Começando a escrever uma história em Lisboa Beginning to write a story in Lisbon Beginn des Schreibens einer Geschichte in Lissabon
IPA in Culture Committee julho / July / juli 2025
Cláudia Antonelli – Editor Catherine Hall – Editor/IPA Communications consultant Cordelia Schmidt-Hellerau – Workshop creator
Índice / Table of Contents / Inhaltsverzeichnis
PREFÁCIO DO EDITOR............................................................................................. 4 EDITOR'S FOREWORD ............................................................................................. 5 VORWORT DES HERAUSGEBERS ............................................................................. 6 PARTICIPANTES / PARTICIPANTS / TEILNEHMER ...................................................... 7 FACILITADORES / FACILITATORS / MODERATOREN .................................................. 7
HISTÓRIAS | STORIES | GESCHICHTEN ..................................................................... 8
NO DIA 1º DE ABRIL, UMA SENHORA BAIXA E IDOSA MUDOU-SE PARA O APARTAMENTO AO LADO. ........8 ON 1 APRIL, A SHORT, ELDERLY LADY MOVED INTO THE FLAT NEXT DOOR. .......................................... 12 AM 1. APRIL ZOG EINE KLEINE ALTE FRAU IN DIE WOHNUNG NEBENAN. .............................................. 24 四月一日、小さな女性が隣の部屋に引っ越してきた。 ....................................................................... 29 4 月一日，一个又矮又老的女人搬到了隔壁。 ....................................................................................... 30 QUANDO ELE ESTAVA PRESTES A SE DIRIGIR AOS CONVIDADOS REUNIDOS, PERDEU A VOZ. .............. 31 JUST AS HE WAS ABOUT TO ADDRESS THE ASSEMBLED GUESTS, HE LOST HIS VOICE .......................... 36 ALS ER SICH AN DIE VERSAMMELTEN GÄSTE WENDEN WOLLTE, VERSAGTE IHM DIE STIMME. .............. 47 彼は招待客としてやってきた。しかし誰の声を聞くこともできなかった。 ......................................... 52 当他要当众说话时，他却发不出声音来。 ............................................................................................ 53 SUA ATENÇÃO FOI ATRAÍDA PARA UM PEDAÇO DE PAPEL SOBRE A MESA............................................53 HIS ATTENTION WAS DRAWN TO A PIECE OF PAPER ON THE TABLE. .................................................... 58 IHRE AUFMERKSAMKEIT WURDE AUF EIN STÜCK PAPIER AUF DEM SCHREIBTISCH GELENKT...............70 彼女の注意は机の上の紙切れに惹かれた。 ........................................................................................ 75
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A PRINCÍPIO, ELA PENSOU QUE FOSSE TUDO UM MAL-ENTENDIDO. ................................................... 77 AT FIRST, SHE THOUGHT IT WAS ALL A MISUNDERSTANDING. ............................................................. 82 ZUERST DACHTE ICH, ES SEI ALLES EIN MIßVERSTÄNDNIS.................................................................. 95 まず私が考えたことは、全部誤解だ、ということだった。 ............................................................... 101 OS ESPECTADORES VIERAM CORRENDO, FICARAM CONGELADOS NO LUGAR E TROCARAM OLHARES PERPLEXOS. .................................................................................................................................... 102 THE AUDIENCE CAME RUNNING, FROZE IN PLACE AND EXCHANGED PERPLEXED GLANCES.............. 106 ALLE KAMEN RASCH HERBEIGEEILT. ................................................................................................ 114 O DIA COMEÇOU COM CHUVA FORTE. ............................................................................................. 119 THE DAY BEGAN WITH HEAVY RAIN. ................................................................................................. 123 DER MORGEN BEGANN MIT HEFTIGEN REGENSCHAUERN................................................................. 135 その朝は激しい雨ではじまった。 .................................................................................................... 141 THE DAY BEGAN WITH HEAVY RAIN. ................................................................................................. 141
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Prefácio do Editor Em julho de 2025, Lisboa vivia o auge de seu verão com uma temperatura média de 30°C e dias longos e secos. A sensação térmica era de um calor escaldante, mesmo para os portugueses. À beira do Tejo, no entanto, e com o benefício de sua brisa, próximo ao Mosteiro dos Jerônimos, em uma majestosa construção de arquitetura lisa em tons claros, misteriosamente acolhedora, todo o staff da IPA se preparava para acolher os quase 1500 inscritos em seu 54º Congresso Internacional. E lá estávamos, às vésperas disto tudo começar. Na segunda-feira 28 de julho de 2025, os 33 inscritos na primeira Oficina de Escrita Criativa do Comitê de Cultura da IPA (CCI), idealizado e capitaneado por sua Chair de então, Cordelia Schmidt-Hellerau, preparava para levantar âncora. Os corajosos marinheiros desta primeira viagem foram divididos nos três grupos que se formaram, navegados pelos idiomas: Português (que assumia neste mesmo congresso seu estatuto de quinta Língua Oficial da IPA); Alemão, e Inglês, que abarcou também participantes de outras línguas maternas. Ocupamos três salas daquele prédio ainda vazio e silencioso, numa mistura de sentimentos pioneiros, desbravando o mundo dos encontros que estariam por acontecer ali naquele local, e das palavras e pensamentos, naquele dia, para nós, imersos nesta Oficina. Cordelia ela mesma, conduziu o grupo em Inglês, assessorada pelas colegas Elisabetta Marchiori e Johanna Velt; o grupo em inglês contou com a condução de Andreas Mittermayr; e eu assumia o grupo lusófono, com o apoio de minha colega Valeria Riccheri – todos membros do CCI de então. O mergulho foi profícuo, conforme