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Leo for a while

Name:
Leo for a While
Birthdate:
10 April
Location:
External Services:
  • waitsfortherain@gmail.com
  • waitsfortherain@livejournal.com
  • 176671739 ICQ status
As a small child I had this book I cared for more than anything in life. It was called L'Opera de la Lune and it was about a boy who was friends with the moon. She (in French, like in Portuguese, the moon is always feminine) took the boy on a journey to see a theatre where the curtain never fell. Anytime you went there something was always happening on the stage. I was absolutely enthralled by the story. More firmly than I have ever believed anything else, I believed I was the boy in the moon. I don't mean it as a symbol. I actually believed I was that boy. If it really is true that we go through life making up characters for ourselves and for others, then perhaps I was. Perhaps the boy in the moon is the closest I ever got to having an identity of my own.

My name is Leonardo, people call me Leo, I was born, raised, and have always lived in Rio de Janeiro, and I'm an actor (more about that here). I also do translation work, usually from English to Portuguese. Portuguese is my mother tongue, English is my second language, and my French is kind of all right, kind of, in the sense that most of the time it stays bearable. It doesn't oscilate between lousy and atrocious the way my Spanish does.

This business of languages can be very tricky. I once made a film in which I had just one scene (set in Buenos Aires, but filmed in Rio) speaking Spanish as a guy who might be Argentinian or not. I was told when the film was released in Argentina people were incensed at the part being played by someone with a foreign accent. I think it was an overreaction (I should know, I have them all the time). I mean, the guy I was playing could well be a foreigner living in Argentina. But then, whoever reads this thing may think, "Why the hell am I being told that?" I have no idea. Maybe it's because we guys started talking about work. Or maybe it's because of this obsession I have with hot air balloons. Whatever.

I'm pretty much convinced there never was an actor who really knew why he or she took to it in the first place. Or a translator. Or a tramp. I suspect it must have something to do with the sounds that came through the window in the beginning. Like some old lady playing the piano in the house next door. You don't know anymore if it's memory or imagination. Maybe it's both, like when you're on the stage or in front of a camera. Or hovering between two languages. But then, whoever reads this thing may think, "What an awful lot of horseshit!" And they may be right. Or not. Whatever.

No easy task this business of writing about yourself knowing that somebody may read the stuff. Much easier to write about others. Then you can fictionalize it without being reminded that the way to hell is paved with the lies you tell about yourself. On the other hand, I could never understand why the lies you tell about others are no good to pave the way to hell. Maybe in Bulgaria they know a thing like that.
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