Forasteira

back from the dead

2011-01-04T01:12:00.004Z

It's been two years since I last posted something here. And of course, as it normally happens every new year, I've been hit by a bout of nostalgia that led me into googling my name and finding my old blogs (including this one, in portuguese, that goes back almost 10 years), which led me into a whole night re-reading several years of blogging, which, well, led me here. I miss writing these mostly pointless diaries. If I should follow the right order of things, I should start blogging again somewhere else, for ritual sake (and not to risk readers linking new phases into cringe-worthy-old-phases), but since this one already holds my name and not some silly uninspired of-the-moment name, I decided that I might as well start again here.

For tradition sake, I should also say that I don't know how long this new-found enthusiasm will last, so I'll lower any possible expectations of continuous updates (I have a tendency to disappear from time to time), but I won't. Let's live in the present.

Hello, again.

Wetlands by Charlotte Roche

2009-02-02T16:26:00.005Z

For a couple of weeks I've reading all over the british press about Wetlands, a novel that will be taking the country by storm this month, and I can't bloody wait to get my hands on a copy. It has already done the whole brouhaha in Germany, where the author Charlotte Roche - born in England but raised in Cologne - has originally published this little controversial volume. Apparently, the novel is about an 18-year-old girl who has been hospitalised after a shaving episode gone wrong - which is kind hilarious - and goes on about her sex escapades while still in hospital - which made me raise an eyebrow - to her weird hygiene habits which include rubbing her genital parts in public toilets - NOW, that's got my attention.

In terms of books and films revolving about sex, I've always had this feeling that it would take a LOT of creativity to make me interested (full-on porn, animal and scatological fetish need not apply - they belong in the "yuck" category, which means I will look at out of curiosity before scrunching my face in distaste. Pedophilia is absolutely out of question). The last films I remember being attracted by were Bitter Moon and Last Tango in Paris, maybe Eyes Wide Shut and The Dreamers. Books... I can't remember much other then Susana Moore's In The Cut, Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer and maybe some of Anaïs Nin's work. I was never interested in that french bestseller written by a certain Catherine M, nor the real-life sex adventures of ladettes and middle-class girls turned strippers.

I think my taboos have been broken quite early in life.

But THIS book is something else.

The author says she started with an idea to comment on society's obsession with female cleanliness and it evolved into an altogether study of all things supposedly stomach-churning for the average individual: hemorrhoids, "smegma", "slime", and other detailed description of bodily fluids and Helen's (the protagonist) straightforward relationship with sex and her own body.

I suppose doctors won't find any of this too out of the ordinary, but I'm quite interested in what kind of impact this book is going to cause now that so much visual information is available and so many moral values don't stand their worth.

I'm ordering my copy right now.

This idea goes hand-in-hand with my new approach to life

2009-01-09T20:59:00.003Z

The point, as [Virginia] Woolf suggests in Orlando, is the thrilling experience of the present moment. Everything else is a sort of dry dust that falls away, insignificant and distracting. Many of Woolf's famous works move fro character to character, moment to moment, attempting to capture and renew the sense of wonder that exists apart from and inside of social, cultural, and political arrangements. Woolf is, in this sense, apolitical. But in another sense she is very political, because the logical outcome of her method is a radical democratizing of the novel. No consciousness is privileged. No class, no degree of virtue or talent, no amount of money, no uniqueness of perspective gets to own the depiction of consciousness. [...] The author's job is to preserve exceptional moments, no to award them to exceptional people.

J. Smiley, 13 Ways of Looking at the Novel

Happy New Year

2009-01-06T20:50:00.005Z

I had one of the best end of the years in a very, very long time. It probably was the best, considering the level of general optimism radiated by me. I worked hard, felt that I was being (reasonably, but not sufficiently) rewarded for it, and finished the month full of energy and ideas and plans for the new year. I finally made my peace with Christmas, throwing a lavish party for 18 close friends and family with all the expected treats: an enormous turkey, lots of alcohol and chocolate, two whole days of eating and watching It's A Wonderful Life. And then, four of us went to the Scottish Highlands, as north as it could ever be, to hide away in a beautiful cottage and do nothing other than rest, read, drink, eat, take long walks and baths, and think about what's coming next.

Then, I realised I wasn't prepared for what was coming next.

On Saturday the 3rd I sat down to write New-Year resolution and To-Do lists, and felt sick inside. Suddenly, the carelessness and the freedom I was enjoying for the past 10 months did not feel right anymore. It seemed like 2008 had kicked me out of the house, like a loving but tough parent, and shut the door, leaving me alone in the street and the cold. It's like it was saying to me,"It's all nice and fun, darling, but this cannot go on. You better make some decisions to move forward, and you better do it now."

On Sunday the 4th, my mind was racing the entire drive home. Thirteen hours of restlessness. When we got home, still inside the car, I looked at my boyfriend and my new great friend, and said: "Guys, I don't know what's gonna happen to me this year". They burst out laughing. "Oh god, here we go again," they said, and I laughed with them. But inside, I was suffocating. I felt the shadows of my previous crisis creeping up, whispering in my ear: "Did you miss us, hun?"

I didn't. I don't. I thought I was the one who had shut the door, locked it and thrown the key away. No more sleepless nights, no more crying fits, no more distressed, desperate conversations in a bed that felt, at times, too big and empty. I got out of the car and thought to myself, "We'll deal with it tomorrow."

Then, Monday, Black Monday, arrived. My first conversation with the boyfriend ended outrageously in tears, followed by his arms around me saying we were gonna work something out. It felt like déja vu. I half-expect his hand pulling my hand, my whole diminutive body under his weight, whenever I finish a spectacle of self-pity. It was a pattern that repeated itself one, two, three times, and then at the remain of the day we worked something out. We set up a plan that will certainly soothe my mind for next months ahead, but it won't be enough to silence The Shadows that insist on throwing me off balance.

So we're gonna go away. Again.

a brief note about the end of the year

2008-12-16T22:27:00.003Z

So, the end is nigh. This is my last week of official work, then from the 22nd to the 4th of January I'll be away from my regular duties, worried only about Christmas preparations, and then off to the remote cottage we've rent in the middle of nowhere in North Scotland. I'm already anticipating the many reflections and wonders that will certainly happen, as for the first time in years I have managed to accomplish, if not all, most of what I've decided to do this year. The strange thing is, although 2008 was the "No-plan Year", it gradually became the "Decision Year", as month after month I had to make decisions to climb steps, but only when they appeared at my feet. I loved living like this, wanting more from life, but waiting for it (her?) to point the directions. I can probably count the days on one hand when I wasn't happy to wake up and go about my day, doing what was expected of me. Of course, my errands and general routine were probably not ideal, nor were they amazingly satisfying, but the consciousness that they were results of my choices certainly made everything else easy.

I'm starting to find that happiness is partly created by being approved of by surrounding peers and loved ones, but on the other hand, if you're convinced that your acts and choices are the right ones, the idea rubs off on people, and approval becomes not a possibility, but a certainty.

--

And 2008 was definitely a good year for books (and almost no gigs or clubs). There was the beautiful Siri Hustvedt's What I Loved, then Donna Tartt breathtaking college novel The Secret History. There was the sweet and heartbreaking Sue Monk Kidd's The Secret Life of Bees, the memorable and relevant To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee, and the surprisingly enlightening A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers by Xiaolu Guo. And now, having just finished the masterly written and romantic Austen novel Persuasion, I felt I'm finishing my year in style.

I've read many others that I can quite remember just now, but most of them were books that I grived after turning the last page - a sensation only replaced by the thrill of reading the first page of another great novel.

It feels great to know that I'll have to choose the next ones to take with on my holiday away from civilization.

8

2008-11-11T14:08:00.002Z

years, today.

That's how long we have loved each other for.

It doesn't feel long. It feels timeless. And with each year, the thought of a life without you seems more and more unbearable.

te amo.

Let Joy Be Unconfined

2008-11-10T23:03:00.004Z

It's the challenge that makes me adore this city. Not the kind of defined ones that we set for ourselves (as in "I'm gonna learn how to play the banjo" or something similar - although i do DO that all the time, just for the sake of having a taste of it), but the daily challenges, visual challenges, thrown at your face constantly. Only yesterday, I saw this lady, mid-30s, fully clad in spandex and gym gear, jogging WHILE pushing her baby pram. The baby was IN it, of course. And she was going up the steepest hill near my house, the muscles on her tights bulging out with every pounding foot, while I was walking down the same sidewalk, feeling slightly out of breath. I grinned to myself - that sight was not only hilarious, it was also humbling. Until I went to the bus stop and saw two old men sitting at the bench, both mumblings haste remarks and sighing to each other whenever the wrong bus showed up at the bottom of the road. One was a tiny, meager Chinese looking little man; the other, an enormous, protuberant and heavy Black man, his hair and beard a blend of grey and white. When the bus arrived, the small one climbed up and offered to hold the big one's plastic bags, as he tried to negotiate the step at the entrance. It wasn't my bus, but I've got in anyway, if only I could observe them for a few more minutes, sitting next to each other, the big one nearly crushing the small one with each road curve. On my way home, I saw this Indian looking man stepping in. He had the appearance of any other Asian man, moustache and all, except he was wearing, unselfconsciously, an Indiana Jones sort of hat and sturdy, pointy, brown cowboy boots. He looked like he had just dismounted his horse and got on the bus, all imposed respect and expertise. It wasn't a costume, they were very expensive looking pieces. He looked to the floor without bending his head down, in the manner of a soldier. I had never seen anyone like him before, and neither those three other people, all on the same day. It warmed my heart, and although not in a immediatly significant way, it changed my the way I look at life forever.

And this is just a glimpse of what happens here, everyday.

\o/

2008-11-05T19:22:00.004Z

But of course, tired as I am, my eyes shut at about 2am. Watching the little map of the States flash blues and reds every hour on about five networks' and newspapers' websites, I just felt pangs of anxieties. As Juno would say, that red colour is so unholy - and at first, it seemed to cover one stretch of land too big. Then, at 3:52pm, I jumped awake, sending the laptop flying to the wall next to the bed. It landed on top of a half-drunk glass of red wine, shattering it to pieces, spilling dark liquid and shards of broken glass in every direction under the bed. I stood up swearing (lost another f*ckin' wine glass - I manage to break one per week) to clean the mess up, and then I hear the BBC presenter: "It's 4 o'clock, UK time, and Barack Obama is the new president of the United States." Damn. It felt like Brazil had won the World Cup. I shouted "Holy SHIT," getting a harsh "SHHHH, AMOR, it's 4 AM!" back from the boyfriend, who was pissed off at being woken up by the noise of laptops-hitting-walls-broken-glasses-BBC-man-announcements. I whispered back : "I KNOW! Isn't it amazing?"

As the Kung Fu Panda would say, there is no secret ingredient. All you've got to do is believe.

Obama all the way

2008-11-04T23:44:00.004Z

I'll just say this: I'm tired. Really tired. I haven't slept properly since friday, and that's certainly not due to too much parties. Working really hard. But I won't go to sleep just yet. It's 11:45pm, and I'll stay awake as long as my eyes don't close involuntarily, following the American elections through the blogs (I don't have a TV). I even texted the Americans I know, in an effort to make them vote. That's my little bid for change there.

Tomorrow things will be different. For good.

From the Urban Dictionary

2008-10-29T13:25:00.000Z

deja moo

The feeling that you have heard this bull before.

Katie: " How come you guys didn't go out and celebrate your anniversary?"
Nicole: " We were going to, but he had to take care of his little sister again."
Katie: "That sounds like deja moo to me."

A big MISS-take

2008-10-28T01:06:00.007Z

But of course, the whole shebang had to be a mistake. It was from the start, when I my friend offered the gig. Being a gathering of semi-illiterate Brazilians being pushed and shoved and shouted at by a dude (not Brazilian - who knows where he was from) with self-importance issues, delegating irrelevant orders while seizing his employees shoulders like they were little gypsy children who didn't quite comprehend the robbery lesson - of course it wouldn't work. As soon as I arrived, I felt a little impulse to do a little U-turn and break free from that hellish scenario, but my inner boss told me to be cool and get through this. What a nightmare. Five hours standing up at the entrance of the place with a bitter cold wind blowing in our faces. My joints ached, but not as much as my pride for being treated like all the other airheads who had as much self-respect as they had appropriate vocabulary (and English was their native language). Don't get me started on the show itself, which I only managed to get a glimpse of. A parade of frightfully pumped-up and oiled "beauties", desperately competing for a return ticket to Brazil - or most probably a one-way ticket home, as I bet a great deal of them would not be able to afford a "return" to the UK for financial AND legal constraints.

I was peeved last night and made sure some people knew it. Determined not to go back, I sat down this morning to write an email to the organiser stating my claim (and asking for the money owed to me for such a torture), when there it was, in my inbox 9 o'clock in the morning, an email from said person: "thank you so much 4 last night i did not see u when you don any way i am going to pay you 4 lat night and i do not need you work from next week my girl friend will do the job 4 me."

So to finish it off in style, I got sacked. From a job I didn't even wanted, by a person who can't even write an email.

It made my day.

beauty contest

2008-10-26T19:34:00.005Z

Since I've decided not to work for anybody else unless on a short term, temporary basis, strictly for cash, I get whatever comes my way. So tomorrow, I'll be at the door of the only tolerable Brazilian club in London as hostess for the Miss and Mister Brazil UK 2008 contest. I know. Isn't it wonderfully ironic, though? One of my bests is going to be the stage presenter, and I'll be also acting as her stylist and speech writer. Ain't I a little crackerjack. Je sais.

+

and I heard today: "why aren't you competing, darlin'?" HÁ! That was a good one. Surely the guy was out of it on champagne. Damn good foundation, that Kate Moss' one, though. Will be paying a visit soon to a Rimmel's counter at Boots to stock up.

++

ps: i'm totally pro-blogging these days, I had no idea how much I missed it. So expect tons of silly little posts like this one showing up on a screen near you.

Obessed about the Obsessed

2008-10-25T19:06:00.006+01:00

I used to be obsessed about obsessed people. People with obsessions, who went any lengths to do whatever it was they were obsessed about, or to be near their object of obsession. I had a special predilection for insomniacs and drunks, but not so much drug addicts and self-harmers. The first ones seemed romantic and idealists in their pain, suffering for a purpose, whereas the latter ones always looked pathetic and self-indulgent, lost and unaware of their own reasons, and I could not relate to that. In fact, my obsession with obsessed people comes from the fact that I myself was never obsessed about anything. I have certain interests and passions, but I’ve always seemed to accommodate them around my life, not the opposite. For instance, I LOVE reading and will avoid running any errands or complete any project to finish a good book, and will walk in a busy street holding an open book risking eventually running into a lamppost, and will pretend I’m sick so I can sidestep meaningless conversations and hide in my bedroom with a novel. Likewise, but in a much smaller amount, I LOVE fashion and sometimes will run a massive credit card bill that will take me months to pay in order to have that ridiculously sexy pair of shoes and that stupendously gorgeous dress (not so much these days, as I work with clothes and have them around me all the time as part of the job). And I LOVE my man, and although we shut ourselves off inside a bubble with no friends in the beginning so we could live off nothing but love, these days we're comfy and cosy and confident in our solid eight-year history, choosing instead to meet as many people as a 7-day-week allows. That’s about it really. I love certain musicians, but will go days without any music. Love films and watch repeatedly some of them until I absorb some of the lines by osmosis, but now the chances are that I’d fall asleep in the middle of, say, True Love. In fact, I sleep like a baby. Always have. I’m one of those people that sleep standing up if needed, that needs a solid eight-hour to avoid headaches and tired eyes, that feels lethargic in the middle of the morning, after lunch, at the end of the afternoon, and after dinner. I could never stay awake for anything, and there was a time that even my sex life was suffering because I would fall asleep 30 seconds after I got in bed. Passionate, I mean, obsessed people don’t sleep. They pull all-nighters in front of a computer, smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap alcohol. Which is another thing I can’t do. I do smoke and drink, a glass here and there almost on a daily basis when I’m in London, but I will never become a hard smoker and drinker because I am asthmatic and hate being hangover. Truly hate. I feel like killing myself when I have one, and I always regret and curse and stay away from any sort of alcohol for several days. That rule, in fact, applies to almost anything in my life. I’ll be bad, but just a little. Just a little bad. Just enough so I can maintain the edge, the sense of danger, to spice things up – but I’d never completely fuck up. I think I did sometimes when I was still growing up, but the guilt and the shame and the pain were too intense for my petite frame. I couldn’t bear to repeat major fuck-ups, to keep hitting my head in the wall like an amnesiac retard. I’ve always cared too much about what other people think to let them see me was a thickheaded fool (isn’t it all the people who repeatedly fuck up?). All that a result of that inner complex of inferiority, a characteristic deeply infused in my still-to-be-formed personality as a small child (but that’s material for another long post.) I could never allow myself to be obsessed because I could never allow myself to be a nuisance to others. Isn’t it all obsessed fuck-ups, insomniacs, drunks, drug addicts and self-harmers a burden to others? They are, which I discovered only after living in London. My heroes, all artists, all looked good on paper. I craved their passion. I wanted to give my blood and flesh and soul and hours of sleep to express myself too, I wanted to understand what it was to go hungry and desperate and physically sick because those were simply consequences of being passionate about something or someone. I wanted NOT to be afraid for once of those consequences, of losing everything, of being hurt. How divinely artistic and exquisitely appealing that pain seemed to me. Could I please be one of them? I couldn’t. Something, a barrier, a fence, a wall, never allowed me to go the extra mile for self-expression. Instead, the only length I ever managed to go leaded to a stupid dump called Depression (in fact, I have TONS to say about depressed people, material for another long post too).

Then, gradually, I met some of my heroes. And all I can say now is that I felt a mixture of surprise, disappointment and relief, both intertwined and tangled but absolutely comprehensible to my confused mind. My objects of obsessions, the obsessed, were flawed. Not in the romantic sense I imagined them to be; they were flawed in all the wrong ways. Egocentric, repetitive, selfish, self-indulgent, exhaustingly self-obsessed, and not so obsessed about their own art. They were marvellously human. Imagine the dimensions of the disappointment in my over-imaginative, insecure little head. Now multiply this by 100 and you have a glimpse of the dimensions of my relief. My heroes, the people that emulated my ideals, stepped down from the pedestals I’ve put them in and joined the world of humans. My world.

So, today, gradually and then suddenly, I stopped becoming obsessed about the obsessed. I was right, all along. While I remain intrigued by those who are not afraid to make a fool of themselves or loose everything, my new obsessions are the hard-workers. Those who, instead of just burdening everyone around them with their immense egos, simply shut themselves up and work hard, so hard they are nearly consumed by their own idea of perfection. Again, something I’d probably never be.

2008-10-22T16:44:00.002+01:00

I just want to be blown away, all the time.

The new Kings of Leon

2008-09-21T23:06:00.003+01:00

I'm listening obsessively to the new Kings of Leon album. It's heartfelt rock'n'roll, the kind that asks for big stadium gigs full of adoring singalong fans. I didn't like Kings of Leon much before, whereas J. had their previous album on repeat mode in his iPhone for a long time. Until I read this raving review in a Sunday supplement and, since I haven't listened to anything other than 80s pop these days, I decided to have a go. Apparently, this album got very mixed reviews, many of them leaning toward the thumbs down road than anything else. Who cares. These days I see music critics as irrelevant as everyone else's opinion about music : they're only purpose is to inform you of artists and their output. Their personal tastes are pointless. Music to me is about instinct: it either rocks your world or it doesn't. It either makes you feel happy, or sad, or sexy, or it doesn't. Stuff like "the track starts on the right note but it doesn't hold to the end" or any scrutinising production bollocks is only interesting for people who work with it. I just care if it makes me dance, if it makes me cry, or if it makes me forget my own thoughts for a while.