verão. Os participantes prontamente aderiram à proposta construída por nossa equipe: “Forneceremos uma primeira frase (pré-escolhida), e vocês terão 15 minutos para dar sequência a ela, e assim, ao início de uma estória. Ao fim dos quais, todos suspenderão a escrita, onde quer que ela esteja. Não se preocupem com estilo, correção gramatical, coerência... Escrevam livremente. Um pouco como em livre-associação”. A consigna foi a mesma, para os três grupos, assim como as frases iniciais. Teremos a seguir, o registro da imensa criatividade despertada em nossos participantes. Suas criações seguirão no idioma original e em inglês, quando este não era o idioma original. A possibilidade de dar à luz um texto criativo, qualquer que seja – fictício, biográfico, histórico, ou uma combinação destes todos - registrando os caminhos do pensamento livre, está entre talvez os mais prazerosos exercícios ao qual o analista pode se entregar. Eu, tendo assumido a presidência deste comitê a partir deste Congresso, tive a satisfação de compilar este e-book que, espero, gostem! Agradecimentos especiais à Catherine Hall, consultora de comunicação da IPA, pela sua ajuda. Mais que tudo, fica uma lembrança daquele encontro, entre mentes e estórias únicas, entre as paredes do Centro Cultural de Belém. Afetuosamente, Cláudia C. Antonelli, Chair, IPA in Culture Committee
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Editor's Foreword In July 2025, Lisbon was experiencing the peak of its summer with an average temperature of 30°C and long, dry days. The heat felt scorching, even for the Portuguese. On the banks of the Tagus River, however, and benefiting from its breeze, near the Jerónimos Monastery, in a majestic modern building with smooth architecture in light tones, mysteriously welcoming, all the IPA staff were preparing to welcome the nearly 1500 registered participants in its 54th International Congress. And there we were, on the eve of when it all began. On Monday, July 28, 2025, the 33 registered participants in the first Creative Writing Workshop of the IPA in Culture Committee (ICC), conceived by its Chair until that moment and for the previous eight years, Cordelia Schmidt-Hellerau, were preparing to set sail. The courageous sailors of this first voyage were divided into three groups, guided by language: Portuguese (which assumed its status as the fifth Official Language of the IPA at this same congress); German; and English, which also included participants from other mother tongues. We occupied three rooms of that still empty and silent building, in a mixture of pioneering feelings, exploring the world of encounters that would take place there, and of the words and thoughts, from that day to happen, for us, immersed in this Workshop. Cordelia herself led the English group, assisted by the colleagues Elisabetta Marchiori and Johanna Velt; the English group was managed by Andreas Mittermayr; and I guided the Portuguese-speaking group, with the support of my colleague Valeria Riccheri – all of us members of the ICC at the time. The immersion was fruitful, as you will see. The participants readily embraced the proposal devised by our team: “We will provide a first sentence (pre-chosen), and you will have 15 minutes to continue it, thus beginning a story. At the end of which, everyone will suspend writing, wherever it may be. Don't worry about style, grammatical correctness, coherence... Write freely. A bit like in free association.” The instructions were the same for all three groups, as were the prompts (which you will find as the initial sentences of each small text). Here after, you will witness the immense creativity awakened in our participants. Their creations will be presented in the original language and in English, when this was not the original language. The possibility of giving birth to a creative text, whatever it may be – fictional, biographical, historical or a mixture of all this – recording the paths of free thought, is perhaps among the most pleasurable exercises to which the analyst can dedicate themselves. Having assumed the chairwomanship of this committee from this Congress onwards, I had the pleasure of compiling this e-book, which I hope you will enjoy! Special thanks to Catherine Hall, IPA Communications Consultant, for her help. More than anything, what remains is a memory of that encounter, between unique minds and stories, within the walls of the Belém Cultural Center. Affectionately, Cláudia C. Antonelli, Chair, IPA in Culture Committee
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Vorwort des Herausgebers Im Juli 2025 erlebte Lissabon den Höhepunkt des Sommers mit einer Durchschnittstemperatur von 30°C und langen, trockenen Tagen. Die Hitze war selbst für Portugiesen unerträglich. Am Ufer des Tejo, in der Nähe des Hieronymusklosters, bereitete sich das gesamte IPA-Team in einem majestätischen, modernen Gebäude mit sanfter, heller Architektur und einer geheimnisvoll einladenden Atmosphäre darauf vor, die fast 1500 angemeldeten Teilnehmer des 54. Internationalen Kongresses zu begrüßen. Und so standen wir kurz vor dem Beginn. Am Montag, dem 28. Juli 2025, bereiteten sich die 33 angemeldeten Teilnehmer des ersten Kreativschreibworkshops des IPA-Kulturkomitees (ICC), der von der bis dahin und bereits seit acht Jahren amtierenden Vorsitzenden Cordelia Schmidt-Hellerau initiiert worden war, auf den Start vor. Die mutigen Teilnehmer dieser ersten Reise wurden sprachlich in drei Gruppen aufgeteilt: Portugiesisch (das auf demselben Kongress den Status der fünften Amtssprache der IPA erlangte), Deutsch und Englisch, wobei auch Teilnehmer anderer Muttersprachen vertreten waren. Wir bezogen