Prey and predators

One thing often forgotten: if we want to stand as an example for others, we have to be flawless, or at least not obviously flawed. One can't point out a sin in others, while falling into the exact same sin. Or rather, one can do it, of course, we can do whatever we want, but we might fall prey to our own words - and once that happens, we might as well forget any respect others might have towards us. I saw it coming, and waited quietly for the blow. Then I did what I know best: throw a handful of smoke bombs, nod when needed, add a bit of self-irony (they never understand). Always works. In the meanwhile, I laugh inside because you keep missing the point. All points, actually. You're clueless about what is going on, and you try what seems to you the most obvious explanation. The obvious is seldom real, though. You need to see a little outside the box. If you don't get it meanwhile - I don't think you will - I'll tell you about it when time comes.

It's the Oscars, after all.

Has anyone here seen the 1979 movie Kramer vs. Kramer? No? I thought so. Then can someone please tell me why the hell hasn't Apocalypse Now beat the crap out of the Oscars' nominations in that year?

k.i.s.s.

those were probably the most important lessons i've learned during my university years: keep it simple, stupid (k.i.s.s.), and make your writing as simple as possible. the first is a general rule, meant pretty much for everything. the second is a particular rule, concerning writing only. my professor gave that advice to me about some piece of fiction i'd shown him, but it makes even more sense if i apply it to journalism writing, of course. pity it ain't so obvious for everyone.

late as ever. can't help wondering: how long will i stand this? i know that sooner or later i'll be judged and convicted, and it won't be exactly wrong - i admit as much. and yet, there is a difference between being judged by a superior person (wiser, more experienced, etc) and by an inferior person who happens only to hold more power - not by his or her own merit, but merely by a coincidence. do you know what i'm doing now? i'm looking at the proof - by yourself - that experience itself means so, so little. it won't be me, though, who will help you out on that. i tried, using all the subtlety i could spare. you're on your own - and i'll pretend to play the game by its rules until i need it no more.

Schism

I know the pieces fit cause I watched them fall away,
Mildewed and smoldering, fundamental differing.
Pure intention juxtaposed will set two lovers souls in motion,
Disintegrating as it goes testing our communication.
The light that fueled our fire then has burned a hole between us so
We cannot see to reach an end, crippling our communication.

I know the pieces fit cause I watched them tumble down.
No fault, none to blame. It doesn't mean I don't desire to
Point the finger, blame the other, watch the temple topple over,
To bring the pieces back together, rediscover communication.

The poetry that comes from the squaring off between,
And the circling is worth it,
Finding beauty in the dissonance.

There was a time that the pieces fit, but I watched them fall away,
Mildewed and smoldering, strangled by our coveting.
I've done the math enough to know the dangers of our second guessing:
Doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication

Cold silence has a tendency to atrophy any sense of compassion
Between supposed lovers
Between supposed lovers

And I know the pieces fit.

Tool, Schism, in Lateralus, 2001 #5

Inglourious?

Newspapers' articles, blogs, message boards, forums - maybe even tweets, but I have nothing to say or read in only one hundred and forty characters - and it seems almost consensual: Inglourious Basterds is a piece of crap. Never thought that this opinion would be so widespread, especially after reading one of the most famous and full-of-shit portuguese movie critics praising the film as a masterpiece (hell, that guy decimates every movie). Honestly, after reading that essay I thought "gee, if this guy praised the movie, it will win no less than twelve Oscars".

No, it's no better than Reservoir Dogs. But it is still a great movie. Some critics are valid though. For example, many point out that the movie should be more about the Basterds - and while they're right, personally I'm glad it wasn't that way for it got so much more interesting with the story of Shosanna. Others say that there's a lot of bad acting going on there, except for Christoph Waltz as Hans Landa (who if fucking brilliant, of course). But, for god's sake, Brad Pitt (in the picture) is great on that movie as Aldo Raine. It really surprised me to find out so many Pitt's haters on the Internet - thought that was a privilege of Keanu Reeves alone. But hey, some people consider his acting on Twelve Monkeys crappy, so I can't take this seriously. Some also point out the "bad dialogs", as if Tarantino could ever write such thing as "bad dialogs" - give me a break and go watch the movie again. Some also refer the violence, but again, it's Tarantino. I wonder if everyone has forgotten about 1) when Mr. Blonde tortured the cop in Reservoir Dogs; 2) when Vincent Vega blew up the kid's head with a point-blank shot in Pulp Fiction; 3) when Louis Gara shots Melanie out of the blue in Jackie Brown and 4) when Stuntman Mike smacks his car against the girls' car in Death Proof. There are three things that Tarantino never does just for the sake of it: conversations, violence and swearing.

