Roadrunner

A classic. Why can't today's cartoons be like this?

Roadrunner

It's an obvious trap, but even if I'm not as imaginative as Wile E. Coyote, I'm still smart enough to see it. I always liked the bad guys more, and Coyote is one of my favourite cartoon characters ever. This time I'll play the Roadrunner. Beep Beep.

Salinger

I met JD Salinger, so to speak, rather recentely (it was my book of the year 2008). They say The Catcher in the Rye is fundamentally a teenage book, a coming-of-age book. Whatever. They also say that Alice in Wonderland is a children's book (Digression!). Anyway, there is a japanese television series called Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex, which is by far the best tv show I've ever watched. The first season's plot follows a cibercriminal that calls himself "The Laughing Man", someone who commited a crime and vanished into the shadows, but who served as inspiration to many "copycats", who commited crimes following his MO by the book. The Laughing Man has his own logo, and on it we can read I thought what I'd do was, I'd pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes. The first season is filled with references to Salinger's works, and that was what drove me to read The Catcher in the Rye in the first place. Since then I've given the book to many people important to me - to my sister, to my girlfriend, to my best friend. Have yet to find someone who didn't like the book. Have yet to find someone who won't tell me "you are just like Holden". The scary thing is that they are right, even if they cannot truly understand why.

Farewell, mr. Salinger

Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you'll start missing everybody. From one exile to another: farewell, mr. Salinger.

Metalanguage (no sound)

Shit's going to hit the fan in five, four, three, two, one, (...). Houston, we have a problem. I know what it is: a short fuse that blew up and that is trying to be remotely fixed with nothing but spit and rusted wires, and within too short a timespan. No, it doesn't make sense. It is relatively easy to dedicate two seconds of meaningless thought to any subject, and come up with a theory of our own about it. But it doesn't explain a damned thing. Overlooking. We don't always know what is important and what is irrelevant - what matters to me might be of little significance to you. Guidelines are often needed. We might fail to notice the need for them, but we cannot blame the others. We might fail to provide those guidelines, but we cannot blame the others. Others might fail - but haven't we failed, too? How can we blame them? It's always the easy way out. Blame others for our own failures, scapegoats, don't even have to get our hands dirty while at it. Conscience? Conscience is overrated.

We're not scaremongering, this is really happening, happening

At least this lousy day is over with Radiohead playing Idioteque on the radio. I've had worse endings. Way worse.

Anatomy of a dream (IV)

Not much to say about this one. The only picture left - or rather, the only fragment left of the dream - was an image of the sea, a violent, gray sea of towering crests and throughs like the very throat of hell. And I was there somehow, but I wasn't alone.

Rust

We're just a million little gods causing rain storms, turning everything good to rust. Indeed we are. And most of times for so little.

The heathen gods

Heathen gods demand sacrifices. And we, their humble worshippers and servants, are ready to oblige. If fiery Moloch demands a child, we give him a child, our very own, if it makes him happy. We give anything to please Moloch, to appease the wrath of any god that rules above us, to have a good crop. Good gods, that love us so much. Cruel, wretched gods, that demand everything while giving nothing in return. They demand worship. They demand adoration. They demand routines. They demand sacrifice - and sacrifice has many forms. It can be more than a slaughtered lamb in the altar, or a child bin the burning entrails of a golden idol. Sacrifice is to give away the place at home with the best light to build a shrine. Sacrifice is to offer them everything we do. Sacrifice is to accept their wrath, without question. Without rebellion. Sacrifice is to thank them for the food in our table when it came from our own hard work, and not from their good graces. Sacrifice is to give away everything that they disapprove, that they consider sinful. Is to allow them to tell us how we must live. Sacrifice is when we become our own slaughtered lamb.

One day I'll learn how to kill my own heathen gods.

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Woops, there goes your tolerance. So much for it, hum? In one moment, you were saying with a friendly voice "do never doubt my tolerance" ; in the next moment, you were basically yelling at me, calling me dumb, and only because I think differently than what you do. Gee. Glass walls do break really fast, don't they?

