sábado, 31 de dezembro de 2011

PALAVRAS ESTÚPIDAS 157

In Another Life
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You were a man in a travelling show
Who sold potions, or maybe no
I made you the potions
Cause I had some substance notions
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You were a poet, tormented
Maybe even a little demented
I was there to write things down
Sometimes to be your literary clown
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You were a magician with top hat
Maybe even a little fat
I was the girl you cut in two
And I did that just for you
çdkjgsçdgYou piloted a baloon
Quite close to both sun and moon
I was your navigator



Always sick, but never the quiter



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You searched for lost manuscripts



And strange, ancient artifacts



I helped you read the maps



And set all sorts of traps



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In another life, maybe



We were all these things and plenty more



In another life, could very well be



We were together, for sure

sexta-feira, 30 de dezembro de 2011

MAGIC MOMENTS 193

CC35 - Cool Covers


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Há músicas intemporais e camaleónicas ou músicos que dão a volta a qualquer coisa?


Ora vejamos:
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Love is Like Oxygen by Sweet
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Love is a Many Splendored Thing by The Four Aces
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Love Lift us up Where we Belong by Joe Cocker & Jennifer Warnes


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All You Need is Love by The Beatles


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Love is Just a Game by The Magic Numbers


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I Was Made For Loving You by Kiss
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One More Night by Phill Collins


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Pride (In The Name of Love) by U2


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Don't Leave Me This Way by Thelma Houston


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Silly Love Songs by Paul McCartney


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Heroes by David Bowie


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I Will Always Love You by Whitney Houston


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Your Song by Elton John


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Elephant Medley by Nicole Kidman & Ewan McGregor (Moulin Rouge)


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quinta-feira, 29 de dezembro de 2011

Macro Secrets 143


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December is fattening month, anyway

terça-feira, 27 de dezembro de 2011

OS PERSONAGENS DE ANDRÓMEDA

RODION ROMÂNOVITCH RASKÓLNIKOV
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Curriculum Vitae
Filiação:
Fyodor Dostoevsky


Corpo e Alma: A do livro
Nacionalidade: Russa




Profissão: Estudante


Naturalidade: Algures na Rússia, vive em S. Petersburgo


Habilitações: Inteligente. Profundo. Radical. Político. Triste. Niilista. Só. Demente? Doente? Crê-se intelectualmente superior. Raskólnikov acredita que existem homens comuns e homens extraordinários e que estes últimos, por serem extraordinários, podem cometer determinados actos que os outros não podem, como matar. Até estaria tudo bem, caso Raskólnikov tivesse apenas pensado ou teorizado sobre esta questão, escrevendo um tomo de filosofia. O problema, para ele, é que Raskólnikov decide colocar estes seus pensamentos em prática. Mata uma velha agiota e aguarda. Ninguém desconfia de nada. Raskólnikov chega até a divertir-se às custas da polícia, que anda a patinar literalmente à sua volta. Mas Raskólnikov não contou com um pequeno pormenor - a sua consciência. Que começa a atormentá-lo com tal intensidade e requintes de sadismo, que Raskólnikov não aguenta mais e decide confessar o seu crime. Descobre que, afinal, ao contrário do que teorizava, não é um homem extraordinário. Ou será, precisamente por ter consciência?


Filosofia de Vida: "Se ele tiver uma consciência, sofrerá pelo seu erro. Isso será o seu castigo, tanto como a prisão."


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segunda-feira, 26 de dezembro de 2011