drei Räume des noch leeren und stillen Gebäudes, erfüllt von Pioniergeist und der Erkundung der Begegnungen, die sich dort ergeben würden, sowie der Worte und Gedanken, die uns an diesem Tag im Rahmen dieses Workshops beschäftigten. Cordelia selbst leitete die englische Gruppe, unterstützt von ihren Kolleginnen Elisabetta Marchiori und Johanna Velt; die Leitung der englischen Gruppe hatte Andreas Mittermayr inne; und ich leitete die portugiesischsprachige Gruppe mit Unterstützung meiner Kollegin Valeria Riccheri – wir alle waren damals Mitglieder des ICC. Wie Sie sehen werden, war das Eintauchen in die Sprache sehr fruchtbar. Die Teilnehmerinnen und Teilnehmer nahmen den Vorschlag unseres Teams begeistert an: „Wir geben einen (vorab ausgewählten) ersten Satz vor, und Sie haben 15 Minuten Zeit, ihn fortzuführen und so eine Geschichte zu beginnen. Danach unterbrechen alle das Schreiben, wo auch immer sie gerade stehen. Machen Sie sich keine Gedanken um Stil, Grammatik oder Kohärenz … Schreiben Sie einfach frei. So ähnlich wie freie Assoziation.“ Die Anweisungen und die Anfangssätze waren für alle drei Gruppen identisch. Im Folgenden werden Sie die immense Kreativität unserer Teilnehmerinnen und Teilnehmer erleben. Ihre Werke werden in der Originalsprache und, falls dies nicht die Originalsprache war, auf Englisch präsentiert. Die Möglichkeit, einen kreativen Text hervorzubringen, sei er fiktional, biografisch, historisch oder eine Mischung aus all dem, der die Wege des freien Denkens aufzeichnet, gehört vielleicht zu den angenehmsten Übungen, denen sich der Analytiker widmen kann. Seit diesem Kongress den Vorsitz dieses Komitees übernommen habe, hatte ich das Vergnügen, dieses E-Book zusammenzustellen, das Ihnen hoffentlich gefällt! Besonderer Dank gilt Catherine Hall, Kommunikationsberaterin bei IPA, für ihre Hilfe. Vor allem aber bleibt die Erinnerung an diese Begegnung einzigartiger Köpfe und Geschichten in den Mauern des Kulturzentrums von Belém. Herzlichst, Cláudia C. Antonelli, Chair, IPA in Culture Committee
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Participantes / Participants / Teilnehmer Alexandra Coimbra, Sociedade Portuguesa de Psicanálise Alexandre Castro e Silva, Sociedade Portuguesa de Psicanálise Babette Saebisch, DPG / German Psychoanalytic Society Bianca Isabella Christine Tiator, German Psychoanalytical Association; Mainz Psychoanalytical Institute Carolina Bacchi, Psychoanalytic Institute of Northern California (PINC) Christiane H. Schleidt, Akademie für Psychoanalyse und Psychotherapie Munich Elena Beatriz Tomasel, Membro efetivo da SPPA (Sociedade Psicanalítica de Porto Alegre) Filiz Dogan, German Psychoanalytical Association; Karl Abraham Institute Berlin Ghassan Assaf, ALDeP -Association Libanaise Pour le Développement de la Psychanalyse Gloriana Bartoli, American Psychoanalytic Association (APsA) Member and Director of Training of the New Zealand Institute of Psychoanalytic Psychotherapy (NZIPP) Inbar Palmor, PCC- Psychoanalytic Center of California Inês Ataíde Gomes, Sociedade Portuguesa de Psicanálise Julia Gerlach, DPG/German Psychoanalytic Society Kery Rowden, LCSW from the Center for Psychoanalytic Study - Houston Marianne Kohnert, DPV - Hamburg Marta Russo, Sociedade Portuguesa de Psicanálise Petra Sitta, German Psychoanalytic Society (DPG); IPPF Freiburg Roland Zag Sandra Brito Fornelos, Sociedade Portuguesa de Psicanálise Satoko Kamo, Japan Psychoanalytic Society Yao Lin, China Study Group in Wuhan Facilitadores / Facilitators / Moderatoren
Andreas Mittermayr Cláudia C. Antonelli Cordelia Schmidt-Hellerau
Elisabetta Marchiori Johanna Velt Valeria Riccheri
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Histórias | Stories | Geschichten
No dia 1º de Abril, uma senhora baixa e idosa mudou-se para o apartamento ao lado.
Alexandra Coimbra, Sociedade Portuguesa de Psicanálise No dia 1º de Abril, uma senhora baixa e idosa mudou-se para o apartamento ao lado. O 1º de Abril é o dia das mentiras, mas nunca imaginei que a conversa que tive com a minha vizinha se viesse a mostrar uma história ficcionada. Ficámos amigas e, mais tarde, rimo-nos muitas vezes ao falar sobre isso. No entanto, confesso que, nos primeiros tempos, não achei graça nenhuma quando soube que tudo o que me tinha dito, naquela primeira conversa, era inventado. A minha vizinha disse-me mais tarde que se tinha dado à liberdade de ser quem sabia que poderia ter sido, se tivesse outra vida para viver. Que me disse ela? Que aquele apartamento que tinha comprado era a sua primeira casa, que nunca tinha tido uma casa antes porque vivera em vários países. Contou-me de uma forma apaixonada as suas vivências em África, na Ásia e América Latina. Tinha tido muitas paixões, mas nunca teve filhos. As amizades estavam dispersas por vários países. Descobri, mais tarde, que sempre tinha vivido em Lisboa, que enviuvara há dois anos e que o marido tinha sido o seu namorado do liceu e, sim, era verdade, para grande desgosto dos dois, que nunca tinham tido filhos, mas tinham dois sobrinhos muito queridos. Como referi, ficámos amigas e nas nossas conversas muitas vezes ela ainda se divertia a contar histórias dos tempos em que viveu noutros lugares. Eu ouvia, e mesmo sabendo que não era verdade, acreditava! Alexandre Castro e Silva, Sociedade Portuguesa de Psicanálise No dia 1 de abril, uma senhora baixa e idosa mudou-se para o apartamento do lado…, encontrei-a na manhã seguinte e disse-me que o marido tinha falecido há um mês. Os filhos já tinham casado e por isso a casa tinha-se tornado demasiado grande para ela. Decidiu mudar-se para o centro da cidade porque gosta de pessoas e de ir ao teatro. Perguntou-me - E o Sr…?
