on a roof at the bus stop in the corner

It seems to be ridiculous when you think of it. Passed the trash-bin, where “God bless you” appears written in white letters on its top, the couple gets lost towards the infinite; towards the horizon of another street. Between the trees along the sidewalk a car drives from the opposite direction unveiling two silhouettes that hold hands. They are far away now. Maybe driving away in a cab because it would take too long to wait for the bus. Another possibility bares them walking, simply that, as they get lost in themselves beneath the dark blue cover pierced by cigarettes. One could even presume that the story has other proportions. That they had decided to come to this place, the bus stop, to spend their last hour together. She is flying away across Greenwich but he has to take the route south over the Ecuator. Maybe the bus stop was the roof above the benches in a baseball stadium two hours down from DC. Somebody could have been witness of that moment, even if he did not notice what was going on. They were looking at themselves in each other's eyes, what mattered if the man wanted to smoke a joint by the benches, what mattered if he was welcomed or not. What he did not know was that he did not matter. They were there only for each other and themselves, to disregard what fate brought upon them, to disrespect completely an uncertain future. A couple of shooting stars, no clocks, and a while of silence painted that night spoon-fed by an accomplice context. That night, they learned in silence not to utter excuses for the night itself became a promise to the eyes of the stars.

Back at the bus stop the prostitutes from the corner, that had been driven away minutes before the writer wrote his memories in fiction, returned from business only to step into a van with dark windows. He gets paranoid at the sight of a potential, definitely certain, thief-like character that glanced over his shoulder directly into his eyes. Following the rounds traced by the footprints of this uninvited guest, the threat disappears behind a monument. It is then when from inside a Volkswagen two mini skirts come out dancing to the tunes of a cold autumn night that made them shiver.

Two voices are heard across the plastic, and illuminated for publicities, side wall of the bus stop.

_You've got to open your head.

_I have no certainty, no security.

The bus comes, but its another bus.

_You have to let her know and make her respect that!

_It's pf my convenience to keep my mouth shut if I want to keep on cooking.

The voices get lost and decrease in volume while the light of the side of the bus stop starts to flicker intermittently, shutting down as the discussion on the opposite corner is lit up simultaneously. A couple of buses drive by but none of them is the writer's bus. Many faces defy the silence of the night, but none of them is a familiar one.

The discussion moves from the opposite corner towards the bus stop.

_When it's for you let it be for you.

Three taxis drive by.

_(the same voice is heard while the other one refutes unintelligibly) Come on Pelado, can't I tell you that?

The arguing subsides and the two characters sit behind the bus stop on a white ledge. A couple of meters right and behind the benches at the stop, the writer's eyes follow the onset of their departure. Two taxis that drive by escort them outside the reach of his glance. One could presume that story has other proportions.

Another ocean

When writing substitutes another action, the necessary movement we cannot avoid, the pen becomes the instrument that plays no music but needs to be tuned.

Luckily, somebody points out the obvious: "The writer has two hands." These, operate the most intricate missions or clap clap every time someone else proves him/herself worthy of being alive. Maybe it is because they are, merely, an extension of the human will to celebrate. Or, if not, it is valid to point out how they reach out to express gratitude whenever there is a chance.

Their mission today seems extraordinarily complicated; that is to utter those words that could not be opened. To reach across an ocean is not an easy task, but the sky will show the way as it has done it in the past. My hands cannot read this, do not worry, since it is only for your eyes.

What has not been written is needless to say. To tempt the future is to dig out the past. Nevertheless we are born every day to celebrate, to express gratitude. Some things are born adrift and find themselves when they look at the water. Those get drowned in themselves. Some people also look at the water but not that close, and they respect it. Then we have ourselves looking at the sea, for it is as far as we can see. If I could, my eyes would look straight into hers. But do not get me wrong here because I do it sometimes, even if you think she is not here.

To tempt the future, I kept a snapshot of the past one of those days my hands spoke to her in a notebook. There is nothing better than being home...

You arrived today, after an eventful year.
Probably, it is dinner time wherever the venue was. Here, it is a bit passed "mate-time" and the night is starting to show.

As I looked up, four friends revealed themselves. They seem to have arrived earlier than expected, since it was my plan to mention them but not this soon. While they stand still, what you have told me many times also earns a place in this letter.
- Go with them, we'll talk later.
Not today, not this night. If that place seemed convenient in the past, or even more, it only shows me something; pointing out the reasons for another story. What it shows has to do with the direction they point to, always the same. To think of it in more detail makes me acknowledge their privilege to be there witnessing us all. It is amazing what they are able to accomplish just by standing together. Nothings seems to be required of them because they have no names, no passports. The only way to find this place, them, is to put them together, tracing two lines that intersect with each other. Two lines that came from different points respectively and met in space projected by our imaginations.

