Trip to Santana do Cariri - CE
Logbook by Beatriz Louise
My text talks about Sertão. No. Not only from Sertão. My text talks about Sertão and the first time my feet touched that bus and the first day that I sat alone, hermit, and the last day jumping from bench to bench, already nomadic and wandering, but certain that something had changed.
My text speaks of what I cannot speak. My text speaks of the infinite screen that for three days had flooded my eyes to the final destination. Or initial.
We are a family owned and operated business.
He speaks of the landscape that I will never be able to speak of. It speaks of the outcrops of Araripe and of my being. It talks about the Cretaceous floors. My text speaks of Socorrinha beautifully handling the clay and her feet dancing in circles on the red sand around her clay object. My text talks about the quarry and the white man who blinds and the workers Antônio Marcos, CÃcero and Espedito who cut limestone rocks under the scorching sun, transforming them into stones that would later be used in the construction of houses throughout Ceará. He speaks of the rhythm of the hammer hitting the chisel in the hope of finding the rarest fossil that was sedimented in the limestone fractures. My text talks about the rocks and petrified trees that were perpetuated in time-space.
It speaks of stagnant weather, of the horizontal landscape that seems to have no end. My text talks about Imbaúba, a tree used to make drums by the Indians of the Northeast. He also talks about tiredness, the constant feeling of dry mouth and heat. It speaks of the almost unreal sunset to the sound of Luiz Gonzaga coming out of Diogo's clarinet while that infinite sky engulfed me. My text talks about how I cried at that moment and nobody saw it. It talks about how 30 minutes felt like hours to me. My text talks about a stone in the way and how I took it for myself, making it my way. It speaks of memory, death, forgetfulness and our presence so strong and so subtle. My text reminds me of Ismar's stories, of how he talked about being remembered in death and forgotten in life. He talks about the loves I met, the friendships that have become my family. My text points out the mistake of calling it Mine. My text goes far beyond my history, in Cariri he was born and there he stayed, to continue writing with the hands of the world.
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