não se deparar com aquelas obras que tão inferior a faziam sentir.

Contudo, ao ter abandonado os estudos cedo e ao ver-se obrigada a desistir daquilo que ela gostava, acabou por ir trabalhar para um super-mercado. O Carlos nunca se apercebeu dos seus dotes à custa da mãe e o mundo perdeu a oportunidade de ter um Tintoretto moderno.

Pecador

Uma mosca, a agitar freneticamente as asas, bateu contra o vidro 7 vezes e continuou a voar como se nada fosse.

Parecia que se tinha castigado por ter cometido os 7 pecados: uma pancada para cada um.

Engraçado como até aquela mosca tinha consciência da sua estupidez.