And I'm not going to feel silly for that.

Having it All

2008-09-11T19:04:00.009+01:00

The other day I came across an article in a fashion magazine about that old feminine ideal of having it all. The myth that we, the fragile sex, can have a successful career, a family, a stable relationship and money while still managing to be pretty, sexy, fashionable and intelligent. Note that I say myth, and not concept, because that what it is, and will always be, if you, stressed out folks out there, haven't realised yet: being good at everything is nothing more, nothing less than pure utopia. It is a phony ideal of life. And more to the point, it's utterly unfair to women. Men don't go through this kind of dilemma - or at least, not the ones that I know. Most of the men around me (the non-gay ones) are either focused in 1)Make money, 2) Have sex, 3)Be recognized for whatever they do so they can have numbers 1 and 2, and 4)Have a good time after and while they're working at numbers 1,2 and 3, which includes drinking, drugs, bungee jumping, gambling in Vegas, or whatever takes their fancy. The ones with kids and relationships are either 1)Bored, 2)Too busy fucking around to care, 3)Thinking they're too hot to be having sex with just one bird, so they better get out of it ASAP. Some of them care about their looks or think about clothes, but never more than once a week, and even them it takes a right pickle for them to do anything about it (say, a girl that looks horrified at the sight of their naked beer gut, or a pair of torn jeans that exposes their disproportional god-given male qualities). So I suppose, with few exceptions, men in general don't go about fretting that they can't have it all, simply because they don't want to.

Now, in my case, the have-it-all ideal assumes an entirely new proportion. On top of wanting all of those things that make up the myth, each category is divided into several sub-categories, making the whole thing sound, well, decidedly AMBITIOUS.

I'll give an example (the most obvious of the other obvious ones): career. I don't want to have just ONE career, for many reasons, the strongest of them being that 1) I have way too many interests, 2) Which makes me want to be able to explore at least some of them at lenght and 3) Which also scares the monkeys out of me to be defined by any single one of them.

I'll translate: right at this moment I'd very much like to write a novel and short stories, colaborate with magazines, create an ethical fashion label, learn to knit, sew and draw properly, take street fashion pictures on a weekly basis, and become an assistant of someone with an established career in any of these creative areas. In my little deluded head, I believe I am perfectly able to do all of the above at the same time, so I've written a weekly schedule in which I dedicate a few hours everyday to each task/project, carefully designating special slots for exercising and socialising on a regular basis.

BUT - and there's always a but - on top of everything I also need to find time to run a small (tiny) business in which I buy, style, photograph, edit, update, promote and send vintage clothes to remote corners of the world, and all on my own.

The result: a frustrated, overly disquieted version of me at the end of every single day because OBVIOUSLY I cannot complete 25% of my meticulously drawn daily schedule.

It goes without saying that each and every aspect of my life suffers too. I skip daily runs and yoga sessions because I'm already late to finish whatever I'm working on, I neglect friends and boyfriend because I always think I could be carrying out a project instead of engaging in meaningless chit-chat, and when I am around other people I struggle to pay attention to what they say because my mind is racing with things I ought to be doing.

The relationship part, I don't even want to go there. My other half favourite choice of words is "What did I just say?", because he knows I'm endlessly pretending to listen to him. Not to mention (the shame!) my nightly predilection for books or another episode of Six Feet Under instead of sex.

God. My neck hurts.

So how on earth I'm gonna manage to have children and a house and (oh, I forgot), enough money to support this insane lifestyle, that's what I can't even think about thinking.

And there are still women out there who say we can have it all. I'd kill whoever invented that.

Impressions from an Italian holiday

2008-09-02T13:16:00.010+01:00

Last weekend we went for a road trip around the north of Italy and it turned out to be one of the most fantastic trips I've ever been to. This time, we hadn't planned absolutely anything, and I was almost certain things were going to go wrong - last time we went for a road trip (around the UK), we ended up in obscure, cold towns, getting car-sick and bored to our hearts' content.

Amazingly, this time everything rolled smoothly. We simply picked up a car in Milan, looked at the map, and someone pointed a finger randomly at the map, saying "Let's go there." After six hours driving through stunning landscapes we arrived at a tiny touristic town called Levanto near Cinque Terre and the Italian Riviera.

And our luck did not finish there: after knocking on some people's doors asking for a hotel room, we managed to rent this superb three bedroom flat 2 minutes from the beach. I was in heaven.

We spent 2 days soaking in the sun in Levanto and Buonnasola (another beautiful beach 10 minutes away), had dinner in Vernazze, an even tinier village with one of the most fantastic sunsets on Earth (the other one being my Dad's hometown, Campo Grande, in Brazil), watched shooting stars lying on the rocks (I had never seen one before, until my new friend C. told me to keep looking at the same point in the sky for 10 minutes. I screamed when I realized it was true.), and ended the trip with late drinks in a medieval city called Lucca and the best risotto in a restaurant in Milan with a view to the Duomo.

Now. The fun part: (Before any Italians read this, please note I am totally generalizing).

1- Tanning is SERIOUS BUSINESS for Italians. They surely don't give a rat's ass to that whole nonsense of sunbathing before 11am and after 4pm, or using SPF 30, or things like wrinkles and, uh, CANCER. Why, if they can turn into a 70% dark chocolate version of themselves? I've never seen anything like that shade of tan. They were all something like this:

(That's the only picture google came up with when I typed "super tan". And that picture is probably from someone's granny in the 60s - which gives us an idea of how crazy must be these days to go this dark :).

Everywhere there were ladies toasting away midday, with a cigarette in one hand and baby oil spray on the other. And their faces MATCHED their bodies. Damn, I don't think I've come across anyone that, uhm, ruthless since the 80s.

2- Young men in Lucca ALL have long hair scraped back in a (yes) BUN. I'm not making this up. We went into the town center at night for drinks and we encountered this corner full of boys and young people standing in front of pizzarias and gelaterias (apparently their saturday night hangout of choice). And a whole group of them had their hair UP, loosely tied with the ends sticking out. Something like this:

I've seen men wearing their hair this way occasionally, but I never thought this was a MAJOR trend anywhere since the... what, early 90s? Oh, and all of them also wore knitted jumpers tied around their shoulders in a preppy sort of vibe, even though it was 35ºC outside and there wasn't any remote possibility of temperatures falling.

3- Italians can be quite scary sometimes. Everything seems to be "private" or "exclusive", and you have to pay to have to privilege to be at this places. Every beach has a private area with sun loungers (30 euros a day), and we were kicked out of all of them. You cannot order an espresso at the bar and take it to a table without someone screaming at you that you need to pay a fee to sit down, and don't even try to use their toilets or (the heresy!) throw a can of coke in their rubbish bins if you haven't bought it there.

4- Italians like their buildings to be grand and embellished, but it seems that around the riviera and Cinque Terre they don't want to spend too much money on sculpted ornaments. Instead, they paint extra windows, balcony columns, adornments and bricks on the walls in 3D style, so from a distance it's like you're looking at carefully built antique architecture. Marvelously kitschy. Something like this:

That's all I can remember now. But I'll never see Italians in the same light after this trip. They surely are peculiar people.

The Raconteurs advice

2008-08-23T18:38:00.002+01:00

Everything's OK
As long as you're inside my blue veins.

Elephant's Memory

2008-08-13T10:04:00.005+01:00

Since we moved to the loft/studio/live-n-work unit, things have changed for the better ... and some for the worse. I can't remember if I said that before, but after 6 years living abroad, this is the first time we're on our own. Just me and him and the cats. I don't want to dare say it's anything other than wonderful, because that's all it has been for most of the time. But reality always warms her way into one's lives eventually, and now there are no flatmates to blame for the unfairness and arduousness of it all.

In one sentence: when shit hits the fan, sometimes I just feel like killing him.

Don't get me wrong, though. I am doing nothing more than venting here, because almost 8 years down the road, in terms of relationships I can honestly declare that I am NOT a quitter. Just because in times of trouble, when the clothes rail breaks for the second time and everything is gathering dust on the floor, when the Ikea cupboard is faulty once again and we have to return it, when the washing machine is leaking, the ceiling is leaking, the shower is leaking, the bloody London sky is leaking!, it doesn't mean I don't want to be with him anymore. Being - as in the act of existing - without him is a condition I have no intention of pursuing ever again. This is one of the major changes I've gone through since I started seeing him, because my original nature (if I can put it this way - surely one's nature changes along the way?) is one of a quitter. It's in my genes. For most of my teen and early adulthood years, when there was a remote possibility, a looming idea that things might go wrong, I would simply jump in and out like a frog who jumps inside a boiling pan. That is a classic example of immaturity: someone who just doesn't want to deal with too much pain. It's okay to get slightly injured, hurt and cry for a couple of days, but then life is too short to stir away in a pool of sorrow. Bring fresh blood in, please.

Then, I met him, and when it comes to loved ones, he is not a quitter. He just doesn't switch off his phone and disappear when jealousy and bitterness and anxiety broke all at once. He doesn't run off to someone else's arms, someone else's smell to forget the frustration. He was the first person to smile straight in the middle of a row and say "ok, I'm sorry, lets start all over again".
He says, "Even better, let's just forget everything", because he probably knows quitters like me have elephant's memory and tend to build a wall around themselves against eventual threats.
So gradually, brick by brick, he razed my wall down and taught me that love is about sticking together, specially in times of hardship.

On the other hand, I'm convinced that I was not the only one who learnt important lessons throughout our almost eight years together. I, with my extreme tendencies to over-analyse stuff, have always needed to talk things through, specially when I'm not putting them down as rantings in a journal or blog. Which means that whenever he would hold me by the collar to not run away, I would sit there and say "Okay then, let's NOT start all over again. I wanna talk about it." The quintessencial, old-school "Let's discuss our relationship." I like to believe he is not like the stereotypical man who avoids this kind of situation. Instead, he simply was, years ago, unfamiliar with this habit. It certainly became a habit. And because of these two rules (1. do not avoid problems, and 2. confront and talk them through), established steadily by both, we managed to change our "original natures" - at least, a little.

Today, when life comes crashing in with bills to be paid, cats to feed, cleaning to be done, things to get fixed, projects to be carried out, all accompanied by the ghosts of failure and frustration, we try to stick together.

And talk it through.

Penelope Fitzgerald's writing advice

2008-07-26T12:14:00.011+01:00

Today, in the Guardian:

"I think you should write biographies of those you admire and respect, and novels about human beings who you think are sadly mistaken."

In this light, I should have had TONS of inspiration. At least for the novel part.

A Novel's Help

2008-07-23T11:07:00.006+01:00

These days, it is not very often that I come across a book that simply sweeps me off my feet, that makes me want to read it slowly and carefully, underling sentences and writing comments on the margins. Recently, I really enjoyed the The Glass Castle, a memoir which I bought at the airport in São Paulo and read the whole thing in Portuguese on the plane to London, from the American journalist Jeannette Walls (in this YouTube clip her idiosyncratic and often irritatingly free-spirited mother appears, while she happily summarises her story to the camera like an E! presenter. I found that annoying.)

But for the past 2 weeks I've been completely engrossed in Siri Hustvedt's novel What I Loved. It is beautifully written in a sort of careful, elaborate narrative that forces you to decelarate and enjoy the language and the comprehensive pondering of the characters' emotional behaviours. Until I finished the novel today and started combing the internet for people's impressions and opinions, I was also amazed at Hustvedt's imaginary capacity to create such a complex plot (the book explores 25 years of two New York 'art' couples), but then I found a couple of articles that mentioned the similarity of several sections of the book to Hustvedt and her husband Paul Auster's lives, and then my awe faded a little. Apparently, both authors are well-known in the literary world for "dressing" facts from their own lives, as a journalist wrote, and incorporate them into their work.

That said, knowing this doesn't affect my infatuation with this book. In this little audio clip, she says that if you look at people sitting around the table of a dinner party, you could bet that every single one has stories about love and loss, and how both have been largely influential on how those people turned out. She says "I'm interested in why people become what they become. When my daughter was 3, I was giving her a bath, and she asked me: 'Mom, when I grow up, will I still be Sophie?' That was a very dramatic question about human life, and this novel is about those ideas, the role of culture in shaping people's character."

I just loved that. In my own troubled relationship with my family and friends, I've often tried to put breaks on my own judgement of them and simply tried to understand what was behind their acts and behaviour. It made things easier, at least for me, and opened space for forgiveness. Reading this novel and hearing that comment clarified a lot what I have - often unconsciously - tried to do, and shone a light into a practice that needs to be exercised by anyone who wants to be some kind of writer/artist.

I'm looking forward to read her other novels.

The Written Word

2008-07-04T18:05:00.005+01:00

Talking about not recognising my former self.

Just the other day I've realised that although I'm somewhat more comfortable with who I am at the moment, there's also a shadowy side to this recent moment of enlightenment.

I still think I should be doing more.

6 years ago I saw myself as someone who saw intellectuality, the workings of the mind, as a goal, as a way of life, something to aspire to. My heros always have been writers, people who spent most of their days thinking and translating conclusions, deliberations and observations into words who would be read by others. At the same time, I've always loved fashion, and always thought of it as a way to show the world, albeit in a superficial way, one's own ideas. It was my way to single myself out from the crowd, to challenge conventional patterns of behaviour and beauty, capturing attention of people who would be willing to trade similar ideas with me, and repel conformists.

But for me it has always been far from dignifying to spend one's day thinking about shoes, for instance. Or thinking about how to coordinate outfits. Or thinking about how to find a ridiculous amount of money to spend in a piece of (brilliantly designed, I must say) fabric. It's not how anyone with a brain should choose to spend a life in.

Then the other day I suddenly registered that that is exactly what I've doing most of my days.
Since I left the world of jobs to try and make it on my own, all I think about is shopping, seasons, celebrities, shoes, pouring over endless cuttings from Vogue and i-D and Elle, gradually assimilating 7 decades of fashion (I just reinvented myself as a vintage fashion "dealer"/ stylist). I love it. It gives me a lot of pleasure to stumble upon a gem, and it thrills me to suddenly understand what works for whom, and how to bring the coolest side of someone. But this is all TOO visual.

All my life I've trained myself to use WORDS to express myself. WRITTEN words. I don't sing, or play any instrument, I'm a horrible drawer/painter, and although I have been an above average dancer, I could never make a career out of it - or any sport, for that matter. But the written word is my instrument, is where I feel more at ease, is my hometown, my motherland, my native language. And if I spend too long away from it, with time I start feeling very, very pointless.

I might not be a very good writer, and maybe I'll never make it into fiction like I've always thought I would, someday. But it gives me pleasure to be alone in a silent room with only the tic-tic of the keyboard for soundtrack, to elaborate sentences that are not important for anybody else but me, to create passages of stories that never connect to each other, that never see a beginning or and end (that's my main ability).

To me, this is how you turn a pointless day into a rewarding one. No pair of shoes can give anyone the same joy.

Home from Home

2008-06-23T18:17:00.009+01:00

For the past two weeks, all I've been doing is looking for a new place to live, my 7th in London. Looking is an understatement: you've gotta get all geared up and go to war for that, because apparently every Londoner favourite pastime is to scour the city for a suitable dwelling. And boy, these people are ruthless. Properties with simple requirements such as normal-sized windows (so you can have a tiny bit of rare daylight coming in and not spend all your ages in electricity bills) and rooms slightly bigger than shoeboxes (so you can actually move around without tripping on your already sparse furniture) are snapped up faster than Louboutins on sale. In one of the hottest, most thriving property markets in the world there's a a horrible shortage of decent accommodation, and worst of all (and probably because it is what it is), what you will pay for a bedsit in a hot area would probably get you a mansion with sea views anywhere else in the world.
(except in Balneário Camboriú, the city I come from in Brazil, where the property speculation is as ridiculous as in London).

But one zillion phone calls and dozens frustrated viewings later, I've finally managed to find the perfect place to move all the piles of shoes, books, and magazines I've accumulated in almost 5 years of living in London. And this time, unbeliavably for the first time in this city, it's just me, my junk, and him. And my two fur balls, Nick and Quincas.

I can't barely remember the last time it was just us. The two of us. I remember back in Brazil, when we were in the height of passion and barely out of our teens. We were 19, and we had these beautiful and spacious 2 bedroom wonder at the chicest neighbourhood in town, a brand new car, and all our lives in front of us. But I wasn't happy. I was small and spoilt and scared, and I wanted to know what other surprises life had under her sleeve. It didn't matter that I would have to leave all the glitter behind and start from scratch in a dirty, obscure corner of New York City - the unknown seemed so much more exciting.

It was - and it wasn't. There's no amount of warning that can prepare you for life in the big city, even less if this is a foreign city. I remember my first day in NYC, without knowing a single soul, feeling all the despair slowly creeping up inside me after being literally dumped with two enormous suitcases by the taxi driver in a smelly, grubby street of the Spanish Harlem, under a 38ºC sun. The room I misguidedly took for a "vibrant accomodation with views to the Central Park", found via a "findaroomate.com" sort of website, was on the 3rd floor of a disintegrating building with no elevators (and no views to the Park, except maybe from the firescape) and my new roomie, a Chinese-American woman who supposedly had a job at Morgan Stanley in Wall Street, wasn't coming down to help me. It took me 25 minutes and two buckets of my own sweat to negotiate those horrible stairs, and it didn't get any better once I was in my new flat. My room, that cost $500 a month, was no bigger than a broom cupboard and as "vibrant" as only the inside of a pre-heated oven could be. On top of that, the Chinese woman seemed not to have a single cleaning gene in her DNA, for the whole place was covered in dust, and she had a charming habit of hanging her washed granny panties in the middle of the living room. Aparently, they dried faster when in full view of street passer-bys.

I, being the good Brazilian middle-class child of the 90s I was, comfortably wrapped-up most of my life in a cozy blanket of daily cleaners, meals cooked from stratch and airy, bright, spacious apartments, was appalled. Horrified. Shocked, dismayed. So much that when, right after I arrived, I decided to go out to find a payphone to call home (and plead to go back), I ended up walking from the 111th to the 32nd street - 79 blocks in aproximatelly 5 hours, almost non-stop. I don't really know why I did that, but what happened during that walk changed me forever. It wasn't that I was stalked by a black guy for 5 blocks, or that I cried uncontrollably for another five when I couldn't get the calling cards to work, or even that magic moment when I turned on 42nd street and found the bright lights of Times Square for the first time, followed by the amazing Public Library later in the day. It was simply that in my exhausted, overwhelmed mind, I knew I could never go back to my old life, because it would never be the same again.

I lasted exactly 45 days in that fetid Harlem flat, and moved to several other over-priced, decaying, hideous other flats in Boston, Cambridge and then London, most of them populated by normal looking people that almost always revealed themselves to be mischevous, wacky creatures with several unhygienic habits and a penchant for self-deception.

