October
____________________________
29th: My sister
We had watermelon for breakfast today. I'm a sucker for watermelons; love eating them, cutting them into triangles or cubes, or pylons, or little men — little watermelon men —, and I love the seeds. Why so? Because just like the old household culture of smashing pumpkins in the backyard to see if luck strikes and some will grow, with watermelons we spread around the seeds to see what will happen. For fun, not only in our own yard, but we go around the neighborhood under the cover of night and throw seeds over walls and fences, and into abandoned, overgrown estate.
Sometimes it works, and there are patches of watermelons here and there in the next year or so, sometimes it doesn't, and we try again. Today, we finished filling the seed can, and tomorrow we'll commence este desmadre.
I met up with my sister this evening, something we barely ever do, and it was quite interesting. We walked around the lake and chatted about life and death and this sort of thing; but at one point, as we neared Cicada Hill, she stopped and looked into the absolute darkness of that patch. I waited for her, watching her expression, until after a while she snapped out of it and said to me, "Something's wrong. Something is very, very wrong."
After questioning, she continued: "I feel... I don't know, I feel strange."
"How come?" I asked.
"It's like I'm in a forest. A dark forest. And there are all these different noises coming from all sides, that I don't know the origin of." She answered, looking down to the ground. "But I'm not afraid. It's not fear. I just feel frustration, I guess? A sort of agony. I want to cry, but there are no tears."
"Would you say, if it was daylight, that you'd be familiar with this forest?" she agreed. "So when it's completely dark, you feel like that should be familiar and it isn't. Is that it?" and she nodded.
"This is not the first time I feel this way, either. It's all the time, I feel. At school, at grandma's house, hanging out with my friends... Lately, even at home," she let out a deep sigh. "I know those are places of familiarity, places of comfort, but my gut disagrees, you know? It's in moments like these that I feel alien. I feel like I simply don't belong; and there's no remorse. Not even if I just packed my bags and vanished. I wouldn't regret a thing. My home is not my home. Do you feel that too? Is that why you're so eager to just disappear all the time?"
This quick-wittedness runs in the family, it seems. In her position, I would've asked the same.
"Well," I responded, "nothing is ever this simple. I bet you would find regret in such actions. One doesn't simply run away without looking back, that's not how it works. On the spur of the moment, we can do some stupid shit; mistakes that seem unfixable; to which escaping feels like the only answer. But if only we waited a little longer, we'd see that life IS bearable even with major fuck-ups in our backpacks. Today I know there's no way of living perfectly; there's always a blunder to be made; and it's better to make-do with whatever we have than start from nothing." I paused. "But even with this kind of wisdom, I'm too weak not to keep escaping, running away.
"What you're feeling is a serious case of jamais vu. You know what déjà vu means, right? Jamais vu is the opposite of that. It's when you're met with a situation that is supposed to be familiar, but deep down you feel like it simply isn't. I myself suffer from 'a serious case' of déjà vu. Everything feels familiar, as if I lived through whatever experience it is, somewhere, somewhen, in this life or a past. I'm constantly putting myself in new situations to try and run away from this feeling of subconscious familiarity, but it's always with me wherever I go. Yes, I've learned to live with it for the most part, but I'm often not the owner of my will. I'm a coward most of the time."
It's here that I found a cicada on the ground [pic related] and picked it up. This thing is so cute, but I still don't know if it's dead or alive. Might be resting for tomorrow's concert.
"But something we sure might have in common is seinsucht. Historically, our family has been plagued by it. We either run away from everything at some point, or live a life of regret." I said.
"Seinsucht?" she asked.
"It's this idea that whatever we have at the moment is not what should be. As if yearning for a perfect scenario that we ourselves aren't even sure of what is. So we end up just living in frustration, like you said. In agony. It's a sentiment that goes beyond either of the vus, but kind of encompasses both."
From here on, we just talked about the family until we got home. She called an Uber and we said our goodbyes. No idea if or when I'll ever see her again, but it was nice knowing we share of this duality, as sisters, even, like a horror movie trope (or a palme d'or contestant in the 2010s).
day 5 (28/10)
"can you water pep for me, please?" "sure" [day 6 (29/10)
so cute
27th: Heirloom curse [and the punks almost killed a guy]
Today there's a new student's concert at the conservatoire. Every time something big like this happens, I take the whole period [of day] before it (id est morning, evening) to prepare myself. What that really means, though, is that my afternoon previous to the event was of slacking and tea-drinking.
But from the whole doing nothing programme, something sure stood out: I read the whole of "Poções Violeta", the poetry book I wrote back in June, through gasps and constant exhilaration. It concluded with a deep sigh of relief, because yeah, this book truly is up to my standards (and I should've just trusted myself from the get-go instead of not), and I'm so excited to present it to my leaders at the Académie: who knows? They might actually enjoy it — the future self-publishing turns into a proper publishing — and I get a chair as the youngest member of the society. Surely that's most likely not going to happen, but still, I'm allowed to dream of a better future independent of my self-loath.
[If you wish to pre-order the book and support the self-publishing of independent literature, hit me up at priscillamartins2234@gmail.com for further information.]
Right now I'm sitting on the cathedral steps, waiting for the broken clock to ring thrice and send me on my way to the conservatoire, but there's something I feel like I should say.
