É aquela altura do ano outra vez...

...e houve muitos filmes que falhei, mas dos que vi, estes ficaram-me na memória este ano...

tada

Second Language

I was born many many miles away

not so long ago.

The sun was shining,

(Winter sun),

And some months after

I said my first word

(Whatever it was)

In my mother’s language.

To fly away, I taught myself different sounds.

Different letters, strange alphabets.

Unreasonable grammar

Spelling holocaust.

I became very good at it.

And I flew my mother,

My mother’s land,

My mother’s language.

And now

My tongue obeys to

A stepmaster.

And I could eat with it

I could drink with it

I could work with it

I could live with it

But my heart skipped a beat

Every time my mother’s tongue

passed me by the street

My soul ached every time

my eyes found my mother’s words

My brain wanted my mother’s

voice melody to fall asleep.

My second language

is not second nature

I can’t I can’t I can’t

My second language

Is not me.

It has a different self

Attached to it

and I don’t like her

one bit.

One day

Our paths crossed

and decided to go parallel

(for the time being, lover,

nothing lasts for long

especially when it feels this good)

You have left your mother’s language

in your mother’s country

Many years ago.

and I closed my mother’s door

behind me

and with her

all the words

that you didn’t understand

and you burned all the books

that I couldn’t read

and now my second language

took over my heart.

SG, 4.06.11

Sympton Recital

I do not like my state of mind;

I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.

I hate my legs, I hate my hands,

I do not yearn for lovelier lands.

I dread the dawn's recurrent light;

I hate to go to bed at night.

I snoot at simple, earnest folk.

I cannot take the gentlest joke.

I find no peace in paint or type.

My world is but a lot of tripe.

I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.

For what I think, I'd be arrested.

I am not sick, I am not well.

My quondam dreams are shot to hell.

My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;

I do not like me any more.

I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.

I ponder on the narrow house.

I shudder at the thought of men...

I'm due to fall in love again.

Dorothy Parker