But two countries, eleven homes and countless obscure neighbourhoods later, I look back and I don't recongnize that young girl that dreamt of leading a sitcom life in the big city. She was anxious, worried, and self-conscious in way that I aknowledge, but find it impossible to identify with. I had all the stability in the world and was never comfortable in my own skin. Today, 6 years later, my world is much more vulnerable than it ever was, full of risks and unpredictability, but I never felt more confident, more assured that now I am leading the life I was wanted to lead. Better still, in a place, a possible home, that reflects exactly who I always wanted to be and didn't know.

It's a life not as similar as in those American sitcoms I used to dream about, but the feel-good factor is pretty close.

(more about the new home in the next post).

Things that are still wrong in my life

2008-06-12T12:48:00.003+01:00

- I don't write enough about the most important people in my life.

- I don't write enough about the (extra)ordinary stuff that happens in my life.

- I'm still unable to fully demonstrate how much I love some people. Specially my mum.

- I'm still unable to cook a simple meal, other than grilled chicken and steamed veggies.

- I'm still unable to be myself, completely, fully and entirely.

- I don't write enough.

Another Inspiration

2008-06-11T18:22:00.002+01:00

"[...] The most subversive thing: to be out in the mainstream and get away with it"

Terry Richardson.

Restless

2008-05-23T14:25:00.000+01:00

I get restless.

I always do, when I come here.

I forget who I am, what I like, what I carefully built along the years. My idiosyncrasies, my personality traits, my odd but remarkable history. All irrelevant, like they belong to someone else. Someone I’m not interested in.

I can get no satisfaction.

Instead, I become who I used to be. An insecure, ugly little girl, desperate to please, to be noticed, to be one of them. Obsessed with everything that doesn’t matter, that is not important to anyone but still rules everyone’s lives. Everything that made me run away, until I found a place where I could be myself in peace.

Somewhere I could be proud. Of myself.

Like that saying ,“It’s never too late to become who you really are,” or something along those lines. I travelled far, mastered the languages, the crowds, the overwhelming rhythm. I proved not to anyone, but to myself, that I AM strong and smart and beautiful and endlessly interesting.

But I’m nothing here. In the smallest of universes, I feel like a curious creature, an oddball, no more. Something to be looked at from afar, to be distanced from.

I cheated myself
Like I knew I would
I told you I was trouble
You know that I’m no good.

I was weak, and selfish, and silly. I wake up 6 o’clock in the morning, breathe hard, walk from room to room, read the same paragraphs over and over, check obsessively the same websites. Can’t stop thinking.

This time, I was careful enough not to share the details with anyone. I don’t want anyone but the mirror to see the shameful restlessness in my eyes.

And now,

All I need is a glimpse of reciprocity. A spontaneous evidence of the same. Then maybe, I could go back to sleep.

Living twice

2008-04-14T11:53:00.006+01:00

When I look back at my life, I feel that if I really wanted, I could be a good blogger. My world turns upside down in a incredibly speedy rate, enough to entertain the most hardcore of Big Brother fans - but I hesitate. I keep asking myself, "What's the point of telling the world what I'm going through? Why would I give them the freedom to build on judgment and prejudice and whatever negative feelings people feel towards other people, based on what I choose to write about or photograph? Am I an exhibitionist? Am I expecting people's approval? Why do I need it anyway?"

Since I chose to write a blog back in 2001, I walk around carrying those questions on my shoulders like a heavy block of stone. I generally forget the answers, until I find a quote in a book or a website that reminds me why humans in general need to document life. As Isabel Allende, that blessed Chilean writer, said, it is because it helps us remember what happened. Because memories are the thread that keeps the flimsy, stubborn fabric of our souls together, and if we can't remember things it is as if they've never happened. Writing (photographing, painting, creating) helps us remember, and through remembering the events of our life, we are able to live twice.

Also: through writing and art we find a way to arrange the pieces of a giant puzzle in a way that we can understand, that makes sense to us. Life becomes easier.

I'm not saying writing a blog is a form of art, but, just the same, it bears all those qualities attached to nobler forms of writing like novels and memoirs. It helps me build memories, it helps me remember, it helps me make sense and understand. And most of all, it helps me live twice under the watchful eyes of the world.

Just a Reminder

2008-04-14T00:11:00.004+01:00

"why tackle a memoir? Because I need to remember. What I don't write it, I forget, and then it is as if it never happened; by writing about my life I can live twice. "

Isabelle Allende, reminding me why I should keep on writing a blog. At least that.

Pills

2008-03-13T22:17:00.004Z

The doctor, an English blonde woman, gave me two choices: I could take the super new drugs, with virtually no side effects, for 3 months, until I felt stable enough to get on with my life. Or I could try therapy and "reeducate the way I see life and the world." Or, if necessary, I could have both. All free of charge, a gift from the enlightened British government. I said, Can I think about it? She said, Call me in a week's time.

I don't think I'll be going back there anytime soon.

The big D

2008-03-10T23:46:00.003Z

Right.

So after all my optimistic little phase, I went to my GP for the first time in five years today, and her diagnosis was "mild depression." Well, well. No shit, Einstein. If anyone read my blogs' archives from back in 2002, all the clues would probably lead to the same conclusion. Mild depression. What does that mean, anyway? Being a little sad for long periods of time? Or feel very down, hit rock bottom, for a couple of weeks? Or maybe have short bouts of paralysing anxiety in crucial moments of your life, followed by months of light but piercing self-deprecation after the anxious episode made you totally screw up? Does it mean feeling powerless when you can't go back in time and changes things? Or feeling worn-out when you look ahead because certain things will never change?

I always thought people with depression would wear pajamas all day, and have dark circles around their eyes, and sleep during the day after long nights crying their eyes out. They would not go to Yoga classes like I do, or eat their vegetables and grilled chicken like I do. They wouldn't call their friends and make jokes about their own stuck-up situation like I do, or put on make-up before leaving the house like I do. They wouldn't make love before falling asleep, or take the cats to the garden in the morning with a mug of hot tea just so they can all catch a tiny bit of sunshine like I do.

I thought depression was something a like a permanent heavy weight on your shoulder, not that quiet desperation that hits you when you're not trying to get busy with anything, so you'll stop thinking. I thought it was something that stopped you from doing anything else, like a barrier that stops an overflowing river, instead of just silently following you like a weightless shadow while you try to get on with your life.

I thought depression was as clear and easy to identify like a broken mirror, not a set of puzzle pieces scattered over 10 years. That's how long it took for me to realise that maybe something was up. And it took 10 minutes for my GP to say what it was.

Inspiration

2008-02-25T18:48:00.003Z

Ex-stripper, now Oscar winner. She's, like, a dream, man.

Calm, cool and collected.

2008-02-19T17:16:00.005Z

WARNING: this post contains long doses of self-pity and auto-therapy bollocks.

---***---

Folks, I've got an announcement.

There's a new phenomenon happening this year, absolutely unfamiliar to me up until this point of my life: the absence of guilt. For reasons unknown (as The Killers would say), every now and then my mind becomes strangely empty during several stages of the day, forcing me to pay attention at whatever is happening around me.

No, really. I pay attention to strange things, like old ladies crossing the street, or the tracks of the trains outside London Bridge. Hell, I even read the orkut profiles of extremely boring people. Waste of time, right? But I explain:

I am, or used to be, one of those people that never, EVER, stops ruminating about everything, endlessly wondering, questioning, scrutinising, trying to find a reason for that permanent feeling of inadequacy. In my regular, day-to-day perspective, there is (or was) always something wrong with me: my curly hair, my apple-shaped body, my disproportionate face, the clothes I wear, the subjects I studied, the jobs I've worked in, the places I hang out, the people around me. Why couldn't I be prettier, fitter, smarter, cooler, more successful, stylish, intelligent, desired, all at the same time and preferably NOW? WHY?

Laugh as you will, but the lack of confidence here was that big. And writing about it now, I see that my insecurity had ridiculous proportions. I mean, think about it: what I've always wanted to be was PERFECT. Full-stop, no negotiation, no second-place-should-be-fine. No.

Now imagine the proportions of my frustration. As you might have noticed, that never happened, or got even close to happen. Or ever will.

I would need several years of therapy to trace precisely the origins of that enormous self-doubt, but I believe it all started at some point in my childhood, when my also very insecure mother would drop me off at my rich cousin P. for play-dates. Only instead of playing with her huge collection of Barbies, she would spend the afternoon showing off her walk-in closet with everything organised by colour, and discussing the benefits of weekly blow-dry appointments at her mom's hair salon. We were 7 years old.

These days, she is married to the richest guy in the state, a brainless good-for-nothing who inherited all his family land and money, and they both lead a very meaningful life swapping Ferraris for Porshes, delegating orders to servants and nannies, attending endless hair/manicure appointments, organising children birthday parties, and shopping, shopping, shopping. I'm not too sure they travel a lot, but I wouldn't expect them to go far off the boundaries of midwest Brazil, where they're known as the one of the most powerful couple of the region.

Without a single second-thought, I wouldn't swap places with her, not for a minute (seriously, I'm being honest). Maybe bank accounts, but that's about it. I don't want to be her - no, to be precise, her life is the exact definition of hell on earth to me, the absolute opposite of everything I've ever chased. Or at least I thought so.

Looking back, all I've always wanted was to feel certain, to be assured, convinced, satisfied (and whatever synonyms thesaurus can find). At least for a minute,to not think about what else was out there, and why the choices I made were wrong. 'Cause even If my life was absolutely different, If I was tall, with great hair, a stable family and a stellar career, I'd probably find something wrong with it, and would obsess about it.

As it is, a classic case of "the neighbour's grass is always greener." Status anxiety.

Well, not anymore. Not for now, anyway. In matter of weeks, it feels like I've managed to grow-up more than I've done in 25 years. Don't know if it is for real, if I'm gonna go back to being a scared little monkey anytime soon, but I'm quite enjoying being this indifferent, calm, cool and collected being.

Okay. Thanks for listening.

I'm so over being me.

2008-02-11T13:03:00.000Z

It's crazy how a single book can change your mindset. Since I read Siddhartha, the holy bible of the hippie generation, during my holidays in Brazil, I have, unbelievably, sort of developed an ability to stop thinking ahead of time. No, really. I sort of entered this state where I just don't try anymore to measure how much time I'm wasting by not doing what I actually should be doing. It seems that I've been living like this for so long (or should I say *not living*, because moaning about the past and freaking out about the future shouldn't be considered as such), that I must have had something like a mental breakdown. Like, "Huh?! Am I developing body rashes because of what doesn't even exist yet? HELLO?"

It was probably just another manifestation of my erratic and bored personality, which makes me throw the towel as soon as I see no point for keep on doing things. If there's a thing I'm good at, no, GREAT at, it's quitting, so I simply quit thinking about everything that is not the moment. Simple as that. And I didn't even need a lifetime of meditation to get to this state. I bet Siddhartha would be jealous. And my dad, the biggest fan of that self-help bestseller, THE POWER OF NOW, will definately be proud.

Of course I didn't reach the nirvana or enlightenment or even started sleeping any better (I can't remember the last time I slept a whole night uninterrupted, but with a hugely deviated septum and a spine that resembles the Thames river, who would?), but I've been enviously calm and lighthearted, taking everything in as it is. No overanalyzing bollocks, no scrutinizing shit, apart from these blog posts, which will be become more regular from now on - I'm not perfect, alright?

--

Oh, I also quit my job. Whilst I was at my "quit thinking" momento, I also thought I should stop wasting my precious hours at dead-end jobs because of irrelevant stuff such as "career", or "CVs", or "status", or worse of all, "money", so I arrived from my one-month vacation in Brazil (taken during probation period) and handed in my notice. No offense, I quite liked the people there, but, I mean, only wankers hand over their lives in exchange of the aforementioned stuff, right? Or maybe the only wanker in the story is me, one of those people who only complain and never do anything about it. I couldn't stand my own self.

People, oooobviously, started babbling away like robots the questions "what you're gonna do now?", "what's your plan?", and "how you're gonna pay the bills?". Hell, who cares. I've always been able sort myself out, even if it requires "underground measures" - so nothing to worry about. For the first time ever, I've no studies or job to agonize about. I can do whatever the hell I want.

Never been happier.

---

Then, on my first day of freedom, I saw Juno. Gawd. She is like the dream teenager. If I had been as witty, self-assured and coolheaded as her when I went through the same thing, my life would have been SO much easier. The scriptwriter (Diablo Cody, all the rage now. Bitch. Stole my thunder.), obviously never went through an unwanted teenage pregnancy.

Yeah, yeah, there it is. I went through it. Twice. And the biggest irony of all is that they were

only "unwanted" because of the previously mentioned irrelevant stuff (should I call it "the big CSM"?). I mean, DUH! If I could only have had a glimpse of my future at 25 when I was the teenage version of the little miserable shit I am used to be, I probably would have saved a lot of wretchedness and anxiety over nothing. Or maybe not. I’ve always been a little retarded on the emotional camp – thanks to my lovely parents, who deeply instilled in moi an overwhelming fear of rejection – so I’m totally sure I would have become a melodramatic wreck anyway, had I had, as Juno calls it, "the thing".

Oh, and for those who are wondering, yes, I’m not proud of it. And, hell yeah, I totally, TOTALLY, regret it.

---

Ah, the bittersweet taste of maturity.

Saudades

2008-01-21T02:41:00.000Z

This post needs to be in Portuguese, because, unfortunately, "saudade" is a word that doesn't exist in English - and that word means the world to me.

Começou o pânico.

Toda a vez que eu venho passar férias no Brasil, a última semana vira drama. Pra começar, a última semana nunca é a última de verdade, porque no último minuto do segundo tempo eu acabo trocando a data do meu vôo pra dali 10 ou 15 dias. Não tem como tirar férias em casa por duas semanas quando a sua casa fica espalhada por um território 26 vezes maior que o Reino Unido inteiro. E mesmo assim, algum quarto, alguma "dependência", como se diz, acaba ficando de fora do roteiro. Nunca dá tempo de ver tudo e todos.

Mesmo que desse, o pânico se manifesta anyway. É o medo de morrer de saudade.

Daí hoje, domingo a noite, dia oficial da nostalgia no Brasil, deitei na cama sem sono e sem ressaca e fiquei lembrando de tudo o que já havia acontecido nesse quase 1 mês de férias. Até então eu estava me mantendo maravilhosamente bem, algo inédito nos últimos anos: conseguindo segurar minha cabeça no presente, quase que totalmente, sem reminicências ou antecipações, Carpe Diem na prática (influência, essa, de Sidarta, o livro de Herman Hesse que finalmente, 15 anos depois, resolvi dar cabo - mais sobre, depois).

Mas aí virei pro J. e falei, "tô morrendo de saudades de todo mundo já." E ele virou pra mim e soltou essa jóia:

"A gente vive de saudade."

Eu nunca tinha pensado no quanto essa frase define o que eu sou, o que somos. Do jeito que eu conduzi a minha vida até aqui, meu destino sempre vai ser esse: viver de saudade. De alguém, de algum lugar, de um hábito, de um momento. Tem gente que vive no mesmo local a vida toda, com as mesmas pessoas ao redor, e vez ou outra sente a famigerada dor no peito, o nó na garganta, quando alguém se muda ou morre. Mas eu, eu não. Eu convivo com o tal do Nó desde os meus 10 anos de idade, quando minha mãe saiu fugida do Mato Grosso do Sul pra fazer a vida em Santa Catarina. Foi o primeiro Nó, um dos mais doídos, porque pra trás ficou sangue do meu sangue. Depois, veio a Internet, e os laços (antes do Nó, vem o Laço) foram se espalhando por lugares diferentes: São Paulo, Rio, Curitiba, Brasília... Tudo, claro, gerenciável. Por mais que a distância era longa, tava tudo dentro do mesmo país.

Daí eu inventei de morar fora.

E a saudade, que com o tempo crescia a olhos vistos, de repente tomou proporções sufocantes. Se no começo dava pra matar a saudade com um estilingue, agora tem que ser no mínimo com um fusil AR-15. Um sem número de gente e de lugares e de coisas e de momentos, em 3, 4 países diferentes, milhares de kilômetros, e datas, e cifras sem impondo entre todos nós.

Se eu pudesse, juntava todo mundo numa bolha quentinha e confortável e carregava comigo. Não posso.

Posso é continuar minha caminhada mundo afora, colecionando mais gente, mais momentos, mais paisagens... e morrendo, aos poucos, de saudades.

About Brazil

2008-01-08T23:39:00.000Z

Yes, I’m in Brazil.

Last time I set foot in this gigantic green land was exactly two years ago, and although being away for such a long time (5 years in total) slowly kills me, it also has some positive sides. For instance, the way I perceive what it used to be my life. I was telling this girl I sort of know (never met, but I read her stuff) that I feel a bit like Neo at the end of the first Matrix, when he started seeing everything in green codes. What a difference, how incredibly weird my life was. Everything, from the smallest peculiarity to the biggest political scandal, has to me the luscious flavour of a new discovery. The culture, the people, the habits, all that has always made Brazil for what it is, all that made ME what I am – even if it means being the opposite of all things Brazilian – doesn’t cease to amaze me.

First, the women. One of the biggest clichés, the most tiresome slogan that defines the country along with samba and football is that here live the most beautiful women in the world. Unfortunately I’m beginning to believe it’s true, as much as I now believe Jazz divas are destined to live tragic lives (unfortunately, yes, because I’m not one of them). Naturally blessed with good genes brought by a melting pot of European, African and Native Indian blood, Brazilian women are also increasingly obsessed with their appearance and go about trimming themselves endlessly, hair to toe, tits to fanny. There are hairdressers and beauty clinics in every corner, always full of stunning, tanned, long-haired, white-teethed and big-butted girls asking for their weekly manicure-pedicure-waxing-blow-dry combo. And that’s when they’re not making appointments with plastic surgeons for their annual nip and tuck, a little fix that 3-hour daily workouts aren’t able to shift. I don’t blame them. The heat during the summer is so overwhelming that it literally demands you to get rid of all garments, and that means exposing your most private bits. Also, beauty treatments, massages, gym, and plastic surgery are, if not cheap, absolutely affordable. As with everything else, Brazilians pay for stuff in small instalments that sometimes extend up to 24 months – beauty and fashion mortgages.

My other surprise is most of my friends/acquaintances are, if not successful, well-established in their own area – none of them working in 9-5 jobs. There’s the tattoo artist, the designer, the DJs, the photographers, the writers, the filmmakers… most working as self-employed or running their own business, earning not only enough to support themselves, but also to have time and fun. In my concept of Brazil, this kind of thing doesn’t happen here: it happens in London, Berlin, New York, Paris. Art, music, fashion, film is stuff that Brazilians don’t grasp, don’t associate with career/profession. Well, it seems not anymore. This people, my people, are proving me joyously wrong.

Then there’s the permanent notion of pleasure that it’s part of the country’s mentality. The Brazilian will suffer if necessary, and DOES suffer a lot, but temporarily – because they always find a way to obtain pleasure from the small things. In their perspective, how can anyone live without eating great food, lying down under the sun, spending time laughing with family and friends? Brazilians need to treat themselves as they need to breathe. They will work hard – because the idea that Brazilians don’t work hard is mistaken; they do give their blood when it comes to make their businesses work – but they will certainly want to enjoy their worth at the end of the day, the month, the year. The British, au contraire, spend every day of their lives complaining about their own bad cuisine, the grey sky and the lack of time to see their beloved ones, then counterbalance by drinking and partying like there’s no tomorrow, so they can spend the next day nursing headaches and massive hangovers.