The dream I had about the Saba Lou lookalike was quite more than just a "teenage love", hormonal thing. It feels like one of the prophetic dreams I often have, because I can remember all of it in excruciating detail, and it [as well as this wicked sense of duty] just won't escape my mind. It was very specific in making me aware of scenes, with a cast of very specific people, carrying on events that could very likely happen soon, although as sort of début of a new phase in my life. Following my instincts, I might be moving pieces in a way destiny forces me to oblige to, and that's never not scary.
I know what's going to happen, and that's been both fucking me up and inciting excitement in a way that makes my heart pump like a dynamo; sitting here, waiting in expectancy for what's to come next. But just like my mother taught me, and so did her mother to her before I came to be: one shall not tell of the future even to their own self.
Grandma was keen to say, whenever herself experienced one of the dreams, that "Time is but The Order. Our gift is nought but a curse. 'Twas bestowed upon us as the recompense for sins of yore committed." And it was only after I realized my own role in our familial cult, that I felt the weight this curse has been having on the shoulders of so many of my kin, including I.
Thus, all I can do now is wait, in the knowledge of an absolute possibility. This is killing me.
On the way here, I saw two specially different trucks: one of them held a mound of dog food bags in its cargo, and was delivering to a local pet shop; the other carried a pile of animal carcasses, stinking up the block, getting some more from a local butcher shop. The latter was an extraordinary sight to behold, with that bed full of rotting gristle, but without a single fly circling about. The former was a reminder of how we terribly wrong the world's fauna.
I also saw a woman who looked exactly like Ava Noels, but a chubbier version of. That was a sort of comic experience which I could only chuckle to myself.
Passing by the park from the other day, I noticed old man César sitting at the table where I found him last time. I stopped and shouted across the street, "A-LÔ, SEU CÉSAR!", and he jumped, startled, then shouted himself in my direction, "A-HOY!" and I went back walking.
The summer dresses are figuring on displays all around the city. Some are cute, some are ugly, and some are just perfect. When one of the latter catches my eye, I can't help but stop in my tracks and imagine myself wearing it — with a radiant sunny smile, spinning or standing still in a pose, exhaling the fresh aroma of white and yellow flowers; maybe in another case the sea, as the salty but invigorating feeling a post-card beach entails. I see me as what I am not, and give myself up to the pleasure of existing oneirically in perfection for 3, 2, 1 second until I snap out of it; or for a single moment, until who's coming behind bumps into me and I melt myself away in excuses.
Unlike Betsy, I'd give away my right to wear pants, and without thinking twice, if it allowed me to be happy and confident in a bright summer dress. Androgynous would I be no more. Amen.
Passing by a car store, I saw a man crouching down to a little tiny witty bitty bird on the ground. He had a plastic water cup with him, dipped his fingers into it, and sprinkled a little rain upon the bird. It went "tweet, tweet, tweet" and I have no idea of what that means.
The man caught me watching the scene from outside and waved. I went into the shop and asked him what had happened. He said the bird came flying and hit the glass wall; he found it outside, skipping around, figured there was something wrong, and brought it in.
He asked if I knew what's the next step to take in this situation and, well, I do not. Alternatively, I know this kind of trope quite well: the bird breaks, you fix its wing, gain its trust, then its loving adulation, and there you go, a bird companion for the rest of your life. In real life, though, I have absolutely no clue of the first thing that should be done even. So, the guy and I began to throw in ideas and concoct a makeshift plan; after some time, I was about to fight him for the custody of Clara (that's what I named the bird), when his colleague showed up, took the water cup from his hand, picked the bird up like the guy from that meme, looked us in the eyes, said, "you two suck", and walked away.
I was going to say something about it, but then I remembered that I had no means of actually caring for that bird from there, so I just shrugged and trusted the new guy to take care of poor little Clara.
Guy 1 and I said our goodbyes and I went back walking.
Today's concert wasn't the best. The class to present was the "youngest and oldest", and despite great signs of prodigy by some of the girls, the rest needed quite a bit more practice to be up to par with the current average, presenting no natural talent at all.
Nevertheless, during the closing act, old man Jonas kicks open the entrance door, holding his guitar and a sheet folder. The audience is itching to get the hell out of there, because the last few performances were kind of awful, but he demands everybody to stay, for he brought with him a poem that he would like to present. He calls to the stage both of his professors, says, "Here. Play this." and hands them two music sheets. In these, is the score he himself wrote for his performance.
After the pleasantries, they begin, and old man Jonas, wobbling like a pyrate before the microphone, recites his psalm in the sharpest tone for the whole of five minutes, to the incredulous attention of no more people than I have fingers on my right hand (those that stayed til the end). Once he was done, me and a couple more individuals applauded loudly, standing up. It was a beautiful experience that made my being there completely worth the while.
After the social, in which I came to acquaint myself with the sunniest lady ever, I went down the way towards the skate park. It was time to see what the Sk8trB0yZ were up to at this start of weekend.
"Bony, dude, you won't believe it, man, you had to be there, dude" Chorão said. "We were some true anarchists tonight, dude, we did some real punk shit, and you had to be there, holy shit."
So I asked what happened, to the mod-esque, grunge skater boy, out-of-his-mind drunk on 80 proof cane alcohol, and he told me his story (here transcribed from a plethora of bits and pieces I got out of him in an interview, stylized as to keep the spirit of his character).
"So, okay, it was getting dark, right? And we started shouting at the guard to turn on the lights, so we could stay here, right? But he just wouldn't. So we started throwing rocks at his window and screaming even louder for him to do it. Give it some time, motherfucker came out of there wearing a diper, dude, and holding a fucking iron bar.
