picosgemeos: (Montanhas)
A bit of silence and contemplation after work. #victoriapark #london #autumn #fall

Springtime, he brings up the bucket inside the well. He looks inside, sifts through what he can find. He’s alive again, ready to work.

Summertime, he falls in love with life. It’s beautiful outside, there’s too much to do. He sets his writings aside.

Then autumn arrives. The shortening of days, the falling leaves – his pen and papers call to him. So many adventures to record, stories to tell.

But autumn doesn’t last long. Suddenly, he’s mired in bleak winter. Nothing better to do then but sit by the fire with a pile of books and wait for spring again.

The Seasons

Dec. 1st, 2015 07:08 am
picosgemeos: (Montanhas)
Underground Angst, No.1

Spring is when we are young – very young. We are learning to walk, speak, think. We don’t know ourselves. We shoot up, awkward sometimes.

In summer, we own the world, we gloat. We shine without realising, we cover the land with our steps. We make love and we dream.

Golden autumn, they say, is the most beautiful season. For others, it means S.A.D. Now we begin to slow down, watch bits and pieces fall. A chill runs through us.

Then winter arrives. We see the seasons in others and remember our own; wisdom alone brings joy. We stop and wait.
picosgemeos: (Montanhas)
lobisomem-5

Spring has arrived early in our part of Brasil.  In fact, we didn't really have a winter.  Unusual for us, we lit our fireplace only twice this winter - we didn't even need to buy extra firewood like previous years.  Farmers and locals that we talk to point out this strange weather pattern, how many years ago they used to have severe winters, awaking every morning to fields covered with frost.  Nowadays, when I get up at 6am to prepare breakfast for our guests, all I see are flimsy white clouds floating beneath the mountains, heralding another scorching day.

I decree the arrival of spring because of the reappearance of bugs in our breakfast room.  When I arrived in Brasil, December 2013, I had to spend a good chunk of each morning sweeping them out before I began laying out breakfast.  When temperatures dropped, they disappeared.  But they are now back and suddenly it feels right to unpack the summer clothes that were stored away, to return to the swimming pool.

The arrival of spring probably means the end of local werewolf stories.  These are stories I've been hearing since I was a child, and that have circulated in this community probably since its inception.  Stories told around fires at night, when electricity still hadn't arrived here.  Stories shared by neighbours during the day, when they couldn't account for the bloody killing of all their chicken.  Stories that have grown in shape and size, much like their subject.

The villain of a popular soap opera recently said: "I was born under a full moon, on a Friday 13th. Nothing can stop me!" Well, it is exactly a person born under this kind of conditions that turns into a werewolf  (and maybe that's exactly what will happen to this villain - it's not unheard of in brasilian soaps.)  Everyone is certain of one thing: the werewolf in this town is black ("black as the night").  He/she looks like a giant dog and, at first, that's what witnesses think they are seeing.  It's only when the werewolf begins to move that they realise they are dealing with the paranormal. Another interesting fact about our local werewolf is that many claim to know who he is: they point the finger at a man with very long fingernails who lives in a squalid house with his mentally ill brother. Somebody started the rumour, most certainly because of the long fingernails, and now everyone looks at him with suspicion. [1]

I've asked my employees what they think of the werewolf stories and they all believe it.  Some claim to have seen it or have neighbours who have made that claim.  One even told me a story that sounds like an urban legend: that a mother with her child was walking home one night when, suddenly, she noticed she was being followed.  The dog was black and terrifyingly large. Fearing for her baby, who was wrapped in a blanket, she picked up her pace.  She soon realised the werewolf was following her and that she was in danger; she began to run.  She felt the creature behind her leap and snap at her; it took hold of the blanket and pulled. She held tight to her baby and managed to escape, arriving home.  She realised however that the baby's blanket had been torn.

When her husband arrived, she told him of their ordeal. The husband said nothing but smiled.  And when he smiled she saw bits of the baby's blanket stuck in his teeth...

[1] There's something to be said about how a small community can turn on its own - usually the one that is slightly strange, mentally ill, etc. Luckily this particular community hasn't gone as far as lynching or burning...
picosgemeos: (Montanhas)

A song at my finger tips, sun warming this space, shadows flying down the floor (and some smash into the glass, and break their necks), following the green up the hill, a form stretched out, the glass rattles with the wind.

Sitting in the guesthouse's reception after serving breakfast and clearing out tables. Sunny sunday, no sign of winter.

A drilling sound in my head like a truck going down our dirt road.

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Ollie

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