Author Archives: Alice Salles

Let’s talk about… You and me

29 Tuesday Jan 2013

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butterfly-cycle1

I indulge in simple pleasures; I’m a woman of simple tastes.

I also like talking about things I live and often wonder and why should I not? I am the only one who’s constantly around and the only one I am stuck with until the end of my days. Tolerating myself and understanding whatever it is that I am is part of this relentless pursuit of self, which is often tricky and rather exasperating.

I am an egoist but haven’t visited a salon to have my hair done or nails polished in over ten years (I’m 28-years-old, if you were wondering).

Let’s talk about how I see the word egotistic. It means… self-centered. Self-seeking. Self-absorbed – When I was a little girl, I used to repeat something I heard from either my father or the TV (I hope I got it from my deceased father, I would hate to find out I got this line from watching He-man or the Brazilian version of Sesame Street), I would take a deep breath, push my chest forward and proudly utter “your limit ends where mine begins!” The crowd, i.e. preschoolers and astonished school staff members, did not find it amusing. They often disagreed and either continued to push me around or ignore me completely, which was exactly what I wanted them to do.

Or was it? It was.

Starving for attention is not healthy but craving for the right attention, is. I always had the attention I needed.

I was (and still am), differently from some other kids I used to know, the daughter of parents who loved me so much they made sure to remind me of how important I was to them and how capable I was. They pointed out frequently that, as soon as I started to understand what was it that I wanted to do or be, I would have all the support in the world. My father wisely added that even if I didn’t figure it out in a timely fashion, they would be right there, supporting me, regardless.

I find it odd to hear about some people I know who never got to hear this from their folks. The fact is that support is an interesting word, it can change your world by empowering you but only if you take it at a somewhat moral (for lack of a better term) level and leave the concept of support as a crutch behind, especially while discovering in reality what you truly are or may, in time, become. A butterfly doesn’t go from caterpillar into the beautiful insect it is with the help of fellow members of the Lepidoptera family, does it?

My father knew from the get-go that by showing me that there’s a wild world out there I shouldn’t be afraid of and letting me see it my way, I would have a better chance of being successful; on my own terms.

He knew I would respect the fellow man’s decision to be his own man because I was given the opportunity to be my own woman.

I cannot say this enough but, how wonderful would this world be were all fathers and mothers out there as likely to teach their children the importance of self-seeking as they taught me. But then again, we’re all different and I’m happy it is that way ~

Is it a sin if it’s an idea

11 Friday Jan 2013

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white-rabbit-art-print-20-Corella-Design-on-etsySo I sat here and tried to write. Write about freedom. About the incredible people whose dedication has been inspiring me lately, about the ideas I’ve mastered over periods of listening, reading, debating and understanding.

I sat down with the sole intention of writing about concepts and philosophy. I decided I was going to write about the satisfaction I cherish over being able to never fool myself into thinking that, staying in the dark and hanging on to whatever ignorance I was never smitten with, was my way out of misery.

I sat down and stared at the white screen as I quietly waited for the right words to come to me.

Well, it didn’t happen. Ideas never translated plans into words and all I could possibly focus on was how sad I felt. I intellectualized my sadness, of course. I knew its cause, I knew exactly what led me to feel this way and why, as a human being, I’m vulnerable to this particular kind of pain. I understand the pain I feel and reason with it, however, it refuses to reason back. I am left behind, empty-handed, without assuming I have any rights to debate over what it is that I should do after feeling the way I do.

My pain has a name and because its name is cursed and its owner has left the building, the idea of him is all I have left. When an idea, not individuals, is all one has left to look up to, intellectualizing emotions is nothing short of extraordinary.

As I sat and contemplated how the belligerent feeling took over, I noticed my emotional actions could and should be forgiven.

I was, after all, crying for an idea and a good idea is as mighty as a mountain. It is the fabric I use to fashion my convictions which, like the skin that faithfully encases my body, is always ready to keep me together even through the most ferocious of rants. ~

I love the dying sun

09 Friday Nov 2012

Posted by in Living

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As much as I love the gloominess of a barely autumn-like Los Angeles, I must admit I do not enjoy seeing the sun going down so early.