DDT - Deambulações DeMentes Teóricas 14

The Serial Killer - Part IV
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I was also meticulous in covering my tracks. I was careful not to kill consecutively in the same place and in a short period of time. This country is perfect for serial killers and that is probably why we are so many here compared to other countries. It's vast, geographically varied and, most of all, desorganized. Looking from the outside one might be tempted to think of us as a united nation. Naturally, we are not. But we have to be, in order to maintain so many states together. It's something that is forced upon us. The founders of our country were extremely smart in that particular detail. How can you keep such a vast amount of land and such a heterogenous amount of people together as a nation? You brain wash them into a sense of patriotism pushed to the limit. That is one of the fundamental pilars of our power over other nations. If the people of this country were left to tend for themselves, without any rulling fathers, we would long have ceassed to be anything remotely resembling United.
However, this impression of patriotism is a very superficial one, easy to tear apart if you look at us carefully. One of the spots where you don't need to scratch the gloss much in order to see the dirt underneath, is precisely authority. There are over 40.000 different police forces opperating in this country. As you can imagine, they can't be all very well organized. In fact, they hardly communicate with eachother. Each state has its own laws and law enforcement policies. And more important, each state functions independently. For a serial killer that is heaven. It means I can kill someone on the Pacific side, travel all the way to the Atlantic coast and kill there and be sure that it will take a long time for either sides to link those two killings together. In the meantime, I will have killed some more in other states and improved my method, maybe even changed it a little bit, thus rendering the task even more intricate for the investigators.
Another thing that helps is our way of thinking. We are loners. We don't mingle too much and when we do, we choose carefully who we mingle with. We don't get much out of our comfort zone. We are not nosy. We keep to ourselves. We don't want to know. The less we know about our neighbour, the less probability of getting into trouble. This, of course, is also a bliss for any serial killer. It means we have a very wide margin to operate until anyone starts sniffing around for any reason. If and when they finally do reach the point where they smell something fishy, we're long gone.
In the decade that followed my teenage years, I must have moved about fourty times. I gained a sense of freedom that prevented me from naturally needing to stay anywhere. My victims were the only thing that would keep me in a certain place during a certain amount of time. After the killing nothing more would tigh me and I would disappear. I enjoyed this loose existence. I didn't need any attachments for I had been born without any cravings for human contact. The only contact I seeked was the one I could create during my killings. It was a sketched contact, studied, acessed, controled as in a laboratory experiment. It was an integral part of my method and nothing more. A stylistic feature, if you will.
By the time I reached 28, I had become an expert. I had killed more than 30 people, an average of 2 a year, sometimes 3. It was tough, to have to wait so long sometimes, to kill again. As I said, it was the same as asking an alcoholic to abstain for months before he could taste another glass of wine. But I was far from being stupid. And I wasn't going to risk everything I had built so far. The same way I exercised my body, so did I train my mind. I became interested in zen philosophy. The here and now. Acceptance. Be in the moment always. It also helped my killings. During the sometimes most anxious moments of the hunting, when the hunted knew it had been hunted, I was able to drown myself in that world of quietness and function at my own rythm, even if everything around me was complete chaos.
I became notorious, finally. With fame came the long last recognition I had seeked for my work. But that was also the beginning of the end of my glorious freedom. It didn't end it, but it slowed my work even more.

domingo, 25 de dezembro de 2011

sábado, 24 de dezembro de 2011

Macro Secrets 142


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Have yourself a Merry little Xmas

sexta-feira, 23 de dezembro de 2011

MAGIC MOMENTS 192

CC34 - Cool Covers


fkld


Há músicas intemporais e camaleónicas ou músicos que dão a volta a qualquer coisa?


Ora vejamos:
ºldças


War by Edwin Starr


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War by Bruce Springsteen


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quinta-feira, 22 de dezembro de 2011

OS PERSONAGENS DE ANDRÓMEDA

ROCKY BALBOA
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DLÇASK






Curriculum Vitae
Filiação:
Sylvester Stallone


Corpo e Alma: Sylvester Stallone
Nacionalidade: Americana




Profissão: Jogador de boxe


Naturalidade: Philadelphia


Habilitações: Humilde. Jamais looser. Simples. Jamais simplório. Pobre. Jamais de espírito. Persistente. Corajoso. Rocky tem um coração de manteiga para músculos tão rijos e derrete-se em todo o lado, inclusivé no ringue. Mas ... ele é teimoso. Acha que consegue, apesar de ter sempre todas as possibilidades contra si. Rocky não quer ganhar, ele quer apenas mostrar que merece lutar para ganhar. Ah ... e quando ele sobe aqueles degraus ... quando ele sobe aqueles degraus ... o mundo inteiro sobe com ele. Como o próprio Sylvester disse, as pessoas não podem ter o sabre de luz dos jedis ou a capa do super-homem, mas podem subir aqueles degraus e ter um pedaço da "Rocky pie".


Filosofia de Vida: "Cause I was thinkin', it really don't matter if I lose this fight. It really don't matter if this guy opens my head, either. 'Cause all I wanna do is go the distance. Nobody's ever gone the distance with Creed, and if I can go that distance, you see, and that bell rings and I'm still standin', I'm gonna know for the first time in my life, see, that I weren't just another bum from the neighborhood."


