People: Life & Love.

Let me say I never believed the stories of the sailors. When in the old village, they gathered for banter, I used to see a mob of drunks, lying sacks of salt. From dawn ‘till dusk the lighthouse worked, and one night, its light shone more than ever.


For the banter was not only for the men of the sea, I ran the streets of Port Poole and upon arrival, I tried to reach the lantern without success. An innocent mate fooling around someone said, as I turned to see one of many, that I had seen. Something happened to me that night. I became a poet of sand, the type that vanishes with each current.

Your voice, like the sound of the seagulls, reminds me of something beyond belief. Like a seawolf or a mermaid. Old salt, tell me a story and take me to the sea. Let me be guided by the compass of your eyes. Let the waves of our bodies crash. Let it echo through a thousand shells.

The Sailor

The bedspread fell out of bed inadvertently, in a whirl of unexpected moves and turns. The shaking bed hit the wall twice, also inadvertently. When the holy war between knights was over, the lands of sheets were calmed, and the air of battle was filled with giggles and kind words. I imagined myself in the middle, not as an doer though, more like an observing ghost. I felt close. In a matter of minutes the field was empty; I felt empty. Then, a fly landed on the lens of my telescope blocking my sight, and I knew it was my last time.

The Voyeur

I don’t know if you know, but I certainly think you don’t. What it can awake is monstrous, almost obscene. The decline of human civilization, of righteousness and objectivity. And regardless of the fact that it can kill us, we live for it, we live by it. How many foolish hearts has it conquered? Leave my body ‘cause I want to be free. Leave my heart ‘cause I want to cry. Leave my soul ‘cause I want to die.

In bigger eyes I have seen myself, though never quite like yours. Impervious perfection of a fleeting man.

The Priest

When I was younger I worked as an English teacher, in a private language school. They taught French and German too. I was still in the spring of my youth; I remember I felt so alive, full of dreams. This was after the second war, around 1949. My father would drive me to work on the old Packard, and every time I arrived, there was a boy waiting for class to start. He was never late, always twenty minutes before or more. I would pass by him every day, and our eyes met every single time. He was tall, slim, blonde and had gentle blue eyes. By the time, I was sure of my desires, but I was definitely not sure about his. A month went by and it was the same routine every day; he was one of my colleague’s student. One time I had to stay late in the afternoon to help as a tutor for one of them, I was in my classroom waiting when he showed up. I started helping him with some exercises when he turned to look at me. I was behind his chair. I closed the door and we made love. That was the only time we were together. After two weeks I quit to work in a factory, as assistant manager. Now I don’t remember his name, but I like to tell our story.

The Teacher

For a minute I thought, soul mates, but we would both need to know that, and this is not the case. Then I tried to explain Plato’s love, and I found more than a glimpse of truthfulness, regardless of the Symposium’s wide range. Then again, I needed something simpler to explain why, and I found superlative. Just a simple adjective that says: you’re the best thing that has ever happened to my life.

The Writer

And there I was, listening to the crowd, the mob, the judgmental voices of right and wrong. And I was done, I decided to scape reality, to not listen mankind. I ran home, to my bedroom, then the desk, the drawer and it was useless. I ran to the attic, I moved boxes full of dust and in the way, squashed some bugs, and it was finally there, my dad’s red IBM Selectric. It was beautiful, everything I like about that time. The shape, the color, the story. My dad is a Kubrick’s fan. In my hands it felt weightless, with my thoughts as a block of concrete. The foundation of a life, a career, a passion. I still rewrite everything with Alexander, and it’s still beautiful.

The Dreamer

When you see a photo, something triggers in your brain and guts. Moving between emotions as they try to harness me to the ground. Don’t fly, but I want to fly. Don’t dream, but I want to dream. After so many years, I stopped flying in my dreams. I don’t remember them anymore. I feel the void and you’ll feel it too, as we are photograph livers and that’s what we do.

The Photographer

When you want to give yourself, do it without reserves. Even, when you know there’s nothing for you. When a bird sings, it doesn’t do it for the food, it sings because of the fulfillment it provides. When a stranger runs to the train tracks to save a sad bloke, he or she doesn’t do it for the reward, but because of the inner fire for another human soul. Do everything without reserves, maybe that’s how life is supposed to be. If it’s not, let me holler for the bird and bloke, let me follow the same train route.

The Poet