31.10.08

Monday morning call*

I've been running out of inspiration, which helps explaining why I'm not updating this blog as much as I used to. It's not just with this blog, mind you, it's in general. Last night I tried to do something I haven't done for a while, to pick up my fiction and try to write something. Gave up after forty minutes. Futile exercise. Something has been amiss for almost two years. I have some ideas, but I am unable to make them alive on paper. Lacking inspiration, state-of-mind, patience, I don't know. Lacking, in general. What? Don't ask. I cannot answer. I dare not answer. Sometimes I wonder if I should change my routines. It's obvious that I should. Start eating in time. Start practicing my cooking more. Go to bed one hour earlier every day, not to sleep but to read a book, a magazine, some essay on something I would find interesting. Today I'm going to buy Bram Stoker's Dracula, if the usual bookstore doesn't fail me. As I was saying to my girlfriend earlier, I'm sick and tired of gaypire stories, just as I'm sick and tired of the politically correct that is devouring our language. One day, when I get inspired again and start writing my fiction again, I'll be pressed to eliminate the vampires from it, as they are too ridiculous in nowadays' fantasy fiction (no offense meant for real fantasy authors). Screw that: my vampires will remain. Their role is minor anyway, but one too interesting (according to me) to leave out. I'm not sure if the worlds I write about there is something as holy water or a crucifix for them to fear, but my vampires, the Southern Wastes' vampires, they do not walk under the sunlight (I know this ain't canonic, all right?), they do not sparkle, they do not attend college, they don't perform ridiculous so-called satanic rituals. They are wicked and wise, they hunt at night for blood and they fight against their foes, sword in hand, they are skilled necromancers. Male vampires are strong, cunning, restless, bloodthirsty. Female vampires' strenght resides on their guile and their capacity to tempt and doom helpless souls, even if they too can pick up a sword. In short, a succubi. My good friend Daniel, who doesn't read this blog (the bastard), once asked me if it wasn't a good thing that nowadays' authors are innovating on the avaliable material. Depends on what we call innovation. I'm all for refreshing ideas. Just don't count on me if you want to turn one of the most interesting (and sexy) creatures of folklore and fantasy lore into a bunch of pussies for teenage girls' mass comsumption.

*should name this column "monday morning rant", I know.

2009: Love

The Arctic Circle.

2009: Movies (analysis)

It's interesting to see my list of films for 2009. Not all of them are films released in 2009, of course; but my lists are never restricted to whatever is new in one year, or I would not make any lists at all. Not that much harm would come out of that, but it happens that I like doing them. Besides, what's new anyway? 2001: A Space Odyssey was an entirely new film for me, even if it was made in 1968 - as new as the best movie released in 2009. I'm talking about Eastwood's Gran Torino, of course; it will be a shame if the movie is not part of the Oscar's nominations (I'm guessing it won't).

But, as I was saying, it's interesting to see my own list, because there is an obvious pattern there: 2009 was definitely the year of the war movies. 2001 (the movie, not the year) was the only true exception. What about Gran Torino, you might ask? Well, Gran Torino is not about war itself, but its main character is a war veteran, so I assume there is still a connection - the traumas from Korea's war, the relationships with the neighbourhood. About the others: Full Metal Jacket and Apocalypse Now! are clearly war movies, probably the best ever filmed. Waltz With Bashir is about the war, its traumas, and the way men never really leave the war behind. Inglourious Basterds, with its alternative view on the Second World War, tells the story of the Basters, the Nazi-scalping band led by Lieutenant Aldo Raine (among the other intertwined stories, just as Tarantino likes). And Camerons's sci-fi odyssey, Avatar, focus on the war humans wage against the Na'vi, and in the end against nature itself.

Not that all these movies are fundamentally war movies, but the idea of war is present in each of them (except 2001). It's funny that it happened that way.

2009: Movies*

*in the theatres and in my dvd player, mind you.

2009: Television

Introductory note: perhaps some of you - at least the oldest readers - know that I didn't really watch television. Nothing regularly, at least. 2009 changed that, or at least the last three months of the year. For several reasons: I do have cable now, I started to follow some old series, and eventually my lonely nights allowed for a routine to start. Some good suggestions helped cheering up some nights too.

The hidden life

We are only true when we are alone. When we can hear the echo of our footsteps in the empty halls of our house. When the only light comes from the room where we are, and the rest is left in the dark, behind a closed door, as if it didn't exist at all. As if we were alone in the world, and afraid to go out and face the emptiness that surrounds us. Only then we are completely true, when nothing make us fear being silly or stupid or ignorant or cruel. When there is no one to judge us, but ourselves. When we can say aloud what we would never dare telling anyone, not our lover, not our mother, not our closest friends. We all have a hidden life, one that we keep in the dark all the time - and we are only absolutely true when we need not cover it, for there's no one to see or hear it. In the rest of the time, which is most of the time, we wear a mask. Or masks, several masks, the one that suits best each occasion. We wear it, and we believe it, and everything goes just fine, as it should go. Everything else is left behind in a closed room, deep into the darkest recesses of our mind.

2009: Music

2009 is over

but I don't think it is yet too late to talk about it. A few posts will be following about it: 2009 in music, movies, and everything else I can think of.


(pity I don't have photos of all the houses where I've lived during 2009. That would definitely be an interesting photo sequence)

Because last night I was watching the National Geographic Channel and remembering my childhood

*my homeland, after all, could also be a place where the wild things are.