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quarta-feira, 21 de dezembro de 2011

DDT - Deambulações DeMentes Teóricas 13

The Serial Killer - Part IIIlkdfadsçlf
By the time I reached 18, I had already killed 4 people - the schoolgirl, the guy in the bar, some anonymous bum I used to experiment and the nosy forest patrol guard who came snooping around while I was disposing of the bum.
But they were nothing, compared to what I would do later. Almost all were random killings, except for the bum. And even with the bum I was too nervous to do anything resembling a good job. Looking back now, those first killings embarass me, they even upset me, they are stains in what would later become masterpieces of death.
I was looking for perfection. But it took me about a decade to master the tools of the trade and start doing what I would call a good job. What drove me was no longer hate or anger, but the sheer drive and passion of an artist. I wanted to excell, to reach places others had seldom treaded, to meticulously carve the details of murder upon my victims. My killings became my life's work, my art. I became obsessed to the point of not being able or allow myself to think about anything else. Or, rather, everything fed the killings. Every book I read, every movie I saw, every picture I admired, every single piece of nature that was able to rapture me would remind me of killing, would inspire my method.
My victims were not even thought of as victims, but as instruments, raw materials for my craft. I would prey on them like a wolf, silently, sometimes for months before I came closer, watching, learning, documenting their habits as a biologist would some irrational life form. The chase felt almost as good as the catch itself, for it built up anticipation, functioning as the preliminaries in a sexual mating. Knowing that I had control over their lives and that they would be mine when I decided was a powerful elixir. Sometimes I would delay the catch on purpose, so that I could relish on those intimate, private, lonely moments of my hunting.
I developed a number of abilities which I had not been blessed with upon birth. Patience. Resistance. A kind of poetic melancholy as I would consider the possibilities before me, how I would do it, when. Everything became important, crucial. The time of day, the place, the instruments, the means of transportation, even how I would eventually come into physical contact for the first time with the object of my desire. The world, the entire world, not just my own world, started revolving around the killings. The most insignificant detail had to have some kind of special meaning. The way the leaves rustled on the trees in a particular afternoon could make me decide a particular way of killing.
Over the course of the years I experimented a lot. I tried all kinds of weapons and tools. Knives, ropes, glass, bows, torturing devices, my own hands. All except guns. I considered them coarse objects to be used for such exquisite purposes. They were also loud and fast, which was something by no means related to the way I liked things done. My killings were slow and steady, almost as if the world would drown itself completely around me and I would find myself sorrounded by the rythm of water instead of air. My prey would die as if in a dream, in slow motion.

terça-feira, 20 de dezembro de 2011

PALAVRAS ESTÚPIDAS 156

Prometheus
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Vem aí. Está a chegar. Ridley Scott não se conteve e vai mesmo fazer a prequel de Alien, que sairá em 2012.




Sem Sigourney Weaver, mas com Michael Fassbender, espero um filme e pêras, de um dos criadores de mundos mais entusiasmantes do cinema. Estou pronta para trepar pelas paredes ... agora que há tão poucos filmes que me consigam encher as medidas.




Em 1979, o cartaz de Alien avisava "In space no one can hear you scream."




Em 2012, o cartaz de Prometheus promete "In space something can hear you scream."




I can hardly wait ... to scream!!!




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segunda-feira, 19 de dezembro de 2011

MAGIC MOMENTS 191

CC33 - Cool Covers



fkldsçf



Há músicas intemporais e camaleónicas ou músicos que dão a volta a qualquer coisa?



Ora vejamos:
ºldças



Roxanne by The Police
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Roxanne by George Michael



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Roxanne by José Feliciano, Ewan McGregor e Jacek Koman (Moulin Rouge)
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domingo, 18 de dezembro de 2011

Macro Secrets 141



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I don't give a shit

sábado, 17 de dezembro de 2011

OS PERSONAGENS DE ANDRÓMEDA

RANDLE PATRICK MCMURPHY
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DLÇASK




