The Hectic Attic

What’s the most important room in your house? This would be a good question to begin a therapy analysis. I think it´s because when we reveal the most important place of the house in our opinion, we reveal the favorite place of our soul.

For some people, the most important place is the Kitchen, it’s not more beautiful or tidy. The tidiest place is the living room, remember? With the souvenirs, mirrors, rugs… In the living room children have to behave, wearing their masks. But the kitchen is different… there we are hungry, we have fire and happiness.

Remember those old stoves? Logs inside, coffee, sparkling fire, the smell of smoke, rosy cheeks…sometimes my soul misses these old country kitchens… these old stoves are different from the new ones, look at it like a single candle. A simple match can lighten it up. No art or science is necessary to do it, even children can do it! The lonely fire has a different personality. It’s different from the log fire, where we have to put a log in the perfect time, like in a fireplace.

People nowadays only know the electric or gas fire, they don’t know anything about the art of the logs, and with it much is lost. Exupèry said:

“somewhere the fire was burning and I could fly, and around the fire, some people were getting warm”.

Someone once said the men came to be when the first song was sung. And I think, it was sung by the fire. Before the song, the fire. A lighten fire can be a solitary communion. Solitary because the fire that sparkles there awakens some dreams that are only ours. But the solitary dreams become communitarian when we eat and warm up.

In the old houses in the countryside of my country, the kitchens used to be the last place of the house, the most distant from the entrance, like in my Grandparent´s house. Not because it was not important, but because it was protected by being there. To protect the intimacy of the family. It was also very close to a place of dreams, the Garden, where we could get some seasonings to cook special dreams.

But from living abroad I learnt something; many houses have their kitchens connected to the living room or some place people gather to talk. So everyone could enjoy the magic ritual of cooking, while listening to music and chatting. So, the cooking was part of the family and friendship routine. I would like to be many things, a pianist, gardener, writer, artist… life is short and the arts are many. But I would also like to be a cook.

My grandmother was a great cook (nowadays we cook for her, and she barely eat).I remember her cooking things that were so delicious I can´t describe, and she never had a notebook with recipes. (That´s why most of it was lost with her memory).

Sometime ago, when I used to have my own place, I used to like to invite friends to cook once a month. Yes, I didn´t invite them for dinner, I invited them to cook. The party used to start early, around 6 pm. And everyone helped, chopping, peeling, preparing. And we know, the objective is not the start, nor the end, it’s the path in between these two points. Eating is the end, but is very fast…but the path to get there is long. And we used to cook, drink a bit, eat a bit, laugh a lot, chat. It was ready about eleven o´clock. And we were happy.

Friends cooking before Poetry Sharing

Rossana and Cy working hard and being Happy

I feel happy when I cook, eve though I am not a cook. I prepare simple recipes, and like to try and create new ones. Cooking bring us close to the magical place of our soul, just like Vianne does in Chocolat by Joanne Harris, where through their food, they change the life of a whole country village… What makes me think I must finish reading this book now…

Fausto and Dani "wine experts"?

After feeding the body, we used to feed the soul with music, poetry, dance...ARTS!

Aline Cook Martins

PS: A blog´s death is promoted by shortage of comments.
A lot of visitors don´t realize that their comments are VITAL for the blog´s survival.
SAVE OUR BLOG! KEEP IT FED!

Looking through the window… can you see there?

Ah! It´s a GARDEN!

Once, a poet wanted to write a poem made of a single word. He was looking for a word that could translate the whole world…we never knew if he could do it. But, I think, poetry is looking for the essential word. Maybe when God made the Universe he thought: GARDEN! (or not)

A garden is the image of beauty, harmony, love, happiness. A writer, friend of mine once said that if he could choose a word to translate the world, Garden would be this word. After a long time waiting, finally, I could have my own garden. I had to wait, because gardens need a land to plant. And I didn´t have it. From my garden, I only had a dream. But one thing I know.I know, that dreams are the places where gardens start to grow, before coming to exist in “real life”.

A garden is a dream that became reality, it’s a part of our soul, being shown to the world with no shame… but the dreams are beautiful things. On their own, they can’t create much…maybe only birds with no wings…like songs that are never played, like seeds in small packs, waiting for someone to put them where they belong.

The dreams lived inside me. They were my own possession. But the land… didn’t exist. But someday, the land came to be… I know, I know it´s virtual, and we can only see from the window of this Dusty Attic, but look friends, what can you see? oh, my dream made love with the land and a garden was born! I didn´t need a gardener. They are excellent, to make real gardens beautiful. In fact, all I wanted was my garden to speak. Oh, you didn´t know gardens can speak?

The poet Guimarães Rosa- Brazilian Poet once said:

“There are many, millions of gardens, and they all talk to each other. The Birds of wind in the sky – always bring messages (…) Even now, there is a big garden, full of girls. Where a little girl, is making fairies… someday you will miss it…then you will know…”

Only those who miss something can understand the messages from the gardens, and we are the only one able to hear the message from our own garden. A garden is like a body. The nature becomes the lover in it…and it´s so good!

All I wanted was the garden from my dreams, that one that only existed because of the things I missed. Then, I was not looking for a real garden; I was looking for the poetic beauty from myself. I wanted to revive the lost happiness; the lost time…

Some time ago a friend said to another “Poor Aline, is nostalgic”. But this person didn’t realize that nostalgia doesn´t mean we stay crying all the time.
To miss is the pain we feel when we realize the distance between the dream and reality. It is realizing that the happiness will only come back when reality can become a dream.

I dream of a garden. We all dream of it. In each body, there is a paradise!