On titles

As you might know by now, I can't write good titles. Or maybe I can produce one decent title out of one hundred miserable attempts. My best school work ever was partially ruined by my title, which was so... hum, good, that my teacher turned to me and asked really, where the hell did you have your mind when you came up with this crap? Can't help it - I can't make good titles.

I'm very good at writing synopsis though.

Still, this post is meant to be about titles, not about synopsis. As a writer wannabe, I deeply envy people who come up great titles, those that would be wonderful in a billboard. Those that always sound nice, regardless of the listener or our opinion about the story. My own experience tells me that one of the things required to write good titles is to never be afraid of being ridiculous. I'm too self-conscient, I guess. So I always try first to come out with something that doesn't sound ridiculous, when I should actually be trying to come out with something that would sound good, that would be catchy without being corny (in a bad way).

A title can be obvious. The Matrix is an obvious title. Nothing brilliant about it - it does its job, it looks nice on the posters. Just like Blade Runner. Two good examples of what a title should be: short and referring directly to the story at hand. Blade Runner, however, was inspired in a Philip K. Dick's book titled Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, and I tell you, this is one hell of a title. Not a canonical one - it's long, it has a verb, it even asks a question - but definitely an unforgettable one. It spawns the doubt that the book is about - can the androids become humans by becoming self-aware and self-conscious? We Own the Night is also a great title, one of my favourite. Never saw the movie, mind you, but I find the idea of "owning the night" truly inspiring. No one can own the night - it is the night that owns us, as much as we rebel against it. But it's a nice thought, and sounds wonderfully. Before the Devil Knows You're Dead is also a great title. Or The Catcher in the Rye. These last three are long and do not refer directly to the story, but they are poetic in their own way.

But the best title I've ever come across is one from a rather recent movie: Where the Wild Things Are. This is brilliant. Haven't seen the movie, but remembering the trailer, the title could easily be something more childish. If I had made up the title Where the Wild Things Are I could as well retire from writing, for my masterpiece was done. It is a beautiful title - beautiful to say, beautiful to listen to. It refers to the story without saying too much. Without talking about monsters. It refers to a dreamland itself, one where wild things can be found. I guess I'm not explaining this that well, but this is the best I can do at this time of the day. Where the Wild Things Are. I should steal it and title my next blog after this one, really.

I can't believe

that I've been missing this for five years. Not without warning, my friends told me so. Should listen to them more often.

No, it ain't dead yet

I've just been busy and rather uninspired. Last week can be summed up like this: work, work, work, rain, rain, rain, sleep (weekend). Nothing really happens here.

Something about names

There's something about names. Our name is one of our most personal traits. Unlike our iris, or fingerprint, our DNA, names are not unique (or are seldom unique). But we are given one name when we are born, sometimes even when we are still warm into our mother's womb, and that name remains with us until the end of our lives, and even after that, engraved in our tombstone, collecting dust in the mementos of the life we've left behind. We are identified by our name. We are called by our name. And yet sometimes our very name is rather impersonal. It mignt be just my own perception mistake, of course, but the people that are close to us tend never to call us by our own name - and when they do, then it's because there's something amiss. Our mothers don't call us by the name, not often at least - "my son", "my daughter", "my child" are expressions more common for them to address us, our name being replaced by our status. Our lovers don't call us by the name, but by some affectionate word - love, hun, darling, dear, or some private nickname like cookie, for example, you chose - and seldom, if ever, by our personal name. Not meaning this as a joke, but if our beloved called us by our name and not by some nickname, yelling our name while fucking wouldn't be such a turn-on.

Yes, yes, I know, it's late and I should be sleeping...

... and I promise I'll be on my way to the blanky-valley soon. But I was just here reading old posts on this boat, and a part of a dream I dreamt last night surfaced in my mind. I dreamt that I had only four euros on my cell phone's pre-paid card. Yes, four euros. I remember calling the balance on the screen and seeing it - four years. I checked it this afternoon. I had twenty tree. Now what the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Blood is thicker than water

I look at him and I see myself. There isn't anything uncanny about that, considering that we are of the same blood. But when I look at him I don't think about our common ancestry, but about the life he's had, and how mine might mimic it. I look at him and I see twenty five years of a wasted life, wasted for something that was at the same time so petty and so honourable. Petty because the underlying reasons for that wretched life were petty, were of a small mind that only a small person could have - not him, never him. Honourable because the reason he didn't change everything before was the greater one. Blood is thicker than water. He knew that. He sacrificed himself for twenty five years for that reason alone. Because he didn't want to let down the person that loved him more in the whole world. Twenty five years of daily hell to finally break free, at the age of fifty. I see him happy now. Young, even. I wonder if I will ever be that lucky in the end.

Random journal (10)

Oh, but I do have a sense of humour. Quite a lot, in fact. In this situation, you were the one who didn't got the joke, you know?

Note: Wish I remember the joke.

Starting 2010