Curriculum Vitae
Filiação:
Ken Kesey



Corpo e Alma: Jack Nicholson
Nacionalidade: Americana




Profissão: Pequeno patife


Naturalidade: Oregon


Habilitações: Vivaço. Vivido. Com vontade própria. Valente. Vigoroso. Com volts a mais. Com gás. Gasoso. Gozando a vida. Não aprecia que gozem com a sua cara. Caricato. Carente. Carinhoso. Ardiloso. Jogador. Vamos lá a ver quem é que ganha isto. Esmagado pelo sistema. A única coisa de que Randle é culpado é de ser ele próprio. O único erro que cometeu foi jamais fingir que era, fazia ou queria outra coisa que não o que lhe era instintivo. Lixou-se. Foi lobotomizado. Deixa, no entanto, uma herança valiosa - o índio foge por ele.


Filosofia de Vida: "I must be crazy to be in a loony bin like this."


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sexta-feira, 16 de dezembro de 2011

DDT - Deambulações DeMentes Teóricas 12

The Serial Killer - Part II

It all happened too fast for me to really enjoy most of it, that first time. So I had to do it again. I waited a good six months before I tried again. In the mean time I practiced with stray cats and dogs. I didn't want it to be so fast. I wanted the next victim to know what was going to happen to her. I had to see recognition in her eyes. I craved for that look of utter despair, when someone knows exactly what's going to happen but also knows there is not a single thing she can do to stop it from happening.
At home my strategy changed. By now I was a teenager and had been biulding up my body for quite some time. Father stopped beating me up because he got scared with the possibility that I might answer back. Mother kept screaming, but that was all she ever did these days. As for the kids at my street, they stopped peckering me altogether, when one day I decided to run inside the house and get one of those curtain hangers from the living room. What I did with it to one of the kids wised up all the others. That one never showed up again in the surrounding area.
The hate was replaced with a kind of satisfaction that became addictive. It was fun to inflict pain on others. Particularly because when that happened the smirk on their stupid faces would disappear completely and they would regard me with respect. I told myself it was all an experiment. But I knew better. It was more like a drug, and I needed it in increasing dosages as time went on. There was a buzz, a thrilling feeling of excitement, that would almost resemble a sexual discharge, every time that stick would come into contact with somebody's skin. When the cheerleader went down on her knees, blood trickling from her head as her legs wobbled, unable to sustain the weight of her unconscious body, I almost had an orgasm just looking at her.
People became like lab rats that I would study carefuly. I was never much of a talker and I had always kept to myself. I was a great observer and so I started using that for my experiments. There's a hell lot of good information you can pick from others just by keeping your mouth shut and your ears wide open. The fact that most people never even noticed I was around, helped me to become utterly invisible. If you didn't step on my toes, it was as if I didn't exist for you. If you did, I would make sure you noticed me and depending on the degree of your intrusion, there would be consequences you would never forget.
The second time I killed was after a bar fight. I hadn't planned it. Some drunk idiot started teasing me and so I waited for him outside the bar. He was alone, which was even better. I grabbed his throat while he was pissing and cut his dick off while he struggled beneath my arms, my hand covering his mouth. He looked me in bewilderment, while I stuck the knife in his stomach and let him bleed to death before I vanished. Death is a messy business when you don't have much experience. Watching the white in his eyes take over was one of the most powerful feelings I had ever experienced in my entire life.
I would soon learn to make a clean kill. It takes time and patience and a lot of practice, but I had all the time in the world and a will to learn every single trick. For me it was as if I had discovered some new territory which no man had ever stepped on. I was a scientist, an explorer, excited with the prospect of excelling in my trade. School was boring and there was nothing in it that would tease my brain. But this, this was something else. This was a sort of shangri-la, a mystical, exciting, dark, eery new dimension only I knew about. In it I was a king, a prince of darkness, a powerfull being who acted like a god, deciding the fate of others, choosing life or death. This was my world.

quinta-feira, 15 de dezembro de 2011

PALAVRAS ESTÚPIDAS 155

Ai Putin, filho, tás feito ... É pena, vou ter saudades tuas. Essa gente mal agradecida, pá, sempre a querer deitar abaixo um homem que dá o que tem e o que não tem pelo seu povo ...

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Por outro lado, posso sempre tirar a barriga de misérias com o insubstituível Yevgeni Mouravitch, cuja fuçanha não consegui encontrar, mas também o que interessa é o seu sotaque e não a fuçanha.

quarta-feira, 14 de dezembro de 2011

MAGIC MOMENTS 190

CC32 - Cool Covers

fkldsçf

Há músicas intemporais e camaleónicas ou músicos que dão a volta a qualquer coisa?