"And he was shouting, 'You bunch of punk maggots! I'd kill each one of you if I could! Now scram! Get the fuck out of here! There's good people coming in to see the game tonight, and you're not going to make this place any dirtier than it already is!'" [There was a college volleyball game to happen; the skate park is beside the local sports-court in a walled area.]
"And you know I wasn't going to take that shit. So I pulled my knife out and said, 'Listen here, you son of a bitch, it's our right to be in here until 10PM. So you're gonna go in there, put some fucking pants on, and turn on the mother—fucking—lights.' And then that son of a bitch came at me with the fucking iron bar. He was going to pop my shit. But then bro came with the board and hit it out of his hand: that's when we jumped the motherfucker.
"Everybody jumped in. We were kicking him, punching him, shouting 'YOU'LL TURN ON THOSE LIGHTS YOU SON OF A BITCH!'; I took my board and hit him three times in the head: PLAW! PLAW! PLAW!; he blacked out, and we went into the office to find that fucking switch. Some of the guys were even stomping some Christmas decorations and shit; we went in there like a fucking tornado, flipped the place upside down, but couldn't find the fucking switch. That's when I decided to see the son of a bitch again to ask where it was, but he was gone.
"When I stepped out of the office, that's when I heard the sirens. Three police cars showed up, parked outside, and they came into the park. The pigs started asking, 'What happened? What happened?', and nobody said a god—damn word. The son of a bitch showed up in his poopy diaper — he was hiding in the dark spot over there — and not even him said a thing to the swines; he knew we were watching him.
"So we started to disperse. That's when Zenaide asked for my knife. Nobody was looking, he went to the street, and all sneaky, popped all the pigs' tires. When they got back to their cars, you could hear them screaming from here, dude! It was insane! Plus, give it five minutes, more police cars showed up; we were going to pop those too, but they left someone there to watch. The lil' guard stayed shush, said it was nothing, that they could go. So they started asking which of us was slashing their tires, but we too stayed quiet. They looked in our bags and shit, patted us up, found nothing; we all threw our shit out! Ha! Fucking piggies, man, they're so dumb!
"And now you show up, dude, come on! You had to be here, I'm telling you! When the pigs scrammed, those lights turned on real fast."
When I got there, indeed, it was not a demi-heure since it all had transpired. And oh, my, I would've gotten some crazy pictures if I hadn't been befriending old people at the social.
To close out the day, I hung out with the common cast. Bopping some music, taking some pictures, even befriended a goth/emo couple that barely interacted with me before. The guy was like, "hey, why don't you take a pic of us?" And since I'll never say no to that, I exchanged some quick snaps for his version of the story. Surprisingly enough, what Chorão told me through the surfcore melodies of the Mexican Slum Rats was quite accurate. Plus, some of the other guys even showed me the videos recorded, and that was some crazy shit.
The girl has something of Tara Basro to her, some Indonesian beauty of sorts, and I'll love to explore that in the shoots we agreed to do in the future.
I've been trying to use the flash more, now that I have rechargeable batteries, so don't judge me for that. It's all for the sake of science!
more Sk8trB0yZ coming up soon
day 4 (27/10) — they're straightening and it's the cutest thing
26th: My baby pepper
My pepper has finally sprouted a few days ago, and I couldn't be happier to see a new baby in my garden. Now that I have a place for welcomed daily updates, I might post a daily picture of it here, so we can all follow its growth together. It'll be like the cucumber guy from that one Bob's Burgers episode, I hope.
On the other hand, I've been taking daily pictures of a couple of other plants in my garden, for a future project I'm working on. It's quite close to finishing, so who knows? Maybe soon I'll become one of those garden youtubers.
day 1 (24/10)
day 2 (25/10)
day 3 (26/10)
Tomorrow I'm going to be seeing the Saba Lou lookalike again, probably. There's a new student concert and, well, if there's something I'm expecting, it is to see her again. I wonder if she'll be there, and I wonder if I'm finally going to say hi. (Specially once I dreamt about her again today, and even went back to sleep after waking up to keep hanging out with her. It was so nice...)
24th: War veterans and traffic accidents
Carlão hit me up today, now we're visiting the luthier in a few hours to get his guitar. That boy is kind of a menace on the instrument, but shy as all hell. "I can't 'just play' anything, anytime like that! I gotta get ready beforehand, I have to come here with the music on my mind!" is what he says when we infiltrate some random jam session; but in private, when we're jamming with people we know, behind closed doors, he is always great in improv. Funny guy, but you gotta understand his side; there aren't that many marbles in his sack. Acid and pot, seven different pills every day, always suckling on a bottle of vodka to have the least social capability: he's a special individual.
On the way to the meeting point, I experienced a wonderful first sight of nature's beauty. Due to the lack of wind, the lake's water was really calm, and at an angle, it reflected the sky perfectly. Plus, them Summer storms are a coming, so the clouds are all big and fluff.
I forgot to charge the batteries, so the snap had to be quick. My luck is that such beauty as at that moment is hard to fail, even if you do an awful job at it.
At the spot, waiting for the sucker to arrive [pic related], I approached an old man in the park, who was sitting at one of the stone tables, enjoying that nice afternoon. I asked if he could keep me company for a little while, until my friend showed up, and he said, "Oh, I don't mind, no. It'll be a pleasure." So I sat in front of him and dumped my day and ideas so far (at that point), like I'm doing right now. At first, as expected, he hardly looked me in the eyes, as if the bare acknowledgement of my existence bothered him; but little by little, as I asked questions and said interesting things, he warmed up to me and soon had a biiiiiig smile on his face.
you guys remember that tree?
