The sewing machine

Singer,
You are my great great-grandmother’s sewing machine
Like a propeller sounding machine
And old school gates
You are a metallic taste
You are weight and rust

I give you my memories
Which in turn make you more than just an inanimate object
I give you the stuff of life
Love, meaning and a story

Bring me the understanding and acceptance
that everything that we live happens only once

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I hear it before I see it. Propeller sounding machine. It slows down. Pauses. Resumes. Like propellers ready for take off. Then I see it. Singer sewing machine. It looks just like the one my mother inherited from her grandmother. Looking at this one now, in Bandipur, Nepal, I remember the one back home.

When I was little, I used to sit down on the pedal. It’s all metal, heavy and rusted, and I had a hard time making it move. Even with all of my weight on top of it. I didn’t know, then, how this woman in front of me could be performing her task so graciously and effortlessly. If you step on the pedal as you turn the wheel with one hand, the weight is gone. Suddenly, that heavy surface is moving in waves and requiring very little pressure on it. Because the simultaneous hand motion that keeps the wheel turning is constant.

I also remember the smell of that sewing machine – the smell it left on my hands after I ventured over, under and around it. It smelled like old school gates. Abandoned cars. It smelled of time past. That’s what everyone says you experience in your mouth when you’re on antibiotics. A metallic taste. We all know what that tastes like.

The trick to sowing, so I’m told, is feeding the thread into the hole, sliding the piece of cloth you’re working on and synching it to the speed of the up-and-down motion of the needle. In some ways, it’s like playing the drums. Each of your four limbs is performing a different task, independent of each other, but absolutely complementary and vital to the whole.

My mom’s not into cooking, but she learned to sew. And she’s left handed, which gives her a charming and clumsy flair in anything manual she is undertaking. It’s one of those surprises about her that opened up a window through which I could peek and see a bit of her before maternity. A woman I never met and will never meet. It is both curious and moving to me.

And because time refuses to stop, slow down or speed up, all I get to see is the turning of the wheel. Of the sewing machine. Of koras. Of samsara.

Three souls at the stupa

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She didn’t give it much thought. She turned each wheel with clutched fingers, stiff wrists and pushed her way to the next one with non-cooperative legs that seemed to want to be still. Yet she pursued, 108 times around the sixteen sides of the stupa, blissfully ignoring her body’s counter will. Pushing through, ignoring the pain in her knuckles, the cold on her fingers, the fatigue on her calves from holstering her body upwards every time a wheel was turned. Yet, silently and doubtlessly acquiescing to her faith.

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He read on Lonely Planet that the Boudhanath Stupa was a sight not to miss. As a diligent traveler and re-teller of his sight-seeings, he did not hesitate or even question the instruction he was given. Inside, iPad in hand, backpack filled with two full bottled waters, hand sanitizer and prayer beads dangling, he observed. Not sure what was happening, but yet respectfully watching, from a distance seemingly unbridgeable between himself and the hundreds of devoted Buddhists circling the stupa. And in their ignorance of each other, neither tourist nor devotee realize their common ground. For he, too, followed to heart his truth. Lonely Planet’s truth.

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No one knows when the dogs first claimed the stupa as their own. They’ve just always been here. Some were bred and raised under the dome of Buddha. Others wandered in accidentally. They’re not all the same size, height or breed. Some look ill. Others, hungry; or just defensive. At night, they claim their turf. They brawl, make love and ruckus under the moon, eat, piss and shit as they wish. At daytime, consciously standing their ground, they scatter their furry bodies over the path of koras, a blunt statement of territorial affirmation. We zigzag around them. We know. They have been here since times unknown. They’re the primordial dogs.

