Upon closer examination of conscience I’ve decided that it’s worth continuing examining it even further !

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

M.O.R.T.E. in English by Gerhard Dressel. GREAT ESSAY / REVIEW 1990

GERHARD DRESSEL

M.O.R.T.E. program cover

 

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Gerhard Dressel’s Playbill note to M.O.R.T.E. (Obsessive and Redundant Movements for so Much Aesthetics: Movimentos Obsessivos e Redundantes para Tanta Estética) in TAORMINA, Sicilia (Teatro Antico) 1990.

PS Bio of Gerhard Dressel https://www.geisteswissenschaften.fu-berlin.de/en/v/interweaving-performance-cultures/fellows/fellows_2016_2017/gerhard_dressel/index.html

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

This is who I am: “An all round theatrical being.”

gt roda-viva-no-instagram

BETWEEN TWO LINES autobiography  by GERALD THOMAS just the intro

This stage has given me the best and the worst of times; made me loved and hated and nothing in between.

This stage has placed me on a list of the most-wanted inventive minds of my generation. Yet, I have always told the truth and nothing but the truth here in this place, on this platform, looking at you.

As for my life outside this theatre, I’ve lived a very interesting one. Beyond interesting. Fantastic. Beyond fantastic. Almost always caught and dead. But not quite!

That’s who I am.
I’m here to tell you my story.
The powerful men and women who inhabit this planet of mine

are part of a strange organization, a weird play, a never-ending script. They are also part of a global conspiracy, my own, a shadow organization that spans across every continent and has for the last six decades. Some say this group wanders between two lines. Others call it: the theater.

I want you to follow my life and live in the world I want you to think you live in.

They start wars, create chaos.
I start wars, I create chaos. I solve them.
And when it suits them and when it suits me, it’s all resolved.
In Between Two Lines, all characters are real and, unlike any other

biography or autobiography, they’re physical as well as metaphysical, functional and will move more money in the next quarter than the World Bank will in the next year. Stage money. Fake currencies.

Their alliance affects sea change, climate chaos in every aspect of human life – the value and distribution of commodities, money, weapons, water, fuel, the food we eat to live, the information we rely on to tell us who we are.

Let me be clear. In the end, “The truth will come out.” Let us begin.

Ah, yes: before the lights go on and the sun sets in this room, I will kindly ask you to switch your cellphones off. And NO chatting. Please concentrate. I’m in ruins and am hard to follow!

I belong to nothing. That’s what they always told me, “Prepare to gather your valuables QUICK!!! We’re fleeing.”

“We’re fleeing.”
As a kid I always believed that my family was a family of criminals.

Or else, why would we always be prepared to “flee”? It took me a while, but then I learned the truth. And the truth was so sad to learn that I almost wanted to go back to the belief that we were criminals.

Please concentrate. I’m in ruins and hard to follow!

I shaped myself into something nobody would ever be able to grasp or hold accountable. I was, as it were, above the law! Did that make me a criminal? No. I’m not talking about that kind of law.

The law I’m referring to is the law of commonality, the law of ignorance and the law of hosts. Hosts of prejudice and hosts of values that only destroy.

Philip Glass explains me (and my life’s work) in the following manner:

“An all round theatrical being.”
HA HA HA HA HA HA!!! That is funny, Phil. That’s funny! And

that’s what I am.
I see the world as THEM and never as US.

-THEM, the Germans. -THEM, the English. -THEM, the Brazilians. -THEM, the Americans.

Yes, one could say that I am an American by choice, by birth, by chance or by fate. Chance. L’azar. Azar in Portuguese means bad luck. I’m never included in the picture because I AM the stage. I look

on, as you watch.
Throughout my life, and especially here on this stage, I am “THE

artist as a PUBLIC persona,” a BEING who belongs to the public eye

and that is a basic premise! Therefore, the very notion of keeping a “private” life is, in itself, absurd. Yes, I’m talking about THE artist as

the creator, the illuminator!
Everything about THE artist (in the eyes of Saul Steinberg or Artaud,

Duchamp) is what “moves” that being to exist, his or her FUEL, their idiot-syncs and so on. Plus, THE artists get their feedback from the public reaction to tantrums, antics, often fueled by secret potions and obsessions and compulsions! To censor them would be to dissect the human body and exclude the spinal chord or a vital organ. Albeit that my feelings are obviously personal, when expressed and externalized, they now belong to you and no longer to me.

