The seven chapels sanctuary

Thank the heavens for blessed places where you can go to recharge your strength and inner peace. The Seven Chapels Sanctuary is one of those places for me. It is located in Ribeirão Preto, Brazil, at Morro de São Bento. The chapels are disposed in a semi-circle surrounded by rocks, and each bares the name of a saint. The first was built in 1948 and the last in 1955. They were envisioned by monks and built by locals. It is a great place to go even if you’re not Catholic if only for the pleasant atmosphere.

I always take pictures when I go there, so here are a few. The app used was photolab.


Dame Agatha Christie

Agatha Christie, surrounded by some of her 80-plus crime novels.

My memory is quite unfortunate in the sense that it always plays tricks on me. The bad stuff is often imprinted hurtfully everywhere in my brain, making me constantly remember those awful memories I would give anything to erase. The good things, on the other hand, are fuzzy, almost ethereal-like creatures that greet me every now and then from a distance while the traumas laugh around.

That is why I am not sure the exact day I became obsessed with Agatha Christie’s books. I vaguely remember I was about 11 or 12 at the time. I have always been a bookworm from an early age, but till that point I had only read ‘light’ stuff, if you can call The Three Musketeers and Robin Hood light reading, preferring books full of adventure and romance rather than murder and mystery. So, it was a delight to find what I now call fondly as ‘an Agatha’. In fact, I was fascinated from the get-go.

I’m also not sure which book was my first (this sentence sounds kind of dirty in my head). Perhaps it was a slightly tattered copy of The Seven Dials Mystery I found in my parents’ bookcase. Don’t know why but this book stayed in my head for a very long time as one of her best, though after a while I changed my mind upon reading it a second time. Still, at the time I was 12 and highly impressionable. It is a book full of adventure and romance (?), but the mystery and murder, those two made all the difference. I was at awe from beginning to end, and even more at the end. All the twists and turns, the good who turned bad and the bad who turned good… Agatha was not just queen of mystery, she was queen of plot twists. And what wonderful plot twists I have read over the years thanks to her. And Then There Were None, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Murder on the Orient Express, Death in the Nile… There are so many of them! And imagine how happy I was to find out that she had written at least about 80 books. I was in book heaven. Now that I am 36 years old, I can proudly say I have read not all but most of her work. I am glad I haven’t read all of them. It means I still have some Agatha to find out there, with new ways to surprise me.

I just finished reading her autobiography, something I had wanted to do for quite a long time. Until now all I knew was Agatha, the author. I was most curious about the person behind the author. I guess it is always the case once you admire someone’s work so passionately. All I knew was that odd story about her disappearance after she got divorced. Apart from that, nothing at all. So, there I went ready to discover Agatha, the woman. Happily, I was not disappointed.

Agatha is just as good at telling her own life story as she is at writing her mystery novels. She takes you for a ride down her memory lane in her own terms, choosing what memories and aspects of her life she wished to share with her readers. It made her a lot more human. Agatha had a fantastic, if a bit lonely, childhood. Her family’s portrait is poignant and their flaws endearing rather than annoying and traumatizing. Even when she speaks about her brother, a rather difficult person, she is realistic but not judgmental. Her own flaws are exposed, only making you want to have met her more.


As for that disappearance after her painful divorce to a man she loved dearly, it was left out rather elegantly. I believe Unfinished Portrait, under the penname Mary Westmacott, was probably her answer to that ordeal.

The only painful moments shared with us are from missing loved ones, and even then, those are presented as facts of life rather than with dramatic literary undertones. Life and death are treated equally, as just parts of the ride. Such is her take on both wars as well, though at some points she gets very emotional, as is expected in such situations. Still, despite the downs she was always game for new adventures, to try on new things, to even start writing as a dare with her sister, or taking risks because that is how life is supposed to be lived.

Her work and life are an inspiration, now more so than before. I aspire to be like Agatha Christie someday, both as a writer and as a person. I hope that by the end of my life I can look back like her and be thankful for everything.





with your perky breasts and your curvy silhouette

and your fertile belly and your silky hair

with wine full lips and peachy skin

and open arms which embrace longing and sin


with desires and yearning pouring from every inch

make me your eager pupil

teach me how to seduce

pour me your honey, drown me in lust

show me how to drive him mad with a simple touch

lend me your velvet tongue

so I can suck him dry

and make him mine

and bite his lips

and feel his hands on my thighs

his fingers on my clitoris

going lower, sliding inside

making me wet and crying with need


goddess of love and of all sexual needs

allow me the erotic

let me bathe in your powerful scent

let me take him while he takes me

let us cry in tender agony

lose ourselves in frenzy ecstasy

let us rapture while we rupture

with all we ever feared


snap my rationality completely

allow me to go mad with desire

and with the friction come like fire

consuming everything around me

my heart, my soul, my body

leave me naked, bare my all

tear down all my tinted walls

open my veins and let me bleed

let desire consume me

let me love, be loved, be free

You boy

You with your smile which can light up my world and burn my insides at the same time. You with your cropped raven hair which begs for a touch and a tender caress. You with your full red lips which I so want to bite and kiss and feel against my own lips. You with that sharp tongue of yours which I imagine against my skin, my neck, my breasts… You with your dark tanned skin I long to feel against my own skin. You who turn my world upside down. You who are forbidden and yet allowed. You who treats me coldly and warm and hot and bothered. You, friend or foe. You who can never be mine. You who never really cared because why would you when I’m darkness and you are light, I’m empty but you are full of life, I’m pain and you are fine.

You boy… You are heaven and sin. You hurt so good against my skin. You boy who made me special for a few minutes… who lit up a path in my dying heart… who for a moment made it all less boring. You boy you keep on living while I return to myself and hide in my cave and watch you move on as I die one more day.

Monalisa smile

As you look at the mirror do you wonder what is behind your Monalisa smile? 

Do you see yourself as a saint, or do you have erotic secrets you hide? 

What is behind that smirk? Is it contempt for your life? Do you fear what others may think and what you can’t deny? 

And behind those sad eyes in which the universe can be seen, what do you see?

Do you see yourself as the hero or the villain of your story?

Behind that smile, are your fears like mine and our anxieties alike? 

Behind those eyes, are you terrified of goodbyes? 

What are the truths and lies behind that ambiguous smile?

Are you up to face the world or hide?

Stay or run away? 

Break apart or break away? 

One day, Monalisa, one day your smile will give your secrets away. 

So long, hello

So long, sun, and with you another day wasted on sadness and maddening thoughts.

So long to scorching desires buried in properness and religious guilt.

So long to you leaving work after a tiresome day only to be welcomed by more troubles at home.

So long farewell friends who always plan on meeting but never do because of life, and love, and lost and emptiness.

So long nation and social networks that have become nations and shout for freedom and drop bombs while preaching for peace.

So long, so long…

Hello, moon, with your mysterious airs and lovers’ enchantments.

Hello creatures of the night coming out hungry for food and love and fuck.

Hello there stars in the sky and nightclubs drinking to the oblivion of such a wonderful life.

Hello couples and friends of couples and double-dates and triple-dates full of laughter and colourful drinks named specifically to make you yearn for that special night where everything is allowed but nothing is truly permitted.

Hello envy and jealousy after that fun night at the bar spent in funny gossip but bitter comments and poisonous points of views.

Hello there solitary man and woman hating everyone while wanting everyone.

Hello break of dawn.

So long, moon.

Good morning, sun, lazily rising to warm our lonely rancid hearts. And thank you for trying.