Three years ago I was living alone in an apartment building in downtown Sao Paulo and I was keeping a diary for the first time. I started writing observational sketches which later became a story about a time traveller who got stuck in an arsehole. A girlfriend told me it was really bad and I didn’t write again until "The sky and the sea and me" 20 months later. That story like many of the others is part fiction, part autobiography. I usually begin with a thought and this may trigger a memory or lead to a conversation I had during the day. I only include the information I think is absolutely necessary, sometimes choosing not to finish a characters’ sentence because the reader does not need to know everything that was said. I try to write 2 or three times a week and never more than a single side in my notebook which I carry around with me everywhere. A friend asked me why I write, and it’s not an easy question to answer. I think there is a satisfaction in trying to make sense of my thoughts which is similar to the feeling of taking a bin bag out for the rubbish collection.
Peanut lives about 30 yards from the pub.
He is called Peanut because he had
A small head when he was a kid
And not because he has a small dick.
He comes to the pub three or four times a week
To see the same ten/eleven people.
I’ve been walking around with someone else’s head for months now. I don’t know who it belongs to or how it came to be on my shoulders but it looks a lot like my head. Sometimes I wonder what happened to it, the head I had before, but no one has said anything so I keep it to myself.
She looks at me a moment before turning to walk toward the door. Pulling it open she hesitates and looks back over her shoulder.
Touching at the fingertips my hands dart out in front of me through the cool seawater that laps at my bottom lip making it salty. Turning my hands over in opposite directions I pull my arms back toward my sides propelling me through the water, though not as far as I would like. I was never a strong swimmer.