Ora vejamos:

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Me and Bobby McGee by Kris Kristopherson
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Me and Bobby McGee by Janis Joplin

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terça-feira, 13 de dezembro de 2011

Macro Secrets 140



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It takes two to tango

segunda-feira, 12 de dezembro de 2011

OS PERSONAGENS DE ANDRÓMEDA

PRINCIPEZINHO
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Curriculum Vitae
Filiação:
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Corpo e Alma: Steven Warner
Nacionalidade: Francesa


Profissão: Pequeno príncipe

Naturalidade: Asteroide B-612

Habilitações: Solitário. Sonhador. Apaixonado por uma rosa demasiado vaidosa e mentirosa. Explorador. Curioso. Sábio. Gosta de desenho mas não consegue que alguém entenda que uma cobra a comer um elefante não pode ser jamais a mesma coisa que um chapéu! Incompreendido pelos adultos. Não consegue, por sua vez, compreendê-los. Capaz de domar uma bela raposa desconfiada que lhe ensina que as coisas mais importantes não são visíveis aos olhos, mas apenas ao coração. E também que sempre que domamos alguma coisa ficamos para sempre responsáveis por ela. Intrigante. Adorável.

Filosofia de Vida: "Les grandes personnes ne comprennent jamais rien toutes seules, et c'est fatigant, pour les enfants, de toujours et toujours leur donner des explications."

ºf


domingo, 11 de dezembro de 2011

DDT - Deambulações DeMentes Teóricas 11

The Serial Killer - Part I

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I am a serial killer. The authorities reached that conclusion after they discovered I had killed 3 prostitutes that resembled very much one another, in a space of a few months, all in the same area. Three is the magic number. Less than that, you're just another random little common criminal and your victims just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. More than that and you become a certified monster. The reason being that someone, anyone, might randomly kill 2 people that got in his way when he was about to get something else, but no one, no average human being kills more than 3 times, unless he is being payed a lot of money or has a very good reason to do it. I'm not being payed a lot of money. I don't care about money.

Why? You might ask yourselves that question sometimes, when you tune in the news report and some anchorman is talking about me or some other monster like me. Why does he kill? What kind of being would commit such a horrifying act several times in the course of his life?

You can either listen to all the babble wabble that some hired shrink or criminal expert is saying about me, or you can listen to me. Make your choice, but don't say I didn't warn you.
Why do I kill? Because I like it. It's fun. The psychiatrists would have you believe that I kill to live, that I need to kill, like any one of you needs to breath or piss. Bullshit. I never once heard any one of those so called experts say anything that could even resemble a meager understanding of what I do or why I do it. The only thing they usually get right is the how, but hey! the how is really easy when you practically have a blueprint of the whole thing spread out right in front of your noses. The crime scene. That's the only thing they manage to get an idea about. The rest remains "terra incognita".

Sure, I had my problems when I was a kid. My father was an asswhole and my mother a bitch. He would beat me up with his belt and she would punish me for being a naughty boy by sending me to the basement in the dark for several hours, hanging from the ceiling upside down by a rope tied to my feet. I would cry. I cried a lot. I would have myself cry until I could no longer feel the tears running through my dried salty cheeks. Then I would faint, because the blood dropping for hours and swelling on my head would knock me out of consciousness. I would wake up when they came to fetch me back upstairs.

They, the experts, say that the mother is the key. That one expects brutality from the male element of the couple, but never from the female side. That it's ok if your father drinks a couple more than he should and gets a little too much physical, but it's not ok when the mother, supposedly the natural caretaker, is actually a sphinx of ice. Where do you run to? Nowhere. Where did I run? Inside my swallowed head. And they are wrong. It's the same to me, who did it. They both did what they weren't supposed to.

It didn't happen right away. At first I actually thought I was the one to blame. I must have been a demon for them to punish me that way. The other kids didn't mention anything of the sort, and I would wonder if they were all lying. So why do they do it?, I would ask myself. I must be really bad. Once, I was stupid enough to ask my mother why. Needless to say the answer I got ended up in another episode of fainting down in the basement.