I never get to savor it.

One of the things that made me fall in love with this place was the golden color of the sunrises and sunsets, and some of the most beautiful things I’ve ever lived here happened during those hours. It’s the time of the day I know I’m alive so when the sun doesn’t rise or set like it used to, I don’t take it lightly.

Regardless of my mild-sun loving ways, I love the grey (ish) season.

I love to wear my vegan leather jacket and continue to wear my flannels that now, look much more fitting than before.

The thing is, I love the dying sun.

It’s as if during its last gasp for air, the sun chooses to send its last golden rays out with a kind of intensity that aims to comfort and cause affliction. Its message is clear: “you will need me again and you will miss me until then, miss me terribly”.

I’ve heard it one too many times and I feel just as hopeless as I’ve felt the first times regardless of how many more times I’ll feel the same way and how many more times I’ll wish to simply let it go.

You see, I’m not protesting, like so many Angelenos do and giving the sky of grey that reminds me so much of my hometown a so-and-so look, I’m inviting it to stay. Instead of complaining or feeling blue I gasp for this somewhat crisp air and wonder if, somewhere else, the sun is shining its golden, desolate rays upon somebody who, like me, missed it heavily for a while.

I wonder if she or he feels lost without it, like I do ~

*picture by moi

Instruction manual

19 Friday Oct 2012

Posted by in Dying, Living

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Living only made me think about dying, that’s why I believe human’s true mission in life is to learn to let go.

Yes, you say, we never learn to let go.

Those who seem to be able to let go easier of things and people can’t even learn to let go of their previously-acquired bitterness.

Yes. Those who can let go are called bitter yet they’re only doing what they were told to do.

By whom?

Life.

Life doesn’t tell us anything.

Of course not – it whispers. If  life lived amongst us it would learn to scream and the whole world would listen to the painful sound of letting go; after all, not even life itself lets go of it easily.

You fool, you say, there’s nothing wrong with letting go and dealing with loss your own way.

I know.

So how come you’re sitting here telling me that human’s mission in life is to learn to let go?

Because it’s the only thing none of us was ever able to learn.

~

You know what else? – what?

Irony is life’s instruction manual.

It’s your decision

02 Tuesday Oct 2012

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I guess we’ve been told as kids that anything in the world can be ours if we only try but trying is not the type of thing one knows how to pass on. From day one on, instead, we learn that trying is hard and that to give in to temptation is nothing but a flaw of character.

Well,

Trying is seemingly nothing but tempting to give in to the kinds of visions you’ve nurtured and never imagined to be as close to you as the ocean is to the sand, and I say this with the authority of one who fears trying too hard and failing or trying too little and accomplishing it all, which would surely lead to a heartbreak too intense to bear – too humiliating to harness – and too pale to sustain as shield from all the shinny things I never tempted to venture with.

Temptation; the damnation of a willing mind attempting to try it all. The design that excuses us into the structure of a cave that was never meant for human living. The remaining bones of the skeleton of this true flaw of character: wanting to experiment with life and being allowed to fail or not, which is inherently earthlike and will never be otherwise.

Let me tempt and temper, let me run amok or lay down quietly, let me fail or succeed but let me.

I’m not asking nicely. ~

It’s all about the warmth

10 Monday Sep 2012

Posted by in Living

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If I had a thing to tell my unborn child it would be: it’s all about the warmth, the texture and the smell of the skin, clothes and hair. How close you feel to those you love and how well you recognize their scent.

I know, it sounds a bit beast-like and unremarkable even but, that’s exactly what I would tell him or her; it’s truly all about the warmth, texture and smells.

The texture of my father’s favorite suit, its scent and distinctive shade of grey are all crystal clear to me even today, thirteen years after I last saw him wearing it. Last year, when I visited Brazil, I was quite shocked to see that my youngest brother, the man who was named after our old man, received me at the airport wearing our dad’s favorite jacket. I noticed how well it fit him and how mighty he looked in it. I was shocked not because I was appalled or even bothered, quite the contrary: I was honored I was able to remember the texture and smell of that jacket for so many years without losing any bit of what it meant to me.