Then, there’s religion. According to Veja, the Brazilian Newsweek, atheists are the biggest victims of prejudice, more stigmatised than gays or black people. It’s easy to validate in daily life. I say I don’t believe in God, they pop their eyes out and yell “WHAT!? HOW COME, WHAT DO YOU DO WHEN YOU HAVE TO ASK FOR SOMETHING, OR SAY THANK YOU FOR A BLESSING?” It’s such a naïve, silly idea that it verges on the absurd – similarly as in Muslim countries, but without the killing and the bombing part (that’s football and drug traffic’s business).

And what surprises me even more is how religion fits in the country of pleasure seeking – because I’m sure indulging oneself gratuitously must be a SIN in any religion (maybe not for the Universal Church, the biggest evangelic community in the country, as they preach GREED is a virtue). But there is an answer: here is also the country of the “jeitinho”, the “little way” Brazilians find to make things work for them, even if it means disrespecting laws. In the case of Christianity, you only need to say you repent, ask for forgiveness, and everything is alright. Your place in Heaven is safe and sound, where the fun will continue for the rest of eternity, is safe and sound.

As much as it revolts me, at the same time, it doesn’t bother me much. It’s all part of the amusing soap-opera that life here is. Five years ago I left Brazil thinking that life in the First World was much, MUCH better: full of educated, well-read people that didn’t need to resort to corruption to make things work, because there was trust – in the people, or in the government when the people would not be reliable. But I forgot that there are certain things in each country that are not transferable, but nevertheless make life lighter, more bearable. In the UK is the immense variety of cheap literature, the amazing diversity of opinions disseminated by the great number of newspapers, the profuse creativity in the arts and fashion, stimulated by those in power, the certainty that the government will not look away when one needs a helping hand.

In Brazil is the year-round sunshine, the strong perfume of the vegetables and fruits, the two-hour lunch break that you take at home so you can eat home-cooked rice and beans and then take a well-deserved nap, the parties that start at 1am and finish when the sun is high, the cheapness of cosmetic treatments (although fashion is ridiculously exorbitant), the friendliness of its inhabitants, always willing to exchange a smile and little snippets of talk, ready to give an advice or a helping hand, the heightened sexuality (with so many beautiful people, it’s only natural), the instinctive ability to dance all kinds of dance and play football like a dancer, the conscience that, no matter how difficult life is, what is important it to be happy – and happiness, the Brazilians proved to me, is their expertise.

Is this it?

2007-12-15T15:45:00.000Z

For the first few weeks, I didn't care. Everything and everyone was new, and I was learning new things everyday. I was proving to myself and everyone else that I was capable of doing something else, something different, and that I could change the course of my life whenever I felt like it. I could take the plunge. More importantly, I could show everyone that even if I got a few bruises on the way, I would survive (I always do) - as would anyone else who had the guts to do it.

Then, the Routine slowly crept in, as she always does, walking on her tip-toes and then, slowly but suddenly, she engulfs everything with her giant mouth. It starts when the Repetition, that chubby old lady with gray hair becomes a regular visitor, until she transmutes herself into Predictability - her more sophisticated version. Then Repetition/Predictability's lover, Boredom, arrives to keep her company for as long as he is able to stay, until Crisis, that lunatic but extremely seductive chick, storms in the room and drives everyone crazy. That is, if the sweet Depression - or as I like to call her, The Darkness - doesn't jumps in front of her to show off her little trick of making the colours of everything fade into a lifeless gray.

Now, I'm bored.

I'm on that famous stage when that three-word question keeps popping inside one's head: IS THIS IT?

The days fly by, one after another, endlessly and meaninglessly. I just keep on going, looking for distractions: alcohol, shopping, magazines, small talk and mindless conversations with semi-strangers. Almost everyone around me is a semi-stranger. I don't know what they want, what they like, what they're thinking most of the time. What is important to them. And to be honest, neither do they about me. Not that either sides are interested in knowing all that, anyway.

I don't feel like saying "sorry", or "thank you", or "excuse me", the trinity that holds together British civilization and which I have proudly absorbed in my own daily vocabulary (an achievement, considering Brazilians traditionally reject their own version of those expressions).

And it's been only a month and a half of the new life.

But there's a positive side to all this: I'm no longer afraid of throwing the towel. Predictable as it is to start making plans every end of the year, I can soundly say that my hours now are being spent daydreaming and lining-up all the catalysts for a new life. In 2008 I want to eat well, exercise often, sleep better (not necessarily more), lie down in the sun, see more friends, have great conversations, have sex more often, read great books, and write as much as I can. I want to have all those small but essential things that make anyone happy, whatever the background or class is, but that are absolutely scarce once you become a Londoner.

In 2008, I'm gonna get out of London for a while.

Paris

2007-11-21T01:44:00.000Z

So, Paris.

I went back. The last place I visited when I left the UK, the first one to visit after such a long spell stuck in the island. My third visit.

It was a last minute thing, planned before I could even know it, and it was the best decision I've made this year (and I've made MANY decisions this year, of all years).

There's something magical about that city. Forgive the banality, because everyone thinks Paris is romantic, magic, blablabla, but that city fascinates me in a way New York used to before I left Brazil (and found out that no, people don't live like they're permanently inside Central Perk - as in the iconic cafe from Friends, not the pArk - or do they?). But it should be mostly because Paris is simply NOT London. It's absolutely the opposite. People there seem to live smaller but better lives. You grow up in your arrondissement going to the same cafes, butchers, fishmongers, cheese shop, book shop, whatever the local business is, but which nevertheless is LOCAL. You don't see the tiresome, ultra boring chains like Starbucks or Boots or Tesco - the law doesn't even allow them to open branches inside the city. There's the love of all things that matter in life constantly present: they cherish their food, their drink, their artists, their social circles in which no one ever cares much what you do in life, as long as it is meaningful to you.

Meaningful. The idea I get everytime I go to Paris is that this is it, life happens only once, and you better make the most of it while you can.

***

On my second day I finally went to Shakeaspeare and Company, the legendary bookstore for expats with only books in English. The place is just heaven. Books pile up from top to bottom on every inch of its old but increadibly cozy shop floor, spread in two floor. Among infinite shelves, beds complete with duvets and pillows wait for the next reader to curl up with a book. The beds are in fact there for the staff, peniless writers (most of them Americans trying to emulate the Hemingway experience) who work shifts of 2 hours at the shop in exchange of shelter in the most inspiring workplace imaginable. That said, the shop is constantly crowded, so I'm sure the resident writers must struggle a bit to produce anything, what with the lack of space and silence. But there are always the cafes nearby, with their characteristically small tables, great food, and clouds of smoke, providing that longed-for Hemingway-nian atmosphere.

I would love to be able to spend sometime there as a writer in residence. It's so impossibly romantic and unnatainable that it should be worth the lack of proper food, sleep, or any living arrangements, for that matter.

Who knows. Paris inspires people to try romantic things...

Grown-up. Grown-up?

2007-11-21T01:19:00.000Z

I remember mentioning here earlier, maybe months, maybe more than a year ago, that the hustle and bustle of everyday life was not enough anymore to make my foundations tremble. Daily or routine problems, like sorting things out with banks, landlords or demanding colleagues/relatives/flatmates/whoever is close wouldn't make me bat an eyelid. I think I even said I was growing up. Ha. How mistaken I was. Not caring about problems did NOT mean I was growing up - it meant I was just delaying it. Until I could not avoid it anymore (hell, I'm even getting my first wrinkles), and then here I am, living grown-up life and bloody hating all the stress it involves. The problem with facing up to your responsabilities means you could never be a perfectionist. Meaning, you SHOULD NEVER expect things to go your way, because if they can avoid it, my friend, they will. But as the nice responsible tax-paying adult you are, you will do your best to make things work for you, and my god, do they stress you out!

So here I am, purely stressed out, mostly because of small things, insignificant details, because they are the ones which nag me the most. I want everything to work perfectly, they never do (they never DID for that matter!), therefore I suffer.

I'm ashamed of it, though.

What I have to learn is not the NOT CARING thing. Is the LETTING THINGS GO thing.

Silence

2007-11-06T22:21:00.000Z

There are several things that make me anxious. Lack of money is an obvious one. Lack of time, lack of sleep, bad hair day, fear of rejection, not knowing what to say, not being able to see my loved ones... the list is gigantic, and that probably says a lot about the person I am. But the one thing that probably bothers me the most is lack of silence. Not being able to hear my own thoughts and make sense of them, or absorb information and understand my own feelings, drives me crazy - and generally, I can only do this when there's silence around me (or something near silence. People working on their own things with low background music, is fine - but not ideal). After all this years living in London I've come to realise that silence is probably the only and most difficult commodity to obtain, of all the others: money, status, security,family, friends, they all will probably come to everyone at a certain point in life, if they work towards getting them. But silence, in a city like London, only becomes harder and harder to reach with time. Look at my own life: I have a partner who lives with me and (now) four flatmates and two cats; I work full-time in a environment full of people and telephones and and music, day and night. The public transport is similar to warehouses packed full of suffocating chickens, and on buses there's always someone imposing their own repulsive musical tastes (normally hip-hop and R&B) on everyone else via their mobile phones on loud speakers. At home, the TV is constantly switched on, normally plugged in on the dvd player and the x-box, and when it's not, then the iTunes is playing something on one of the 6 Macs currently in the house. Outside, there's the traffic, the people talking, the background music literally everywhere you go... you get the picture.

Right now, while writing this post, two different songs are playing in the background: amy winehouse in the main background, and a dodgy r&b tune from 3 years ago on the cloackroom man's laptop speakers.

I've tried to train myself to switch off and concentrate on my readings and writings while the world shoots and bangs around my ears, but after 4 years, I don't think I've improved much. I remember working in magazine and newspaper offices and nearly crying from not being able to write good pieces because the constant noise was so distracting. It might have been one of the reasons why I gave up the journalistic career so easily: because I wouldn't be able to work competently amidst everyday chaos. I am one of those people that NEEDS to be in close touch with the inner workings of their own minds, so I can be fully satisfied with whatever comes out of it. Not many people need or even understand this urgent need for alone/silent time, so I've always had a hard time trying to make the people in my own circle comprehend my demands. For the man in my life to understand that I wanted to be left alone sometimes, it took a few years. With friends, it was me who had to learn to cherish time with them without worrying if I would eventually get time for myself as well. Sometimes, I would simply ignore phone calls, messages, invitations, or simply withdraw mentally from a social gathering when physically I still had to be there (like seating in the sofa with the paper when there's 20 people talking around you. Horrible, I know). As a result, obviously, I 've been branded anti-social, intolerant, unadaptable, whatever is associated with people who have a weakness for isolation.

Remember that book I've been trying to write? It hasn't gone much far, and I blame the permanently disturbing noise that is part of daily life in London.

And in the end, I don't think I'm asking too much. I know that if I get 2 hours on my own every other day, I'll be the happiest and most sociable bunny in the world - because ater isolation, I need to interact with other people in order to dish out whatever my mind has decided to work on.

---

Maybe I should just start waking up at 5 am.

Faux Pas

2007-10-30T20:46:00.000Z

Every new job is the same bloody thing. There's always the nice people, compassionate souls who are ready to extend their kind hands when you have that look of despair in your face; and there's the patronising bitches, who can't wait to see you making a mistake so they can tell everyone behind your back how dumb you are, after coldly throwing your faux pas back in your face. No, I'm not naming names, are you crazy? I never do. But I like to acknowledge, even when no one that matters in this particular subject will read this, that I am an extremely observant and sensitive person, therefore, I most certainly WILL spend the rest of my day ruminating specific attitudes from specific people in my head - until the next faux pas happens.

But hey, believe me, I care less these days. I didn't even cry when I thought I was supposed to, which is fairly amazing. Two things might be happening: a) I'm really growing up, and b) I'm learning to manage my monthly hormonal mess. These are good news.

Normally I don't really mention here the books I've been reading - mostly because I read several at the same time, and depending on my mood, I might get through one a week or just leave it aside - but tonight I will, just because I feel like.

I'm reading Clarice Lispector biography, "Eu Sou Uma Pergunta" (I'm a question), written by a PUC (a brazilian private university) student as her MA final project. I haven't read much of her work to this date, and I have always made a mental note to read everything carefully because her style resembles that of my english favourite, Mrs Virginia Woolf. But then I wanted to read more in Portuguese, as my use of my own native language is in a steep decline, and I've decided to have a lo

ok in this book that's been with me for at least 2 years. The writing style is a bit shit, to be honest. The author tries her hardest to be faithful to the documents she used for the research (On the morning of 12 of December 1941, Clarice signed the document blablabla), while trying to make her amazing life story flow - and that's where I try to focus on. Her story is just... astoundingly inspiring. It's everything I wanted to do and be (well, not everything, but a lot of it). I want to have that devotion to my own art, and the discipline. I want to be able to translate my pain, not simply minimise it to get through my days in this cold land - like she did so competently.

The Haircut Theory

2007-10-28T13:29:00.000Z

I've got a haircut. "Oh, really, Einstein?", you might ask. To what I proudly answer, yes, I did. I've chopped off more than half of my long and heavy and tyrannical locks. To most women, and at least most ordinary women, going to a hairdresser regularly for "maintenance" is probably one of the most trivial of feminine beauty habits, one that belongs to their routine as much as brushing their teeth before bed, but to me it is more like a metaphysical experience. It represents much more than a simple decorative method of improving one's image. To me, it represents the most immediate act of rebellion, an emblem of internal transformation, a symbol of life's continuous and inevitable metamorphosis. In the beginning of this month, I've decided to turn my life around, and as soon as I saw the mechanisms of this transformation being ignited in meteoric speed, I knew it was time to bring that idea to the outside. First, via my hair.

To understand the dimensions of this seemingly commonplace act (after all, which woman doesn't get a haircut when she thinks her life needs a shake-up?), it is best to give a little explanation. I NEVER go to hairdressers. I seek one once a year, when the situation is too calamitous and I need a little help in order not to look like a bag-lady. In my teens I used to be my local coiffeur's best customer, changing lengths and colours according to my hormonal moods, but since I've left Brazil I simply decided to let the thing grow freely and do whatever I needed to do on my own. It was a decision firstly based on money, obviously, and then later based on the principle that I would not waste my precious time worrying about my looks more than I was already obliged to. I could be reading a book instead.

But 4 years down the road, and I actually realised that my long unrestrained hair, which got endless compliments from people who would always say in the end "Don't ever cut it!", was actually imprisoning me. The longer it got, the more demanding it became. The more I took care of it, the more attention it got, consequently, the more pressured I've felt to take care of it.

If there's one thing that defines me as a person, this is thing is my resilient insubordination. I DON'T like to be forced to do what I don't want to do. I get depressed and bitter if I see myself wasting time by not being myself (which is most of the time. It's not that easy to be original in Western society). And MY HAIR was doing that to me. It was time to do something about it.

So after calling my previous job and saying "Sorry guys, I'm taking the rest of the week off. See you whenever," I went to Central London and wandered in the first dodgy hair salon I found in one of those narrow SoHo streets. There were four hairdressers labouring over the heads of skinny and tanned over-40s men, so when the affected giant black men asked me if I had any preference, I simply said "no. Whoever is available first."

A blonde, nonchalant woman was the first to finish. She got my overwhelming mass of hair out of my low ponytail and said "So, what you wanna do?", I promptly replied "Just get rid of it. Or at least half of it." She didn't bat an eyelid. I took out my mobile phone, started making a few phone calls, and half-hour later I remembered I had a mirror in front of me. The final result was definately not the most amazing haircut I have ever had - it actually reminded me of the first time my hair was stylised in endless layers back in 1991, making my 9-year-old self look like a midget wearing a monumental wig - but it was different enough from the girl who has been a slave of her own long manes for the past 5 years.

Not many people have seen it yet, and the ones who have didn't say much more than "Honey, it's a matter of time until we get used to it." To my immense satisfaction. Because one of the most rewarding realisations is knowing you did what you wanted to do without giving a single thought to what other people think of it.

The Job.

2007-10-21T21:23:00.000+01:00

So. I got the job. Yeah, yeah, I know. That romantic unemployed moment became, well, just a moment. It's funny how everyone come to London to try and make dreams come true, and it rarely happens. Not that it doesn't happen. It's just that it takes so bloody long, and that is simply because London, on top of being everyone's promised land, it also happens to be the second most expensive city in the world, just behind that other crazeee metropolis, Tokyo. You want to do your shit? Pay the price, mothafuckah. You can do whatever the hell you want in London, be in the most talked about , courses and events and places around the world in London, see and maybe meet some of the most important and watched people in the world in London, and who knows, YOU may become one of those people that make London be one of the most juicy and yummy capitals in the world, but before that happens, you've got to pay your bills. No, that's an understatement. You've got to have money not just to pay the bills, but also be able to attend the events/places/courses where the so-called important people are. Because it doesn't matter if you want to be a writer or a cabaret dancer, a chef or a fluffer, you have to know the right people and be in the right places to get there. It's all too well wanting to be Charles Bukowski, penniless and worse for wear and using that as inspiration for writing poems and novels, or being George Orwell, giving up all comfort and wealth to write a book about homelessness in Paris and London, but these days that's rarer than Victoria Beckham's smiling. Without connexions, my darling, I'm afraid you won't get past the kebab shop on the corner, unless you happen to be very lucky and meet your personal messiah right there, gobbling down one giant chicken shish.

So, that brings me to the job.

And this one is proper. With proper contract, health insurance, pension contributions, and even travel and clothing allowance. Clo-thing A-llo-wan-ce . The works. I couldn't say no. As I said before, and I will keep on saying forever and ever and ever: if someone throws an opportunity in your hands, even if it is not at the right time, JUST TAKE IT. Go on , have a look, try it for a bit, if it doesn't work for you, you can always say "sorry, it doesn't work for me." Just don't sign anything. And if you do sign, then, oh well, try to be responsible, for a change. It's quite an OK experience. You can always use that as inspiration afterwards.

Eu só podia dizer isso em português.

2007-10-21T18:06:00.000+01:00

Eu nunca quis conhecer o fundo do poço que você escolheu. Eu queria conhecer o fundo do MEU poço. MEU POÇO. O fundo do poço que eu havia escolhido podia ser fedorento, gosmento, emporcalhado, cheio de lodo e musgo e insetos flutuando na superfície da água escura e podre, mas era o MEU poço. Ter chegado no fundo do poço que você escolheu não valeu a pena. Foi uma perda de tempo. Do MEU tempo.

Pulling the brakes, part 3,189,287,642

2007-10-17T01:55:00.000+01:00

You see, when I said earlier "fuck the plans", I knew I had a reason. I knew that when I make plans, they never work. Not the way I want them to anyway. At some point on the way, there's always a hole or a stone or a cow in the middle of the road that needs diversion. And after diversions I never go back to the road again. Or maybe I do, but never with the same enthusiasm and energy, and I reduce speed until I stop and forget that there's a road in front of me and a destination to reach. I just sit there and watch people pass me by, thinking "How interesting, they're going to that place I wanted to... It'd be nice to be there."