(Sure, I shouldn't need to put up such an effort to be accepted by an old man with old views, but I really don't mind. Befriending anyone and everyone is kind of a hobby at this point.)
I asked if he still worked or was retired, and he affirmed the latter; pointed to the apartment building across the street, where he spent his resting days. So, I asked what he had dedicated his life to, and he responded that he was now an army veteran, and spent his whole life manning the training grounds for new recruits. Curious, I questioned why there was a need to always train new people for the army, and he responded "Why, it's all war preparation. We need to be ready for when the time comes." Naturally, I asked if there was any such war to fight in his days. After some time spent thinking, he denied. At this point, the conversation grew a little heavy, so I opened a smile and joked: "Hopefully we can find a war to fight before you're gone! Your efforts shouldn't be in vain!" He opened a smile again and joked about it himself, "What we should do is move this darn country to Europe; there we'll find good use for an army!" and we both laughed.
When the topic of war dwindled, I showed him the picture I took of the lake earlier. He looked very pleased with it, and stared at it a good while; said it was really nice and that it reminded him of the old days, when the lake was a sort of community center, where you could swim and fish, and have a good time with your friends and family — before the indifference and neglect of the 'simple people' who lived in the surrounding area turned it into a dump. "You never know what you have until it's took'en," he said. "I miss that place. Maybe I'll go visit sometime."
Carlão hasn't shown up yet, but the old man's time was up. He had a date with a lady who was coming to clean his place. His name is César, and he took my hand for a second while we said our goodbyes. He was the last person I expected to treat me like a respectful lady today. Such a gentleman.
Oh, shit! He's here.
Chorão has been painting his face lately, like the joker, trying to make work this new character of his (The Sad Skater Clown). So far, his experiments have been all but interesting, but I have a feeling I could seriously improve his efforts with our coming up collab: Bony x Slum Rat.
The shirt and the combo tags will be coming out nicely according to our plans, but I've been wanting to use him as my canvas lately. Maybe do some juggalo make-up on him, maybe restore my Dracula cape, paint it a little bit, and at the next festival he might just be a living billboard for our art.
But I have to let these ideas simmer for a bit.
Today I met an interesting guy, a friend of Carlão, who showed up out of nowhere with the alchemy ingredients. We talked a lot about homemade hard liquor and pickling. He's one of those big bearded guys who like to "cook like a man", and I find that very funny, because they're usually quite gentle and soft. It is undeniable that cuisine ISa sort of gentle pursuit.
We also saw an accident happen. A delivery guy was going way too fast without paying much attention, and hit a car on the turn. He went flying and broke his face on the sidewalk. There were plenty of people around, so the emergency numbers were called very quickly, and wisely: nobody touched him. He laid there on the ground, agonizing in pain, while we all watched, until the ambulance arrived and picked him up. The fancy guy in the car had the face of someone who's in too much a hurry for that shit, and that was kind of funny too. Luckily there was no blood, so maybe the delivery guy is fine.
And I could've totally gotten a picture for the paper there, but didn't matter how much I tried, there wasn't a single drop of juice in those batteries. (Two chances of taking great —or useful— pictures that were botched because I didn't charge those goddamn batteries.)
a view of the skate park
23rd: Last eclipse changed the cicadas
Ever since the sun eclipse happened, something strange has been going on with the cicadas; or maybe not that strange, but at least a little funky: some of them have been starting their activities at noon rather than late afternoon.
For example, at Cicada Hill, from 16:30 all the way to 18:00 the noise is non-stop, and it's been that way for as long as I can remember. Other tettix hot spots, no strange to the routine, also have all their members sing at that exact time window. But now, for some reason, the lakeside cicadas all start at 12:00 and go on until about 14:00. Funkiest even, before the eclipse they did follow the common rules, and now became all wrong for no reason. And to be actually strange this time, they did not sing on the day of the eclipse.
Is this a sign of the end of times? Did the eclipse really do mess the cicadas up? Or is there a scientific explanation that shows it had nothing to do with the changes? All I know is that now their choir is active for most of the afternoon and that's messing my qi, even though I actually like their song.
21st: I think I have a crush on Saba Lou
When I woke up this morning, she was all I could think of. I might've tripped over an oneiric, naughty tree root, because this feels almost definitely exactly like falling in love.
It's the conservatoire girl. Not the "new" Calliope who sung my brain away last night, but the one sitting on the chair right behind me, whose laugh captivated my ears every time the host told a (not quite) funny joke.
She's a student there too, but not one good enough to volunteer any performance for the event; so she's there, like me, just supporting the initiative, having fun, etc.
She was there for the first edition, too, and when I saw her, my heart went all crazy. This time, just as well, she was there when I arrived, and we exchanged glances and I turned red. I think she might have an interest in me, but here, unfortunately, is exactly the threshold of my "perceived extroversion".
Some might call me a social butterfly, and I sort of am that — thanks to grandpa teaching me that anyone can be the most interesting person in the world if you know what to look for —, but I wasn't born an extrovert; in reality, I am extremely shy. You won't catch me acting all introverted, though; you'll probably see me breaking shit on a stage, or doing some candid camera in public, or speaking to literally everybody wherever I go. That's why people used to think I'd run for president when I grew up.