We are nothing but a butterfly. Our world, our destiny, our garden. An utopia.

The Birth of a Butterfly

It´s weird to notice how light comes during the night
How a smile comes with tears.
It´s weird how a storm, can make the land fertile again
How simple steps, can make a dance
everything is change

and…then, amidst all this darkness…

It came slowly, passed by as a breeze
soft, evolving my hectic nights
and night after night, it came back, with agile fingers, and broad smiles
to plant in me, a hope that for a long time had been broken

I looked for memories that were forgotten,
feelings of past lives soaked in tears, but still, I threw my net, and got
that single drop of the sea, that was waiting for me.

I held it carefully, as a diamond… how could a diamond so fragile?
Then, it vibrated, and as a reverse tear, it went up through my face
entered the windows of my soul, and installed itself in my heart.
After a long sigh, the world became a rainbow. The pain was gone.

I could feel that breeze within me, as arms
was it spreading inside me? I can´t be that big…
So, I had to get rid of things I didn´t want anymore.
And In a frenetic whirl of colours and horrors, I tried to create space.

But there was nothing left. So, I entered my own cave.
Organized the mysteries of my soul.
Maybe, that thing that grew within me, could find its purpose.

The breeze became a storm of kisses and smiles
A storm that raised seas of tears
An earthquake of senses and touches
and there, as a metamorphosis, between earth, sea and sky
I could understand the alchemy that was happening inside me

A butterfly was born …
in my back, the most delicate wings … unique, as I had never seen.
And tonight, I´ll fly, high, in search of my spring of inspiration.
It can be anywhere, doesn´t matter its name.
I´ll recognize it when I see for it is mine and it´s is part me.

Now, dear guest and creatures from this Attic…
what can you see in this garden?
What are you missing and Nostalgic about?

Love,
Aline Butterfly Martins

PS: here is a very close friend of mine.
Every morning I cross a park when going to work, and there lives a very special being. My family calls her “grandma”. (It is an elder indeed). I have shared with her my best and worst moments… Yes, It´s a magnificent tree (From Celso Daniel´s Park- Santo André -São Paulo-Brazil)

PPS: I know this Attic is quite Hectic, but
the comment link bellow does not bite! trust me!  

PS: A blog´s death is promoted by shortage of comments.
A lot of visitors don´t realize that their comments are VITAL for the blog´s survival.
SAVE OUR BLOG! KEEP IT FED!

I spent a good part of my childhood in my grandpa´s house.

To go in, we had to pass through a huge door. I never could understand the reason for such high doors, I used to think giants used to live there before ! When the door was open we could see a long, gloomy corridor, that ended at the stairs.

The living room, noble place of the house! inside you could see the candlesticks, the marble and crystal vases, statuettes and souvenirs from long trips, the huge mirrors, symbols of nobility displayed to visitors. In the room, the arrangement of the furniture did not give chance to doubts. The visitors were forced to sit in certain places and do certain things. There was no place there for mistakes. Everything had its place.

Then, there was a hallway leading into the private part of the house. And there were huge rooms one after the other. It was necessary to cross the first to go to the second …

The nights were haunted, governed by the carillon clock and its beat, useless information, which only served to make the insomnia even more excruciating.

It was fascinating to walk in those rooms. But what fascinated me was a THE FORBIDDEN ROOM, locked all the time.

In other times, when the house was full of children, all rooms were standard rooms. But…the children got married, the hard times came. Without use, that room was transformed into a deposit of old stuff, where neither people nor broom or duster was allowed in. It was forbidden to get in, and the key was always hidden.

To my uncles it was a place for the ugly things, the dust and spider webs. But for me it was the THE ROOM OF MYSTERY. If there was no mystery, the key would not be hidden nor, we would be forbidden to get in. The forbidden room is always the one we want to get in. We are fascinated by the mystery and the forbidden. The reason for this I do not understand, but I know that the human soul is made of it.

Well, I used to steal the key and, quietly, enter the room of mystery. The room was an enchanted place. Even what was considered horrible helped composing the scene: the accumulated dust on the furniture, the spider webs, the smell, everything was there to tell me the time had stopped there. Magic. The objects emerged from a world of dreams. The zither, with mother of pearl inlay: how long have been in that silence? And the paint palettes? covered with old paint. What was the last time a brush had touched it? A gramophone, old records …

I think my fascination for the room of mystery, was due to the fact that, inside, I AM like the room. My soul is a room where the weirdest objects are placed, without order, without any intention of doing so. In contrast to the living room, where each object is placed in a precise order in relation to others, in the room of mystery there is no order, no arrangement: each object is a COMPLETE UNIVERSE, does not depend on others.

For me every person has a living room clean and organized, open for general visitation, but also has a fascinating room of mystery which we only can get in if we steal the key. Some people think that the forbidden room is full of terrible things, corpses, excrement and horrible smell. And that is what they find, because we only find what we’re looking for. But for me, (that little girl in the forbidden place), the terrible things are just ornaments and enchanted things, frozen, asleep, out of time, such as Sleeping Beauty in the dust, with spider webs and wild plants, there, waiting for someone who will give the kiss that break the spell …

“So, this is the room of my mind. Therein lays everything: magic, poetry, insights being brewed. Just like in the Room of mystery, in my grandpa´s house… not many people will like to get in, and stay here, for it was built for enchanted ones”.

Why did I tell you that?

oh! just to say….

WELCOME TO

THE HECTIC ATTIC

PS: A blog´s death is promoted by shortage of comments.
A lot of visitors don´t realize that their comments are VITAL for the blog´s survival.
SAVE OUR BLOG! KEEP IT FED!