So, here it is. I said some posts before that I was proudly unemployed, looking forward to book a flight to that remote country called Brazil, and then enjoy my free time to push forward some ideas that I had in the back of my mind such as le book and le vintage fashion shop, and then, and THEN! I get a call, no, a text message, from a friend asking me if I want to go for a job interview in this really fucken' cool members club. Shite. I was NOT looking for a job, damnit. I wanted a proper job for so long, since I started university, or since I left Brazil, and no one wanted to give me. Now that I don't want it, they do. It's always like that. When you're single, no one bats an eyelid when you walk by. Then you find a mate, and you're suddenly the hottest dish on the menu. Not that I am at the moment (pfff, hell no), but it happened before.

Anyway. I had to pull the brakes and do the famous diversion, once again. You can't say no when opportunities come knocking on your door. You go there, check it out, and if it works for you, then you go for it.

I'll never reach my final destination, will I?

So many people, and not one able to read my mind.

2007-10-12T00:16:00.000+01:00

It's been nearly 18 months since I last left the UK. Pretty long, considering I wouldn't stay with my feet planted anywhere longer than 8 months. Always on the road, since I left that immense country down south, my home. What it used to be my home. Now I'm here, free to go, and I don't really want to go anywhere. Can't think of a place better than right here, right now, in this city I've been loathing for most of the time I've been residing within its chaotic districts. Always hating the grey sky, the toxic air, the coldness of its inhabitants, the trains always late, always packed full of sweaty, sick, frustrated people, most of them dispirited immigrants trying to make ends meet and fuck off back home asap. Thinking, "this is not it. This is not where I should be." And then, 18 months later, the city has finally pushed me on my knees. "Here is the truth, so now you can hate me": I surrender.

I've cried so many times in so many places, in pubs, in buses, on the street, in my bed until I fell asleep with exhaustion, that I can't bear to leave a place that has so many pieces of me scattered around it. The only other place that holds most of my scars in custody is Balneario Camboriu, my darling little beach town, BC. Everything I'm scared to do these days I did it in BC. I was a ballsy little girl back then. All my first-times happened in BC. The drinks, the drugs, the boys, the men, the sex, the tattoos and piercings, the fights, the passions. The going-back-home-stoned-and-barefoot-on-the-beach-early-mornings, the driving-high-on-a-acid-from-one-town-to-another, the blow-job-in-the-car-at-night-on-one-of-my-friends'-brother, the shutting-myself-in-my-room-crying-and-listening-to-TheDoors.

Then after all that, I grew out of my skin, too big to stay in that little town, so I run away. First to Curitiba, then to New York City, then to London. But the bigger the city, the smaller I became. Too many people, and none of them able to read my mind. None of them interested in looking at me, or more to the point, see through me. I was like Alice in Wonderland, when she takes that magic potion and diminishes until she is as tiny as an insignificant insect. That's me. A little insignificant bug in the middle of the jungle, afraid to die smashed under the giant paw of an elephant.

It was never supposed to be like that.

Now, all I can think of is how to be unafraid, how to make my point come across. How to grab people's ear and say "Oi! listen to me!" Because I don't know how to do that, I don't know how to be visible without worrying about being irrelevant. I don't want to waste anyone's time. No, that's not it. I DON'T WANT TO CARE IF I'M WASTING ANYONE'S TIME. Don't want to listen? Fuck off back home then.

So, that's why I'm now unable to go anywhere else. Because right now I need to find my place in this spectacularly grand city.

ps: can't stop listening to radiohead's new album "In Rainbows." Must be one of the most beautiful albums ever made. No excuses not to buy it: you can give as little as $0.01 for it. But I were you, would give more, because it's JUST SO WORTH IT.

Starting from Scratch

2007-10-09T19:58:00.000+01:00

I simply haven't had time. Or wasn't clear-headed enough to be able to write a word properly (meaning "hangover-to-the-point-of-not-having-any-brain-cells-left"). But that's because I was too happy. Yes, I know, that's a first. Being happy and drinking my arse off just because I could is something so rare in my life that it felt like it wasn't really me. Only that it is the real me, for the first time, in ages. Not afraid to fuck up anymore.

I'll tell you. Last week was one of those weeks when everything suddenly falls into place through a mix of luck, instinct and, well, balls. It started on Sunday, when I dragged my friends to see Lee Miller's exhibition at the V&A. The first time I heard, well, read about Lee Miller was in this novel by a Brazilian lady that I was slightly obsessed with when I was about 12. It happens to me all the time. Every now and then I get obsessed about some woman that represents part of what I am or want to be in life. Women like Tracey Emin, Virginia Woolf, Juliette Lewis, and more recently Amy Winehouse. All dramatic, emotionally intense, slightly crazy women with a drug or drink problem, but so, SO talented. Fearless women who pour their hearts out in their art, who don't draw a line between their work and their lives. In the novel, the heroine goes through shitloads of surgery to look like Lee Miller - the ultimate beauty with brains - just so she can catch the eye of this famous photographer. I read the novel way before I got access to the Internet, and back in my little Brazilian town it was as easy to find books about 1930s' photographers as it is to elect a Brazilian politician that is not corrupt, so I never really found out much about her work until a few years later - probably until I left Brazil. Then last Sunday I went to see her work at the museum. And it's not that her pictures were amazing themselves, or the fact that she, along with Man Ray, invented a technique to invert highlights in a picture, or that she was the first female war photographer during WWII. No. It was because she was FEARLESS. And passionate, and unstoppable, and audacious, and very, very ballsy.

The first Go For It muse.

Now, think: how brave a woman had to be in the 1930s to demonstrate she possessed balls? She was a bloody genius, and on top of that, she was sex-ee.

So, after I went back home, I run a bath and while sitting there, like a boiling egg, I decided. This bloody stuckness has to stop. No more waiting for my life to start. Obviously I knew I was still powerless to deal with some aspects, but I could simply, you know, adopt the attitude. And make some phone calls.

So the next day I called my current job in that bar and told them I needed a few weeks off - with no intention to come back.

Then my landlord told us our rent was going to go up and we needed to decide if we wanted to stay and pay more or get out. I said we're leaving.

Then I've checked my savings and made a few calculations and started to draw a plan to see how long I could be proudly unemployed, while also starting my little fashion business (more on that later) and write my book, the little bloody fucken' tormenting book. In the end I didn't really draw a plan, because plans scare me more than actually help me, so I simply threw caution to the wind. Fuck the plans. I'm just gonna dive into the unknown for a while and see what happens. Carpe Diem for real.

Then my passport came back after endless, long months at the hands of the British authorities, holding my permission to come and go for years to come.

And so it is that now I've got no job, no home, little money and colossal (but limited) freedom. All in the tiny space of a week.

I haven't been this excited in a looong, long time.

Michael Jackson is my guru.

2007-10-04T00:20:00.000+01:00

It might sound, like, whatever to you, but I always knew I would go back to my roots. The first album I ever bought was Michael Jackson's Dangerous, and all the following ones were from His Majesty King of Pop as well. I was a Jacko's Hardcore Fan at the tender age of 10, with curly fringe, fingers bandaged, manic poster collecting, all that shit. I even mimicked the guy at a school play, singing "Heal the World" dressed up as in the "Black and White" video, to my mortification years later. I think I actually learned my first English words by translating the lyrics of his songs, which I would not have a clue what they meant afterwards.

Anyway.

Last week I just heard 'Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'" playing in the background at a bar and it reminded me of my pre-teen obsession, so I decided to buy (yes, b-u-y, not steal) the song on Itunes, and PLIM! I had an epiphany. Michael Jackson knew it. He always knew. The lyrics of that song, well, they were written for me. It's just the most ironic slap in the face I've ever got, and now I think HE is a bloody genius to have written those lyrics (not to say the beats, which are pure dance music genius too).

Anyway. Pay attention:

I Said You Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'
You Got To Be Startin' Somethin'
I Said You Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'
You Got To Be Startin' Somethin'

(--> that's me there, always trying to, er, start something. But...)

It's Too High To Get Over (Yeah, Yeah)
Too Low To Get Under (Yeah, Yeah)
You're Stuck In The Middle (Yeah, Yeah)
And The Pain Is Thunder (Yeah, Yeah

(-->see. He knows. I'm doing everything wrong, that's why I'm stuck, and suffering the consequences).

You Love To Pretend That You're Good
When You're Always Up To No Good
You Really Can't Make Him Hate Her
So Your Tongue Became A Razor

(--> well, that's just him telling me the truth. I don't know who is "Him", but it doesn't matter. I'm up to NO Good).

You're A Vegetable, You're A Vegetable
Still They Hate You, You're A Vegetable
You're Just A Buffet, You're A Vegetable
They Eat Off Of You, You're A Vegetable

(--> That's my favourite part. I actually sing that to myself in the mirror every morning.)

If You Cant Feed Your Baby (Yeah, Yeah)
Then Don't Have A Baby (Yeah, Yeah)
And Don't Think Maybe (Yeah, Yeah)
If You Can't Feed Your Baby (Yeah, Yeah)

(--->that's just self-explanatory. Like, "stop that biological clock now.")

Lift Your Head Up High
And Scream Out To The World
I Know I Am Someone
And Let The Truth Unfurl
No One Can Hurt You Now
Because You Know What's True
Yes, I Believe In Me
So You Believe In You

(---> but then, THEN, he finally says "Thais, it's alright. I know you're good, you just have to believe yourself").

That's it. Who needs horoscope when there's Michael Jackson.

Life Is What Happens When You're Busy Making Other Plans

2007-09-26T16:08:00.000+01:00

Everything has a price. Tudo tem um preço. That's what I've thinking today - and for the past 4 years, to be more precise. Two days ago I've completed 4 years living in London, and I've just suddenly realised that this idea has always been part of everything I do since I arrived here. I have always had choices - too many of them, I must say. But looking back, I see that for every choice I've made, I've paid a price, sometimes high, sometimes low, that would not necessarily be the same had I chosen something else. In 2003, I arrived at a determinate crossing, and I had to choose a route, a direction to keep moving forward. I only realised that I kept choosing wrong paths 3 years down the road, and from there I've trying desperately not to think about all the possibilities/opportunities/different pathways that I left behind, and just follow my instinct.

(pause to breathe).

I still have choices. Still, plenty of them. And sometimes I think that this is some kind of double-faced entity, a curse and a blessing at the same time. I see a lot of people that don't have many choices, or no choices at all, and they can't spend their time writing pros and cons lists. They need to give their best shot, because it might be the only one. I'm terrified of this idea. Because as much as I want to make things work, I don't want to think that it is my only chance. I simply hate being stuck inside a pressure cooker.

But maybe that is the reason I can't make anything work. I have ideas, one after another, and nothing ever leaves my head or the paper. If I'm not stuck inside the pressure cooker, I'm stuck outside anyway... just drifting aimlessly.

The truth is I've arrived at another crossing and I've been there for over a year, afraid of screwing up again.

I need to make contact with my inner Major Tom again.

The Worst Party

2007-09-18T16:41:00.000+01:00

So, my weekend has been extraordinaire. To the ordinary observer, however, nothing has happened much that deserves special remembrance. But it does to me. To the normal listener, i would describe my saturday night as being defined by the worst party I have ever been in recent years, if not THE WORST PARTY I have ever been since I moved to London. But that's just my humble opinion, of course. The fact that I don't enjoy, or simply DON'T FIT IN, in a tacky warehouse club full of sweaty, stinking, tasteless people stomping and clapping like monkeys to cheesy and idiotically loud music, is obviously my problem too. Nothing against people who like this kind of shit. Well, not true. I have everything against people over 20 who think it's absolutely normal to dance like a super-thirsty epileptic moron to music as interesting as a malfunctioning washing machine.

I just feel like saying, "c'mon, darlin', take a look at yourself in the mirror. Silly, isn't it?" Maybe the government should make some kind of law obliging super-clubs and warehouse parties to hang huge mirrors all over their walls, so senior clubbers (those cretins who got stuck in the 90's) who spend their nights out rolling their eyes with a dimwit smile glued to their faces should realise the extent of their stupidity in public.

Or maybe not. People like this would probably think it's funny and say they never had such a good time.

Do I sound like an old snobbish and disdainful granny? Oh well, maybe I am. Or maybe I'm just immensely relieved that I've been through this phase while I was still young enough to look cute while behaving like the silly teenager I was. Not like the silly teenager I wish I was. Sometimes it's good to grow-up.

++++

The other thing I've concluded after 3 very long hours inside that club was that I should, indeed, be immensely proud of who I am. Instead of constantly biting my nails because no one wants to hang out with me because I'm neurotic and obsessed (that's my head working 24/7), I've actually realised that it's ME WHO DOESN'T WANT TO HANG OUT WITH THEM. How can I, when most people around me (and by that I mean the shitloads of Brazilians who populate this enormous city - excluding a tiny smart percentage, which I'm proud to be friends with) are such ignorants in... how can I say... everything? The only way I can have fun around them is by sitting in a corner with a drink observing the ridiculousness of their gatherings - which I actually enjoy, because it provides material for my whinings. I definitely need a new crowd, new surroundings.

Anyone?

Dark Night of the Soul

2007-09-18T16:13:00.000+01:00

The Guardian is publishing daily interviews with legendary public figures, from Marilyn Monroe to Hitler, and today Mr F Scott Fitzgerald features. He, who knows everything about writing to keep one's head above water when things are spiraling downwards, explained to perfection what happens regularly to those stupid manic-depressive aspiring writers most of the time when they are thinking about the future:

"Now the standard cure for one who is sunk is to consider those in actual destitution or physical suffering - this is an all-weather beatitude for gloom in general and fairly salutory daytime advice for every one. But at three o'clock in the morning ... the cure doesn't work - and in a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day. At that hour the tendency is to refuse to face things as long as possible by retiring into an infantile dream - but one is continually startled out of this by various contacts with the world."

Now, I'm not feeling particularly pessimistic today, quite the opposite. But I couldn't ignore the fact that the my routine has been extraordinarily described for everyone to see at the newspaper, by someone I absolutely respect. Thank you.

The sum of all things - so far.

2007-09-12T15:35:00.000+01:00

So, what on earth has happened within the little boundaries of my universe in the past months? More than I thought it could have happened, since the beginning of 2007. In no particular order:

- I've studied art and found out that I am capable (obviously not impeccably - if there is such thing as "impeccable" in arts these days) to think visually and make my hands produce stuff other than writing.

- I have, consequently, learned to appreciate the work of artists in a way I have never, ever really done. Once you put yourself in the artists' shoes, you realise the extension of their geniuses. Museums and galleries' trips have never been more captivating.

- I've nervously toyed with the idea of plastic surgery, nurturing and subsequently sending to hibernation a slimmer and prettier image of myself.

- I have, as Richard Dawkins puts it, come out of the closet as an atheist, to the horror of my weirdly spiritual but not religious family.

- I've cut relations with all the people that made me feel bad about myself, thus reducing even more my already reduced social circle. Not that these people noticed my absence anyway.

- I have indulged in my on-off relationship with music, and decided to not let it define the person I am. Music can be the answer to all your problems one day, and the most annoying form of art the next. Who the f*** invented nu-rave, anyway?

- I have postponed indefinitely the pursuit of a journalistic career. Apart from the reading and writing, there isn't any aspect of this profession that appeals to the person I am. I am not extroverted or nosy, I have immense difficulty to verbalize my ideas in a coherent way, I'm anxious, insecure, with a self-esteem more unstable than the Brazilian economy, and I definitely, definitely HATE to shoot questions to people who have no wish or intention of answering them. Going out there chasing stories that are of no particular interest to me is one of my ideas of hell. And living in hell for a salary that can barely feed my cats is like ... fishing in the Dead Sea? You know what I mean.

- As a consequence of the previous decision, I have inevitably come across people from all sections of society asking me the legendary question: "So what the hell are you going to do with your life?" Variations are: "So what is your plan for the future?", followed by "Are you going to throw away all you've done so far?" If there is a thing all parents should teach their children, taking a leaf from the French book of habits, is to not ask these kind of questions to people. It's rude, period. People are never genuinely interested in your future achievements. All they really want to know is what are the chances of you screwing up badly, so they can continue to indulge in their judgmental tradition, thinking "thank god, at least someone is worse off than me." So, whenever this question pops out, I simply say "well, I don't know. What about you?"

- I've started to hear the tic-tac of my biological clock. Loudly.

- I've slapped myself in the face and hired a personal trainer, gave up (at least temporarily) alcohol, and started eating and sleeping better. Without any false modesty, I can't remember the last time I've felt this energetic and fit. Oh, yes, I do. That was 1998.

(to be continued...)

PS: By the way: "thank god, at least someone is worse off than I am"

The Incessant Return

2007-09-03T10:44:00.000+01:00

And so, as it could have been obviously foreseen, I am back to the world of blogging. For there is no reason why an aspiring writer would not attempt to publish her own misleading, irrelevant thoughts in a web page lost in the internetic (internetical?) ocean. Writing a public diary, even if there are no readers with lots of time and boredom in their hands left to accidentally bump into this modest journal, can still be seen as practice - not only as in language experimentation, but also in demonstrating the results of a so-called experimentation for a potentially limitless (and scaring) audience.

Which brings us to the age-old but still firmly rooted decision that this scriba has made a little more than a decade ago. I still haven't given up on the romantic idea that I will write a book. Eventually, it will happen. It is simply implausible to think that I've spent nearly half of a quarter of century yearning to do something and spend the three other quarters without seeing it happening. Now, why would you give a rat's ass about my seemingly selfish desire to see my words bound nicely in a square stack of paper, then it's another story. Because, honestly, I don'y give a rat's ass anymore about wether anyone thinks I should or not go for it. What I've found, after all these years muttering to myself the oh-so-cliché idea "I've got a book inside me", is that I've been wanting it for the wrong reasons. Which was simply to expose my self. Get attention. Show off the amazing personality that I think i've got and no one really knows about. Yadda yadda yadda.

Now, does that sound slightly... how should I say this... fuckin' self-absorbed and immature? That's what I've come to conclude as well.

So, after long reflecting about this matter, which now counts over 12 months during which I've tried my best (well, not really) to clean up, if not all, most of my emotional and practical rubbish, I have arrived at the following conclusion: I want to write because IT JUST GIVES ME PLEASURE. Because I JUST FEEL GOOD WHEN I'M ABLE TO ARTICULATE MY THOUGHTS. Because if I'm doing it for myself and taking my own time IT'S undeniably FUN.

Well, the last part is a load of rubbish which will probably not take me anywhere, because writing, as a profession, as a career, is DEFINITELY NOT FUN. I know what it is to spend days agonizing over a blank screen trying to find the right words to express ideas. It is time-consuming, hair-pulling, jumping-up-and-down-screaming-in-agony stressful. And it is also sad. But in a strangely soothing way, when you find those stupid little words, these seemingly small and foolish concoctions of alphabetical characters heavily charged with the meanings of everything you are, it is also deeply rewarding.

So, I'm back.

The End / O Fim

2007-05-31T17:20:00.000+01:00

There is no point in keeping this blog any longer. For a long time, this has been a discreet diary, filled with irrelevant posts about things reported by newspapers, and as the quote by this guy called Henry Channon says: "What is more dull than a discreet diary? One might as well have a discreet soul."

There is a lot going on in my life, much of it I would rather not discuss in public because, unfortunately, I'm not mature enough not to care about what other people think. At this moment, and for the past few years, I don't have the courage to describe openly my daily bureocratic problems and even less my emotional issues, which is obviously my main source of interest - rather than what is going on with every one else (unless they have similar stories to mine).

Last night, I've realised I have a lot of issues that I need to deal with, and from a young age I've dealt with them by writing journals. Since I stopped keeping this routine of analysing my own problems, I have developed many others that have gotten worse with age.

