Last night was so strange, and strange was the fact I had no call from Emerson all day long. Moreover, no sign of him when I tried to reach him on the phone as though both Emersons had gone on a trip. Saturday is a good day for some travelling, I wouldn't place any blame on them in case they did. Travelling helps you leave te scenery of your disturbances for a while, giving you some time to breathe in again. Of course it is escapism, but we are not the ones made of steel. At the nearest supermarket, hear rumors of unrest in some of the region's penitentiaries and start thinking about the destructive power not only in crime, but also in its punishment. Reality has made tabula rasa of any claims of individual's rehabilitation in these circles of hell badly disguised as rehabilitation centers called penitentiaries. I don't know where my things are. My house's been a mess this day, remains to see when I'll get around to putting all this in order. So I can see, truly see and have my things back at hand again.

Only when I arrived in front of the prospective client's house did I remember I hadn't taken note of his name nor did he identify himself on the phone. Maybe because it was a house, were it an apartment building I'd have dropped the case just upon remembering the detail. But I make a living through these clients, as everyone does, can't afford to drop them this easy. I rang the doorbell and looked at my watch, wondering why the man would ask to come at nine. Was he busy before that time, no one left in the house to answer the bell?

A man came to open the door. It must be him. Before he could finish turning the key and releasing the door lock I heard someone shout from one of the two front windows of the house, "go away!" and lifted my eyes to the window. A boy had let out the shout and he was nervously hanging at the window, looking not at me, but at something further from me. I looked around myself into the street to see if there was something worth mentioning there, but there was nothing. This street is a bit like mine, too quiet for this early at night. Of course, it is a weekday, when people go to bed early to wake up to another working day, but nine is still too early to have everything around in this stillness. The boy shouted again, and, looking at the entrance doorway, I realized there was no one there anymore. no one was trying to open that door any longer. I said to myself these had been common situations for me, I had to have gotten used to them, but I never do. It's like opening my window and seeing a different view every single morning.

Now the man appeared on the window, hushed the boy and from the window asked me if I could see if there was somebody on the corner. Nobody there, I told him. He then got down and finally opened the door. He was 40 something, I guess, but wouldn't ask him his name, it would be more of a job for IBGE, I think.

The inside had a light decoration, light-looking furniture, modern looks, indirect and cozy lighting that came from lamps in two opposed corners of the room. Possibly a place to meditate, no TV set, much like my own. There was something heavy in that house though, contrasting with the appearance of that intimate, quiet room that made me wonder. Wherever they called me for help, I'd feel the same heavy air, of people that might (very often) be in real need of that help. We sat down, he suddenly stood up, excused himself and went upstairs to see if everything was alright. I wondered when we'd really start to talk; I had already an uncomfortable feel, wanted to go back home for some tea, but then it seemed there was some time left for him to talk to me. He introduced himself as Emerson. Said he was an advertiser and this was what he knew better how to do. Said he was divorced and a lot of other things I thought had nothing to do with his reason for calling me. I asked him for more details on what he had called me for. He told me Emerson, the son, had a normal school life. No bullying, as I had asked him about on the phone, at least not that the boy had reported to him. I told him not always did children tell their parents about it though they really should. Some feel intimidated, fearing retaliation if concrete measures are taken at school against the bully. Emerson told me this was not the case. I asked about his son's name and he repeated his. I smile and said I was referring to the boy. He then went over his own name; the son was named after him, of course, and I apologized, a bit embarrassed.

"Care for some coffee?", he said simply.
"I do, though tea would be even better", I answered in my ever-increasing sincerity and making him smile.

We talked some more in the kitchen while he was boiling water for the tea. Told me that children are usually sad and depressive when having issues as bullying to battle at school. I said I knew, but it wasn't a happy child what I saw shouting out from the window. He seemed slightly annoyed at hearing that, annoyance he tried so very hard to supress that he eventually managed to. He went on to say these things usually happened at that time at night, not the same mood as coming back from school. He declared he had gotten the boy to follow some simple guidelines to avoid bullying as walking in groups, hanging around only with friends and so forth.

"The problem starts whenever I come home", he added, "as though he suspected someone was following me here".
"Have you double-checked to see if it only starts when you come home? Does he stay home alone?"
"He does, when I'm working. Emerson is good enough to take care of himself for these short periods. Now, I have checked through his daytime mood. We speak a lot on the cell phone, he's got my number of course, but never called me from school."
"You pick him up there when class is over?"
"No, he comes on a school bus."

He then went on to tell me there was something he saw on the corner, sometimes even closer to the house, somebody that he imagined, maybe created as many children have imaginary friends. He then asked me if I had had imaginary friends when I was a child. I replied I had to wait to become an adult to realize most of my friends were actually imaginary.