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- Lopes! Sou empregado na sapataria e moro aqui há mais de trinta anos. A minha mulher faleceu há dois anos e vivo com a minha filha e o meu genro. Se precisar de
alguma coisa estou ao dispor. - Muito obrigado, Sr. Lopes!
Durante a mesma noite, ouviu-se uma caixa a arrastar às três da manhã. Ainda sem pregar olho, oiço a porta do prédio a bater. Espreito para o Hall de entrada e vejo três homens grandes a carregar uma caixa grande do apartamento da senhora do lado. E penso: mas que raio? O que esta mulher anda a fazer? Terá sido um assalto? Ou será que levam a velha na caixa! Não, não pode ser! Deve ser da insónia! Carolina Bacchi, Psychoanalytic Institute of Northern California (PINC) RESSACA No dia 1 de abril, uma senhora idosa e baixa mudou-se para o apartamento ao lado. Ela tinha dificuldades de subir os andares, devagar e parando a cada quatro degraus, ela recuperava o fôlego e permanecia concentrada na tarefa de alcançar o terceiro piso. O apartamento era pequeno e iluminado, de frente para o mar. A janela da sala era ampla, e quando aberta inundava o espaço com uma brisa leve e agradável, que refrescava o calor e mareava o cômodo. Luiza tinha 75 anos e sempre sonhou em morar no litoral. Adiou durante a vida toda, a criar filhos e acomodar desejos não vividos. O apartamento estava à venda já fazia algum tempo. Luiza visitou o prédio no verão anterior, entrou no apartamento e permaneceu calada olhando o movimento das ondas. O corretor interrompeu seu silêncio após uns 10 minutos de espera. A senhora gostou? Meu marido surfava quando jovem, tínhamos planos de morar na praia, mas acabamos engolidos no dia a dia da cidade grande. Ele faleceu faz dois meses. Sinto muito, D. Luiza. Gostei, sim. Ela saiu do prédio e atravessou a rua para andar pela praia. A areia quente tocava de leve a sua sandália, enquanto lembrava de Antonio molhado, de pé na sua prancha. Lu, um dia mudamos para o litoral. Ele surfando, ela escrevendo. Esse dia, não chegou para Antonio, a vida que tiveram não teve espaço para sonhos da juventude. No dia seguinte, Luiza reuniu os filhos num almoço improvisado. Mudo para a praia, já achei o apartamento. Mãe, não podemos deixar a senhora ficar tão longe, ainda mais agora. Já está decidido, fecho o contrato amanhã. Ela não tinha tempo para esperas e preocupações. Nem para conversas longas e decisões arrastadas.
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Inês Ataíde Gomes, Sociedade Portuguesa de Psicanálise No dia primeiro de Abril um senhora idosa e baixa mudou-se para o apartamento ao lado. Vinha com as suas malas, atarefada, e atras dela um gato malhado, que se enrodilhava no seus pés. Juntos numa dança sincronizada, em que os passos de um não atrapalhavam os passos do outro. Fora esse curioso pormenor nada a distinguia dos demais moradores cinzentos do prédio cinzento. Ah! Mas essa sincronia era quase perfeita. Uma cumplicidade que fazia adivinhar muito carinho mas também muita solidão. Maria. Sim era esse o seu nome, maria como tantas outras Marias. Maria trazia consigo um poço de histórias perdidas. Com traços de tristeza e de amargas perdas, lutos – muitos, uns doces outros violentos. Ser Maria era ser mulher e era ser mulher portuguesa, também poderia ser mulher brasileira talvez... O gato mia fazendo-se notar. “Calma Nautilus” disse Maria, enquanto procurava nos seus haveres as tijelas do bicho. Nautilus foi a forma que encontrou de transformar o horror em amor. Há dez anos o bacalhoeiro Nautilus naufragou nos mares da Noruega, com ele foi-se o seu José, amor de uma vida, pai dos filhos que não teve, companheiro as viagens que não fez, parceiro das memórias que não construiu. Uma andorinha poisa no beiral. Maria e Nautilus olham ambos para a pequena ave que indiferente a eles penteia as suas penas negras sob o sol primaveril daquele primeiro dia de Abril. Encantam-se, cada um à sua maneira, suspensos naquele momento em que a história não se faz presente, e um pássaro negro poisou na sua janela. Elena Beatriz Tomasel, Membro efetivo da SPPA (Sociedade Psicanalítica de Porto Alegre) No dia primeiro de abril uma senhora idosa e baixa mudou-se para o apartamento ao lado e no início ela estava animada, apesar de todas as restrições de seu filho que, como sempre, se colocava contra inovações. Mara se sentiu além de feliz, cheia de uma nova energia. Percebia-se vitalizada, pois além de um espaço físico novo, ela se sentia entusiasmada com a possibilidade inaugural: uma nova fase. Planos? A esta fase da vida já aprendera que planos não eram mais necessários. O importante era apenas viver. E
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era o que a interessava. Deixar acontecer e viver tudo o que surgisse. Os novos cheiros, sabores, vistas enfim, as novas sensações que brotariam neste espaço contiguo ao anterior, porem novo. O apartamento anterior foi o primeiro nesta nova cidade e agora finalmente o próximo fora alugado por mais tempo. As precauções legais, os contratos haviam sido organizados nos meses iniciais. Agora a chance de estender sua estada era a chance de novas aquisições. Sandra Brito Fornelos, Sociedade Portuguesa de Psicanálise No dia 1º de Abril, uma senhora idosa e baixa, mudou-se para o apartamento ao lado. Estávamos muito curiosos para conhecer a nossa nova vizinha. Este sempre foi um bairro muito tranquilo, com muita vida familiar e rodeado de espaços verdes e alguns canteiros floridos que deixavam no ar um cheiro adocicado, durante a Primavera. Era muito bom viver aqui. Recordo-me, vezes sem conta, das longas noites de trabalho em que se percebia que o dia ia clarear quando começávamos a ouvir o intenso chilrear dos pássaros, a anunciar o início de um novo dia. Nos últimos anos víamos grandes mudanças a acontecer: muitos dos moradores mais antigos tinham saído, e sido substituídos por grupos de jovens estrangeiros que mudavam a cada semana. Passou a ser difícil conhecer os vizinhos ou estabelecer com eles algum tipo de relação, tendo em conta a curta permanência. A tranquilidade e quietude habitual era frequentemente alterada, e já não havia tanto cuidado com os canteiros, as flores, as ruas, os espaços. Numa cidade grande, que se torna por vezes hostil, este nosso pequeno recanto era um refúgio que queríamos manter