I still don't want to go to therapy, so, this is the end of blogging as I know it. From now on, I'm back to paper+pen journals, and whatever fact I want people to know about me, it will make its way thinly disguised in my creative work - be it writings or visual art.

Thanks for coming, and see you around.

--------------

Não há mais motivo pra manter esse blog. Por muito tempo, esse tem sido um "diário discreto", cheio de posts sobre coisas irrelevantes publicadas por outros, e como disse um cara chamado Henry Channon: "Não há nada mais chato do que um diário discreto. É o mesmo que ter uma alma discreta".

Muita coisa tem acontecido na minha vida que eu prefiro não discutir em público porque, infelizmente, eu não sou madura o suficiente ainda pra não me importar com o que os outros pensam. Nesse momento, assim como nos últimos anos, eu não tenho tido coragem pra descrever abertamente meus problemas burocráticos e muito menos emocionais, o que e' obviamente meu maior motivo de interesse - aon invés de saber o que está acontecendo na vida dos outros (a não ser que eles tenham histórias parecidas).

Ontem a noite eu me dei conta de que eu tenho vários problemas que precisam ser resolvidos, e desde muito nova eu sempre tenho lidado com problemas através de diários. Desde que eu parei de manter essa rotina de analisar minhas dificuldades, eu tenho desenvolvido outras que só parecem ter piorado com a idade.

Eu ainda não estou pronta pra fazer terapia, então, isso e' o fim do blog como eu o conheço. De agora em diante, estou voltando pros diários de papel e caneta, e qualquer fato que eu queira que as pessoas saibam sobre mim, será incluído disfarçadamente em meu trabalho, seja ele em escrita ou artes visuais.

Obrigada por ter vindo, e nos vemos por aí.

Uglification of England

2007-05-16T00:48:00.000+01:00

I've got a confusing love affair with cigarettes. For 13 years I've been smoking them, but never obssessively - almost only when i'm socialising, almost always accompanying a drink. However, since I was 12 i have had quite an eventful social life, which means I have smoked quite a lot during many, many weekends of more than half of my life. But i never became a proper smoker due to two main reasons: cigarettes out of context (social scenarios/following alcoholic drinks/night time) make my stomach turn, and also in excess make me literaly sick. I've got chronic bronquites since I was a child, which in times of crisis makes me stay FAR away from cigarettes.

But I've been thinking about cigarettes quite a lot for the past few weeks. Well, since my big stint at hospital last month, when I had a full-on ashma attack and boyfriend J. prohibited me to even look a cigarette - or he would leave me to die in hospital alone. I thought I would be alright, but then something changed: for once in my life i started craving Vogue cigarettes, the little menthol polish stick wonders. Then, I started going out again, having alcohol in quite big quantities, and the craving got worse - specially after J. decided to stop me by force if needed.

Then, the smoking ban is coming to the country in less then 2 months. I thought this was going to put a stop at my craving, but then every time I go out I think "how this is going to be without smoke"?

Now the Guardian, my favourite paper, publishes a special report on cigarretes - and most of the articles are PRO-smoking! There's all these smart people saying how they've always loved tobacco and how they will keep smoking till the bitter end. Even my hero of the moment, David Hockney, wrote today a piece on how he smokes for his mental health and how "the uglification of England is under way by people with no vision."

Am I being weak here? With all these forces pushing me in the opposite direction, I don't think my confusing love affair with cigarettes will end anytime soon.

Beth Ditto as Agony Aunt

2007-05-11T11:17:00.000+01:00

The Coolest Rock Chic today, the overweight, outspoken, and in-your-face feminist lead-singer of the Gossip Beth Ditto, now has an advice column in the Guardian. I think it's great, although in her first column she sounds too mature and coherent, like any agony aunt in any women's mag. I was expecting a little bit of her the colorful, spontaneous irony, but i guess she is just testing the grounds. Still, It could only be someone with her confidence to give people advice - she probably needed one whenever she wanted to do something.

Club Land - The Return

2007-05-08T15:21:00.001+01:00

Now, The Good News: London is going through a clubbing renascence. "What you mean?", you ask me, "it has never died, in the first place." I say, you could be right, but for me, in the last 4 or 5 years, the club scene was as boring and predictable as my grandma's daily routine. 'Same old, same old' became the motto of most dance floors not only around the world, but also in London's vast clubland. Until, that is, the indie rock sphere infiltrated into the tired rave bubble. Say what you want, but since that colourful trio called the Klaxons decided to go on stage wearing fluor jumpers and playing rock tunes tinted with acid house flavours, I caught a glimpse of an enlightened future. Since then, fashion has gone through an amazing reinvention of the classic 80s/90s club gear, and every proud East London club kid made the decision to have the most absurd fun with their wardrobes, and consequently, with their nights out. Now, clubbers dance to indie rock, old pop, post-punk, dirty electro, funk carioca, justin timberlake, whatever makes you laugh and shake that size zero arse. Shoreditch, thank god, is home to some of the most exciting (and exclusive - tell me about it) parties in the whole of the city: BoomBox, Trailer Trash, Modular, are just some of the tons of small but unperfectly formed parties that together compose the so called "New Rave" scene. It's all about dressing up and showing off the eccentricity and idisincrasy inside us all. Call it what you like, I'm just glad the fun is back.

R.I.P. Isabella Blow

2007-05-08T14:13:00.000+01:00

I know, it's a bit of a drag to come back to this blog with sad news. But I was quite shocked to find out today that Isabella Blow has died at the tender age of 48. How come? Cancer, some sources say. For fashion insiders, or simply fans like myself, this is an awful surprise. Two months ago I was still in awe of her stylishness, after reading what must have been her last article for British Vogue about our dependency of technology today.

I think what shocks me most it's the fact that life is so fragile. It might sound like a cliche', but this is another reminder that our clock is always ticking like a time-bomb, and we should make the most of this very moment. That said, what's the point of devoting an entire life to fabulous hats and frocks if they won't go anywhere with you after your last breath?

God. I'm sick and tired of this weight on shoulders. Time sucks.

A bit of a Fright

2007-04-05T01:13:00.000+01:00

Well, well. As it turns out, that awfully cheerful mood could not last long, could it? Life has its funny little tricks to throw at you whenever you are at your most distracted. Or should I say, blissfully happy? So it happens that at the end of that beautiful day, which was suppose to have finished after a nicely cozy dinner cooked by our flatmate A. to celebrate the Jewish Passover - don't ask, I still don't really understand what it means - I suddenly had an Ashma Attack. Yes, that calamitous A.A. I never gave much importance to it, since the last time it happened was well 4 years ago, but this time the boyfriend even got scared at the possibility of my stop breathing. I, then, had no choice but to end in the A&E section of the Big Royal Hospital in Whitechapel.

Rubbing shoulders with drunks, stabbed gangsters, and old people with low blood pressure, I arrived around 11pm, not expecting to stay long or even be attended to. HOWEVER, I was very mistaken, as occurred. Amazingly, I ended up staying nearly 4 long hours, having being seen by 4 nurses, done two nebulazations, a blood test and a X-Ray. Why, I have no idea. In the end, the coolest doctor in the world appeared to give his final verdict, and the way he spoke to me, I felt like a little girl in a pediatrician's practice. I almost asked for my lollipop.

I went home a bit confused, but the whole episode was not too upsetting. I guess I have to thank London's Public Health system for that.

Mrs Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself

2007-04-02T12:30:00.000+01:00

This must be the most beautiful monday of 2007, so far. After many, many dreadful and gloomy beginnings of weeks, in which I would not see a reason to wake-up earlier than 11am, dragging myself upstairs to put the kettle on, and cursing my fate in this cheerless island, suddenly everything seemed to have taken a different colour. Today I woke up at 8:30, full of energy, and went out to buy supplies for a very non-brazilian breakfast (eggs, bacon and orange juice). The air was so light and the sun so radiant, that on the way I decided to buy flowers to brighten up the house. The only misfortune is that the flower stalls around Woolwich's high street are not award winning types, to say the least, and in the end I had to resort to M&S for a small bunch of orange roses, modest but cheerful. When I came back home, it was nearly 10am, and I made a pot of the most fragrant Brazilian coffee I found the other day in this little shop off Oxford Street (Pilão), woke the boyfriend, and he cooked us brunch (already to late for breakfast). He left half-hour later to his weekly golf class (on a monday - not many people can afford this), and I sat down on my little desk in front of the window, watching the sun lighten the old warehouse buidlings and the Thames, to write this short but jolly account of my morning.

This moment, right now, is my favourite. Life seems suddenly full of possibilities.

Obviously it's a combination of several elements that made this day, of all days, to become what it is. Spring has arrived and I've got an entire week off work for myself and for everything that really matters - the act of creation. Life is only worth living if it's shared with others through creativity.

It was today, walking the ugly streets of Woolwich, that I realised: it's been nearly ten years that I've got this thought under my skin. That I can only die in peace once I've created something that can be passed on to others, a glimpse of my own understanding of life. A piece of myself, transformed into something solid and visible.

And so it is that today, of all days, I've decided once again to record fragments of my existence in this modest online journal.

Becoming an Atheist and other big decisions, part II

2007-02-07T17:16:00.000Z

Then, the other day, i had to make another big decision. It was - don’t laugh - to get a gym membership. Alright, you can say “that’s not even a big one, it’s the most obvious of all, you fell for the NY-Resolution trap as all the other, blah blah blah”, but no. Once again, it’s a consequence of another of those extreme episodes. The other day I hurt my back. Which is not such big news, because I’ve got scoliosis for ages now, and since my years as a ballet and jazz dancer (that’s almost ten years ago), I’ve lived with constant back pain. I used to happily jump around wearing those thin, no-impact-protection ballet slippers, and completely ignore the shuddering pang on the small of my back. Well, it turns out that years later I can’t count all the things that I stopped enjoying because of what became a stupid condition: shopping, dancing, going to clubs and raves, travelling - it all became a little more difficult than it probably is for the average person with a healthy back.

Not that I’m not able to do those things, it’s not that serious. It’s just that I can’t do them for more than a few hours or I get the prestigious arrival of THE PAIN. It sucks. So the past week I started feeling THE PAIN once again during work hours. You know, high heels, standing up, making abrupt movements, all of this doesn’t help. But even with THE PAIN growing steadily every day, I kept on working, telling myself she would eventually disappear, as she always does. By the end of the week I couldn’t move or sleep anymore without painkillers. The muscles around my spine got strained to the point that I had to take a week off.

So I was lying in bed the other day, cursing my bad luck, and thought about how this is going to get worse in the future. How I would need to lay in bed for months whenever I get pregnant because of the pain, and how, afterwards I wouldn’t be able to carry my kids around like a normal mother. Or how I wouldn’t be able to get any proper job, with normal work hours, because I’d need to throw a sickie every week. The way things were going, in a near future, I’d be claiming disability benefits.

But hey, I’m no Frida Kahlo. I decided that I simply don’t need to be disabled, this is not a condition imposed on me, it's my own fault. So I decided to slap myself in the face and drag my sedentary ass to the small gym on the reception of my condominium. Exactly: I've got a gym 1 minute away from my front door and I never made the effort to step inside before. Two small but well-equipped rooms set up for the residents, with a flat screen and sound system available. What else could I ask for? No more resting or painkillers. All I’ve needed is exercise.

I've been there twice since the big decision, and it might sound like a cliche', but I feel great already. But no, I won't become one of those Brazilian gym addicts "bombados", who make their lives revolve around their fat-free muscle-toned slender bodies, which they show every morning at the beach. I don't even have a beach to show anything. It's snowing outside. This is a purely health-based decision. It’s definitely more carefully considered than the red meat one, but it’s a consequence of an unplanned episode.

(to be continued....)

Becoming an Atheist and other big decisions

2007-02-02T17:18:00.000Z

I’ve made some big decisions this year. This year, of all the years, has started like this: my first decision would be not to make any New Year Resolutions. I would not fall for this trap over and over again. Even hamsters, the symbols of repetitive routines, are less prone to make the same mistakes, in the manner that human beings are used to. When something goes wrong, their instinct tells them not to go there again. “Don’t delude yourself, if you try the same strategy, it won’t work.” And it’s always the same resolutions: lose weight, get a gym membership, stop smoking, and so on. So, for me, I just decided not to give a single thought to it. I would simply not make plans.

Ironically, though, since the year began, three weeks ago, my life has taken directions that I would not specifically choose to initiate, you know, in the beginning of a new year. Or for that matter, decisions that I would not haven taken prior to serious and careful consideration over a number of months, or maybe years. For instance, take the first one: giving up red meat.

I’ve always loved red meat in its numerous forms. Be it barbecue, hamburguer, sausage, salami, or beef – if it’s bleeding I’m eating. Or was. Until one night I got really drunk on JD and Coke and after getting home, my boyfriend cooked half a kilo of steak. Sounds surreal, but we were very hungry, the kind of hunger that comes when you’ve drunk like a pig for 5 hours, and all you want to slide down your throat is the greasiest and heaviest food available. So he took this big chunky piece of ‘contra-filé’ out of the friezer, and sliced it, and fried so we could eat it with ‘bacon farofa’. Half a kilo. That’s 500 grams of cholesterol, fat, and blood down your throat. I don’t know if it was the alcohol or the meat or the two of them combined in my stomach, but I felt REALLY sick right after I chewed the last piece of animal flesh. It was a classic scene: me running to the bathroom and regurgitating everything back down the toilet.

Well, it turns out that after that I can’t even think about looking at a steak. I was actually hoping that the alcohol would blurry my memory and I would forget the episode the day after, but in the end all I got was a robust hangover and an irreversible repulsion to bloody red meat.

I didn’t think my aversion would extend itself towards other kinds of red meat such as ham and chourizo – and in fact, it hasn’t so much as become an uneasiness when faced with them. I get sick so easily this days since that episode that I just decided not to risk throwing up on the station’s platform or onto a customer in the bar. I even took a pregnancy test to check if that was the reason behind my sickness, but no, I’m not expecting. I guess I’ll have to live with it for a while until I find out why – meanwhile, no more red meat pour moi.

(to be continued…)

Em 2007...

2006-12-22T02:26:00.000Z

fuck
journalism.
Daddy,
i'm
gonna
become
an
artist.

Water's wisdom

2006-12-16T14:46:00.000Z

We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.

Plath's wisdom

2006-12-16T14:13:00.000Z

"To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream. "

Jornalismo Brilhante

2006-12-15T18:10:00.000Z

"Ano-Novo Terá Muito Branco e Brilho."

"Um mexicano se pendurou por ganchos para protestar contra a discriminação de pessoas tatuadas e com piercings. O manifestante não se feriu em sua apresentação."

"Saiba como fazer deliciosos carinhos nos seios."(com fotos e legendas).

"Cantora cubana posa de calcinha fio dental para revista."

ai ai. Ler o site de notícias do terra ás vezes é mais divertido do que assistir Little Britain .

Rock'n'Roll

2006-12-15T01:05:00.000Z

Saí triste e eufórica da excelente peça "Rock'n'Roll", de Tom Stoppard, hoje a noite. Me fez ainda mais consciente do tempo passando rápido, voando, e do quanto esses anos, os meus 20 e poucos, 20 e tantos, são e serão os anos que eu vou lembrar o resto da vida com nostalgia. Desde os 17 anos, desde quando eu começei a ter sonhos de uma vida menos ordinária, eu tenho consciência da passagem do tempo. De que o momento é agora, que ser jovem significa isso tudo, e que passa num piscar de olhos. For fuck's sake, isso foi a 7 anos atrás. Foi a 4 anos atrás que eu resolvi jogar pro alto minha vidinha confortável em Curitiba a procura de liberdade e criatividade. E no entanto, só agora, 24 anos depois, é que estou finalmente experimentando liberadade criativa. SÓ AGORA, nesse período em que eu parei de fazer planos, estou descobrindo e desenvolvendo uma identidade própria. Sem a mídia, sem a família, sem os amigos, sem a nacionalidade, sem a cultura, sem NADA nem NINGUÉM me ditando o que fazer da minha vida. Eu não me identifico com a cultura brasileira, nem a americana, nem a inglesa, nem nenhuma, e não me importo com isso. Eu não sei mais o que meus amigos, o que a minha família, o que os meus chefes, pensam de mim, e não me importo com isso. A alguns anos atrás eu comecei a aprender do que eu não gosto. Esse ano eu comecei a aprender o que eu gosto. E não tem sensação melhor do que essa.

E voltando a peça, que fala sobre o rock como instrumento de reação política, da invasão da Checoslovákia nos anos 60/70, do gênio de Syd Barret e dos intelectuais de Cambridge, do eterno debate entre o valor da razão e do coração, eu pensei em como nossos tempos são outros. São fúteis e superficiais e efêmeros. Naquela época, nos anos 60 e 70, a música era um porto seguro, um muro de lamentações, uma parede onde se segurar e se proteger da opressão da sociedade. Política e cultura andava de mãos dadas, uma alimentava a outra. Hoje... hoje, nada. Hoje bandas não tem valor, fama é um questão de sorte do que a consequência de um propósito, música está em todo lugar e não tem impacto nenhum. Isso me deixa triste. Mas saber que eu estou aqui, no meio do turbilhão criativo, tendo a oportunidade de, talvez, fazer alguma diferença, me deixa feliz.

E assim sigo, triste, feliz, triste, feliz, triste, feliz......

Xmas wishes

2006-12-13T23:26:00.000Z

Doll Parts

2006-12-11T16:50:00.000Z

I want to be the girl with the most cake,
I fake it so real, I am beyond fake,
And someday you will ache like I ache.

So long

2006-12-11T16:48:00.000Z

Lá se vai mais uma. Eu definitivamente não sirvo pra ter amizades femininas. Elas nunca duram muito tempo.

6 anos depois, a gente viu londres de cima

2006-12-06T13:25:00.000Z

Letargia

2006-12-04T12:34:00.000Z

Definitions of lethargy on the Web:

- a state of comatose torpor (as found in sleeping sickness)
- inanition: weakness characterized by a lack of vitality or energy
- languor: inactivity; showing an unusual lack of energy; "the general appearance of sluggishness alarmed his friends"

ok, here's the deal. Faz quase 5 meses que eu me formei e parece que isso aconteceu décadas atrás, de tão desconectada eu estou daquela época. Parece que foi um sonho longo e ruim, daqueles que grudam na memória quando deveriam mesmo é ter se desmaterializado e esquecido no momento que se acorda. Assim tem sido os últimos 5 meses de 2006: não sei se finalmente levei um beliscão e acordei de um sonho ruim, ou se finalmente tomei uma pancada na cabeça e fui colocada pra dormir. Porque por mais que os dias andam passando rápido, eu me movimento em slow motion. Quando eu penso na tese que eu escrevi lá longe em abril, eu mal consigo acreditar que fui eu que escrevi aquelas 50 páginas. Eu mal lembro como escrever textos acadêmicos, mesmo que tudo o que eu tenha escrito nos últimos 5 anos foram os malditos textos acadêmicos. Minha paisagem cerebral (mental landscape?) reduziu de velocidade. Tenho lido pouquíssimo, mas mesmo assim, esse pouquíssimo tem sido absurdamente inspirador. The Master & Margarita me tomou uns belos 3 meses e meio, mas as imagens das criaturas infernais beijando o joelho de Margarita durante o baile estão vivíssimas na minha cabeça. The Bell Jar da Sylvia Plath tem descido em doses remediais, mas cada capítulo parece estar espelhando a minha própria experiência pós-sonho-ruim, mesmo que tenha sido escrito a quase 50 anos atrás. Eu sou a Esther, sentada embaixo da figueira, vendo cada um dos figos encorpados e suculentos, recheados de possibilidades, caírem no chão e apodrecerem. É quase desesperador, e ao mesmo tempo letárgico. Por outro lado, desde que eu acordei, ou fui dormir, eu estou tomando meu próprio tempo pra absorver as coisas. Antes eu vivia com pressa: lia um livro por semana, via um filme atrás do outro, nunca ouvia mais de uma vez os zilhões de discos copiados no Ipod, me matriculava em um curso mais errado que o outro - e não sentia o impacto verdadeiro de nada. Sempre com pressa, tentando processar cada vez mais informação, sem ter efeito nenhum. Deve ser por isso que aos 24 anos eu estou exausta.