Eventually I got wised up. The tears stopped. They were replaced by a growing, utterly unbearable feeling of hate. Not just for them. For everyone. Why did it have to be me? Why would the other kids not suffer like I did? What was it that I had done to deserve such a fate? An idea started growing inside my head. I had to make others hurt too. Or I would go insane. So I started with the cats. I would burn their tails like living torches and watch them skid around the garden screaming in terrifying shrieks of despair. But they weren't enough. I found out I couldn't feel anything. When the tears dried for good on my face so did something inside me that prevented me from feeling any more pain. The problem was it also ended any other emotion. Joy, sadness, nostalgia, excitement. Nothing. The only way I could make myself feel anything was to pump up the volume, so to speak. One cat wouldn't do, so it had to be two cats. Two cats weren't enough, so the victim must be larger, a dog. Soon, animals were no good anymore. They only screamed. I had to hear begging. And there's only one animal on the face of the earth that is capable of groveling for mercy. You guessed.
The first one was a girl I knew from school, one of those annoying cheerleaders who wouldn't give me so much as a side look. I ambushed her on the way home from school and killed her with a couple of stones. She didn't even scream, such was the surprise when she saw me waving those rocks. I tied her and dumped her in the river. Her body was discovered a week later all swallon up near some rocks. They never even came close to me. I was just a kid.

sábado, 10 de dezembro de 2011

MAGIC MOMENTS 189

CC31 - Cool Covers

fkldsçf

Há músicas intemporais e camaleónicas ou músicos que dão a volta a qualquer coisa?

Ora vejamos:

çdf

So In Love by Ella Fitgzerald

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So In Love by K.d. Lang

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sexta-feira, 9 de dezembro de 2011

Macro Secrets 139

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I am in love with you

quinta-feira, 8 de dezembro de 2011

OS PERSONAGENS DE ANDRÓMEDA

PETER PAN

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Curriculum Vitae
Filiação:
J. M. Barrie

Corpo e Alma: Boneco animado da Disney
Nacionalidade: Inglesa


Profissão: Menino que nunca cresce

Naturalidade: Kensington

Habilitações: "All children, except one, grow up." Peter Pan é essa excepção. Não cresce. Mantém-se jovem para sempre. E destemido. E divertido. E ingénuo. E inconsequente. E egoísta. Peter não tem responsabilidades. Vive eternamente na sua imaginária Never Land, onde é rei e senhor de um monte de Meninos Perdidos, como ele. Também voa com pózinhos de fada da Sininho. E invariavelmente entra em duelos com o Capitão Gancho, seu arqui-rival, que representará a nemésis dos sonhos. Peter gosta de Wendy? É pouco provável. Ele quer, antes, uma mãe, mesmo que tenha de a inventar e fazer à força de perssuasão.

Filosofia de Vida: ""I'm youth, I'm joy. I'm a little bird that has broken out of the egg."

ºfldf




quarta-feira, 7 de dezembro de 2011

PALAVRAS ESTÚPIDAS 154

Xmas
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No outro dia pus-me a cismar e deu-me um daqueles Eurekas género "mas como é que eu nunca me lembrei disto antes?"


Há um monte de gente que não gosta do Natal, facto que sempre me fez alguma espécie. As desculpas costumam variar entre - "é uma época muito falsa" ou "é uma época que me põe triste". E, salvo os casos em que, compreensivelmente, normalmente por mortes ocorridas nesta época, as pessoas têm todo o direito de estar a falar a verdade, parece-me que a generalidade não gosta do Natal por um motivo muito egoísta e mesquinho - não gostam de serem obrigadas a dar presentes a um monte de gente com quem, se não fosse a malfadada questão da educação cívica e social, jamais gastaríam um tostão.


O que me leva ao seguinte raciocínio - as pessoas que não gostam do Natal por o acharem uma hipocrisia são precisamente as que o tornam uma hipocrisia com a sua conduta "politicamente correcta".


Tenho sorte. Não conheço um mar de gente. Como tal, quando chega o Natal, só tenho de dar presentes a quem eu gosto. Não sou obrigada a dar presentes a uma catrafaida de conhecidos, amigos de ocasião, mulheres e maridos de não sei quem, etc, etc, etc. Cingo-me ao meu pequeno, mínimo, exclusivo círculo. E, portanto, dou presentes porque quero, porque gosto, porque adoro.