I just have a really bothersome problem, in approaching people I can't avoid having a thing for. I see almost everybody as "the same", and the way I interact with them is, therefore, very similar (although respecting each individual's specificities, and working with them in order to conduct good conversion). But when I feel, for someone, more than my usual amount of interest, I just lose all the faux confidence I could spare to present, and that fucking sucks. I can't even look over my shoulder to see her when I really, really want to. I can't even say "hi!", or "goodbye..."; I can't say shit, I can't even put myself to direct a word to her.
And now here I am, dreaming about that Saba-Lou-esque girl, wondering if I'll ever just, you know, say hello or something before I die of grief. Fuck me, man, I'm so dumb.
I just want to... you know? I just want to have a chit-chat with her, and maybe talk about music or the arts, and maybe even go for a cup of coffee sometime, and hear all about her ideas before I even begin to talk about mine. I just want an excuse to look at her and her short hair for a while and make out the shape of every single one of her curls, imagining how nice it would be to just hang around at the library or my favorite park and just take in the fresh air, you know?, or the mites from old books. Maybe one day, after a few months of hanging out, we would, out of nowhere, hold hands in a bookstore; or maybe she'd show me a secret song she'd be working on "for a while now" with verses she so carefully chiseled out when thinking about me every night; or maybe even, one day, I'd set up a date and, when she shows up she just can't stop smiling, and a couple of hours later I still have no idea of what kind of secret she's keeping, and then, when we're sitting at the stop waiting for our buses to come around, amidst all the busy noise downtown, she whispers in my ear that she really, really likes me, and then I feel like I felt when I had a crush on her at first and couldn't even say hi, and I won't be able to say anything again after that, and she'll giggle and say "this whole day I was expecting to see this exact reaction; you're so cute and don't even know it" and then she tells me how she didn't say anything earlier because she knew that would ruin the pace of our date. I just want to see her smile directed at me, but not as any sort of pleasantry, just real sentiment for our moment together; and I want to blush and look away for a while, and when I look back, she still be smiling.
20th: Parasite in the conservatoire and a murder attempt
I got my very first photography commission a few days ago, and that's so exciting!
Sure, some will say commissions from friends and family don't count, but I beg to differ: money is money, and effort is effort when you respect the craft. Besides, everyone has to start somewhere, right? So, shoutouts my buddy who made the commission.
Unfortunately, booking problems made it impossible to fulfill the order this week, but it's surely going to happen in the next. Today I visited the place to study angles and reaffirm my plans; the shoot is probably going to be Lundi.
If things go right with this new side-hustle of mine, I might even make a "paid photos" album to commemorate my every commission. Would that be dumb? I feel like it would, but I really don't care.
(To whoever is reading my journal [DO NOT!!!], know I'm open for general commissions if you wish to support me by sponsoring a shoot, or just wish to purchase a license for whatever purpose, or anything else that doesn't come to mind right now. I'll photograph anything, no questions asked. Once I get this thing going properly, prices and other specificities will be easily findable in this here blog and wherever else I can make my presence known.)
Today there's also the second edition of the students' concert at the city's conservatoire. I'm present here at the moment, it hasn't started yet, and I have no idea of what's in store for today. If we're having the classic guitar boys again, I expect a beautiful display of skill, because the experience last time brought me to tears; and was so fantastically diverse: from Caetano Veloso classics to "Comptine d'un autre été" by Yann Tiersen, there was a little of everything being performed.
As for the boys themselves, without shadow of a doubt, who's going to be the valedictorian, and who should be the valedictorian, I know very well; and they are not nearly in the same level. The latter is a guitar prodigy, born with a heart full of sadness, and the gift to charitably hand away this feeling at the absolute of its rawness, through his instrument. It's a beautiful experience one can only have in person (watching him play), and I'm happy to have had such a chance. As to whom will, undoubtedly, receive the school's valedictorian, you have one of my group's biggest nemesis, whom I will be referring to as "Judas", for the fun of it.
Judas is someone I like to call a "network parasite". He is a roach, that takes on every and all networking opportunities, in order to try and force his way into and up whatever social ladders he can manage to put his dirty paws "on". A parasite through and through, not afraid of bringing down even the bestest of friends for the potential of personal gain; who parasitized our old circle, our former institution, this here institution, and so many other social spaces he invaded and corrupted that I don't even know of.
Aside from that (or maybe for that), he is an immense show-off, who attempted to talk down (when it was his time to have the mic) all of his peers during the last concert, and self-aggrandize his way to the spotlight, like the dirty, disgusting, ginormous dick he is. In the end, what he played was nothing but a handful of cheap womanizer ballads he spent his entire life learning in order to catch tail.
Fuck this guy.
This time*, before and after amazing talent was showcased, he invaded the stage once again to parasitize the spotlight, and played nothing but the cheapest music that, before every piece, he made sure to talk a big deal about.
As an act of discordance, against his person, against his presence, against his music, I do not and will not applaud him in, out, and during his performance.
(I wonder if there's an even clearer way of showing my displeasure without disrespecting the sanctity of the event.)
The concert is over, and I'm leaving here a changed individual. Tonight was a time, once again, of witnessing amazing talent. The pride I feel for these kids is grand; my heart is about to explode with all this happiness I'm feeling.