I was delighted that the moment I was in its presence again I knew that my memory hadn’t failed me: who my father had been was exactly what I’ve always known him to be. His scent, the texture of his outfit and the brutally tanned skin of his hands would never change because certain memories are hard to kill.

What my unborn child must know, however, is that memories do trick us so he or she must learn to notice the difference and keep it simple: smells don’t change, the texture doesn’t waste away and the way light runs through the hair will brand our memories like hot iron on warm skin.

I would tell him or her that the warmth of our loved one’s presence will never disperse or lose its weight because our whole existence makes room for their warmth, the same way the earth makes room for roots to grow forever and the air allows trees all the space in the world so their branches can reach endless skies.

Maybe, someday when my unborn children are actually around they will learn that I was mistaken and that it’s not really all about the texture and scent but more about the weight and the colors… I don’t mind. They will be their own people by then and they will have experiences of their own but I will want them to know that

~ I will never forget the texture of their favorite jackets, the scent of their wavy hair, the color of the skin that protects their bare hands and that I shall take this memory along with me, even when I’m gone and my body has turned into the dust of a star out there, somewhere in the sky.

My shape will resemble the sun’s light running through their hair and the glow I’ll flare as a star in their skies will remind them of their own warmth. Forever. ~

Love story ~

15 Wednesday Aug 2012

Posted by in Living, True story?

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Legend has it that when the Sioux were ambushed and they were suddenly taken by the necessity of fleeting or fighting, a man could take whatever pony he could get his hands on. Common sense, however, advised warriors to keep in mind that everything they snatched from their invader’s possessions would later belong to the man who owned the pony they rode, or his immediate family.

Legend also has it that the only reason any ‘hostile’ Indian ever accepted to go to war and fight the white man was to respond to the very contemptuous way Americans treated them while exterminating their peers: an entire Nation of perfectly flawed human beings.

Four years after Abraham Lincoln decided to authorize the mass execution of over thirty Indians because they reacted to the brutality of Colorado settlers, Johnson decided to go ahead and veto the deceased’s Civil Rights Bill but congress stepped in and overruled his disregard for their fellow Americans. In 1866, The United States government finally gave equal rights to all individuals, black, white, green or blue who were born in the United States, except for those who were natives of the land: the red skins.

Much is discussed, little is known but one of the greatest histories of genocide of all times is that of the Indigenous peoples of all Americas.

Running after game, singing for peace, dancing for rain.

While I learn about them, all I can think is that it must have been terrifying, for the white man, to see how the Indian man lived off his land. When a blizzard blinded his ride or a heat wave knocked his bravest men down, the Indian knew better. When a whirlwind blew his tepee away or the buffalo barely came into view, the Indian knew better.

How awfully uncomfortable it must have been to the white man to know that these people knew how to heal the land, plant seeds and grow corn. How extraordinary it seemed that such people sang songs to their dead, treated their awkward-looking guests in a decorous and praiseworthy manner and found no reason to fear being out, under the only roof they knew: the wide skies that covered their lands.

How dramatic it is to learn of someone so infinitely comfortable with the world you’ve fought so hard to stay away from, how arresting the sight of this people must have been to the people of Europe.

I know, every story has two sides, coins fall facing different directions every time and every single man finds a good reason to act the way he acts, thus, I too believe were I to be there at the same place and time they were, I would also feel just as overwhelmed by the natives’ beauty and confidence as they felt; I too would feel compelled to look at them in awe.

What I wish they had remembered when the violent wave of intolerance kicked in is what I always knew to be the truth: the colors that tint the contents of their sharp edged eyes are exactly the same colors that tint my own. ~picture: Aaron Huey; source: Honor The Treaties.

We like to chisel what does not break

04 Saturday Aug 2012

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If I were to write a story and use me as a character, I would.

