to the memories of good times

to times

today i was looking at kate millett's photos. the powerful feminist, 1970s, sexual politics, energy energy. she was married to a japanese artist, 1960s to 1980s. she slept with other people. she was bisexual, new york some decades ago must have been disconcertingly wild. i'd like that. financial capital wasn't yet controlling our cells and our thoughts, streets were probably dirtier, brazil was under a violent dictatorship, one could dream of something. no facebook no tinder no start-ups no no no no. afternoon park punk rock neoconcretism weed lsd. young, she looked like so many people i know, ready to take over, power of the body=power of the mind. let's fuck the system. on some pictures she is old, she is old like my grandmother when she was close to die. white head. smiley face. vague gaze. my grandmother, who could barely master any language, grew up in an ethnic community in the interior of rio, domestic life, quiet life, no words, same gesture day in day out. her revolution was nowhere to be seen, but hopefully somewhere to be felt. they both died, the photographs don't lie (they lie all the time), they are like the bodies, they age while they show aging. i can't look at photographs, and any movie makes me cry.

chorar se parece com ressaca do dia seguinte