This one girl showed up today, her name is unimportant, but her voice, on the other hand, took me by surprise with unprecedented power and viço. Her performance was hypnotizing, stunning, siren-like; she was Calliope herself on that stage; I felt as in the same room as Marisa Monte singing the most touching of psalms, wishing not that moment to ever end. It simply blew me away, belittled me to the value of any one head in an audience; I absolutely lost myself (ego) in what she provided.
Once it was over, standing up, a half-minute ovation was given.
*This paragraph onwards was written during intervals.
Something notorious that I haven't told yet is a new phenomenon that occurred in Cicada Hill. The dossier from my independent criminal investigation is still to come out publicly, but until then, a spoiler or two won't hurt.
On my way to the concert, I went up Cicada Hill to see if anything new had happened there, and voilà, I saw something quite strange in the side gutter: it's a cloth thing, adorned with what appears to be canine teeth [pic related]. I was in a hurry, so a daylight picture wasn't taken; but on the way back, under the pitch black night of the hill, I decided it was time to.
Things were mostly silent, and if there was any strange noise, the sound of my boots muffled. But, when I was fiddling with my bag's broken zipper, to pull out the camera, I heard something moving from within the foliage. I've been in similar situations enough to know not to let my body seem alert, so I kept on messing with the camera, fixing up configurations now.
First picture, a flash covers the place in light, the thing behind me is startled and I hear more rustling.
I stand still for a while, pretend to be studying an angle; the thing moves again, now so much closer to me. I take another picture, flash once again, another reactive, noiseful movement. I feel like there's no need for more, so I begin the hustle of putting the camera back in the bag and working that damn zipper again. That's when I hear the thing coming closer with a step, then another; the sound of boots stomping down dried leaves is unmistakable, and now I'm certain it's a person.
Holding my knife, ready to sprint away from there, I hear the sound of a motorcycle nearby; then the headlight shines on me, and I finally look over my shoulder, at the wall of dense green to my back; whatever was there is quick to escape: steps like terrible staccatos going into the grove.
Now they definitely know I am the one messing with their shit, and that's probably no good.
The thing
The boys playing Demônios da Garoa
19th: I hate myself
It's been a while now — a week? Maybe a little more than that — since I got my first set of rechargeable batteries for the camera. I expected a change to take effect (in my photography), but I could never predict just how quickly I was to go back to my old ways.
I'm back to being prolific, carefree, free per se; and that's both a good thing and not. As an artist, I thrive on limitations; produce my best work at my lowest (or highest: I do best in extremes), and it just doesn't feel right when my options are limitless.
Yesterday I took over 600 photos in one sitting, and at home, looking at the folder with all of them, I couldn't brush off this feeling of discomfort. It's the "lavishness", I guess.
When the numbers are too big, individual value dwindles, and to stand out means to be extraordinary, not (necessarily) endowed with (extraordinary) quality. That's what I perceive to be the biggest flaw in my work; there's just too much of it.
When I look back to The Trove's history, for example, I'm unable to feel pride. There's just too many pictures, too many albums, too many ideas, subjects, scenes, feelings. When I look at the whole of my portfolio; the music and literature, the visual arts, the performative arts, my cultural presence in and out of the scenes I'm part of; I'm overwhelmed. There's just too much of it. Gems of all kinds and sizes may appear in the discharge, but all in all, it's still nothing but pigfeed in my eyes. There's too much of it. I hate myself, I hate my work, there's just too much of it. I'm overwhelmed, and I hate not feeling like enough to handle my own shit.
My multiprofessional parents don't raise me, they treat me like I'm see-through.
18th: Queering around in the bus
I love riding the bus, it's one of my favorite things. But as of late, with the rapid increase in price of the fare, I had to abdicate from the comfort of public transportation. The last time I took a bus was months ago, before Junius even, and since then I've been using my legs as best I can to move around the city.
Today, though, there was a meeting of LGBT+ artists that I just had to go to, even if it cost me 4 buses for the full ride. Luckily, I friend of mine, from the goodness of his heart, helped me the change, and I was able to go and share stories with my peers. Tell of the latest sorrows and blessings, speak of the future, reminisce of the past, all that good stuff.
Going home, after the first bus back, waiting for the second one to arrive, this Amy-Winehouse-in-need-of-rehab-looking girl was eyeing me like I was an I-don't-know-what; so I began watching her too, and we spent a few minutes in a staring contest until her bus came around.
We were the most different people there at the time. Her with her bouffant messy hair, dressed like a rockstar that fell from grace; me with the queerest outfit I have, to blend in with the people at the reunion LOL. I wonder if that's why I caught her eye so strongly.
When my dear bus finally showed up, it was just great. The driver at that hour was new to me, but the conductor was an old friend of mine, and we had a nice chit-chat until I went to hide in the back, to write this here journal entry.
There were no other passengers besides me, and the ride home was nice and peaceful. But I had an idea to make the best out of the experience, since I didn't know when I'd take the bus again:
Sitting by the window is my favorite. I love watching the people and buildings go by, thinking about new pictures to take, new places to explore. Really nice stories have come from this custom of mine, and I'm sure more are to come. This moving-picture view is the reason why I love buses so much; and with my new camera in hand, this one now able to snappily take a bunch of decent pictures in quick succession, I decided to try and capture the experience of riding my usual bus (at least until my arms got tired LOL).
Pic related. I'll be making a one-shot album for The Trove with the best out of the 600-something pictures.
17th: Amanda has rabies
Amanda is a stray dog from my street. It's a poverty-ridden area, and strays walk amongst people as commons.
There was something really weird happening to Amanda.