To be honest, I never truly thought I would say this but, now, I know for a fact that I see myself as me. The way one struggles to see oneself throughout their existence: I am what I am and what the hell can I do to change? When I ask this question and answer it plainly, I do not attach any negative overtone to the query’s essence, all I’m really implying is that nature is a thing of being not shaping and shaping is human’s unnaturally acquired response to everything that scares him (or her, feminists).

Sculpting oneself is quite a task but sometimes hands are only hands, and they are meant only to sculpt what nature freely offers us while we repeatedly repudiate its organic challenge.

We seek what is not inclined to gain from us through a symbiotic relationship nor give us anything in any dependable manner because we like to bend what cannot bow and we like to chisel what does not break.

I can break, bend and kneel. I can melt, cry and dance. I can live, survive and even die. I can fly high and dive deep into the most wonderful adventures and I never forget where I came from. I know now, it’s not me who needs shaping; it’s what nature so thoughtlessly furnishes me with by not picking and choosing how green my luck is going to be like.

Oh man, if I knew that ten years ago… ~

One, or is it all?

27 Friday Jul 2012

Posted by in True story?

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I write.

I do that constantly and I’ve done it for as long as I can remember.

For many years I decided I would continue doing so in hiding, away from everybody’s criticizing words, invasive eyes and piercing judgment. I would write silently, in a corner; pretending I was studying for the History test I never needed to study for, pretending I was perhaps concerned with the state of the world’s affairs by keeping the newspaper clumsily folded on my desk or pretending I was reading some book when all I was really doing was to picture Rimbaud grabbing coffee by the counter while Clarice smoked outside, talking to the birds.

I’m a professional speculator, a realistic romantic. The I in mine speaks so loud to me I was coerced to believe I was wrong to feel the way I felt. To think that the things I saw and wanted to experience were a kind of misunderstanding of what will of power stood for. They led me to believe I could fly but took the parachutes off my backpack; oh boy. They sure like doing that.

How many stories like this have we heard?

Countless.

I wanted this, I saw that, I wished for this but got only that. I wanted, I hoped, I dreamed, I lost it, what I never had.

What the world lacks is nothing, because the world needs nothing and asks for nothing: the world is a perfect environment because it expects nothing from its attributes – and that’s why it thrives. Animals need nothing but opportunity and humans, the most opportunistic of creatures, learned with the world that elements struggle to stand their ground. They fight to death for territory, hope for nothing but authority because elements do not carry the world’s take on existence.

We might want to make ourselves believe we were born tyrants, hopelessly addicted to power and dominion yet, the whole world knows better. Authoritarian and starving bellies do not stand a chance on their own, the same way a tree is not responsible for a forest nor a wave can cover the whole ocean on its own.

Man, as one, is good because he or she is all they know but man amongst men is what the group dictates and the power it sustains by being heavy in heart, in body and in mind.

For fear of all, I chose to be one – in hiding. And then I chose to be one – in plain sight.

Where does one go when one is gone? No one will ever know… but I. One of these days; shall do.

A bird, that’s all

11 Wednesday Jul 2012

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I’ve been out of ideas lately. Emptied out as a result of witnessing storms taking over foreign lands without ever attempting to hover about my territory.

I’ve silently noted the kind of hardships many endure to simply understand clearly what it is they are about in a world where individuality is facilitated just long enough for it to finally be deemed futile, long before the fruits of this personal labor are ripe.

I’ve been too quiet because the roots of these trees have been hollow for too long and I, well… I was never the kind of person who likes to create roots in dry lands.

These lands, ladies and gentlemen, are dry.

These eyes are wandering but not close enough to see.

These caravans too well travelled to roll and what can I do but personally choose to avoid seeing? Nothing.

So I silence my guts, retrieve my patience and allow others time to see what I see, except I never learn people don’t learn by following examples: they learn by tripping and falling, faces flat on the pavement, noses crushed by their own weight.

People learn by being unique in their common search for themselves and as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing more liberating than finally concluding that I’m nothing but a common bird and my song may not beat Bach’s No. 1 but it’s a song alright, in spite of its ordinary arrangement.