O Natal para mim continua a ser uma festa, uma alegria, cheia de cor, brilhos, doces, árvores de Natal, bolas, fitas e músicas que irritam as outras pessoas. Não conheço ninguém que goste tanto de fazer árvores de Natal como eu. Desconheço quem aguente ouvir "Last Xmas" dos Wham 100 vezes seguidas sem se cansar, como acontece comigo.


Adoro o Natal. Tenho sorte. Não sou hipócrita.

segunda-feira, 5 de dezembro de 2011

MAGIC MOMENTS 188

CC30 - Cool Covers

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Há músicas intemporais e camaleónicas ou músicos que dão a volta a qualquer coisa?

Ora vejamos:

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Diamond's Are a Girl's Best Friend by Marilyn Monroe
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Diamond's Are a Girl's Best Friend by Nicole Kidman

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Material Girl by Madonna

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domingo, 4 de dezembro de 2011

Macro Secrets 138


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You're such a manipulator

sábado, 3 de dezembro de 2011

OS PERSONAGENS DE ANDRÓMEDA

ORLANDO
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Curriculum Vitae
Filiação:
Virginia Woolf

Corpo e Alma: Tilda Swinton
Nacionalidade: Inglesa




Profissão: Nobre, herdeiro e proprietário/a de terras


Naturalidade: Algures em Inglaterra


Habilitações: Orlando começa por ser homem. Depois torna-se mulher. No entretanto, por respeito a uma promessa que faz à Rainha de Inglaterra, Orlando mantém-se para sempre jovem. Não morre. Atravessa os séculos, as épocas, as mudanças do mundo sempre o/a mesmo/a Orlando. Ambíguo, perdido e achado, Orlando tem a oportunidade única de experimentar os dois sexos e perceber as vantagens e desvantagens de cada um deles. Permanece mulher, ou não fosse Virginia Woolf uma feminista agerrida. Andrógino, apaixonado, Orlando procura uma e uma única coisa na vida - ser compreendido, seja o que for que tiver entre as pernas.


Filosofia de Vida: "Same person. No difference at all... just a different sex."


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sexta-feira, 2 de dezembro de 2011

MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA CII

Amélie Poulain Precisa-se - Parte IV
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Castelo de S. Jorge
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Amélie, filha, há quanto tempo. Há novidades nas imediações, novidades bombásticas, e daí esta nova missiva.
A porteira desbroncou-se toda à maníaco-depressiva, que entretanto já não é maníaco-depressiva há muito tempo. Agora vive num meio termo absolutamente paradisíaco.
Afinal de contas, existe uma boa razão para a filha da senhoria se comportar como se tivesse um pau de vassoura espetado constantemente pelo cu acima, para além do facto de ser advogada. Lembras-te do marido simpático e bem educado? Aparentemente ele mudou muito. Segundo consta, e a porteira viu com os seus próprios olhos (que a ex maníaco-depressiva gostava de pedir emprestados – além de muito azuis, são bastante treinados na cusquice, apesar das cataratas em remissão), parece que o dito senhor era de quando em vez apanhado envolto em nuvens densas de álcool, encostado à beira do prédio em madrugadas insuspeitas. Como se isso não bastasse, consta também, e a porteira ouviu com os seus próprios ouvidos, que o dito sonso arreava a sua esposa nesses momentos mais etílicos, deixando-a a gritar pela mãe e pelo irmão.
Ficou também a saber que a própria prima que habita no mesmo prédio que a filha da senhoria, foge dela quando a vê na rua, o que a descansou bastante. Aparentemente, a senhora tem esse efeito em bastante gente, não é só nela. Apesar de tudo, a maníaco-depressiva reflecte que existe sempre um motivo forte para alguém parecer que tem um pau de vassoura enfiado pelo cu acima. Dá pelo nome de "sofrimento".

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Confirma-se, por outro lado, que o advogado que tinha também um pau de vassoura enfiado pelo cu acima, não habita mais o prédio há bastante tempo. Pela parte que lhe toca, felizmente. O homem deixava-a nervosa. Deve ser apanágio de todos os advogados com paus de vassoura espetados pelos respectivos cus acima. Provavelmente aquele também teria um bom motivo para isso.
Quanto ao ecológico poluidor sonoro, nunca mais o viu, não faz ideia se ele fugiu com a Sara do Tofu, mas também não está muito interessada nesses pormenores. Desde que fique bem longe das redondezas ... por ela até podia ter emigrado para a Gronelândia, apesar de não ter nenhum pau de vassoura espetado pelo cu acima.