Other than that, I can't really remember many movies with a first scene so powerful as the conversation between Landa and the dairy farmer, with a scene so tense as the pub's killing spree, or with an ending so ironic. If you want to know what I think, some people are saying all that about Tarantino for one reason only: he does what he wants with his movies, and he's got everyone to watch them - and like them. Pretty much the same that happens when a new music band comes up: first only a few listen to it, and it's damn great; when everyone starts listening and enjoying the band's music, many of the old fans get sore because it ain't their exclusive any more and call it crappy music. Oh, wait, there's a more suitable expression: commercial music. It's one of the most ridiculous expressions I know, and I think it fits here perfectly.

On stereotypes.

Stereotype:
1. (noun) Oversimplified conception: an oversimplified, standardized image of a person or a group.
2. (transitive verb) Reduce somebody to oversimplified category: to categorize individuals or groups according to an oversimplified standardized image or idea.

This is the standard definition. One could add: a stereotype is seldom accurate - if ever. It's a poor way we have to try understanding our world. An easy one too: we just have to make categories and have everything fit into one of them. Yes, it is that simple. However, when it comes to people stereotypes tend to forget that each person is unique. And just because we can isolate a common pattern in a number of people it doesn't mean that all that people are alike. They never are.

And this, as non-sense as it might sound, is merely meant for me to quote Richard Dawkins: There's this thing called being so open-minded your brains drop out.

Sometimes victory is the worst defeat we can get.

Inertia

The problem is, I can't stand mediocrity - as ironic as that can be, for I'm one of the most mediocre people I know. Guess it is my Holden Caulfield complex stacking over my Stand-Alone complex (yes, this has a copyright). But I suppose that it is what has kept me frozen for so long. The idea of spending my life working on something that won't be really good but only so-so makes me sick. I can't do it, can't set myself into motion for something that I believe to be worthless in the end. And so I stop, I can't help myself on it, there is no will to move anywhere.

God bless Japan.

Damn right. And I'll assume here my shame: for twenty-something years of my life (even though only the last six really count, truth be told), I've clearly underestimated the potential of japanese food to keep a belly warm and happy. Raw fish my ass.

And I'm in so deep, you know I'm such a fool for you.

I feel a sudden urge to go to a music store and buy the whole discography of The Cranberries. Don't ask. It feels as if I was sent back to 1995, only with twenty-four years, instead of ten, and songs like Linger, Zombie or Dreams were major hits. I don't know what caused this, I've just read that Dolores got reunited with the rest of the gang and they'd be back on the road. And that brought back the old feeling for their songs. Zombie is a protest song, an outcry against the war on Ireland. Forget about U2's Sunday Bloody Sunday: that song is not even touching. It's just a normal music with a so-called protest lyric. Bono-style in all it's rotten splendor: to point out from a distance, without compromise. What an asshole he is. Anyway. Zombie is different: it's heavy, it's desperate. It does not merely point out the wrongs of that stupid war: it cries - in both ways -, it draws everyone's eyes to it, it denounces, it calls for mercy, for anger, for despair. Salvation is about drugs. What the fuck? Well, it is about drugs. Dreams is a.. well, it's about dreams, could be about me and you, everyone in general. It's a song, I'd say, meant for the world to see O'Riordan's voice with the solo in the end of the song. Promises is a song that always comes back to me when I take the fall (and maybe here's the missing link). And Linger... well, Linger is a song way too good, one of the best made in the nineties. One of the best love songs I know. Feel like singing it now, if only I could sing. Feels like crying when listening to it. It remains so true, and so untrue. Always beautiful, Linger. Makes me thing of everything I've lost, and of everything I'm losing right now. Gives me hope for no reason - hope, too, is pointless. What a shame I lost all their songs when my hard disk fried. Going to buy the album today, it's settled. Need to listen to it in repeat mode.

*Image: a frame of Linger videoclip. Source unknown.

The best movie trailer ever:

And no, the topic ain't discussable:

Take the fall.

In your hands, crystal shards.

I told you. Again and again, I told you: be careful, don't drop it, don't let it fall, it's too fragile. You're always curious, as a child, your eyes always finding something, your hands always reaching out. Don't do it. You reached out. It was pretty, shiny, reflecting the warm light from the window. You hold it for a bit, watching it with your vivid eyes, it's light so attractive. Be careful, don't drop it. Too late.