Deve ser por isso que faz quase meio ano que eu estou vagando, algo em torno de 140 dias respondendo a perguntas como: "e aí, o que você vai fazer da vida?" com: "não sei, e você?", sem realmente prestar atenção na resposta seguinte. Minhas maiores façanhas até agora tem sido empilhar revistas fashion no chão do quarto e acumular pontos no Dance Mat, aqueles tapetes com quadrados e setas coloridas que você liga no Playstation e fica saltitando em cima seguindo a rotina de passinhos. Meu passatempo favorito tem sido passar tardes inteiras assistindo as special features dos DVDs, onde diretores e roteiristas explicam como foi o processo de criação de suas devidas obras.

Ando de saco cheio de seguir regras. Tudo o que eu procuro agora é inspiração.

Quentin Tarantino knows it

2006-11-28T16:08:00.000Z

Nos comentários do DVD "True Romance", um dos meus filmes que estão sempre rodando no background enquanto eu tento fazer com que minha vida tenha algum sentido, Quentin Tarantino diz que "as a writer, when you finish a piece of work, you should almost feel embarassed by it a little bit, because you're just revealing yourself. People who read it are gonna know too much about you."

Então tem mais gente que se sente assim.

Jack Kerouac em entrevista com Steve Allen

2006-11-28T15:18:00.001Z

É tão raro hoje em dia ver isso. Autores que são levados a sério pela energia e paixão que possuem do que pela habilidade literária em si. Autores jovens que falam de seu trabalho altamente autobiográfico sem medo de soar pretencioso ou parecer bobo. Auto-promoção cool, com o host do programa tocando piano enquanto entrevista. Bons tempos.

Kerouacs da vida hoje em dia são autores de blogs.

Courtney Love Pelada

2006-11-28T14:23:00.000Z

eu nunca fui muito fã da Courtney Love, mas depois que ela resolveu posar nua pra revista superglossy POP, confesso que mudei minha opinião. Abismei total. Em tempos de photoshop escancarado, fazia tempo que eu não via um ensaio tão sexy e tão estiloso, ultra-rock'n'roll - e completamente 'au naturel'. Se um dia eu fizer fotos pelada, quero elas assim.

A entrevista, by the way, também foi interessante. Você sabia que Love nunca tinha cheirado pó até os (what?) 35? Ou que ela foi trabalhar de stripper em Tókio ao 13 anos e só conseguiu sair do país deportada? Ou que o grande amor da vida dela foi (what?!) Edward Norton? Ou que quem fez ela largar os entorpecentes foi o (hein!?) Mel Gibson?

Adoro o povo do rock.

Dente do siso

2006-10-23T22:52:00.000+01:00

Mudei.

Não, sério, mudei mesmo. De casa, e de atitude.

Ontem acordei com a parte de trás da gengiva doendo e vi que meu dente do siso resolveu dar o ar da graça. Em inglês dente do siso se chama "wisdom teeth", ou "dente da sabedoria", e apesar de toda a dor que desce da minha cabeça e vai até o final do pescoço, não pude deixar de perceber que se for verdade esse nome, o dente veio na hora certa.

Comparada com os 4 últimos anos, essa foi a mudança de casa mais tranquila de todas (ignorem o post anterior). Enquanto em tempos outrora eu passava noites e mais noites em claro me preocupando se 1) ia encontrar o apartamento certo 2) na época certa, 3) se iam aceitar meus papéis, 4) se ia arrumar fiador, 5) se ia ter dinheiro pra pagar o depósito e os subsequentes aluguéis, e 7) se ia ter tempo e energia pra fazer a mudança, esse ano foi tudo feito da maneira mais smooth possível, e o mais incrível, sem a ajuda nenhuma de terceiros. Foi simples assim: um dia acordei, me dirigi ao prédio do lado, e gostei (muito) do que vi. Duas semanas depois imprimi três pedaços de papel e pronto. Peguei a chave e dois dias depois trouxe (bom, J. e D. trouxeram) todas as minhas coisas usando duas malas e duas caixas de papelão. Hoje estou instalada confortavelmente no melhor flat que eu já morei fora do Brasil, completamente stress-free.

Deve ter sido resultado da tal mudança interna sobre a qual eu havia conversado com o C. semana passada. Ele estava comentando o quanto estava se sentindo mais tranquilo e menos preocupado do que sempre esteve em toda a vida, e eu percebi que estava passando pela mesma experiência. "Sabe de uma coisa? Esse ano eu percebi que eu definitivamente não sou e nunca vou ser perfeito e o melhor de tudo - eu não só aceitei como ando curtindo essa idéia," disse ele enquanto limpava o balcão do bar. Eu não pude deixar de dar um sorrisinho compreensivo, do tipo "sei exatamente do que vc está falando", porque eu realmente sabia. Depois de 24 anos de tentativas frustradas, planos que não deram em nada, e expectativas em vão, hoje em dia eu raramente perco um fio de cabelo sofrendo por antecipação.

Foi uma atitude que deve ter se desenvolvido e se enraizado aos poucos depois que meus planos no começo do ano pra depois da universidade - mais uma vez - foram por água abaixo, e eu decidi que pelo resto do ano eu ia deixar as águas rolarem da maneira mais livre possível. E por incrível que pareça, as coisas começaram a acontecer.

"Ah, se eu soubesse que a solução para grande maioria dos meus problemas era simples assim!", falei pro C. Ele fez uma cara de interrogação, mas eu estava tentando explicar que no fim das contas meu problema não eram os planos que nunca se concretizavam. O problema era eu.

Então foi assim que eu parei de me cobrar tanto e passei a prestar atenção no que no fundo, no fundo, eu não queria. Isso mesmo. No fundo, mas não muito no fundo, as coisas não aconteceram porque eu mesma não queria que acontecessem. Simples assim. Reconhecendo isso, foi um pulo pra eu começar a parar de arrumar desculpas pra ser quem eu sou. I am what I am - and most of the time now, I like it.

Hoje continuo sofrendo - mas agora a dor é puramente física.

Bendito dente do siso.

>:/

2006-10-20T00:00:00.001+01:00

existem poucas coisas no mundo que eu odeie com força, e uma delas certamente é fazer mudança. Estou mudando de casa e meu sangue está em ebulição. No mundo ideal, toda vez que chegasse esse momento eu pularia num jatinho particular, me mandaria pra um cenário paradisíaco qualquer e esperaria os outros encaixotar, transportar e organizar minha vida de uma casa pra outra enquanto eu tomo mojitos debaixo de um sol forte. Sozinha, porque namorados encrenqueiros e teimosos merecem sofrer.

Imatura, moi?

2006-10-18T12:05:00.000+01:00

Well, well. Back to blogging world. Nada de maravilhoso tem acontecido nas últimas semanas - ou talvez meu lado londrino esteja se desenvolvendo com FULGOR nos últimos tempos, o lado cínico-vi-de-tudo-nada-me-impressiona-mais. Incluindo quadros e esculturas de pessoas se masturbando em poses variadas (cortesia da Frieze Art Fair, a maior feira de arte contemporânea da Europa, e diga-se de passagem, a mais divertida - fotos em breve), e Madonna e seu mais novo filhote serem assediados pela imprensa britânica a dois blocos do escritório onde estou temporarimente estagiando. Tá, na verdade eu não VI a dupla em si, mas só de saber de que o circo todo está acontecendo aqui do lado já conta.

E como eu sempre menciono aqui nesse blog, um dia minha vida está de pernas pro ar, no outro, bom, não está mais. Até começar o estágio a três semanas atrás eu estava convencida que tinha voltado repentinamente pra 1998 (minha fase raver, pra quem não sabe). Em três meses percorri a rota de todos os clubs/festas/bares/festivais que eu devia ter ido em um período de três anos e nunca fui - e no final, um ou dois botecos entraram pra lista "permanent hangouts." Obviamente nenhum super-club com mega sound system se salvou, nem festas hypes povoadas por gente-que-vira-o-olho. Ambos certamente não receberão a graça da minha presença EVER AGAIN. A beleza de Londres é essa: você pode se dar ao luxo de evitar sair nos mesmos lugares porque SEMPRE tem outras alternativas.

Mas aí o estágio começou e como diz minha amiga L., entrei pro "mundo dos normais". O que significa acordar as 7 da manhã, enfrentar uma jornada de 1 hora espremida dentro de trens, comer sanduíches em frente ao computador e voltar pra casa as 5.30 mais uma vez espremida dentro do trem, exausta demais pra fazer qualquer outra coisa que não seja grudar a bunda no sofá e assistir Sex and the City (também conhecida como 'a minha novela') até apagar... pra começar tudo de novo no outro dia. Nada excitante. Pela primeira vez em meses eu tenho esperado ansiosamente pelo fim de semana.

Como sempre, continuo procurando por satisfação permanente nos lugares errados, mas cada vez me importando menos se não encontro, até porque "satisfação permanente" é algo que provavelmente não existe. Mas também, como sempre, nunca me canso de tentar me enveredar por novos caminhos pra ver se dessa vez vai, e assim foi que resolvi voltar pra faculdade pra fazer cursos... de moda. Yeap, resolvi tentar transformar meu hobbie de ler a Vogue e peregrinar por lojas de departamento luxuosas em trabalho. Uma decisão pra lááááá de distante da minha decisão do início do ano de estudar/trabalhar com política, mãããããsssss.... Pelo menos agora vou tentar fazer uma coisa que eu gosto de verdad ao invés de tentar fazer o que eu achava que os outros gostariam que eu fizesse. Sinceramente não sei se vai dar em alguma coisa, ou se vai ser mais um nome no meu variadíssimo e longo CV (isso não é bom), mas como diz J., vamo aí.

Other than that... Consegui arrumar energias pra ver o filme Little Miss Sunshine - um retrato hilário de uma família muito parecida com a do meu digníssimo namorado - e terminar de ler a obra-prima que é The Master and Margarita. Você sabia que a música "Love & Destroy" do Franz Ferdinand foi inspirada na cena em que Margarita voa sobre Moscow a caminho do baile de Satã? Wikipedia é tudo.

Drunk Shakespeare

2006-09-26T13:35:00.000+01:00

Essa é típica do humor inglês. Depois que o fundador da Royal Shakespeare Company declarou que Shakespeare sofria do "mal da manhã de segunda-feira" - ou mais conhecido como "ressacão do inferno" - críticos especialistas declararam que também o trabalho do bardo sofria com o mal. Enquanto a maioria de nós mortais pensava secretamente com nossos botões "não entendi bulhufas do que ele quis dizer", agora é possível mencionar em alto e bom som que realmente Shakespeare escreveu mesmo um bando de frases sem-sentido - porque encheu os cornos na noite anterior. John Sutherland, crítico do Guardian, foi ainda mais além: chamou a peça Macbeth de "um autêntico oceano de merda." Heh.

Cicarelli na Praia

2006-09-25T10:16:00.000+01:00

então a última fofoca do mundo virtual é a trepada da Cicarelli na praia. Só fiquei sabendo ontem, e pra ser bem honesta, não achei absolutamente nada demais. Tá certo que o cara tava querendo se aparecer, andando de barraca armada na frente dos amigos, mas fora isso, achei a coisa mais normal do mundo. Celebridades também sentem tesão, ué. E se ela for esperta, ela ainda vai se dar bem: é só dar uma de Paris Hilton, se fazer de desentendida e embolsar milhões de reais com a nova fama.

By the way, já tem muita gente se aproveitando da tal da fama. Nem adianta procurar no YouTube por "Cicarelli dando na praia" porque vc vai achar tudo, menos a cena em si.

Mossy @ TopShop

2006-09-21T14:52:00.000+01:00

Kate Moss vai criar uma coleção pra TopShop. Oh, god. Vou começar a tomar aulas de kung-fu. Me preparar pro lançamento.

CSS

2006-09-20T14:43:00.000+01:00

ah, até esqueci de avisar: o J. foi no show do CSS no meu lugar (lucky bastard) e o videozim que ele fez da primeira música tá lá no meu Tubo. Diz que a Lovefoxx tomou uma chuva de garrafas de água. Mas diz que o povo gostou, mesmo assim.

2006-09-19T17:40:00.000+01:00

Ando demais com a cabeça na lua pra conseguir escrever aqui. Dar update constante em um blog requer uma mente organizada e uma rotina mais ainda, repleta de eventos, pessoas, assuntos, e tempo. Não que minha vida não esteja assim - repleta. O problema é que está "repleta" demais, e não consigo parar, pensar, absorver e repassar tudo o que tem acontecido. Ou talvez seja o excesso de substâncias tóxicas que anda debilitando minha capacidade de comunicação.

Anyway, ontem mesmo cheguei a conclusão que sim, vou ficar em Londres, no matter what. Depois de três anos, só agora que eu estou sentindo que finalmente assentei, que me adaptei ao ritmo e lifestyle da cidade - só agora I'm feeling a true londoner. Alcóol e nicotina demais, horas dormidas de menos, livros lidos pela metade dentro de trens e ônibus, números de telefone anotados em inúmeras cadernetas, rostos novos toda semana, rostos conhecidos/amigos uma vez por ano, fashion que se auto-destrói em 6 meses, unhas descascadas, cabelos desgrenhados, bandas/peças/filmes da semana, baterias de gadgets sempre acabando, Ipods entupidos, se virar em mil pra pagar o aluguel sempre astronômico, viver de sushi de mercado e Coca Diet, reclamar do tempo, do transporte, e dos dias que passam rápido demais. Uma cidade cheia de ups & downs - mais downs do que ups - que só aprende a amar quem sobrevive a tal "fase da adaptação," aquela da depressão, desgosto e ansiedade.

It's rock'n'roll, but I like it.

---+++-----

Enquanto as coisas vão entrando nos eixos - SE É que um dia vão entrar - arrumei um estágio na acessoria de imprensa dessa empresa de cosméticos. Pelo menos vou poder contrabalançar a rotina rock'n'roll da cidade com tardes servindo de guinea pig no Spa da empresa.

---+++----

Maggie O'Pharell. Almodóvar. Kasabian. Kurt Geiger.

Esses são os nomes que andam absorvendo minhas horas de hedonismo essa semana.

+ music

2006-09-06T14:45:00.000+01:00

O Tio Gil Barbara aka devils conseguiu capturar com perfeição o meu ideal atual de uma balada FUN nesse podcast roqueiro. Tá pronto pra vir tocar nos pulgueiros de Shoreditch e Brick Lane, tio!

aliás, minha última contribuição pro rau tá lá também . Vaza.

Extra, Extra!

2006-09-06T03:57:00.000+01:00

E quando a gente acha que não tem mais espaço na cidade pra mais outra publicação gratuita, eis que surge thelondonpaper. Jornal gratuito a la Metro (sem ser linkado com o xaropíssimo e retrógrado Daily Mail), com a diferença de ser divertido, moderninho e stilish. Aliás, as páginas de moda são um luxo. E o melhor, o jornal sai todinho na internet, pra vocês aí que quiserem saber o que anda rolando na capitaR de enteressante.

music, music, music

2006-09-06T02:37:00.001+01:00

Outro álbum roubado (esse do cyberspace mesmo, desculpa aê) que eu anda no repeat faz umas duas semanas é o 4, dos - quem diria - Los Hermanos. Eu não sei porque raios eu tinha preconceito contra esses cariocas - deve ser por causa daquele hit "Ana Júlia" que fez os caras subirem - mas aí resolvi ler a matéria de capa da music issue da Jungle e eu gostei do que li:

"O brasileiro coloca tudo na mesma prateleira, não tem hierarquia. Isso é uma inocência valiosa, esse descompromisso, essa mistura é o que há de mais brasileiro. Nós não temos nenhuma obrigação de ser mais brasileiros do que já somos. As coisas boas têm essa incoerência, têm signos que se contradizem", disse Rodrigo Amarantes. O que foi o suficiente pra me convencer a roubar o álbum e escutar, por que eu sou fã de incoerência e de não ser mais brasileira do que já sou.

Que álbum lindo. Melancólico, romântico, destemido, auto-suficiente, esperto. Virei fã e se deus quiser os moços vão se apresentar pela primeira vez em Londres no aniver de 4 anos da Jungle.

***

Outra notícia que veio do céu é minha diva querida Marisa Monte se apresentando no Barbican final do mês. Tó lá, bee.

***

E tinha mais alguém que eu queria falar sobre, mas sendo 3 da manhã, já esqueci.

(18 minutos madrugada adentro...)

Ah, lembrei. Aqueles hypados que atendem pelo nome de CSS (Tired of Being Sexy, segundo a divulgação britânica), que tem uma vocalista que tinha um fotolog super visitado lá por 2002, e que canta puxando um R americanizado irritante, também vão dar as caras por aqui, em três shows. Até hoje só ouvi as duas músicas que estão no espaço deles, gostei pouco, e vou deixar pra ouvir o resto no aniversário da revista NME, na terça.

The Book.

2006-09-04T13:56:00.000+01:00

Ontem, tcha-na-na-nam, comecei a escrever o livro. O LIVRO. O maldito livro que a 5 anos eu venho carregando na minha cabeça, que vive me cutucando, me deixando frustrada, que anda acabando com a minha auto-estima. Tinha terminado de escrever uma matéria, e milagrosamente não tive vontade de desligar o computador correndo e me jogar no ~~(maravilhoso, fofo e imeeeenso)~~ sofá ~~(de couro preto, super sexy e style, nhaaami)~~ . Levantei, peguei uma taça de vinho e escrevi o primeiro parágrafo. Escrevi primeiro em inglês, depois em português, e constatei que em inglês fica melhor e mais fluido, mas acho que em português vai ser mais libertador. Português será então. Terminei o primeiro parágrafo, achei que ficou um lixo, e anunciei na sala my new endeavour, onde meus flatmates esperavam acordados (eram 3 da manhã) pelo táxi que ia levar D. ao aeroporto. Pobre D., tinha chegado do Japão a apenas algumas horas e ainda meio tonto de jet lag conseguiu balbuciar "que coisa mais boêmia isso", referindo-se ao ato de escrever livro e tomar vinho na madrugada, antes de voltar a desmaiar no sofá ~~(o outro, feio, pequeno e de pano beige).~~ Fechei o arquivo, virei a quarta taça (branco, alemão, barato, e suavemente adocicado - ou como dizia o crítico da seção de vinhos do Observer, "a party pleaser") e me joguei no sofá sexy pelo resto da madrugada. Não sei quando vou abrir o tal do arquivo de volta.

superficial

2006-09-01T14:49:00.000+01:00

Uma amiga minha, da época que eu morei nos States, chegou ontem em Londres depois de passar três meses trabalhando em um campo de refugiados no Zâmbia. Eu me senti estúpida. Como eu ia contar pra ela que estava pensando em fazer uma pós em fashion, quando ela passou esse tempo todo em meio a pessoas que mal tem o que comer, quanto mais vestir?