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Pelo contrário, o rapaz da garagem, para mal dos pecados da ex maníaco-depressiva, continua especado à porta da garagem com alguma frequência, com seu semblante sério e compenetrado e a mesma barba rala verdadeiramente sensual, o que tem por consequência que ela se apaixone com a mesma frequência pelo dito cujo. A ex maníaco-depressiva reflecte sobre este fenómeno surpreendente, recorda experiências anteriores e constata com fascínio que nunca tal lhe aconteceu na vida – apaixonar-se constantemente e regularmente pelo mesmo homem vezes e vezes sem conta. Ela pensa que a sua história com o rapaz da garagem, de que ele faz parte mas nem sequer suspeita, se assemelha inacreditavelmente a um qualquer romance de realismo fantástico que Gabriel García Marquez poderia estar a escrever neste preciso momento.
A maníaco-depressiva reflecte que se isto fosse um argumento do Jean-Pierre Jeunet, depois de ter confidenciado à porteira que nunca dissera as boas noites ao dono da garagem por timidez e que ele a deve considerar uma mal-criada e depois de lhe ter perguntado se o rapaz que veio substituir um outro ajudante do senhor que era um santo de homem (na opinião da porteira), entretanto defunto, se, por contraste o rapaz não era também ele um santo, que a seguinte sucessão de acontecimentos teria lugar, editados em cortes sucessivos com uma banda-sonora a condizer:


1 - A porteira iria desbroncar-se à porteira do prédio onde está a garagem, contando-lhe que ficara com a pulga atrás da orelha por a menina andar a perguntar coisas do rapaz.
2 - A porteira do prédio onde está a garagem iria por sua vez desbroncar-se ao dono da dita cuja, senhor de idade provecta e malandrice nos olhos.
3 - Conversa puxa conversa, o seguinte diálogo teria lugar:
"O seu rapaz não tem namorada?"
"Não, diz que não tem paciência para aturar mulheres. São muito complicadas. Só tem olhos para a mota. Nunca se apaixonou na vida, ou saberia ...", e os olhos do dono da garagem, enquanto profere estas palavras, deambulam vagueantes por um passado remoto povoado por um par de pernas longas e esguias que lhe davam a volta à cabeça em rotações muitíssimo superiores às cilindradas dos seus carros de corrida que ele tanto ama, "... que estas coisas não se controlam. A rapariga não tem ninguém?"
A porteira abana a cabeça, com os braços cruzados sobre o peito, as mãos segurando o pau da vassoura que usa para varrer a porta da entrada do prédio (e não para enfiar pelo cu acima), "Ao que parece também anda quase sempre sozinha."
Faz-se um silêncio entre os dois. A porteira matuta numa ideia luminosa. O dono da garagem contempla melancolicamente o seu passado.


"Olhe que eles até ficavam bem um com o outro, não lhe parece?"


O dono da garagem olha para o seu ajudante encostado à entrada da garagem a fumar um cigarro, o semblante carregado, enquanto a maníaco-depressiva passa à sua frente e ele faz de conta que não a vê.


E a partir desse dia, a porteira e o dono da garagem, que não têm muito mais para fazer na vida do que pensar nela e vê-la passar, decidem entreter-se com o entretecimento de um complô que tem por objectivo juntar duas pessoas que deveriam estar juntas mas ainda não descobriram.


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Portanto, Amélie, preciso de ti. Preciso que venhas cá ajudar-me a transformar isto num romance do Gabriel Garcia Marquez ou num filme do Jean-Pierre Jeunet.
Anda Amélie, ajuda-me lá, não sejas chata. Isto podia ser uma história tão bonita.

quinta-feira, 1 de dezembro de 2011

MAGIC MOMENTS 187

CC29 - Cool Covers
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Há músicas intemporais e camaleónicas ou músicos que dão a volta a qualquer coisa?
Ora vejamos:


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Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye by Ella Fitzgerald
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Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye by Nina Simone
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Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye by Simply Red

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Ev'ry time We Say Goodbye by Annie Lennox

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