Dia mundial da gentileza

Harold – Wow… that’s a…really good cookie.

So…When did you decide to become a Baker?

Ana – Oh. In college.

Harold – Like, “cooking college”?

Ana – No. I went to Harvard law.

Harold – Oh… oh. Geez. I… sorry. I just assumed… sorry.

Ana – No. It’s alright. I didn’t finish.

Harold – Did something happen?

Ana – Not really. I was… I was barely accepted. I mean, barely. The only reason they let me come was because of my essay. How I was going to make the world a better place with my degree. And I went there thinking…

Well, I went thinking that I might make a difference and uh… well… Harvard law has the smartest people in the world, people who will one day shape the earth, and it’s competitive and vicious and exhausting…

And I’d have to participate in these study sessions, classmates and I, all night long. Sometimes for a couple days straight. And so I could bake – cookies usually – so no one would go hungry while we worked. I’d bake all afternoon in the kitchen in the dorm before a big study session and write down what I was doing in one of those black Mead Journals they sell by the gross in the campus bookstore.

And I’d bring my little treats to the study groups… and people loved them. Oatmeal cookies. Peanut Butter bars. Chocolate chip and macadamia nut wedges. And everyone would eat and stay happy and study harder and do better on the tests and more people would come to the study groups and the study groups got better and I would make more snacks and try to find better recipes and the results would always get better and better and soon it was cheese cake and apricot croissants and mocha bars with almond glaze and lemon chiffon cakes with zesty peach icing and our study groups were famous around all Cambridge: not because we had the most copious notes, or the smartest people, but because we had the best snacks….

And at the end of the spring term… I had 27 study partners, eight black Mead journals filled with recipes… and a D average.

So I dropped out. Simply, without alarm, and without any regrets.

I just figured, if I was gonna make the world a better place… I’d do it with cookies. I’m glad you liked them.

Harold – I uh… I did. Thank you for forcing me to eat them.

Ana – You’re welcome.

Do filme Mais Estranho que a Ficcção, de Marc Forster

Being Earnest

“You know what it's like, Erica? It's like... It's like you are in a boat. You've got this one oar over here and it's just rowing and rowing and rowing. You know, furiously fueled by everyone else's expectations. And that's... that's never gonna stop, but it's kinda got you going around in circles. 'Cause if you want to move forward, then you also have to row with the oar that represents how you see yourself.

Learn to be what you are and learn to resign with good grace all that you are not.

Henri Frederic Amiel”

Michael Riley, o Dr. Tom da série canadense Being Erica

Vestido, fumaça e palavrão

Abri o meu armário procurando um pijama e encontrei três pessoas. Tinha espaço suficiente para as três, mas uma delas, de pernas abertas e falando bem alto, ocupava boa parte do lugar dos demais. Era o João. Usando um casaco verde musgo com uma bermuda bege bem larga, ele aproveitava o conforto da vestimenta para se sentar bem à vontade enquanto contava para os outros uma história meio sem pé nem cabeça permeada por muitos palavrões.

Sentada em um cantinho, como quem não pertencesse àquele lugar, a Doralice enrolava seus cabelos com os dedos e ajeitava seu vestido florido para que os pés sujos do João não o sujassem. Ela estava tão quietinha no seu canto que tive vontade de colocá-la em um chaveiro e enchê-la de babados. O único barulho que emitia era uma tosse seca. E foi aí que eu reparei na fumaça.

Era da Carmen que, de pernas cruzadas e lábios cor de carmim, fumava um cigarro bem fedido com piteira. Eu tratei de arrancá-lo de sua mão antes que defumasse todas as minhas roupas. Ela nem se abalou e, lançando-me um olhar de desprezo, virou para o lado e começou a mexer em seu colar de pérolas. É uma pessoinha nojenta, mas impõe uma autoridade no João que eu nunca tinha visto. O menino é hiperativo, mas tomava um cuidado danado para não esbarrar em sua roupa feita sob medida. a Carmen tem todo um jeito misterioso que me intriga, mas não posso dizer que gosto dela. Assim que encontrei meu pijama, ela tirou outro cigarro do bolso e fez uma cara de “você não manda em mim”. Irritada, fechei o armário e fui dormir.