So, don’t worry. I won’t take it personally. Attack if you will. Attack! I’m ready.

This stage is my face and my face is, mostly, a neutral place, a plat- form, from which to start.

My genitals are my rehearsal rooms, the backstage is my dick and ass, and my mind is a comprehensive mosaic of the images unfolding and the spoken words, words, words.

I do believe in characters, in how we all play a twisted and heroic role in this incredible attempt to “comprehend it all,” comprehend life, comprehend the science of a lifetime or a death sentence, depend- ing on what one believes in or not. It’s all make belief. It’s all acting.

But, in this acting, “the truth will come out.”

I DO Believe in Death. That’s where the curtain draws, that’s the only time when the acting stops!

Truth? You’re obviously thinking: a role. A bad one. It impresses me how much these world characters – from revolutionary leaders to philosophers, from warriors to refugees, believe in their roles! It’s all historically a great manifestation of hysteria – a telephony with- out a listener –, yet (surprisingly enough), people pretend to listen but what they really do is… They transform their beliefs and project them on to a narrow path they call: “thinking”.

PLEASE listen and PLEASE stop coughing!!!!

Thank you!
Tribal wars, leopard skins, winners and losers, all the uniforms,

soldiers, generals: all formidably bad roles! Who wrote them? Roles and costumes, traditions played out like a terribly badly written script.

Who wrote it?
It’s a sinister vision of myself as a stage and not as a person, yes,

I realize that.
What was it? Harold Bloom’s The Invention of the Human? In my

case, it would be the reverse or the opposite. The opposite of the hu- man or, better still, The Killing of the Human within the Microcell.

In more than certain ways, I see the world in a comic way. A sar- donic comedy, of errors or not, destroys all that lives and rebuilds its optic from the bottom of the ashes. And that is who I am.

I keep saying this: “And that is who I am.”

Maybe it’s because I’ve lost you at some point or…. someone coughed over my pinnacle death sentence: “the truth will come out.”

Maybe, before I continue telling you my life story, I ought to say – this is who I was.

This is about someone who “used to be.” A biography by a dead man who intends to…well, intends to survive a little longer by telling it as it is in “real time.” I know it’s hard.

I live to voice my vision and my vision is shaped by a very strange way of perceiving the world. Yes, please pay for your ticket at the box office.

So, it may be presumptuous of me to say that my face is a stage and that I am the theater. OK.

It’s maybe more fair to say that I am a blueprint for such. A sketch of a map for a stage.

Oh! Something is happening. I can’t get up. I mean, I can…but am dizzy. Legs swollen, arms not reaching out and head exploding.

Will you please excuse me? I need to go out for a quick walk. Back soon. Let’s take a seven-minute break. Thank you. 

Gerald Thomas

BETWEEN TWO LINES, intro – November 21, 2016

Brazilian edition

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

“A Primeira Vez” Texto erótico de Adriane Gomes. Maravilhoso.

ADRIANE GOMES in one of her performances, years ago

Mas… não é tão triste assim… a primeira vez… primeira vez que eu comi um homem, ele era um homem grande, bonito, rico, e claro poderoso. Eu gosto de homens poderosos, cheios de coragem, vencedores, conquistadores, normalmente o que tem neles em comum é que saíram de casa cedo e foram sozinhos através de estudo conquistaram o mundo, sim o mundo… cada um com a sua história de batalha e coragem, pessoas que são muito  apaixonadas. Ele sempre me contava de como se comportava na mesa nos primeiros anos de sucesso na vida, e isso me soava muito bonito, ele era inspiração e foi um momento muito divertido, até que um dia estamos na cama juntos e eu comecei a beijar suas orelhas e morder devagar seu pescoço, abraçando ele por trás e apertando minha buceta contra sua bunda, esse movimento de bater a xota contra o corpo dele me excitava, e quando mais eu batia mais eu mordia e chupava a sua orelha, até ter a sensação de que estava mamando a orelha dele enlouquecida enquanto ele se contorcia nas minhas mãos firmes e forte segurando seu quadril, e senti um tesão enorme quando segurei firme as duas bandas daquela bunda, aquele homem grande ali todo meu, passei bem devagar o dedo e senti ele travar o ânus, continuei beijando ele e deitei meu corpo sobre a sua bunda, apertei ele com paixão molhei os dedos, e fui só massageando devagar, bem devagar, nem mencionei de enfiar nada, depois bati gostoso uma punheta nele, bem molhada. ele gozou, e dormimos esgotados, no dia seguinte repeti tudo de novo, ele se contorcia, e era tudo muito mais forte, eu pegava nele com mais força, e então senti que quando suas pernas estavam mais soltas e menos travadas, podia colocar um dedinho, e daí pra frente, um dia ele me levou no motel e comprou um pau e me deu de presente, e foi assim a primeira vez que eu comi um homem.  