intacto, fomentando as relações de proximidade e cuidando uns dos outros, numa reciprocidade empática, calorosa e afectiva. A ideia de voltar a ter o apartamento do lado ocupado, deixava-nos na expectativa do que daí viria e, cheios de curiosidade tocámos à porta para nos apresentarmos e levarmos um pequeno presente de boas vindas, umas deliciosas bolachinhas caseiras. Marta Russo, Sociedade Portuguesa de Psicanálise No dia 1° de abril, uma senhora idosa e baixa, mudou-se para o apartamento ao lado. Não podia deixar de pensar na parede com os militares, que tinha visto nesse mesmo dia de madrugada. Como era estranho, que o meu pensamento voltasse a essa parede de azulejos. Mesmo em Lisboa, isso não deixava de ser incomum na minha mente. Fechei as cortinas, já que o Sol ia alto. O enjoo não me largava o estômago. Como é que podia ser coincidência, que o filho da senhora, dentro da sua farda bem engomada, a tivesse vindo deixar, juntamente com as suas coisinhas, logo no dia a seguir a eu me ter deparado com aquela imagem.
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Tentei dormir. Penso que consegui. Pelo menos, duas ou três imagens de barcos aos solavancos estavam cravadas na minha memória, portanto, acho que sonhei... Ou seria o meu estômago a misturar-se com o mar? No piso de baixo, ouço o aspirador, o som até me embala. Mas a minha preocupação, que me inibe o sono e o sonho mais claro, continua a ser a farda. Sinceramente, não sei que farda é. Não percebo nada de patentes, funções e hierarquias. Sei lá se é marinheiro ou fuzileiro! Penso que saiu. Deixou a mãe sozinha? Ou será avó? Ontem à noite acabei por caminhar sem destino. Tentei ignorar a pontinha de medo que senti quando estava sozinho na rua. Afinal, esta é uma cidade segura. Eu tenho é uma coisa cá dentro, que é muito grande e insegura. Ou talvez seja cruel. Quando o Sol baixar, vou sair de novo, mas não vou passar pelo painel de azulejos, nem vou visitar a vizinha nova: “se precisar de alguma coisa, estou aqui mesmo ao lado.” Não, não! Não estou! Já me fui embora, não ver a quero ver, só se for através do óculo da porta, onde a espio e ao filho. Ou neto?
On 1 April, a short, elderly lady moved into the flat next door.
Alexandra Coimbra, Sociedade Portuguesa de Psicanálise On 1 April, a short, elderly lady moved into the flat next door. The 1st of April is April Fool's Day, but I never imagined that the conversation I had with my neighbour would turn out to be a fictional story. We became friends and later laughed about it many times. However, I confess that at first I didn't find it funny at all when I learned that everything she had told me in that first conversation was made up. My neighbour later told me that she had taken the liberty of being who she knew she could have been if she had had another life to live. What did she tell me? That the flat she had bought was her first home, that she had never had a home before because she had lived in several countries. She told me passionately about her experiences in Africa, Asia and Latin America. She had had many loves, but never had children. Her friends were scattered across various countries. I later discovered that she had always lived in Lisbon, that she had been widowed two years earlier and that her husband had been her high school boyfriend. And yes, it was true, much to their regret, that they had never had children, but they had two beloved nephews. As I mentioned, we became friends and in our conversations she often enjoyed telling stories about the times she had lived in other places. I listened, and even though I knew it wasn't true, I believed her!
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Alexandre Castro e Silva, Sociedade Portuguesa de Psicanálise On April 1st, a short, elderly woman moved into the apartment next door…, I met her the next morning, and she told me her husband had passed away a month ago. Her children had already married, so the house had become too big for her. He decided to move downtown because he likes people and going to the theater. He asked me: "And you, Mr…!" "Lopes! I work at the shoe store and have lived here for over thirty years. My wife passed away two years ago, and I live with my daughter and son-in-law. If you need anything, I'm here to help." "Thank you very much, Mr. Lopes!" That same night, a box was heard being dragged around at three in the morning. Still unable to sleep, I hear the building's door slam shut. I peek into the entrance hall and see three large men carrying a large box from the woman's apartment next door. And I think: what the hell? What is this woman doing? Could it have been a robbery? Or are they carrying the old woman in the box? No, it can't be! It must be my insomnia! Carolina Bacchi, Psychoanalytic Institute of Northern California (PINC) UNDERTOW On April 1st, an elderly woman moved into the apartment next door. She had difficulty climbing the stairs—slowly, stopping every four steps, she would catch her breath and stay focused on the task of reaching the third floor. The apartment was small and bright, facing the sea. The living room window was wide, and when opened, it flooded the space with a light and pleasant breeze that cooled the heat and filled the room with the scent of the ocean. Luiza was 75 years old and had always dreamed of living by the coast. She postponed it her whole life, raising children and putting aside unfulfilled desires. The apartment had been for sale for some time. Luiza had visited the building the previous summer, stepped into the apartment, and stayed silent, watching the movement of the waves. The real estate agent broke the silence after about ten minutes of waiting. Did you like it, ma'am? My husband used to surf when he was young. We had plans to live by the beach, but we ended up swallowed by the daily life of the big city. He passed away two months ago. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Luiza. I did like it. She left the building and crossed the street to walk along the beach. The warm sand lightly touched her sandals as she remembered Antonio, wet, standing on his surfboard. Lu, one day we’ll move to the coast. He would be surfing the waves, while she would be writing a book. That day never came for Antonio. The life they had left no room for youthful dreams.
