Bad Dreams


Nightmares hurt me a lot. I suffer much more during sleep than I am capable of suffering in reality. When anything nasty happens in real life, I am awake and alert. I am able to control my emotions and actions.

During sleep things get out of control. My ability to suffer increases in a frightening way. When I wake up, I vividly remember the dream and feel the pain in my chest. The pain is real and doesn’t seem like a good thing to feel. Sometimes hours go by before I can get rid of the oppression of such painful feelings.

My reactions are extreme and show a lack of control. Sometimes during the nightmare, I divide myself into two different people, to be able to demarcate from the actions of the other self. For what I do as I dream, I suppose I control myself too much. I have a fair amount of repressed. That’s why I like to write suspense and horror or activities like tae bo.

Until my adolescence, I had periods of night terrors and somnambulism. The way I experience nightmares can be a residue from the past. Then I had the reassurance of my parents’ arms. These days I hug myself until the pain disappears.


Best of July and August 2017

Going Out
Now and then I go out more than usual. That is what has been happening lately. At least twice a week, for three consecutive weeks, I go out for dinner or some show. The usual would be once a week.

I had birthday parties, social dinners and shows. Wednesday I went to an electronic and contemporary dance show. Now I am thinking about Ceuzany.

It’s interesting how sometimes we feel like home and other times we opt for socializing.



I know I could be a writer because I have a vivid imagination. Where people only hear words, I see tones, meanings and aims that can be far from reality. Yet, they are more than real to me. Reality, for a writer, is fiction. And fiction, sometimes, becomes reality.

I always had this problem. I cannot stick to the apparent or superficial. I give meanings to images, words and whatever. When I write, a great part of this problem is solved. I transport reality, or what I perceive to be reality, to fiction. And there’s also this: if I write based on intuition, sometimes fiction becomes reality. I don’t transport fiction to reality, as a norm.

Just to give you an example, once I thought I hated someone. I wrote a short story about shooting that person and run away. Don’t worry. It was just a toy gun. I don’t know how it happened, but I stopped hating that person. Keeping things inside that I believe to be true is hard. Talking about them is therapeutical. Just because I deal a lot better with the written words, I suppose I could be a writer. 



There’s a character in a Jorge Amado novel called Tieta (Tieta do Agreste). Even though my cook has her own proper name, for some unknown reason she is called Tieta. She has been cooking and doing things in this house for almost two decades.

Last week, she was peeling sweet potatoes for a soup when she started mourning with pain. I rushed from the living, deeply worried. My first thought was that she could have seriously injured her hand or fingers with the sharp Swiss knife she likes to use. I run to the kitchen and asked. No answer from her side. She was bend over the sink, her arms hanging motionless and producing frightful noises. As I looked around and no blood was visible, I decided to give her some time to express the pain or whatever she was feeling. I looked at the time. It was just a little past 9am. I returned to the living.

Then I remembered Tieta’s mother. She is an old lady and something could have happened to her. Believing that such pain could only come from losing her mother, I returned to the kitchen and asked her again. As no signal came from her side, I decided to conclude that I was right. I approached a chair, where she sat, and rubbed her back. I left her on the chair, still mourning.

A few minutes later the mourning turned into a more strident noise, forcing me to see what was happening in the kitchen. It sounded like the fact that I knew about her mother was making her vocalize her pain with more intensity, what I believe to be the usual behavior of someone in shock. I found her twisting and yelling on the floor, between the chair and the stove. I told her: “Don’t you think you would feel more comfortable on the chair?” As she didn’t had a visible reaction, I went to the front garden and asked the guard to go around and see if he could help her, since all my efforts seem to be in vain. In fact, I was getting worried with the house routines. I had been waiting for her to calm down for more than an hour. I couldn’t even do her job, since she was blocking my access to the sink and stove.

Half an hour later, he succeeded in removing her from the kitchen and making her sit in a sunny place outside. I do believe the sun has curative powers over depressed people. It was almost 11am, nearly two hours after the mourning and yelling started, when I grabbed a less sharp knife to finish her job.

Suddenly, a very composed Tieta entered the kitchen and said: “I can’t work today. I am not sick but I have to go home. I don’t even explain what happened since you, white people, don’t understand our ways.” Her voice was firm and her tone was even of defying superiority. After being reassured that her mother was okay, I told her to go.

As soon as I could, I called the guard Sansão, whose real name is Samessone, because that’s how they pronounce around here, in Portuguese, the actual English version Samson, and asked: “After all, what on earth she had?” It was then that he, very respectfully, confirmed what I would never have guessed: “She had been possessed by a spirit.” 



Life is a balance between certainties and uncertainties. Love is made of certainties and uncertainties.

I have many uncertainties. He could be younger. He could be stronger. He could be healthier. He could be richer. He could be more in love. For a long time the uncertainties dominated. I could not be happy or make him happy.

Now I live with a certainty: he is the best that has ever happened in my life. If one day this is all over, I’ll be sure I had a certainty. No regrets or words to say. I will only conclude that he, like so many people, was more attentive to uncertainties than certainties.



I don’t feel like talking a lot about me. I am in the process of moving from one job to another. Still, my main goal is to find some security that will allow me to do the things I really like. Writing, for instance. Cooking and spending my time doing things around the house.

My mood is somber. Predictably somber… No sun, no smiles. The sun appeared in the middle of the morning, too timid to change my mood. I’m sure I’ll feel much better tomorrow or even today, after my usual long walk. 

Loving the Bad


I am like any other human being. I have good and bad in me. The good is very normal: diligent, inventive, persistent, responsible, organized, friendly and a few other aspects I cannot recall.

Probably, the only difference in me is the bad. I not only love the bad, as I consider it the best part of my personality. I love being proud and stubborn. I love being judgmental. I love being right and even being wrong in any judgment. I love the fact that I am sickly focused. I love my emotions. I love my mistrustfulness. I love my intuitiveness. I love the fact that I don’t need but one to feel happy. I love my sadness.

To ignore the bad in me is to ignore myself. It’s dying a little. Even so I am willing to welcome death, just to discover whatever there is to be discovered.