Thursday, September 3, 2009

What Does One Pierced Nipple Mean In A Woman

The city of big leaves ....

I went back recently in Mozambique, a handful of days that still count on the fingers ... and yet that fact more than a trip, I feel a shift in time, a shift from today to yesterday's world sharing common spaces but not rhythms. My
always appears to me like a journey that starts from what is now 'at what time and a' state and that, for now, not 'nothing but my future here in this land far from where I was born.

's a feeling that always accompanies me whenever I get on the first plane of the Meridian line that drags me away from the rugged coastline of the blue my beloved island, until the last landing, I am sure the arrival attacked by' smell of warm and a strange feeling of not conceive the usual confines of the world in terms of space, but in terms of time.

Yet who has traveled knows the world is spinning at different speeds, each place has its own rhythm, each moment has its weight, every life has its way, every people has its own story, each man his destiny.
For me it 's hard to know what my time. Eager to go anywhere and for any good reason in the world, sure to discover in every corner of earth and sky a bit of roof and a house where he is temporarily put down roots, I feel uncertain at times to understand where and when to rest the next step. Therefore, as a mangrove, cast my roots to float on the water ready to slip away before collapsing.
Once in a puzzling game Aztec fate had told me "you will be eternally foreign in your own home. You are destined to travel, wherever you feel at home, but nowhere is really home ". Those words jealously preserved in memory and I have written in a notebook every time I open up to mirror a fate that I myself am convinced to create.

These days I'm reading "A fortune teller told me," a book of candid man I admire deeply, Tiziano Terzani. And its 'a long journey through time and space from the West to his "antagonism" East, a long, hard journey to discover what they are, and especially if there are laws of predictability' for a future that remains uncertain.
Reading him, feeling him dig in ancient cultures and modern reinterpretations (secular) of old knowledge to discover the common thread that unites every single event in his life, I myself see myself on summer nights when the sky seems a little more close to man, I look in the stars that surround the usual response.
The answer to a question I have taught in bizarre circumstances when I was already an adult: "To where I'm going and why I came?".
far not answered here or in the stars or in the papers, nor in the lines of the hand, nor intellect, nor in my heart ...

Sometimes when I walk the streets of Maputo, I see magic in the huge trees they eat the asphalt roads and concrete sidewalks. They are trees with large bodies and strong as Titans, they have long beards down to the ground. They are trees with purple flowers, pink, yellow, red, white, and when their leaves collect rain water as the large hands. During the summer when the sun stands still in the middle of the sky beyond the horizon and still warm, if it were not for their shelter, no one could move from home. Written on them I see the history of this country, because I imagine that they see from their leaves people's lives run in a slow change that does not concern them. A
no one prune them, no one touches them, if nobody disturb the soil and destroy their veins invade the space, no one questions their eternal existence.
I think we probably would have cut them to put in their place of trees and beautiful flower beds neat and drinking to measure the city for good, no history, no past, no memory. Easier to control.
Here however, it still allows that the time left its mark on the trunks of trees and every house with a courtyard, each of those we are accustomed to call cabins, rest in the shade of his tree larger. Mango trees or in the rainy season that mafura generous gift and juicy yellow fruits.

Why am I talking about trees and destiny?
Because the first image I see, just the last plane flies over my long journey of Maputo, are the major branches of the trees around the city.
Large branches that I predict the arrival that reminds me of a destiny chosen and known as life lines on their hands trace the history lived in their country, a country where I chose to come to live a strange interweaving of events.

And that thought while I go down stairs cautiously rickety plane, a continuation of the usual strange feeling of not ever figure out if they match or are returned.

first and last photos taken from the internet


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