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Postcards from the roof of the world

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Boudhanath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Morning chat @ Boudhanath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Monks @ Boudhanath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Koras and wheels @ Boudhanath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Candles and wheels @ Boudhanath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Koras @ Boudhanath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Koras and wheels @ Boudhanath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Monks @ Boudhanath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Monasteries and temples @ Boudhanath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Candles and prayers @ Boudhanath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Happiness Guest House @ Boudhanath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Faith and prostrations @ Boudhanath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Morning paper, friends and Buddha @ Boudhanath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Monks @ Boudhanath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Market life @ Boudhanath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Writing refuge @ Boudhanath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Writing on rooftops @ Boudhanath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Real life outside Boudhanath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Real life outside Boudhanath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Cremations @ Pashupatinath, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Prayer for Kali @ Pashupatinath, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Market @ Pashupatinath, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Bodhi Tree @ Pashupatinath, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Across the river from Pashupatinath, Kathmandu, Nepal

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Librarian and business man in Bandipur, Nepal

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Business man in wallpaper in Bandipur, Nepal

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Warm hands in Bandipur, Nepal

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Laundry @ Fewa Lake, in Pokhara, Nepal

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Laundry @ Fewa Lake, in Pokhara, Nepal

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Row boats @ Fewa Lake, in Pokhara, Nepal

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Boat and oar @ Fewa Lake, in Pokhara, Nepal

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Rowing across Fewa Lake, in Pokhara, Nepal

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Rowing across Fewa Lake, in Pokhara, Nepal

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The Peace Stupa @ Fewa Lake, in Pokhara, Nepal

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The Peace Stupa @ Fewa Lake, in Pokhara, Nepal

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Parahawking @ Sarangkot, in Pokhara, Nepal

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Paragaliding @ Sarangkot, in Pokhara, Nepal

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Prem @ Sampada Inn, in Pokhara, Nepal

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Women weaving in Pokhara, Nepal

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Women weaving in Pokhara, Nepal

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My taylor in Pokhara, Nepal

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Chess @ Sidewalk, in Pokhara, Nepal

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Karma Cuts in Pokhara, Nepal

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Sadhu @ Riverside, in Pokhara, Nepal

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Holy cows outside Pokhara, Nepal

 

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Gurkha warriors @ Recruitment Center, in Pokhara, Nepal

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Gurkha training @ Recruitment Center, in Pokhara, Nepal

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NG, the sherpa guide to Gurung Lodge, Nepal

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Trek to Gurung Lodge, Nepal

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Millet drying @ mountain village around Gurung Lodge, Nepal

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Hindu temple and Himalayas around Gurung Lodge, Nepal

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Himalayas around Gurung Lodge, Nepal

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Hindu temple and Himalayas around Gurung Lodge, Nepal

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View from Gurung Lodge, Nepal

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Half-print of mountain view from Gurung Lodge, Nepal

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Sunrise, Himalayas and Bandipur, view from Panorama, Lodge, Nepal

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Sunrise, Himalayas and Bandipur, view from Panorama, Lodge, Nepal

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The cook and the fog @ Panorama Lodge, Nepal

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Orange pickers on the mountain villages around Panorama Lodge, Nepal

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Orange pickers on the mountain villages around Panorama Lodge, Nepal

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Orange baskets on the backs of women @ the mountain villages around Panorama Lodge, Nepal

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Chris and orange crates @ mountain villages around Panorama Lodge, Nepal

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Divine light on trek to Panorama Lodge, Nepal

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Drying corn @ mountain village around Panorama Lodge, Nepal

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Seti River @ Seti River Camp, Nepal

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Seti River bed and stones @ Seti River Camp, Nepal

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Seti River @ Seti River Camp, Nepal

All photos taken by Maria Bitarello in December 2014, in Nepal.
Films used were Kodak Portra 400s, in 35mm and 120mm.

Do not bury the dead

The first tragic loss in my life was Saul’s. We were both 12, and he was accidently shot by another child, a neighbor who found his mother’s gun and fired from a window. Saul’s family is very close to mine and his death has, ever since, become a part of our lives. Of who I am. I cannot separate myself from that girl who was told before school, one September morning, that her friend was killed. We are the same.

The second tragic loss I experienced was my cousin’s, Daniela. I was a sophomore in college and she was 15 when her younger brother found her in her bedroom, breathless from an accidental chloroform overdose. There are those that say her death was avoidable, but it makes no difference whose fault it was. She’s not here. And that is the all-encompassing truth.