I look up again and they do not point south anymore. They are what they are, even if their light is the memory of the strength they once had. A star could never shine so brightly if it were not because it decided to cling to that cloth ever so firmly.

It seems to be the point where the subject could be changed, but at the same time it is obvious the subject was never clear. Well, for a strange reason, Fede arrived and I will take the chance to change the topic and take a rest ( a mate).

...A moment ago I received the first message ever sent to me from Portugal. This message answered where the venue was and asked a question. It's funny to think of it since you asked me if I knew "donde vamos". Something a sailor thought to know from the masts that got lost passed the horizon. But the boats revealed a greater truth, that what comes to last forever comes uninvited even though its path lays in front of us and we do not notice it. Even though the question was about the name of a song it brings with it a lot more. As I am aware that reading between the lines means nothing more than staring at an empty page, the thought of what could be written taps me on the shoulder. Regardless of what the direction is, be it North or South, it will inevitably be forwards. In my case, like every night, it is to your encounter.

You have heard me trying to explain what it is that I feel,or how these feelings manifest. But to be completely honest, each and every time they show up, it is because of a single reason. Luckily, they are not occasional visitors and keep me company while we are away. As the previous sentence was being written , the film started rolling inside my head again. You walked down the stairs of 504 and I stood, mouth opened, in bedazzlement. This time, as my eyes were staring at the empty half of a notebook page.

Asking ourselves certain things should be forbidden at times. As you said it, it is because it's worth it. Worth what? It's like discussing how valid the kids argument is when he says he loves you all the way to the sky, and ask why not more. The answer is clear but incommensurable.

When my eyes looked up again the cross had moved through the grid in the sky. This reminds me, if we are always moving, the chances for us to see each other increase with every second that passes. Specially, because of my conviction and unrestrained desire.

All of that happened at a table the day you returned home



Tonight, I blew a ring of smoke. It was the most significant event this week. How cruel can my present be when I'm granted confidence by such an insignificant action. The real beauty of it stands behind its insignificance, as the great merit of appreciation lays behind each forehead; inside our heads. But physicians do not find the matter, the substance that turns sight or touch into experience. They can help us understand to understand, that is their merit. Nevertheless, nothing about the insignificant action of the night needs to be understood in terms of why and how it came to be. There was no understanding when, product of an insignificant action, the most significant event of the week came to take place.

The ring was slender and round. It's shape grew stronger as, in the air, the smoke turned from left to right encompassing an empty space, the air. The latter was not suffocated, was not trapped. The air did not stand alone in midst of smoke, for it had been turning round an around every minuscule spec or particle that dared to float in its sea.

A promise came from the inside; one that could have only been awaken by smoke and air. The ring came through and came to pass.

When a person has visitors, and they are as regarded, the visit lasts as time goes by. There is no need for clocks because we have the smoke ring that moved swiftly, floating right and upwards, to join the wild and untamed smoke that was never taken in. Where does my promise take me if, by its own nature, it is out of my control? Maybe I was conjured into this world by the lungs of somebody that also made a question and uttered a promise. If i remember correctly, that is how we came to be. Maybe I will come to pass, like a visitor, when the time to join the wild rest leads me to blend while disappearing.
What a destiny the ring has to bear, to turn on itself until its nothing but air, the very empty cuore he tried to embrace.

Tonight, I blew a smoke ring and said to myself: "if it lasts and it forms perfectly we have a chance". That meant the simple action became an event. With my eyes ready to witness, the lungs sent it away propelling the visitor. Playing with God or with my Guardian Angel (hoping it was the first since the second had been commended another mission), I made a claim about my destiny when determination could have been interpreted differently. Interpretation stays untouched to echo behind your forehead only. Then, I remembered how we bring our heads together when our noses touch and our eyes open too close to each other for them to distinguish between you or me. Then, I remembered when my arms surround you and bring you closer. Now, my heart beats faster when I recall the beats. Then, the rain reminded the writer of the bad weather that seemed to follow. But before the end of this paragraph we ran (well, you were on my back) passed the Greek theatre, passed the woods, passed the Gazeebo. You gave me a cigarette that night and I lit it underneath the rain. I could not blow a ring then, the night the heavens poured down on me an God made a promise. I can't end the paragraph before you read that the night in question is the night the mind was muted.

Altogether, it is only a smoke ring that lasted a few seconds but became the most significant part of the week.

Happy Birthday!

yours,