Letters from Gringolandia
Once upon a time there was a Brazilian girl traveling to the wild lands of Gringolandia. Sometimes she could not coalesce the mechanics of organization. Easily distracted by love affairs, too much work, too much play, by tiredness and by fear of failure. And with many projects laying scattered about in a hundred places and pieces she thinks that just the idea isn't good enough. The end
4
A Documentary Project
Description:
What does the contemporary interest in nostalgia mean?
Letters from Gringolandia is looking for first generation immigrants of all ages with written letters or video footage of stories of adaptation in another country. Stories will be selected and made into performance pieces along with written letters and personal trajectories of heightened awareness of how we, in the digital age, communicate with our origins.
Letters from Gringolandia is looking for first generation immigrants of all ages with written letters or video footage of stories of adaptation in another country. Stories will be selected and made into performance pieces along with written letters and personal trajectories of heightened awareness of how we, in the digital age, communicate with our origins.
The collection of letters and videos will last for about 6 months.
A performance and a gallery proposal exhibit will take place sometime after that.
People from all countries are welcomed to participate.
contact lettersfromgringolandia@gmail.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LettersFromGringolandia
We’ll never meet
We’ll never meet
have never
but we did.
We are
I read your name
the name I have read before,
because you wished for.
04.12.12
I miss that beach house. With its rooms, beds and pillows. The open porch with that mattress laying over for love making under the moonlight. Those pillows piled over each other covering the cold white walls making a nest for those with tired eyes. Everything about that beach house…
… was happiness.
(Source: galakospeculoos, via wellie)
I don’t know what comes over me. The other day I was just as happy to make everyone happy. At night in my bed, I don’t understand why (or maybe it’s my fertile imagination), I’m fervent and don’t know how to pray.
Dear dark human,
Your dark complexion must be unimaginable.
Your broken rebellion, secret sobbing and violence done to your pride is quite premature. Every one of your gestures is serious and full of sadness that obscures a whole sea of suffering.
My youth has not protected me from being able to guess your sense of purposefulness that never triumphs. What is your point?
You are a mystery even to the Universal books. You’re pain in need of a heart.
Not much remains to be added. No comfort will be possible. You are the saddest thing.
The main thing is not to forget. That no place is final, beyond each place there opens another. Of aromas and colors never seen before. Even brighter ones.
who is this?
That’s the danger of it. It prepares you to live but also exposes you to disappointments because it gives you a heightened concept of living. Until you can act perfectly naturally according to your own nature, you’ll never be happy.
I tend to start all my writings by “who is this?”
I only began to assert myself when I went to a different country. I could never go out with boys like other girls did. I wanted (and did) to experience their ideas, passions, dreams and desires. I loathed catholicism but still got up every Sunday morning by myself and walked up the street to the town’s only morning service. I had the feeling that I was missing something spiritual. I enjoyed the secret places, the robes and rituals. There was something there I couldn’t see like others did. I didn’t know what to look for. And the more I looked the more I wanted. Nothing seemed more romantic to my young mind.
I wanted too much of everything. And of anything.
I moved fundamentally by pride or lack of. I wanted this person. The reason to be this person. The way out of this person. The way inside and out of this person. I wanted to see what others could not. I wanted it all.
And I moved, contemplating the idea of knowing this person, now.
This second.
and the second that follows…