The third tragic loss was Jorge’s, a good friend from college who died a couple of years after we graduated. He was in the advanced stages of Aids and did not know he was sick until two weeks prior to his death. He was harshly judged by many, but the truth is that he was a beautiful man. And beauty deserves no punishment.

The fourth one was tough. Roberta and I were both 27 when she committed suicide and took with her memories that only the two of us shared. She was my oldest friend. With her went a part of me that no one else knows, and I felt amputated. Abandoned. For a while, I hated her for having brought that amount of pain and incomprehension into my life. I will never fully understand her decision, but I know it prevented me from ignoring death, and also suicide. Her swift and violent departure became a layer of my skin. And not only can I not imagine myself without this experience, I don’t want to. It taught me that I don’t need to understand in order to accept it. This loss, apart from all others, has been the single most brutal, real and liberating. It awakened me to mortality and, consequently, to life. And for this, I feel gratitude.

The fifth tragic loss in my life was Bruno’s, a high school friend. He succumbed to the injuries brought on by having nearly his entire body carbonized after a car crash. He was generous and kind, and reminded me that we cannot take with us anything from this life, this world. Not even our bodies, our vehicles of pleasure and pain, without which there is no life.

Lastly, there were two tragic losses that loved ones, close to me, experienced. Eugénie was younger than me and died from a brain tumor at 25. She craved life. And Alexandre was in his mid thirties and died in a plane crash. He was a gentle, loving soul. From them I learned that there will always be something left unsaid, undone, incomplete. And closure will come despite of it.

 * * * * *

We go through life creating bonds. With people. Places. Stories. And then we have to let them go, one by one. Unlike what we are told as children, death does not greet us only at the end. It doesn’t happen in the distant future, when we die. Death is all around us, all the time. And our own is but the last. Everyone I know will die. Everyone who has lived has died. Everyone still alive will also die. And so will I.

Knowing this fills me with release, surrender. Or faith is perhaps a better word. Not knowing when or how it will occur still allows me to accept and trust its inescapable and necessary quality. And this, alone, makes every living moment unique and a once-only experience. Good or bad, everything is a part of the living realm and, therefore, precious and worthwhile. Feeling sad and grieving takes its toll after some time, and we tire ourselves out of sadness. The same comes from bliss or contentment. It too will pass. And that’s ok.

In Portuguese, we have a word, saudades, which is difficult to translate into other languages. In English, we say we miss someone; in French, someone is missing from us. Saudades, however, conveys more than longing or nostalgia. It can be and often is a pleasant sensation. Because if you experience saudades from a loved one, it is the very affirmation that there is something to be missed; that the love in which you two are embalmed is the same feeling that you wish kept you company at this moment.

I like this word, and there is something to be learned from the Portuguese poets in times of grief. When we loose someone, his or her absence is overpowering. And yet, in the lusophone world, we are taught to not discard our dead. Saudades makes their absence present. Pain can be transformed; grief will no longer be frightening; the dead may live on in our flesh and groins. And we need never be alone.

We must admit there will be music despite everything*.

*From the poem “A brief for the defense”, by Jack Gilbert.

“Saint-Tropez”

Opening track to the album “Verões”, by duplodeck.
Released by Pug Records in 2014.
Original video “The Awakening of Annie”, by Zygmunt Sulistrowski.
Creation and editing by Pedro Salim.

O piano do pai dela

Tão longe, tão perto
Tão dúbio, tão certo
Fechado e aberto
Vazio, (in)completo

Licor e piano
Mutantes e Caetano
Cigarro com café
E palavras e gestos e risos e fé

No tempo, no vento
No riso, no risco
No amor, na dor, na cor, no que for
Fé em Má e em Rô

Tão perto, tão certo
Tão perto, aperta
Tão longe é incerto
Tão súbito, desperta

É mesmo frágil, pois que livre e leve
Tão solto que afina como desafina
Algo que não se mede, não se pede ou que se negue
Sem você não encontro a rima
De duas – uma e mais uma menina

Por enquanto, é verdade
Já que sem pedras da cidade, da ansiedade, da vontade, da vaidade, da idade
Meninas que somos, meninas que fomos
Temos a amizade, a liberdade, a cumplicidade, a saudade