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The next day, Luiza gathered her children for an impromptu lunch. I'm moving to the beach. I've already found the apartment. Mom, we can’t let you stay so far away, especially now. It’s already decided. I’m signing the contract tomorrow. She had no time for waiting and worrying. Not for long conversations or dragged-out decisions. Inês Ataíde Gomes, Sociedade Portuguesa de Psicanálise On April 1st, a short elderly woman moved into the apartment next door. She came with her suitcases, busy, and behind her a tabby cat, winding itself around her feet. Together they moved in a synchronized dance, where the steps of one never disturbed the steps of the other. Aside from this curious detail, she was no different from the other gray residents of the gray building. Ah! But that synchrony was almost perfect. A complicity that suggested great affection but also great loneliness. Maria. Yes, that was her name – Maria, like so many other Marias. Maria carried with her a weel of lost stories. Traces of sadness and bitter losses, griefs — many, some gentle, some violent. Being Maria was being a woman, and being a Portuguese woman, or perhaps a Brazilian woman... The cat meowed, making its presence known. “Calm down, Nautilus,” Maria said, while searching her belongings for the animal's bowls. Nautilus was the way she found to transform horror into love. Ten years ago, the cod fishing boat Nautilus had sunk in the seas of Norway, with it went José, the love of her life, father of the children she never had, companion on journeys she never took, partner in the memories she never built. A swallow perched on the windowsill. Maria and Nautilus both watched the small bird, which, indifferent to them, preened its black feathers under the spring sun of that first day of April. They are enchanted, each in their own way, suspended in that moment when history is not present, and a black bird rested upon their window.
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Elena Beatriz Tomasel, Membro efetivo da SPPA (Sociedade Psicanalítica de Porto Alegre) On April 1st, a short, elderly woman moved into the apartment next door , and at first, she was excited, despite all the reservations, her son had given her, who, as always, was against innovation. Mara felt beyond happy, filled with new energy. She felt revitalized, because in addition to a new physical space, she felt excited about the inaugural possibility: a new phase. Plans? By this stage of life, she had learned that plans were no longer necessary. The important thing was simply to live. And that was what interested her. To let happen and experience everything that arose. The new smells, tastes, views— in short, the new sensations that would blossom in this space adjacent to the previous one, but new. The previous apartment had been her first in this new city, and now, finally, the next one had been rented for a longer period. Legal precautions and contracts had been arranged in the initial months. Now, the chance to extend her stay was the chance to acquire new things. Sandra Brito Fornelos, Sociedade Portuguesa de Psicanálise On April 1st, a short, elderly woman moved into the apartment next door. We were very curious to meet our new neighbor. This had always been a very quiet neighborhood, with a lot of family life and surrounded by green spaces and some flowerbeds that left a sweet scent in the air during the spring. It was wonderful to live here. I remember, countless times, the long work nights when we knew the dawn was about to break when we began to hear the intense chirping of birds, announcing the beginning of a new day. In recent years, we had seen great changes taking place: many of the older residents had left, replaced by groups of young foreigners who changed weekly. It became difficult to get to know the neighbors or establish any kind of relationship with them, given the short stay. The usual tranquility and stillness were frequently disturbed, and the flowerbeds, flowers, streets, and spaces were no longer as carefully tended. In a large city that can sometimes become hostile, this little corner of ours was a refuge we wanted to keep intact, fostering close relationships and caring for one another in an empathetic, warm, and affectionate reciprocity. The thought of having the apartment next door occupied again left us eager to see what would come next, and, full of curiosity, we knocked on the door to introduce ourselves and bring a small welcome gift: some delicious homemade cookies.
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Marta Russo, Sociedade Portuguesa de Psicanálise On April 1st, a short, elderly woman moved into the apartment next door. I couldn't stop thinking about the wall with the soldiers, which I had seen that same day at dawn. How strange it was that my thoughts kept returning to that tiled wall. Even in Lisbon, it was still unusual in my mind. I closed the curtains, as the sun was high in the sky. The nausea wouldn't leave my stomach. How could it be a coincidence that the lady's son, in his neatly pressed uniform, had come to drop her off, along with her belongings, the day after I had come across that image? I tried to sleep. I think I managed it. At least two or three images of bobbing boats were Downstairs, I hear the vacuum cleaner, the sound even lulling me. But in my concern, which inhibits my sleep and clearer dreams, remains the uniform. Honestly, I don't know what uniform it is. I don't understand anything about ranks, functions, and hierarchies. How should I know if he's a sailor or a marine! I think he left. Did he leave his mother alone? Or is it his grandmother? Last night I ended up walking aimlessly. I tried to ignore the slight fear I felt when I was alone on the street. After all, this is a safe city. What I have inside me is something very big and unsafe. Or maybe it's cruel. When the sun goes down, I'll go out again, but I won't pass by the tile panel, nor will I visit the new neighbor: “If you need anything, I'm right next door.” No, no! I'm not! I'm gone, I don't want to see her, unless it's through the peephole in the door, where I spy on her and her son. Or grandson? Yao Lin, China Study Group in Wuhan On April 1st, a short, elderly woman moved into the apartment next door. The woman who used to live there had already passed away, and now there was a new hostess. My family told me she was also in her second marriage. etched in my memory, so I think I dreamed... Or was it my stomach mixing with the sea? Back in my hometown, I remember many women who passed away early, who died from illness, and also those who are still alive now, like the new hostess next door. These women were so familiar to me in my childhood—Sister Qiuhua, my aunt, Genguzi’s mother, and the neighbor’s grandma. When I was little, they often looked after me. If my parents weren’t home, I would stay with the neighbor’s grandma. She would cook while I followed her around, or make zongzi while I stood by watching. Those were beautiful times, full of warm memories, but now they have all faded away.
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When I go back to my hometown, I can no longer see them. It’s as if they had disappeared into thin air. I don’t even remember the details of their lives, nor do I really know their stories, but in my memory they were always there. Maybe it was because of the way the village was—very open, with everyone’s doors unlocked. People would spend time outside their homes, chatting, visiting each other freely. It was so natural to step into a neighbor’s house. In the evenings, after dinner, people would carry their bowls and go from one house to another, tasting dishes from different families. That is the memory of my childhood. Later, when I went away to study in the city, then to bigger cities, and eventually moved abroad to Germany, I never experienced that kind of life again. Those times feel almost ancient now, as if that way of living and that closeness between people has been sealed away. Even when I return to my hometown, I can still sense a trace of it, but the easy openness—the visiting, the doors always open—is no longer there. I realize that as certain people pass away, a whole way of life, a whole feeling, passes away with them. I miss those neighbor women deeply. They left this world quietly, without much notice. I once asked my mom, “When Sister Qiuhua passed away, did the village hold a big funeral for her? Was it solemn?” My mom said she couldn’t remember. When I think about it, there are also other women who gave me the same feeling—my grandma, my great-aunt, my maternal grandmother… Ghassan Assaf, ALDeP -Association Libanaise Pour le Développement de la Psychanalyse On April first, an old woman moved to the apartment next-door. It’s 11 pm, Mrs. Landel is trying, once again, to distract herself from the vivid images and scenarios of her in the new narrow apartment. After spending more than forty years in her house, where she took care of her garden every day, battling snow and heat to safeguard her dear plants and flowers, she’s now moving to a small studio with no balcony. Mary spent the last six months telling herself that she was lucky having lived those forty plus year the way she did, even if she now has to quit it all….. Gloriana Bartoli, American Psychoanalytic Association (APsA) Member and Director of Training of the New Zealand Institute of Psychoanalytic Psychotherapy (NZIPP) On April 1st, a short, elderly woman moved into the apartment next door. She just woke up from a sleepless night; she was walking poorly; it seems she was looking for something ... but what was it?
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“Only God knows!”, she thought. “I can hardly remember my name. Maybe it is a need for something? Today is the day; I know it now! It’s time to go, to move somewhere else. The first of April is a good day, a good start for something new. It is a joke, too! What am I doing this for? Whom am I doing this for? I am not sure.” She kept talking to herself, while trying to connect to the plan she vaguely recalled she made with her neighbour. “Meow, meow ...”, she could hear as she walked around the apartment. “Oh, poor you. Are you hungry?”, she asked calmly, while approaching the cat and gently stroking him, with affection, as she used to do when visiting her neighbour. Now that he was not there, she didn't feel as comfortable at his place, not like when he invited her for a coffee or a wine at night. Good friends, they were, nothing more, yet very close, in an inexplicable way, close in a way that only two human beings who truly understand each other can be, when something deep down touches them both, despite the differences. She kept looking around the apartment, slowly feeling more at ease as something familiar caught her eye and reminded her of the past: “that painting is marvellous, he told me about the story when he bought it, and that incredible encounter he had ...”.
Inbar Palmor, PCC- Psychoanalytic Center of California On April 1, a small elderly woman moved in next door-
Her frail image resembled a shadow in the hallway, darkened by lack of natural light or any light of all for that matter, I caught a glimpse of her back as she stepped into the apartment immediately disappearing as if swallowed into the abyss. I felt a deep intense pain inside me, I could not move, I felt as if I had seen myself many years to come, or perhaps it was not me but her. She passed away so long ago, but although she had been so young, her rapid deterioration had aged her so violently that she had become a ghostly image of herself. So many decades have passed. The intense dreams, images and sensations passing with them. Now, this image brought back all that had been pushed away with all its immense force. The pain paralyzing me, loss of breath, I am drawn to immerse.
Satoko Kamo, Japan Psychoanalytic Society On April first, a small woman moved into the room next door.
To be precise, it was about three days later that I noticed this. When I returned home from work that evening, I found a small bag hanging on my door. Inside were a wrapped fluffy towel, a small baked confection, and a message card.
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“I'm Kato, who moved in next door on the 1st. I live alone, but I keep a large parrot. She might make loud noises sometimes. I apologize for any inconvenience, and thank you for your understanding.” A large parrot? Large parrots live fifty to sixty years, I'd heard. They don't become independent like human children do. I had never before considered what it would be like to be responsible for a living creature for fifty to sixty years. A large parrot—what color might it be? Gray? Colorful like red and blue? Would it learn human words? I found myself very eager to meet this parrot. And I also wanted to meet my neighbor, who had chosen to spend such a long time living with a parrot. What do parrots eat, I wondered. Sunflower seeds, perhaps? I bought a bag of sunflower seeds, and on a warm evening in mid-April, I rang my neighbor's doorbell. Kery Rowden, LCSW from the Center for Psychoanalytic Study - Houston On April 1, a small woman moved into the apartment next door. A small woman with a big footprint. Oy, the stuff. Boxes and boxes of it. She must have come from somewhere with a lot of room. It took a couple of guys the whole day to bring it all in, up and down the stairs they went, toting boxes and furniture and God knows what until their blue t-shirts with the drawing of a muscled Atlas turned dark and their faces dripped. I hope she gave them a tip. Back and forth, up and down, the hot, humid air rising up the stairs, filling the hallway. At least it wasn’t raining. That would have been a mess. It was Good Friday. Easter was late. Or was it early? I never understood those holidays that move around on the calendar. What I do know is that it was hot early. I mean, it’s mostly hot in New Orleans, but what people don’t know is that it’s not hot all the time. Sometimes it’s really cold, but what it mostly is is wet. Babette Saebisch, DPG / German Psychoanalytic Society On April 1st, a short, elderly woman moved into the apartment next door. Ricarda thought it was an April Fool's joke when her partner told her about it over dinner. "You're kidding me," she said with a stiff expression and turned away from him. She reached for her half-empty plate and cutlery – as she placed them next to the sink, the first tears were already running down her cheeks. Massimo came over to her and gently took her in his arms. "Why would I? Do you think I've already forgotten how much Amma's death affected you and how agonising you found that stupid horoscope line?"
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At the beginning of next month, a new contact will enter your life and help you forget your loss. Ricarda crumpled a tear-soaked handkerchief as she remembered the lines. Massimo waited patiently. Finally, she looked at him. "So... really?" "Really. It went quite quickly this morning, she only has a small household. Three young people helped her move – maybe her grandchildren?" Tears ran down Ricarda's face again. Then she hesitantly reached for a packet of unopened brown bread and the salt shaker on the sideboard. "Hmm. OK. What do you think? Shall we go over?" Christiane H. Schleidt, Akademie für Psychoanalyse und Psychotherapie Munich On the first of April, a little old woman moved into the flat next door. When I woke up in the morning and was still lying in bed, half asleep, I heard noises coming from the flat next door that I didn't recognise. This flat was actually unoccupied, so I was confused by the sounds coming from it. At first, I thought I was dreaming. I dreamed that a witch was flying past the window on a broomstick. But then I saw that it was birds. I must have fallen back asleep for a moment. When I woke up again, I heard a rhythmic knocking. Were they Morse code signals? What was the message? Was it an April Fool's joke? Was someone knocking on the ceiling with a broomstick? Now it was quiet again. I began to wonder why the flat next door had been unoccupied for so many years. I had only been living in this house for three years myself, and it was always said that the owners couldn't agree on anything, which was why the flat wasn't being rented out. Actually, I had always suspected that the flat was occupied, because one window was usually open at dusk and in the morning even the shutters were closed. But it had never been important enough for me to talk to anyone in the building about it. And somehow it always reassured me that there was a kind of mystery next door. Now the reassurance was gone and a quiet fear crept through me. I remembered that while renovating our flat, I had discovered a photograph under a doorstep showing a small old woman standing next to a uniformed man wearing a peaked cap from the First World War. The woman was smiling, and next to her was a handcart loaded with all sorts of things. And the man actually looked friendly too. The photo is still under the doorstep to the corner room. Now I wondered if there had been a broom on the ladder cart. Bianca Isabella Christine Tiator, German Psychoanalytical Association; Mainz Psychoanalytical Institute ON APRIL 1ST, A SHORT, ELDERLY WOMAN MOVED INTO THE APARTMENT NEXT DOOR. I saw her through my window. She came all alone. I was impressed because she only had a travel bag with her. It was an old pink bag with a golden ribbon. How could this petite
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old lady move into a flat all by herself, without any help? How could she move in without any furniture? I waited all day, unable to tear myself away from the window, because this question tormented me so much. This little lady with her friendly, almost mischievous smile and her bright eyes, which flashed in my direction once, very briefly – this moment lasted no longer than a second. It could easily have gone unnoticed, it was so brief. It was just a tiny hint of eye contact, but it seemed to me as if this little old stranger had looked deep into my soul for a fraction of a millisecond. I was startled. What had she seen there? It seemed to me as if she had smiled briefly. No, not with her mouth, even though she had an enchanting rosy mouth! No, it was her eyes. Her eyes had smiled into mine. Julia Gerlach, DPG/German Psychoanalytic Society On April 1st, a short, elderly woman moved into the apartment next door. At first, I thought it was an April Fool's joke. I had been promised a young Italian man, attractive, charming, and full of life. And now this. I looked out of the window and watched her watching the removal van. She stood there motionless for a moment, then turned and looked up, directly at my window. Startled, I took a step back, but immediately stepped forward again and hesitantly raised my hand in a small wave. She didn't move a muscle, her dark eyebrows were drawn together, and she stared at me critically. Then she bent down, picked up the large basket standing next to her on the sidewalk, filled to the brim with red apples, and, slightly bent over, made her way into the house. From above, I looked at her sternly drawn gray parting and the gray hair tied together at the nape of her neck. "A witch!" I thought, startled, and listened to the slow footsteps coming from the staircase. The old wood creaked audibly. As if magically drawn, I moved through the hallway to the apartment door. Hesitantly, I pressed down the handle, opened the door, and looked into the stairwell. A ray of sunlight had crept through the backyard into the stairwell. The old woman was just turning the corner of the winding staircase, and I ran down a few steps to take the heavy basket from her. Why am I doing this, a quiet voice inside me asked. My heart was pounding with excitement. Something drew me to her. Our eyes met again, she gave me the basket, and we climbed the few steps to our apartments together. Once there, I gave her back the basket. "Nana." What did she mean? "That's my name."
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