A few weeks ago, I noticed she began twitching her head in a spastic manner. A couple of weeks ago, it wasn't just her head, but her whole body was twitching just the same. Last week, she couldn't walk properly. I witnessed as she took a step, and another, — her body all rigid, trying to stop the spasms — until she fell to the ground, powerless, her head jittering like a broken motor.
Today she wasn't at her place. There's no way she just walked away. And I'm afraid I know what happened.
A new pup showed up. Probably a house-dog's baby who was thrown out to wean itself. The little thing was digging in some trash bags; I gave him the treats I had in my pocket. His name now is Johnathan Edwards. I hope he'll preach his peers to salvation when he grows up.
16th: The simplicity of asexual love
Walking my common paths, I happen to stumble upon a gorgeous, gorgeous woman. (Exactly what foreigners think all Brasilian women look like.) And my heart, naturally, beats a little faster when I wish her a good afternoon. Her smile was radiant and shone on me (with the feeling foreigners think all Brasilian beaches give off). And in a way, I felt less Brasilian than that woman has been from the moment she was born. I felt foreign myself: too pale, English too good, skin too underexposed, gender and sexuality probably alien to her and the place she most likely comes from, etc. Before a walking stereotype I was an opposite, and there wasn't a connection, as expected, there wasn't a thing more than the regular neighborly interaction we went through.
This left me wondering why my heart felt so eager to find hers. Not long after, I decided that I have an undeniable predilection for Brasilian women.
The funny thing is that of all the romantic partners I've had in my life, most had a certain foreign feeling to them, greater than the native aura it is to be expected from an inhabitant of this oh-so texturized country of mine. My first girlfriend was a French-looking girl, a fourth part French; my second partner was half-German; my third partner was half-Portuguese; my best friend and "semi-partner" could be mistaken as a yuppie anywhere in the US; and, the last of my partners — only then — was the most carioca (native from Rio de Janeiro) girl there's been. My romantic history is full of foreign-looking girls that have nothing to do with the kind of women my heart knows to love (or with the type I tell myself is mine: redhead and tall.) And now I must ask, once in the future I'll become a full-fledged Canadian citizen, if having a "foreign" partner means going against the hard-wiring of my heart.
The answer, though, has much less to do with physicality (or the feeling it inspires) in question, and sees better the heart, the mind, the inner person.
Despite feeling physical attraction once in a while (who doesn't), my love decisions are never based on that. I'm quite asexual, at the end of the day, and I can go months without a sexual partner, no problem (my record is over a year :o). This way, if my feelings for someone are enough big to have them as a potential (non-sexual) partner, they emerge from a [virtually] non-sexual place. When I think about them (not only special-special people, but anyone, for that matter) rarely is their physical appearance what I see: in my mind, people exist as feelings, and I don't need a body to find someone dear.
Up in The Great North, when I find a partner to live the rest of my days with, I'm sure they will be much more than a perfect Brasilian woman, or a perfect Nordic woman, or anyone/thing in between: they will be perfection; one seen only through my own two eyes; and I'm happy with that.
In a pretty old story from the NIGHTMARE MIRROR blog, I told of my time with a couple of dog-friends I met everyday on my way to work. One day they simply vanished. Some time after, what they left behind vanished too. Now, all that's left is what I believe to have been their house — the place I usually found them at. These days, every time I pass by that house, maybe in homage to their memory, maybe for whatever other reason my subconscious has been using as an excuse; I avoid the part of the sidewalk in front of it. It started as an automatic sort of thing, but I've embraced it in a more conscious manner today. When I walk that path, I look at the house and walk on the street to avoid it.
It's a kind of busy street, and certainly some of the commoners have picked up on this idiosyncrasy of mine. The proof I have is that a stranger, today, walking a few steps in front of me, did exactly the same thing I do every time. I have no idea who the person is, but it was all there, from looking at the house to walking on the street to avoid it.
They probably did not know Robert and Lily (the dogs), or know something special about the house that I don't, so maybe I've started a trend here, without even meaning to. I wonder how many people I got avoiding that house. LOL
15th: Youth suicide and coward males
This Sunday started at minuit. We didn't quite care for most of the festival, so it was a sit around and drink whatever (and however many) alcohol comes about kind of night. The regular sk8trb0yZ came and went, the homeless characters from around Normal Park showed up and lingered on, and even some of the more fancy alternatives decided to sit down and sip on some moonshine.
The Misogynistic Monk came out of his cave, coincidently, that night; saying he had had too much zaza and needed to spew some ideas in order not to go crazy; and we had a really nice talk about Nietzsche and the origin of prejudice in —a civilized— society, and he told me an amazing story about how he pedaled 300km+ in a broken old bicycle to experience a coastal city he always wanted to visit. It was a tale of ups and downs, of learning important life lessons, and of uncovering the truth behind the perfect facade of a touristy, post card city through the eyes of a bum. There were no open arms for a man like him in the land of his dreams.
Carlão was there too. After a week of him not showing a single life sign, I find that he's actually alive. Luckily, even, since he was fresh out of the hospital for trying to kill himself a few days prior. Maybe I've been putting too much pressure on him for saying yes when he asked me to collab. His life has been in a downward spiral since then.
His wasn't the only suicide attempt this week, though. At the skate park this last Thursday, some random girl vanished and nobody noticed; give it a demi-heure and texts begin to appear on her friends' and family's phones: a final goodbye to everybody. Chaos ensued, nobody knew where she was, someone asks her, she responds: girl is on her way to the city's suicide bridge. Cops are called, so are Ubers, they catch her going up the fence (—the city put there to try and stop the amount of suicide attempts in the area). Parentals even show up at the skate park to look for her. It was a pretty crazy situation.