No, it was not your fault. I shouldn't have left it within your reach. I should have placed high above, somewhere far away, so that you could see how pretty it was without touching it. Without risking to break it. You would see it, you'd feel warm with its reflected light, and you wouldn't touch it. Too late.

In your hands, crystal shards. Those you picked up from the cold floor, those from the shattered artifact. They still reflect light, sparks that set your hands ablaze. No, it cannot be fixed. We can try, but I doubt it. I know you're sorry. So am I.

The grim sunrise.

This is what she saw: a swamp, and endless swamp, pools of black, stagnant water surrounded by festering, muddy earth. A putrid smell, a smell of death, always present, getting into her nose and make her nauseous. No life. Or rather, no life of any importance. Here and there, near the pools of rotten water, some grayish bushes struggled to stay alive, the green of their leaves long since gone. A handful of trees could still be found, not in much better shape than the dying bushes though: their trunks bent, almost touching their own roots, their leaves faded, despoiled. Swarms of carrion insects fly around them, still feeding on the carcasses of the last creatures foolish enough to cross the swamp.

A wind blew from the north, cold and unforgiven, bringing with it deep gray clouds of thunder that remained silent. There is no sound in that world. There is no absolute darkness either: it was around the time of the sunrise, of the dawnbreak, and light poured through the dense clouds. But that light, as the clouds, as the earth below, was dull and lifeless, and the sunrise was nothing but a grim sunrise.

In the very middle of the swamp, there was a house. Or something that vaguely ressembled a house, for it had four walls and a ceiling of sorts. Its walls were made of rotten wood, probably chopped from the last trees of the mire. Its ceiling was made of wood and a blanket of dead leaves. There was no door, only a opening to get into it. There was also a huge stone outside, shaped like a sort of bench, where he sat.

He. The master of the swamp, the ruler of that god-forsaken world. Sitting outside, as if watching his decaying kingdom, as if giving it the last touch of a nobility long gone. He looked at her across the mire, his dark eyes penetrating hers, not letting go, quietly accusing, quietly blaming. Screaming silently of a past glory, of a bitter loss, of a proud defiance, as if saying you destroyed me and yet I am here. My world is dead and yet here I stand. She couldn't stand it, to see it now. She could not avert her eyes. All she could do was to gaze back at him across a world of death.

walking, walking

people come and go freely into our lives. most of them are not invited, they just happen to be there in a moment, their uninvited, but not unwelcomed presence standing next to us as the course of their lives intercepts our own. most people leave as fast as they came in, leaving only a faint memory behind - a memory that sometimes cannot even picture a face, only a presence. some of them remain for a while, walking side by side with us, until they vanish again, the memories of them laying only in the dark recesses of our minds and in old and wrinkled photo books, that we see once in a long while and wonder that has happened to them. some of the people remain long enough to leave strong memories behind, memories that we cherish whenever their presence returns to our mind for some reason or for no reason at all. some of these end up leaving with a bang, a loud and unnecessary bang that hurts when heard. we move along. we are driven along, maybe, but we always move along.

only a handful remain for long, until we almost forget the exact point of both's lives where we met, their presence in our lives being so natural. they remain. they stay with us, they walk with us, even if sometimes none of us is aware we're walking together. some of them will walk with us forever, regardless of the distance that lies between us and them. we know they are there. we know that time goes by, that we are silent for too long, but when we decide to break that silence, they are there. they listen. they give us a hand without waiting for we to ask. that is probably the most precious thing we are ever given.

anatomy of a dream (III)

I was landing on a plane, got out of it into the airport terminal. Was supposed to go catch another one - think I was heading to Copenhagen. I didn't know the airport though. Anyway. I was walking in the terminal when I passed by a security check and the lady who was there told me I had to wait. There was something going on and the Airport Security Authority - or whatever entity - wanted to see me. I remember checking the time - was going to miss the flight - and then I realized I had forgotten my backpack in the previous plane. The lady told me that it was probably the reason why the authority wanted to see me: to give me back my backpack. After this point I woke up and intentionally returned to sleep several times - around five - only to see if I could catch up with the dream and see what did they wanted with me. Everytime but one, I was there, in the airport terminal, waiting. I was automatically catching up with my own dream, which consisted in waiting in some airport.

In the one dream fragment in which I was not waiting, I was in a interrogation room. My backpack was nowhere to be seen; but they had a spray can that apparently was mine. The security officers opened its bottom and took from there a small plastic bag that contained a white powder. I was surprised, and explained them it couldn't be mine. They believed me and let me go.

Jacket.