"You're a good laugh, did you know?", he was trying hard not to really laugh.
"I do", and smiled back at him.

Tea was ready and truly welcome. Cold was beginning to take over the streets in spite of all fair weather as autumn makes it to the heart of this country. We ate some cookies and savored the tea as he was growing more and more attached to his theory of the imaginary friend. Without reinforcing the idea, I said it was possible.

"As we create imaginary friends", I remarked, "we could as easily create imaginary enemies".
"Don't you thnk? How could we eliminate this problem?"
"First we have have to eliminate all the possibilities that are not this problem", I rebutted, making him frown.
"And what could other possibilities be, Miss Grisam?"
"I still don't know; working with the child for some time will help me learn."
"You mean, like something supernatural? Don't make me laugh!", he almost choked on the tea-cookies combination.
"As I said, I still don't know. But I wouldn't rule anything out, in light of everything I have lived through these years."

He stopped laughing, but it was plain to see he found my conjectures absurd. I didn't say any more word in defense of my thoughts. I hadn't gone there for metaphysical debates or the like. I asked to see his young son. He agreed to show me the child, though he asked for silence, as the boy could already be sleeping, what in fact he was doing. Under the soft lighting of the bedside lamp, his face was so alike to his father's that I jested saying it would be nearly impossible for the kid to get lost in the crowd. I noticed a picture of the boy on the wall and noticed this was the kind of clothing people were supposed to wear in the mid-sixties. Emerson confirmed it was him in the shot. The resemblance was remarkable, as though I could see the father, sleeping on the bed in times of old. I drove home still impressed father and son could look so much like one another.

I received a phone call yesterday. A prospective client on a Tuesday. I hate prospective clients and their air of indecision, what is specially annoying on the phone. The hesitation to tell you everything you'll have to eventually open up. A worried father, whose son relates being harassed by a boy who is always on the corner of his house, looking at his window at night. I was about to tell the man he should look for the police, or better, the Youth Judge so they could take care of the issue, but he said there was never anyone on that corner. He said this is where I could help. I asked him about possible problems of bullying in class. There is no word for that in Portuguese, but there is a behavior for that in Portuguese unfortunately. The man said it was the first thing he had asked his son. He denied. Asked about his age and he was thirteen. Instead of saying "right up my alley!" I tried to get more details, but he said he was in a hurry to go to work. I put his address down on my list and prepared for another venture.

Meire appeared tired the night before, an air of tedium I had never seen in her. Told her maybe she needed to travel, take some days to get away from routine. She said she had never pictured herself traveling alone; her husband couldn't, he was working like there was no tomorrow. I told her this freelance thing is going to kill him. In a freelance you overload yourself with work; you are the boss but got no employees. All you got are deadlines.

Yesterday, Meire called me. We go out at night, dance, it's crazy to see two women having fun through the night just for the hell of it. Friends will be friends and will be a lot of fun too. I have some other good friends, but Meire is the one I hang out the most at night. She is someone who you can trust, share your secrets, if you still have any left to open. Friends will be friends. We started being that friendly when we worked in the same premises of a school at Gonzaga, a neighborhood in Santos, decadent yet classy, full of attractive things for those who still hold them as attractive. She worked as a volunteer at CVV, a suicide prevention voluntary service that answers calls of people in real need of talking and opening their heart. Sometimes in real danger of adopting the final solution. That's how she answered a call of someone who had hust swallowed some neurological pills. She still recalls how she heard him take his last breath, while holding on in the hope that the police could scan the call and stop the process. It was all too late when they broke in though. Meire left the service and still has some phobia of answering the phone. I have worked it out with her, still without any noticeable result.

Today, a girl from the Netherlands wrote to praise me for my first post, what I found to be so sweet. Internet can be a desert without warm and cozy words like those and I want to thank her for the warmth and wish she comes often to see this silly cyberpsychologist.

Been a long time wondering why I should post this log again. Book Of Nights used to be Book Of Nights And Days, until the days disappeared. Only the nights stayed for the sake of posting. I used to have more time available to write down my fieldwork.

Autumn is starting and an eerie feeling fills the air around here. I'm sitting at the computer looking at the street lights my window lets shine through. The street is silent here; sometimes even more than I'd like it to. A mortal silence, sometimes even in the beginning of the night. I do like to write in the dead of the night though; it gives me moments of inspiration and calm to reason about things. I have been alone for years now, since my hubby went to buy cigarettes. He didn't smoke, but I didn't ask myself why. As I said before - this log hasn't been the first, though it is my first endeavor here at Live Journal - I guess he never approved of the profession I choose to make a living with.