A portuguese playing god

My aunt used to say that I was a little bit nuts, since childhood, which brought inside, a button out of order. And she said it with a disgusting air, while distracted her look in the store windows of Joframa in Fanqueiros[1] street, littered with dull and yellow mannequins skinned with dents in the paint. It was the time when the universe was made of Lego, books and good stuff and everyone wanted to be something: police, fireman or astronaut. I did not want to be anything. I just Imagined myself a kind of Vasco da Gama[2] or Sandokan[3] and discover the remedy to treat mother’s illness, the absurdity of sterile ailments and maladies that she suffering from weakness and vomiting between the bathroom and bedroom, in the dark, windows closed, debiting requests and moaning. A headache, kidneys, back, belly… It is the nerves, said the neighbourhood. It is laziness said his companion. And I just felt like to blow his head on the wall and watch, unmoved, brains and cartilage flowing by the stucco, slowly, making the curve of the socket, surrounding the footer and taken pausing on the ledge of a bent nail in the floor… I just stand it because it was too much work bring mop and bleach and wash walls and floor, scrape the dirt from baseboards and clean splashes from paintings and bargains fair... "