I want a Gestapo jacket. Like Colonel Landa's. Really. Gestapo was terrible, I agree, but let's face it: it had style when it came to clothing. Just like the american gangsters we see in the movies, criminals but well dressed. Not like the petty criminals of today, that look like a pile of trash with earrings - to quote Full Metal Jacket's drill instructor, I didn't know they piled shit that high.

the wrong choice.

that was a wrong choice of words. i'm not really "lacking stability". i simply cannot care anymore. have no reason to. have no motivation to. everyday it's just the same - and when it's not, it's only for the worst. you've not helped either, as i've mentioned here before. and so i sink, i sink everyday just a little. i've been here before. i've seen what happens. i hated it, and i hate it, and yet i do nothing to change it. i was born stupid and will die stupid anyway.

Glory for the Basterds.

An american lieutenant from the Tennessee with a taste for blood gathers sereval men to unleash terror in the Nazi-occupied France. In common, Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt) and his men have three things: they are all Jews, they all hate the Nazis, and they are thirsty for revenge. This, supposedly, is the foundation of Inglourious Basterds, Quentin Tarantino's last movie. But it's more, way more than that.

There is also a Guestapo Colonel, named Hans Landa (Christoph Waltz), who earn his fame across the Third Reich by hunting and slaughtering Jews. There is also Shausanne, (Mélanie Laurent) the beautiful Jew girl who owns a movie theatre and masterminds the plot - or rather, one of the plots - to kill the heads of the Nazi party. There is Hitler, Goebbels, Himmler and Göring. There is a Nazi war hero which is the most annoying movie character I've seen since that kid from Tim Burton's Sweeney Todd. There is blood, loads of blood. There is conversation, lots of conversation, lots of great conversation - it's Tarantino, after all. There is funny moments (Aldo Raine speaking italian, or just Aldo Raine speaking), there is tension (the bar scene is amazing), there are main characters dying, and there is an ending that might not be a surprise for many, I admit, but it is still very, very good. Tarantino at its best? Yes, no doubt about it. Personally I haven't found Inglourious Basters better than Pulp Fiction or Reservoir Dogs, the latter being my favourite Tarantino. But Inglorious Basterds is still a masterpiece. If you're looking for historical accuracy, then I'd suggest you to go look for it somewhere else. If you're looking for a fictional story taking place during the World War II, then go for it. Inglorious Basterds has all that, and more.

And just to finish this, I want to inform you all that I'm betting a crate of beer for Christoph Waltz being nominated and winning the Oscar for best actor in a supporting role. And if it doesn't happen, then the "Academy" simply doesn't deserve any respect*.


*Not saying that Inglourious Basterds deserves the Oscar for better movie. Well, it surely is "Oscar-material", but there's still Gran Torino. And no, I'm not comparing both movies.

And as a sidenote: by browsing some messageboards, I've noticed a general hatred, even among Tarantino's fans, towards the movie Death Proof, Tarantino's part on the project Grindhouse made by him and Robert Rodriguez, who in turn directed Planet Terror. I don't get it - Death Proof is a great movie that is suposed to look bad. It is so simple and so well written, directed and edited that I am unable to understand why it is so underrated. I might as well be the only person out there loving Death Proof, but I don't mind: it might be the worse movie by Quentin Tarantino, but it is still a great movie.

Coming and going.

Apparently, Oasis broke up, after Noel Gallagher departing from the bad. According to him, he couldn't stand to be around his own brother any more. I'm kinda sorry for that, since Oasis were one of my favourite bands - not today, but many years ago. But because not everything is lost, it seems that The Cranberries are coming back. Finally. We all missed your voice, miss O'Riordan.

picture taken from lastfm.com.br

Geek hope.

Today, on the subway, there was a girl reading a Star Wars book. Yes, a Star Wars book. She was not incredibly hot, mind you, but there was something about her face - maybe her thin lips, maybe her almond-shaped dark eyes, maybe her hair - that made her look quite pretty. So it goes like this: a cute girl reading Star Wars on the subway - something I never thought a city like Lisbon could produce. There is hope for portuguese geeks after all.

On rules and control.

All rules can be bent. For example, the king of Yotia determined that the one man who could carry the jade statue to the other side of his courtyard would marry his daughter. Many men tried to grab the statue and move it, without success. Urza, who was never know by his physical prowesses, just gave it a little spin, and manufactured a machine who would grab the statue and move it. He merely had to control it, to order it the task, and the machine would perform it for him. And it did, and Urza married the princess Kayla. This example, taken from the book The Brothers War, is an example of direct control and, of course, of ingenuity. Control, however, doesn't need to be direct. Not everything is about pulling strings.

I was never a good climber, truth be told.