Carlão's who shared the story, and I felt inspired to go take some pictures of the place. Give it some time and him, the Monk and I are on our way to the suicide bridge. [pic related (soon to appear properly on The Trove)]
We still hung around a little longer after I finished, but the Monk began his misogynistic ramblings, and when he starts targeting me, it's time to just ignore him until he realizes how much of a nuisance he's become.
After saying our goodbyes and shouting promises of a future reconnection to the air, it's my time to go back home alone —, hand in the pocket holding a knife, Sua Yoo's verses on my whispering lips. At this point, I can recite almost the entirety of "Hollow Saffron Gutter" by heart. LOL
Besides the regular sightings, such as the abandoned houses and empty streets ("A mile to be walked"), I saw a very well-dressed man discussing with a homeless man (probably in front of the former's house, since the door was open) in a very low tone. Passing by them, all I got was "That's what you need to do, you hear what I'm saying?". I wonder if that was any financial advice.
It was around 03:00AM when I got home. Priscilla had left some of the moqueca I made earlier, for me to eat when I arrived. That was very nice of her; she knows the little shrimps are my favorite part, and there was plenty of shrimp left.
14th: Ecliptic sunsets and slut housewives
Today was eclipse day. My mother made sure to announce it in the morning, saying she experienced it back in the 90s, and it changed her life, and I had to see it too (to have my life changed, maybe). Her enthusiasm didn't quite reach me, understandably, since that was the first time I heard from her in months, and also because I truly felt the audio wasn't even recorded for me in the first place: she forwarded it.
Maybe a result of that, maybe not, I didn't end up seeing the super rare event. With a pair of road side shop sunglasses, I took a quick glance at the sun mid-afternoon and instantly flinched in pain because it blew up my retinas. (I noped out of that real fast.) The rest of the afternoon was spent inside, reading Scliar, until it was time to go see my buds at this weekend's diversion.
On my way there, though, I experienced something much better than the eclipse: the sunset that came during it.
I moved towards the lake, where the sky view is best, and everything was engulfed in a scene of pure lilac (yes, the color); from the air and the infinite of the sky, to the profound unknown of the dirty water. It was a moment like no other, protruding from a sky hue I had never seen before, that emerged from a runny magma dumped and spread along the horizon, as the center of a gargantuan, mystical flower, of ethereal petals that stretched, seemingly, beyond the thresholds of comprehension. Of which I was part, so were the ducks, and the couples sat on the wooden benches; and the tree people, and the googol of bacteria swimming around in the lake.
Wasn't even 20 minutes. I turned my head to watch the ducks again, and when I looked back, it was gone. The sunset was now just like any other.
Maybe that's what people mean by "living in the moment", because had I snapped some pictures then, I'd be swimming in license money right now. And boy, how do I regret just living in that moment.
The tettixes have returned, and Cicada Hill is as sonorous as every year when time comes. According to Hesiod's "Works and Days", this is an undeniable sign of the Summer a coming. And indeed, if the 32ºC this morning is to blame, Lucifer has surely fallen asleep in this Inferno of mine.
Time for sweat puddles and unintentional bronzing.
Up a bit, I came across a familiar patrician face. An Aryan lady roaming upper middle class, missus of her own cousin, from a family that's dangerously more of a eugenics cult than a properly divergent genealogical tree.
She is happy. The kind of happy only an environment like a dead end street that never saw asphalt (or a new neighbor within the decade) can produce. Strictly "contactual"*, but free of most prejudice against strangers (to that specific area, culturally, etc.; a middle-/lower-class community of mostly traditional, nuclear families); my androgynous countenance never did fade her smile, or made her hesitate in giving me too, a spirited salut; like she did everyone else that passed by her.
This woman probably doesn't remember my face (I was very different back in the day when), but I certainly do hers. She is infamous around those parts for figuring in a home brew sex tape, that one day showed up in the mailboxes of all housewives in her circle, sent by nobody knows who. Filling all 190-something minutes of a cheap disc and cutting midway in the end, she does everything you couldn't ever imagine and more, with not only her husband (cousin), but even other people from her family.
At first, she was ostracized, of course, that was degenerate. But somehow, be it for money or power (that family's presence here is like that of a filial; they figure in many rôles of power across the country), at the end of the month there was a bonfire and all 7 of the known DVDs were burned.
From the households present, though, the only one with computer smarts in its cast was believed to have digitized the movie. When word got around, the computer guy was given a scare and "forced to delete it". That certainly did not solve the issue (if you know what I mean; pressing delete won't make things vanish), but at least made him keep a low profile.
Today, half of the city has probably seen the film, and everybody knows what that lady is really about. But, so much time has passed, she is so nice, there's no reason to keep seeing her as a villain anymore, so they're all best friends again. Besides, I heard she's been planning orgies with middle-aged couples from the area, so that's a plus.
When we crossed paths, I tried, but couldn't match her intensity. That woman is radiant in a very dangerous way.
*Read "Times Square Blue, Times Square Red" by Samuel Delany. In it, he explores the concept of contact contre that of networking as structural powers of any one society. Contact refers to natural human contact in its varied routinely incidents (neighbors exchanging salutations, visiting the local bodega and conversing with cashiers, etc.).