Porto’s Alma 13
The big fist died. Like forever I have been wanting to publish a book, just so that he could see his name living on. I told him about my blog, I showed him my Logo and I explained to him that it contains elements of music. One “f” denotes the “forte” sign as on musical notation and the circle around it is inspired by an old type vinyl. I told him I would adopt his name, as my writing pseudonym. This is because I have already used my real name for my singing career. I have always needed this separation between names and identities. My whole life has been marked by this identity crises as to the type of art I should follow. And this is something I had in common with the big fist. He used to be a jazz musician. But in order to become a painter and make a living from his art, his father told him to concentrate on one thing only. To date, I have not managed to do that. In fact, I have always dabbled in writing but got fixated with the idea of seeing myself as a singer. Thus I have been writing ever since I can remember without knowing that this makes me into a writer. Alternatively, can I only call myself a writer when I have finally published a book? Is it always about proving who you are? I tried to talk about these identity problems as an artist with the big fist, but he was stuck in another century. In the end, he didn’t even know how old I was or that I wanted to become a writer, carrying his name. But that’s ok. Maybe, this is my thing anyway. Hunting my family roots, desperately searching an explanation for why I will turn out to be, who I am or even just why I will do so. I believe that everything is in a flux, always in a balance. That’s why this picture remembers me of him and I think he would have liked it as well as it at least partly symbolizes the ying and yang topic again. I believe that all my ancestors’ power runs in my blood. So I am praying for the strength to overcome the shadows of history knowing that I will find this treasure of beautiful stories. And just like that, the fist that was painting will write, the fist that was fighting will rest.