Fashion: The wonderous world of Gucci


Doing what it takes. 

It’s fine letting things be, letting it all flutter with the air, and choosing to let the universe take its course. Of course it’s easier and probably wiser, but sometimes, it simply is not enough. Sometimes, we simply have to dare to be bolder and claim what is to be ours, even if it goes against all the odds, even if it questions everything that is already established and even if it will make the whole world turn upside down and readjust it’s course of action. It doesn’t matter, because sometimes, if the secret whispers that come with the moon are louder than anything else, we simply just have to rol up our sleeves, leave our Buddha Mountains for a while and just do whatever it may take to make it ours.  

Girl talk. 

While the Carnaval is going on somewhere in the streets of Funchal… We have dinner, talk and laugh in a little secret spot. We are cousins, good friends, we both have cat eyes and we are both in love with the beauty and magic of life, but our connection runs muchhhh deeper than that. Laughing until 3 and still… never enough time !

What is life without amazing ( both light and deep ) conversations?! 

A poem: Keep on singing

I’m going to keep on singing these soft songs, 

In this wondrous land that is only mine. 

I’ll keep on dancing to this mellow lullaby, 

Of that heavenly moonlight that only I can see. 


It doesn’t matter that you are not here, 

I can be complete in bliss without you. 

I’ll keep on flying through these dreams, 

Of that beautiful mystery that only love can claim. 

Fiction: Unique languages.

They both smiled.  It was good to connect, in thoughts, in feelings, in words… in life. They sort of spoke the same language… A language that was only theirs. They read between the silences, and listened to what was not being said, intuitively responding effortlessly.   (…) she understood, for the very first time, that whatever was growing between them seemed to be indeed, incredibly special.



Ambos sorriram.  Era bom ter esta ligação em pensamentos,  sentimentos,  palavras… e na vida.  Eles quase que falavam a mesma linguagem… Uma linguagem só deles.   Conseguiam ler por entre os silêncios, e ouviam o que não era dito,  respondendo instintivamente  e sem qualquer esforço.  (…) assim, percebeu pela primeira vez,  que o que crescia entre eles, parecia ser de facto, algo incrivelmente especial.


Extract from a soon to be novel.

Painting above is by Chagall: details here.  

A poem: A dream of love.

Couldn’t you hear me calling?

Awake in dreams, wandering free. 

I knew in my heart that it was true. 

That you were mine, and that I was yours. 

Just as the sun revolves in heaven,

As the dawn always breaks,

As the birds forever sing. 

So it is true that you are in me, 

And I am always in you. 

A beautiful love story (Pedro and Inês), within another love story.

He smiled, held her hand paused for a second and then he began.

‘’ Inês de Castro, who was born around 1320, was the daughter of the powerful illegitimate grandson of King Sancho IV of Castile. She went to Portugal, when she was twenty years old, as a lady-in-waiting to her cousin Constance who was to marry the heir to the Portuguese throne, Pedro. But when the prince saw Inês he fell madly in love with the noble lady. And even though he was soon married to her cousin, he still spend time with Inês. They used to have secret romantic meetings in the gardens of a Quinta, called the Estate of Tears. One of the fountains there was entitled The Fountain of Lovers, after their love for each other. Nobody agreed with the secret relationship, but Pedro didn’t care. The King decided to banish Inês from Court and sent her back to Castile in 1344. Pedro however, managed to visit Inês when she was away from the kingdom. When Constance died in 1345, Pedro brought Inês back to Portugal and settled her in Coimbra, a decision which angered his father, who strongly opposed the relationship. They ended up by living there togetherand went on to have four children. Meanwhile,the Prince became close to Inês’ brothers, who tried to convince him to claim the throne of Castile. This prospect led the King and his advisers to look for ways to free the Prince from the damaging influence of the Castro clan, and the death of Inês started to be seen as a solution.’’

Celine was silently, attentively, absorbing every single word. So Christopher continued.

‘’ Initially, Dom Afonso IV was reluctant to agree to such an extreme action against the mother of his grandchildren, but on 7 January 1355 (while Pedro was away from home), the King called his counsellors and ordered them to kill Inês. According to the legend, Inês appeared surrounded by her children and pleaded for her life. But King Afonso was not moved and left the room claiming, ‘’Do whatever you want‘’. The sentence was carried out, and Inês de Castro was executed. Deranged by pain, Peter led an uprising against the King and would never forgive his father for murdering his lover. Some people believe that she was murdered next to another fountain in the estate, which was named the Fountain of Tears. Legend has it that the red stones are stained forever with the blood that fell from her body, when she was murdered. It might have also been the place where Pedro’s tears fell, endlessly, after returning home and finding out what his father had done. When he finally took the crown in 1357, King Pedro pursued and executed Inês’ murderers by ripping their hearts out and he also announced that he had secretly married Inês. Inês de Castro was then declared Pedro’s legitimate wife and therefore the lawful Queen of Portugal. The King then ordered her body to be exhumed and taken from the Monastery of Santa Clara in Coimbra, where she was, to the Monastery of Alcobaça (the tomb of kings), where she was buried in 1361. A thousand people lit the way with white candles, and for years that followed, everyone still used to speak about how it seemed that she was being carried by stars. Two magnificent tombs were carved out of white marble and placed facing each other, so that when Pedro died, and joined Inês, they would wake up, facing each other, together for eternal life. Other’s say that the tomb was placed opposite Pedro’s own grave, so that they could look into each other’s eyes forever and ever. Whichever had been Pedro’s idea, still today, their tombs rest there, in each other’s presence. ‘’ He paused. ‘’ Still, to this day, the fountain is filled with red stones…. ‘’

Celine had tears falling down her face when Christopher finished the story.

Extract from a soon to be novel.

Pictures of their tombs in another post: here. 


What is this thing we call love ? It hits us when we least expect it, it compels us to do the most unimaginable things, it is the root of all creativity and all true inspiration, it is mysterious, illusive, so intangible and undefinable it is can only really be captured by the arts. Wether in a painting, in music, in a poem or in a sculptural form, they all manage to portray what we cannot: a beautiful emotion that has roots as deep as the oldest tree and wings as broad and wide as the freest of birds.   Love…  I sigh…. I’ll let these two masters describe it.

” i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

                                                      i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart).  ”

            E.E. Cummings


“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.” Pablo Neruda

The picture above was taken a couple of years ago at the Victoria and Albert Museum, in London. 

A poem: Shhh… don’t tell.


The trees hold secrets,

The flowers have dreams, 

The wind has a soft melody, 

Leafs fall from the sky for you to hold, 

Inside doors, there are diamonds, 

In a lovers kiss there is eternity, 

In the cry of the wolves there is truth, 

In butterflies there is always alchemy, 

Dancing in the air fairies endlessly sing, 

Mosses have infinite stories in their wing, 

This world, this world…

It is so much more than what we see, 

Shhh… Don’t tell, 

These secrets can only be felt. 




Um poema: Shhh…não se diz.

As árvores possuem segredos,

As flores contêm infinitos sonhos,

O vento revela uma melodia subtil,

Folhas caem do céu para as tuas mãos,

Dentro de portas, existem brilhantes,

Um beijo predomina a eternidade,

No uivo do lobo esconde-se a verdade,

Nas borboletas há sempre a alquimia,

Em rodopios pela ar, fadas cantam ,

Pela noite, as traças contam histórias.

Este mundo, este nosso mundo…

É muito mais do que aquilo que se vê.

Shhh… Não digas nada.

Estes segredos apenas se sentem.