"Nossa, thais, ontem eu tava louca pra ir na TopShop, minha loja favorita, e quando cheguei lá comecei a chorar. Tudo isso é tão superficial, perdeu a graça." Minha cara ficou assim -> {:^|

Em vez disso, desatei a falar da fotógrafa que eu havia entrevistado no dia anterior, que trabalha pra Anistia e cobriu a guerra na favela da Rocinha. Porque aqui desse lado do hemisfério, é difícil não ser um pouco - ás vezes mais do que necessário - superficial.

Cabeçadas

2006-09-01T13:46:00.000+01:00

Acho que já é hora de voltar aqui. Ando sentindo falta de expôr em público minhas jornadas falhas, meus defeitos de caráter, e mau-gosto cultural. Minhas empreitadas que nunca levam a lugar nenhum. Antes eu tinha vergonha de dizer que as coisas não tinham dado certo, que foi tempo perdido, ou que frustração estava evaporando por todos os poros do meu corpo. Hoje, quer saber: foda-se. Levanto os dois dedos pra quem se importa ou acha ruim. Ando frustrada sim, mas não ando desanimada. Pra ser bem sincera, ando bem feliz até. Desde que eu finalmente reconheci que o rabo é meu e eu não devo satisfações pra ninguém do que faço com ele, parece que um peso saiu das minhas costas. Ando até tendo novas idéias, coisa rara nos últimos, hm, três anos.

Argh, os últimos três anos. É terrivelmente desolador olhar pra trás e constatar que se pudesse, faria ABSOLUTAMENTE tudo diferente. Não ter planos pro futuro dá nisso: fico só analisando o passado. E meu sangue ferve quando lembro de episódios estúpidos, que eu poderia muito bem ter evitado. Por que é que eu não abri a boca quando devia? Ou corri atrás do que eu achava interessante em vez de seguir a cabeça dos outros? AHHHHH! Tem dias que eu tenho vontade de me estapear.

Maaas, como todo mundo responde cada vez que eu desando a falar sobre isso, "o importante é que você aprendeu com teus erros." Tá, tá. Bollocks pra isso. Queria mesmo é que existisse um jeito de eu apagar essas memórias, ou que uma máquina no tempo me transportasse de volta com essa mesma consciência de hoje pra eu poder mudar tudo. Arrependimento não mata, mas dá vontade de bater a testa na parede.

Que aliás, eu bati. Não de propósito, e não na parede. Fui me abaixar pra tirar as roupas da máquina de lavar, ainda meia dormindo, e dei com a cabeça na pia da cozinha. Bizarro esse negócio, eu sei. Não o de bater a cabeça, o de a máquina de lavar roupa ser embaixo da pia da cozinha. Meia hora depois ainda fui pegar um dos gatos do chão pra cortar a unha dele - tem sofá novo em casa - e dei outra cabeçada. Dessa vez na testa do J. que tentou pegar o gato ao mesmo tempo. Passei uma semana com um calombo arroxeado um pouco acima da sobrancelha esquerda.

***

Desde que eu roubei o CD da Lily Allen lá da redação da Jungle, não consigo parar de escutar. Eu não tinha entendido o hype todo em cima da menina, só sabia que era outro fenômeno vindo do MySpace. Agora entendi tudo. Não só a voz da moça é boa, mas as letras são excelentes. É uma arrancada sarcástica, desbocada e debochada atrás da outra, todas atiradas de uma maneira suave mas não menos certeira. E todas narram a rotina e os percalços de viver em Londres. Eu me reconheci em pelo menos 5 músicas. Em tempos como esses em que a música pop anda descabeçada e sem graça, Lily Allen é mais do que bem vinda. To Hell with Paris Hilton.

Ree-invention

2006-08-10T13:13:00.000+01:00

Eu já sei que quando eu começo abandonar a parada é porque o tédio bateu forte né. Então, sabe o que isso significa né. Que vai ter que rolar outras daquelas mudanças, né.

"Roupagem Nova", "Reinvention", you name it. Coisa que eu faço em algum setor da minha vida que estiver mais boring, uma vez por ano, pelo menos.

O bom dessa época de não ter planos é que ando descobrindo o que EU realmento curto. Antes os outros sempre tiveram prioridade. No more.

Então vou fazer uma faxina e a hora que tiver limpo, eu dou um toque. Té daqui a pouco.

Rraurl

2006-07-29T11:43:00.000+01:00

Estou começando a colaborar com o site pioneiro dos amigos Gaía e Gil, hoje o maior site de música eletrônica e alternativa do Brasil. O primeiro texto saiu hoje: cobertura do festival Lovebox Weekender aqui de Londres. Confere lá.

GraduAAANNda

2006-07-27T11:43:00.000+01:00

Ufa. Tanta coisa aconteceu nessas últimas semanas, e tão pouco tempo pra se blogar. Mas o mais importante mesmo foi a minha formatura. Foi meio esquisito, se comparada com as formaturas do Brasil. Mais informal em certos aspectos - não tinha dress code (teve gente se formando de chinelos havaianas e tênis Converse) não tinha fotógrafo tirando fotos da turma - e mais busy. Foram mais ou menos 400 alunos se formando no horário da manhã, então a passagem pelo palco pra pegar o canudo era menos dramática (mas eu não deixei de dar uns pulinhos bestas). O mais memorável foi o discurso do reitor, que numa tentativa de reafirmar o calibre da universidade, passou a listar todos os famosos que saíram de lá (John Galliano, Alexander McQueen, Stella McCartney, Jimmy Shoo - só o povo fashion - Pierce Brosnan, Tim Roth, Syd Barret, etc etc etc. Não lembro de ele ter citado nenhum jornalista... anyway.) Mas foi legal. Minha mãe ficou emocionada de ver a filha se formando do lado de onde a Lady Di foi velada (vá entender), e eu fiquei aliviada de não ter que fazer mais small talk com o 50% de gente chata da minha turma.

Acho que tá na hora de mudar aquela descriçãozinha do blog ali do lado.

Paris

2006-07-11T14:02:00.000+01:00

Voltamos pra Paris esse final de semana, depois de dois anos. Duas semanas rodando Londres foi mais do que suficiente pra deixar todo mundo meio de saco cheio, e já que a cidade-luz fica a duas horas e meia de trem, resolvemos aproveitar a chance. Pulamos num Eurostar (viajar de trem é TÃO melhor do que de avião) e chegamos no sábado a tarde, a tempo de fazer a rota básica dos monumentos (torre eiffel, sacre coeur, notre dame, arco do triunfo) antes de assistir a final da Copa. Foi coincidência, claro, mas foi uma das mais satisfatórias. No final de tarde de domingo fomos parar no Quartier Latin, numa área cheia de restaurantes e bares italianos, todos sendo aterrorizados pela torcida francesa que se acumulava nas ruas. Como a maioria dos estabelecimentos tinha colocado várias TVs ligadas na partida, a francesada toda se reuniu ás centenas em frente dos italianos, e durante o jogo inteiro tivemos que assistir em silêncio ouvindo gritos de "ALLEZ LES BLEUS!"... até a expulsão fenomenal do ídolo Zizou. Aí foi a vez dos poucos italianos (e nós) chutar o pau da barraca e gritar "ALLEZ ZIZOU!". No último pênalti, achamos melhor não arriscar (ninguém queria sair morto dali) e só deu pra gente apertar a mão um do outro e dar os parabéns. Pelo menos os "bleus" sentiram o que a gente sentiu em 98.

Fora isso, saí da cidade com um sentimento meio de vazio. Descobri que não gosto de "repetir" viagens. Se vou voltar pra uma cidade, que seja pra explorar outros lados, ter outras experiências. Eu tenho uma fascinação com a cultura francesa, principalmente com as mulheres. Elas são cheias dos mini-rituais, das pequenas tradições, desde a maneira como se vestem, até como comem, como andam na rua, como pensam. A minha vontade dessa vez era ter explorado a cidade dos franceses, não dos turistas. De ter descoberto lojinhas vintage, de comprar baguete fresquinha no mercado, de andar pelas feiras de rua, de passar a tarde enfiada em uma galeria, de ler e ver o movimento num dos cafés com mesinhas na rua. O que eu consegui foi sentar por algumas horas no Jardin de Luxemburg tomando vinho em taça de plástico, e tomar sopa de cebola num bistrôzinho em Montmartre. Mas foi tudo muito rápido, e o calor (e o fedor) dentro dos metrôs também não ajudou muito... fica pra próxima.

Ando ausente...

2006-07-03T16:51:00.000+01:00

... porque meus dias estão contados. Estou com a sensação de que a vida como ela é agora, do jeito que eu estabeleci, vai mudar. "Sensação" é um... como se fala mesmo quando a palavra que se usa ameniza o sentido forte que uma expressão tem? Eufemismo! Isso, "sensação" é um eufemismo, porque meus dias estão realmente contados, de acordo com o Home Office. Tenho 3 meses e meio, mais ou menos, até meu visto vencer e eu ter que desmanchar meu mundinho por aqui. Eu quase não tenho móveis, mas vou ter que arrumar uma casa nova pras centenas de livros e dvds e quadros e sapatos que acumulei em quatro anos de vida fora. Provavelmente, a casa nova desses companheiros vai ser um amontoado de caixas de papelão, dentro de um depósito úmido e frio - e isso me corta o coração só de pensar. Uma parte da minha história aqui na Europa encaixotada, a outra parte arquivada dentro de hard-drives e servidores. Milhares de fotos, músicas, arquivos .doc, blogs-fotologs-sites. Porque eu deixei de escrever diários de papel quando eu descobri que internet servia pra documentar minha vida de uma maneira mais interativa.

Meu gatos, Nick e Quincas, também vão ter que esquecer por um tempo a vidinha aconchegante que levam. Não, não vou botar eles dentro de uma caixa de papelão e guardar num depósito, mas vou enfiar os dois dentro de uma caixa transportadora e vou carregar eles comigo. Pra onde? Boa pergunta. Depois de tanta peregrinação, impossível ficar num lugar só pra sempre. Voltar pro Brasil é uma opção, assim como continuar na Europa é outra. As opções são muitas, mas todas vagas, incertas, flutuantes. Daqui a três meses e meio vou ter que engolir o choro, olhar pra trás com orgulho de ter terminado mais uma fase da vida, e botar o pé na estrada mais uma vez, dessa vez, e pela primeira vez, sem planos concretos, sem saber aonde vai dar. Eu, meus bichanos, e aquele que eu escolhi (me escolheu?) pra se aventurar juntos pelo mundo.

***

Enquanto isso, dedico meu tempo a aproveitar a melhor estação do ano na terra da neblina. Com a minha mãe aqui, tenho desculpa de sobra pra ver de volta cada um dos monumentos, das praças, dos parques, dos bairros boêmios, dos pubs enfumaçados, das praias de pedra e água gelada, da fauna que se veste de acordo com a área que frequenta (moderninhos em Shoreditch, punks e góticos em Camdem, white trash em Essex, madames em Chelsea, engravatados em Canary Wharf, manos em Brixton, brasileiros... em tudo que é lugar). Tenho assistido muitos filmes, lido muitos livros, tirado muitas fotos, entornado muito alcóol, e conversado por horas e horas e horas sobre futebol, moda, cirurgia plástica e a situação política na China, dentro dos trens, dos bares, na frente do rio. E eu queria estar falando em detalhes de cada uma dessas pequenas experiências, indicado tudo o que eu tenho visto/comido/experimentado, mas tenho medo de olhar pro calendário e ver que os dias ensolarados do meu possivelmente último verão em Londres passaram rápido demais, na frente do computador.

Mas eu volto aqui. Eu sempre vou voltar.

By the way...

2006-06-26T01:42:00.000+01:00

... a greve dos professores terminou duas semanas atrás e meu resultado final saiu. Me formei com 2.1, a segunda nota máxima (algo como ter tirado B, numa escala de A a F). Tô satisfeita. Agora só falta a cerimônia de graduação, mês que vem.

Falando em acabar a palhaçada...

2006-06-26T01:39:00.000+01:00

...minha mãe chega amanhã. heh. Estou preparando pra acordar a turista dentro de mim, porque vai rolar some serious sightseeing na capital.

"Sleeping Giant" :P

2006-06-26T01:30:00.000+01:00

Tô pensando em parar de assistir os jogos da Inglaterra. Não só porque o futebol é entediante, mas porque não deve existir uma torcida mais xarope do que a inglesa. Por que diabos eles precisam cantar o hino nacional de 10 em 10 minutos, e tão alto que chega a apagar a voz do narrador? E por que raios o narrador tenta amenizar a situação quando o time inglês faz uma cagada atrás da outra com "that's a lovely kick"? Tomara que Portugal mande logo Beckham e companhia pra casa semana que vem, assim já acaba essa palhaçada.

Salmonela em chocolate?

2006-06-26T01:13:00.000+01:00

Saiu nos jornais de domingo que a marca de chocolates Cadbury, a maior de UK, teve que tirar mais de um milhão de chocolates das prateleiras depois que foi detectado resíduos de salmonela nos chocolates, uma bactéria que ataca o estômago e causa febre, vomito, diarréia e dores no corpo. Mais de 50 pessoas foram parar no hospital por causa do bug. Fiquei encucada. Lembrei que semana passada ganhei dois bombons da marca, e lembro de ter comido meio a contra gosto, porque nem gosto muito desses chocolates. Será que eu fui uma vítimas?

O show do Massive Attack...

2006-06-24T16:23:00.000+01:00

... ontem foi tudo o que eu esperava que fosse ser, e melhor, foi tudo o que eu queria que fosse. Chegamos no festival meio tarde já, 6 pm, e pegamos o final do show do rapper (e sexy de plantão) Pharell Williams. A sorte era que a cada show que terminava, a multidão se deslocava em direção aos banheiros e bares e ia abrindo espaço. Foi assim que fomos chegando cada vez mais perto do palco e depois do show do Flaming Lips - que foi uma loucura completa, com direito a super-heróis e papai-noéis no palco, mega balões voando pra tudo que é canto e uma entrada fenomenal do vocalista Wayne Coyne dentro de uma bola de plástico - a gente foi parar na fila do gargarejo e viu o Massive Attack de frente pro palco. Depois de lançar uma coletânea de greatest hits, era óbvio que eles iam acabar tocando exatamente isso, o que me deixou bastante feliz. 'Angel', 'Teardrop', 'Unfinished Sympathy', a maravilhosa 'Safe From Harm', 'Karmakoma', 'Inertia Creeps', todas as músicas com seus vocalistas originais (Elizabeth Fraser na foto acima, Shara Nelson, o magnificente Horacy Andy), incluindo Terry Callier cantando o novo single 'Live With Me'. Mas a surpresa maior foi o fato de não só Robert Del Naja e Daddy G abrirem o show juntos com "Risingson" , ambos estavam na maior das amizades, dando apertos de mão e hi-fives, e trocando olhares de aprovação. Pra quem tem uma história de brigas e desentendimentos bem documentada pela mídia, foi uma revelação que consagrou um dos melhores shows que eu já vi na vida.

Pra ver algum dos melhores momentos, vai clicando nos links. Aquela coisa, resolução e técnica shite (filmar com máquina fotográfica dá nisso), mas o que vale é a intenção né?

Thank god for the internet.

2006-06-23T00:12:00.000+01:00

O que seria da gente sem a internet (e conexão broadband). Graças a ela, hoje assistimos o jogo do Brasil com narração do Galvão Bueno... via skype! Ligamos pelo skype pro meu sogro no Brasil, que botou o microfone grudado na caixa de som da TV enquanto a gente botava o laptop aqui no sound system de frente pra tv. Ficou perfeito, sincronizadissimo, e finalmente matamos a vontade de ouvir um grito de gol decente (4 deles!), com músiquinha da copa e tudo. Porque vocês não sabem o que a gente passa aqui com a sem-gracera da narração inglesa.

Sergio Mendes: Timeless

2006-06-21T02:49:00.000+01:00

Eu citei o Sérgio Mendes no post anterior, e acabei lembrando que fazia semanas que eu queria baixar o novo álbum dele e sempre esquecia. Baixei ontem e achei uma maravilha: virou a trilha sonora de verão da semana. Eu tinha lido uma entrevista com o cara num jornal de domingo a tempos e tinha ficado curiosa pra saber o resultado da união de uma lenda da música brasileira com o Will I Am do Black Eye Peas, que é um grupinho mestre em fazer hits pop grudentos e enjoativos. E diz que foi simples assim: um dia Will bateu na porta do brasileiro carregando uma penca de vinis velhos do músico, disse que ele era a maior influência musical dele e que adoraria fazer uma colaboração com o velho. Deu certíssimo: Will chamou uma constelação de colaboradores do hip hop e soul, incluindo Stevie Wonder, Erikah Baduh, India Aire e John Legend, e juntos deram uma cara novíssima pra clássicos como Mas Que Nada, Bananeira, Surfboard e Samba da Benção. O resultado virou uma salada mista de forró e hip hop (fo-hop!), samba e rap, bossa nova e R&B – uma combinação deliciosa das culturas africanas que influenciaram tanto a música americana quanto a brasileira. Genial.

Forasteira

back from the dead

Wetlands by Charlotte Roche

This idea goes hand-in-hand with my new approach to life

Happy New Year

a brief note about the end of the year

8

Let Joy Be Unconfined

\o/

Obama all the way

From the Urban Dictionary

A big MISS-take

beauty contest

Obessed about the Obsessed

The new Kings of Leon

Having it All

Impressions from an Italian holiday

The Raconteurs advice

Everything's OK As long as you're inside my blue veins.

Elephant's Memory

Penelope Fitzgerald's writing advice

A Novel's Help

The Written Word

Home from Home

Things that are still wrong in my life

Another Inspiration

Restless

Living twice

Just a Reminder

Pills

The big D

Inspiration

Calm, cool and collected.

I'm so over being me.

Saudades

About Brazil

Is this it?

Paris

Grown-up. Grown-up?

Silence

Faux Pas

The Haircut Theory

The Job.

Eu só podia dizer isso em português.

Pulling the brakes, part 3,189,287,642

So many people, and not one able to read my mind.

Starting from Scratch

Michael Jackson is my guru.

Life Is What Happens When You're Busy Making Other Plans

The Worst Party

Dark Night of the Soul

The sum of all things - so far.

The Incessant Return

The End / O Fim

Uglification of England

Beth Ditto as Agony Aunt

Club Land - The Return

R.I.P. Isabella Blow

A bit of a Fright

Mrs Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself

Becoming an Atheist and other big decisions, part II

Becoming an Atheist and other big decisions

Em 2007...

Water's wisdom

Plath's wisdom

Jornalismo Brilhante

Rock'n'Roll

Xmas wishes

Doll Parts

So long

6 anos depois, a gente viu londres de cima

Letargia

Quentin Tarantino knows it

Jack Kerouac em entrevista com Steve Allen

Courtney Love Pelada

Dente do siso

>:/

Imatura, moi?

Drunk Shakespeare

Cicarelli na Praia

Everything's OK
As long as you're inside my blue veins.