Adriane Gomes

São Paulo

March 8, 2019

 

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

“A Vergonha Moral” – novo texto fantástico de Guilherme Zelig.

Guilherme Zelig, autor

Um murro bem no meio da fuça, assim, seco, como se ele estivesse em um ringue de boxe e o adversário, impiedosamente, lhe desferisse a porrada. Entretanto, o soco fora dado sem luvas de proteção – com os nós dos dedos atracados à boca dele. O sangue voou quase um metro com o impacto. O som seco fora tão alto que todos que estavam ali, a se deliciar com o que estavam a ver, pensassem que a mandíbula do indivíduo estivesse se deslocado.

Alguns riram da desgraça dele. Cambaleou um pouco, desnorteado, antes de cair de cara no concreto do meio-fio e arranhasse toda a cara – que já estava fodida e inchada. Logo, no chão, com o sangue a esvair-se da boca, começou a vomitar todo o álcool que havia ingerido. Era um vômito horrível: escarlate, fétido, misturado a petiscos baratos de boteco. Sujou toda a camisa.

Aquela ocasião a si já lhe estava a se tornar normal: primeiro, a saída do trabalho. Segundo, a ida a qualquer bar que estivesse aberto. Terceiro, doses cavalares de tudo o que aprouvesse-se-lhe: vodca, uísque, conhaque. Qualquer coisa que tivesse mais de 40% de álcool. Em seguida, alguma discussão inviável: futebol, política, mulher, etc. Então, começavam as agressões verbais e evoluíam para as físicas. Impossibilitado que ficava em conseguir pôr-se de pé, mesmo assim dirigia-se fora dos bares e queria mostrar ser homem. Acabava apanhando feio, chegando vomitado e surrado em casa.

A esposa nada mais dizia. Já havia desistido dele. Bebera até no velório dos pais. Os filhos já não mais lhe respeitavam: um deles até cuspira-lhe à face certa feita que, mesmo sóbrio, lhe fora dar uma lição de moral. O alcoolismo virara-lhe regra na vida. Perdera todo o respeito que tinha dentro de casa. E o ciclo estava começando a definhar: no trabalho, todos sabiam de seus excessos, pois nas festas da empresa sempre passava do limite. Ademais, todos percebiam a cara estourada e o cheiro insuportável de álcool e vômito que exalava quando entrava no escritório.

Quando levantou-se minutos depois – com sangue, suor, lágrimas e vômito na face – percebera a vergonha moral a qual estava imbuído. Todos estavam a rir de si. A desgraça de um homem havia virado palco para o regozijo de outras pessoas que em si nada tinham de empáticas.

Aurélio havia decidido buscar um grupo de AAs no dia seguinte. A muito custo, pôs-se de pé. Recolheu alguns pertences seus do chão – nesse ínterim, havia quebrado um dente. Entrou em seu carro e deu partida. A visão estava turva. O carro entrou em movimento e, em seguida, atingiu velocidade considerável. Ziguezagueava pelas ruas.

Numa curva, Aurélio meteu o carro violentamente numa árvore. A força da batida fora tão forte que as ferragens haviam-se-lhe cortado todo o corpo.

Aurélio nunca tratar-se-ia do alcoolismo.

Guilherme Zelig

São Paulo, Brazil

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Quem não gosta de samba é doente do pé (ou se considera uma espécie de Mick Jagger :)

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized