Saturday was uncommonly hot and I decided to go to Fatima for personal reasons. I didn’t want to ask God anything as if for asking and protecting God would exist – somewhere or in our minds. I went there because the last time I went there it was thirty years ago with one girl friend who I loved so much, and now I know that she left me for that same reason. As anything is about love, there I was: on the right spot. If God exists, and possibly exist, but as we never saw Him, unless in certain peculiar moments or states of spirit, most possibly He exists in a different form than we think. So, there I was in the middle of a multitude coming from different parts of the world, notified by the different languages I heard, mostly Italian, Spanish and Polish. Being there, I bought a candle in an attempt to wire me to Him through fire. But no, I couldn’t put the candle gently on a holder, everybody in the crowd received harsh orders to throw the candle to the pyre, and I couldn’t even approach it because the temperature reminded me the Hell. Then, I went to the mess, but couldn’t enter inside the Church, full of lost souls like mine. Lost and tired from this temple now converted into an open market. Then I returned to Lisbon, but I was decided anyhow to attend the mess, I was badly needing, I feel myself a God hunter, someone who wants to believe, and in truth, many times miracles saved my life, so He must exist, but I want to know why He passes our entire lives hidden, feeding unnecessary doubts. I want to know if God is our craziest invention, an invention that justifies wars, or an invention that gives a sense of family life. So, as I said, I went to the local mess in my neighborhood. The priest looked at me (or it seemed to me) with curiosity and start the homily about priesthood and noble professions. That our lives on Earth are a priesthood, that life is a sacrifice dedicated to others and society, that above all it is love the most important value, that God expresses Himself to us through Love. Then, the mess ended and the priest with his acolyte left through the central alley, and when walking with dignity accompanied by the old organ and spiritual songs, a blond young woman in colorful dress called him aside and whisper with a smile some words to him, and then he continued the way, but now with a more joyous and bright expression on his face. A middle aged couple was by my side and I heard the man whispering to his wife: “And she said: at eleven, in my house”…
St. Augustine gave a definition of Time that to me seems a little confused, clearly he (or anyone else) doesn’t understand what is Time, but in all treatises on Physics authors insist on quoting him perhaps because he was an authority of the Church. I am just a regular guy but I dare to talk about it, the Time, perhaps because, with age I know that is becoming scarce. So, Time is not the same for everyone. As held by Martin Heidegger, Time is not dissociated from Being, that’s what I felt today when walked by me an acquaintance, already dragging her foot and a little bald too. Not long ago, maybe ten years ago from now, I saw her coming out from a local nightclub with an exaggerated miniskirt, although I also remember to notice that her legs didn’t look that bad. We all have an endless number of memories, with no importance to others but that make us a being. So, Time is not a passive entity, it transforms things. Those memories appear to me most of the time in the form of photographs, in fact I only rarely recall some moments of my life as if they were like a movie. I still strangely remember, for example, that moment when I hit hard with my head on the floor at the moonlight of East Africa, and, scared, I felt slipping the blood over my face. I have another image, now quite faded perhaps due to the intense African light, when I was still a kid walking on a Sunday morning with my dad in the Chinatown of Catembe, on the other side of Maputo, made of huts supported on wooden pillars and with a young Asian fisherman looking deep into the Bay. I don’t know who made us or why we are here, but I suspect that the Creator did/do the work according to His own view of things. I don’t wonder about Who is God, I really don’t want to know. Not that He wanted to reveal to me, that He wanted to reveal to us, because that would be absurd. If God revealed Himself to us, some people would be shocked with the Revelation because He could be trough, have an unaesthetic sign on His Face, or even being married to a Harridan. If God doesn’t reveal to anyone it is because He wishes we may find Him inside of us. Also I’m not looking for you to tell me what’s the meaning of life because then everything would lose the grace. Imagine that someone or He reveals the meaning of life. Suppose for a moment that He asserts that the “meaning of life” is working 8 hours a day, resting on Sundays and get retired at 66. This meaning of life is constantly reminded in social media, for convenience. Horror! God didn’t create the world for that grotesque purpose. God Did His Creation with a kind of notebook in white pages: “My son, the meaning of life is whatever you want to give to your life.” He meant: surrender to the wonderful, be creative, give yourself a purpose, awareness, patient.
If God prepared us for death it is because He has other plans for His Creation. I don’t believe death ends with everything. If God made us with short lived lives then I feel the right to complain. Because if I were god I would give to anyone the opportunity to enjoy several lives. And all with a happy ending.
