"We are what we do. What we don't do, doesn't exist. Therefore, we only exist on days when we do. On the days when we don't do, we simply endure."

Long time no see, it never fit so well, ah?

Where have I been?

What have I done?

Where will I go?

I have received many inquiries regarding my whereabouts, and I apologize for the radio silence.

All is good, my hair is still dragging, I am still alive, and the world is still spinning.

I am finally feeling an itch to come back to the light.

Do some bad photography, some cheap video, some lousy writing, who knows…

You masochists out there know how that goes.

I just did not feel inspired to share anything, or even to complain about anything. Too much work, sprinkled with some disenchantment, as well, helped the blackout.

Regarding my hair, it is, once more, dragging, therefore, fear not, faithful admirers. 

I will go into more detail on video, soon; check that out if you are so inclined.

I feel like the last couple of years were a blur, I cannot recall exactly what happened and we, whether brainwashed or not, all of us, just want to forget that it ever happened.

Regardless, it is Easter tomorrow and I feel like going to mass.

I choose a Roman catholic local church that has a traditional solemn high Mass, so I am quite intrigued and excited about it.

I was, like any Portuguese person really, raised Roman catholic.

Baptized, as soon as I was born because, according to the elders, you could be “entered” by an evil or other worldly entity, as you were “open” and defenceless as a newborn.

My mother still has my linen and lace dress that I wore for the ceremony; folded neatly in the dresser, waiting for me to take home, one day.

Then, I had my first communion, I still recall being 6/7 years old and wearing a white crisp blouse with peter pan collar and a navy blue pleated skirt. I carried a Saint Joseph Lily that my grandmother grew.

In other parishes, kids are allowed to wear fancier attire, which creates a lot of drama.

Mothers dress their girls like brides with expensive dresses and elaborate hairdos, it is a sight to see.

Our priest thought that having a dress code agreed by all, would make everything easier, more straightforward and less prone to gossip.

I so happen to agree with him, I also recall my confirmation, it was the first time I wore high heels, a little pair of Oxford shoes, I was thirteen.

We all wore a white tunic paired with a white hat for the girls.

My hair was dark and straight and barely fit under the hat, it was a struggle.

I have never had straight hair apart from my teenage years, it was odd.

I was picked to read a poem written by my Sunday school instructor, and I was very stoic but nervous.

I still have that in a VHS tape, lost in my parents' home somewhere.

Then came the Chrisma, I recall the Bishop coming to the village for the special occasion, so all of us travelled to the main parish and joined our neighbours to receive the olive oil mark in our foreheads.

I was 15 and was wearing a white blouse, black slacks and brown Mary Jane heels.

How I loved those shoes!

I still went to mass until I was 18 because we all did, and then I strayed.

You see, church in small villages is not so much about religion, it is like a school, it is social, it is where we all meet, where some of us start to question life, death, relations, society.

It is where friends, comrades, extended family meet and catch up.

Where people join for all kind of celebrations organized by the deacon, or the catequista and congregate

Christmas, Easter, Fall festival, All Saints, weddings, baptisms, funerals, town meetings.

I recall, at the end of each mass, the priest reading the announcements for the week, meetings for the parents at school, cattle, (and dogs) vaccination open day locations and hours to show up with your cow.

A church in a village was more than a vassal of Rome trying to enslave people into being afraid of the fire of hell and to pay their dues.

It was an anchor of the town, a point of connection, the alliance.

Back in our village, ever since the latest priest took over, which was 50 years or more ago, much changed.

He came from the big city, he had big dreams and was quite resourceful.

He is also full of sins, like the rest of us.

Rumours of him having an affair with some lady that worked at the local school, how he switched cars every year, bought land every chance he got to build this or that.

He is not without blemishes, sure not, everyone knows how he can be quite resentful.

Holds his grudges to court cases, but he is also the man that built an orphanage, a senior home, a huge venue with air conditioning for big services. 

Hired a pianist/choir/conductor, nuns, teachers.

He was also my moral/religious education teacher, spoke fluent Latin, probably French too, taught philosophy to university students, played the big ancient organ at our old Roman cathedral, that no one could ever take pictures of.

Therefore, religion for us peasants, lost in the valleys of the Marão mountain, was more like a society thing, not a “Jesus loves us all thing”.

When people ask me if I believe in God, I say I do, maybe not the God they think I do, but a God nonetheless.

When they ask me if I am a Christian, I am not sure what to respond.

I, like many, do not like organized religion. I do not need to mention all the things said and done by the institution which, like any, was designated to enslave, brainwash, dazzle while pillaging.

However, I still, once in a while, like to attend a special mass, nostalgia, faith?  I do not know.

My parents stopped going a long time ago, they used to be part of the choir when they were youngsters and would attend service once a week, now, they go to funerals and that is good enough for them.

They say God is not in the church and never was, they are right.

It is so complicated, isn't it?

For us Portuguese people, religion, meant a Roman catholic upbringing, it is connected to our lives, memories, teachings.

We are even part of the “country with miracle pilgrimage” which happened with the whole “Our Lady of Fatima appearing to 3 kids herding sheep”, and no, not going there.

I am religious, I am a daughter of God, I am spiritual.

I care nothing for the pope, specially this one, for the pompous, for the bullshit, for the political correctness that has congregations hang rainbow flags and bring singers to have us all enjoy our love for each other, fuck that.

Give me priests with turned backs on the altar, dressed in the dark purple while chanting Dómine, exáudi orátionem meam with us all covered with lace veils.

Long, intrinsic and poignant sermons like only the old schoolers know how to do.

If you have a chance, and if it is translated, read the sermons from Padre Antonio Vieira.

You will know what I mean.

He was so good with rhetoric and prose, that he is still regarded as one of the best orators to ever exist.

This brings me to something very personal that once happened to me when I was in the deepest throes of melancholia.

I had finished college, a useless degree, could not afford to live in the city any more and had to go back to live with my parents.

Thoughts of uselessness and emptiness were my daily bread, there was no way out, literally.

The economy was a mess, droves of youngsters migrated, the ones that were lucky to have a job clung to dear life to not lose it.

You simply could not afford to live by yourself without having someone to share the rent with, sometimes, several someones.

I was becoming something I do not like to recall, a very apathetic someone.

One day, I dreamt with something that shook me to the very core.

I do not dream much, I forget often what I dream, and I dream in black and white.

However, that morning, I woke up startled and in shock.

There was not much to it, just a scene really, a scene and an overwhelming feeling.

I was laying cold and dead on a granite block, some dark forest? I felt so sad, so sad for me, so disappointed that all I could have ever been, never had a chance to be, just this immense sadness and then, then I felt shame. Oh, so much shame!

I felt like I had done something wrong, something I shouldn't have done and there was no way back, and I had to face the consequences.

All I recall was this hand, this big, disembodied hand laying on my shoulder.

I could not see the person, I knew it was a masculine energy, giving me this reassuring feeling of a second chance.

Of not being lost, of hope, so overwhelming I felt, like he knew me inside and out just with that hand touch. 

I felt so overwhelmed that I woke up balling my eyes out.

I did not win the lottery, or was landed a dream job.

However, I felt peace and strength and, slowly, my life changed bit by bit, not because of a miracle, but because I changed the way I looked at things, the way I faced things.

My relation with Deus, such a beautiful word, is not channelled through a church, a corrupt pope, or a covered face.

My hair is loose, my face is naked, my music is dark, and my hunger was always shameless.

God is me and I am God.