“That’s life (that’s life) that’s what people say, You’re riding high in April, Shot down in May”…Said Sinatra and he was right. “But I know I’m gonna change that tune” and I start this morning. To begin I wake up at 9:00 am…instead of 7:00. I told to my self: «I want wake-up with a purpose» because the rigor of the rules with which we live doesn’t suit me. I like to think, to play, to dance, yes, to dance, even alone, swirling my body like a shaman. That’s my profession, my real profession: shaman. To me a shaman is someone able to call the dark and as well light forces of the hidden universe, it is someone beyond the arithmetic of life, 2+2= 4. I want to live near people who have a higher purpose in life and doesn’t fear death. I want to live near poets, scientists-poets, beautiful ladies that aren’t aware of the treasure hidden inside their souls. Maybe you are not quite following me, but Brexit and the right-wing parties in the UK and the stupid guys in power in Brussels put me thinking about this damn life. Have you heard the news? The guys in Brussels want to push things faster for the UK to leave for good the EU… It is unbearable to watch them acting like teenagers because their bodies are old, but their minds were fabricated in the tumultuous, tortuous process for winning the political power. So, they didn’t grow up as we are supposed to do, and we, citizens, didn’t figure out yet how to put them out of the political power. They pretend to be liberal, democrats, but in practice, they follow the Marxist-Leninist-Maoist slogan “Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun”... Of course, these unspeakable criminals that call themselves warriors of religions, AKA terrorists, they are teenagers too, because they didn’t grasp one damn thing about life (in fact, they destroy life)… All this apparently confused thoughts result from a sad news I received. I am talking about a friend of mine, a women, that was a teacher in high school and poet. A poet. Her life wasn’t riding well. She died three days ago, but another friend of mine (and her), in Cape Vert, received from her, one day after she was dead from a heart stroke, a phone message telling her some trivial kinds of stuff about life and ending with an «I love you».
And that’s when I understood her message. We may die, but we all should leave in this material world a beautiful message for our friends. That should be our purpose.
I am not a religious person in the traditional sense of the word. I believe in a transcendence, something that I feel everyday. And I don’t believe in chances “God doesn’t play dice” (right?). So, when I visited last summer the sanctuary of “Nossa Senhora da Peneda” I had suddenly a strange feeling while I was sitting in a coffee-shop just in front of the Sanctuary. Because, suddenly I asked to my self: «Why people built this sanctuary here, side by side with this rock (penedo)?» Then I looked attentively around the rock, trying to discern some signs of the Virgin Mary or other Christian deity, but I couldn’t figure out none. Then, suddenly, I saw what is registered in the photo I took at the moment… The perfect image of na Alien with short neck and even the incredible focus of light incident on the supposed eye…Then I saw this Alien with a number 933 in yellow, by the way, I was happy, because, according to the specialists in this hidden realm, “The repeating Angel Number 933 indicates that you are fully supported, surrounded and loved by the angels and higher beings of the spiritual realm.” The story about this sanctuary goes like this: «Legend has it that the Lady of Peneda appeared in August 5, 1220, to a child who pastored some goats between those rocky places. The Lady appeared to her in the form of a white dove flying around. He asked her to tell the inhabitants of the place of Gavieira to build him a chapel in that place. The shepherdess, when arriving home, told her story to their parents, but they did not give him great credit. Later, when the shepherd was taking care of her goats in the same location, the Lady appeared again, now in the form of the image that exists today, and said that “since you do not want to give credit to what I say, go to the place of Roussas where‘s a woman crippled for eighteen years and say to the residents of the place to bring her to my presence, so that I will give back her to a perfect health state, and so will you believe what I command to you. The woman’s name was Domenica Gregory.»
The next time you visit this place, your interrogations will be beyond the common realm. Will be from another galaxy.
May him protect us all!
One day…well one day in November of 1974 I step down from a Boeing 747 coming from Lourenço Marques (now Maputo), Mozambique, and since then, I knew…I knew I was born to love. Then I realize it was the end of an era and the beginning of a new period of my life. I ran away alone in that huge airplane, a war refugee of a renewed attempt to reconfigure the world according to the vision and wishes of the outstanding persons that rule planet Earth (Aliens, politicians, who else?). Despite to be quite young, just fifteen years old and leaving behind all my family, friends, and my beloved country where I was born, I was happy. Oh, yes!
Because, that was the beginning of my chronicles from Lisbon…
Visit Lisbon: http://lisbon.arounder.com/
From the tropical urban landscape of Maputo, full of trees of exotic scents, colorful flowers growing up in a straight network of streets and enlivened by the beautiful Mozambican people, I arrived to Lisbon to discover a european capital, full of history and splendorous past. Lisbon is beautiful, believe me. But at the beginning it was easy for me to get lost in the apparently chaotic network of roads and traffic. Portuguese, in general (idiots apart), are so kind to foreign that it is sometimes painful to witness. I wonder why, the causes are so diverse, but I dare to name a few of them here:
– due to their past of travelling everywhere around the world for business (and later to make an empire!?… with a three millions of people at the time, and you see how dreamers they are…), they retained genetically an exquisite spiritual voluptuousness in their relationships with foreigners;
– the need to show that after all they live well, which is true to some extent, the extent of a hidden poverty, the poverty of their knowledge, because they lost it in more than two centuries of disgrace (don’t forget we had the second oldest university in the world after Salamanca, by the way, our very next neighbours).
So, this is what I got with my status of war refugee, and I am happy because life is good in this small country (all we need is to understand that with banksters and the political class we are not going anywhere, but probably this is the same problem everywhere).
Now that my memories are so fresh, I wonder where are you girl? Because I had three days to leave Africa in that Boeing 747, without saying a word of goodbye, without a whisper, without telling you to where I would go…
But how can I forget you girl? The words sometimes are missing, but there is always something there to remind me…