Monthly Archives: August 2013

Texto lindo de Ana Peluso

É a era da decepção. Ninguém mais precisa amar ninguém, todo mundo tem o Facebook, todo mundo se julga auto-suficiente, todo mundo é artista, é poeta, e por isso a confissão (todo mundo é carente), e ao mesmo tempo todo mundo sente medo de amar o próximo, só por amar, sem interesses, todo mundo sente medo de ficar over se não pensar em si mesmo (porque é essa a bíblia do capitalismo), todo mundo sente MEDO de reconhecer o outro, porque todo mundo sente medo de reconhecer a si mesmo.

Minha paixão são as ideias e as palavras, mas elas não saciam todos os nervos. Se apaixonar por uma causa pode equivaler a um erro brutal, porque as causas estão mascaradas. Se apaixonar novamente por um outro homem pode ser outro erro, estou escaldada, a guerra transformou os homens em reféns de um comando, o comando de jamais se entregar. Pode notar, são todos soldados orgulhosos de suas ereções anímicas e posturais. ERGUER a cabeça para o amor? Jamais.

A decepção só serve pra lembrar aquilo que a gente teima em esquecer: que somos sós. Tremendamente sós.
Imagina “Esperando Godot” só com Estragon ou só com Didi. Seria silêncio? Nunca. Somos acompanhados pelo verbo. No início era o verbo e continua sendo. Berre, nem que solitário, berre. Não tenho lido seus artigos porque a maioria está em inglês, e minha cabeça anda cansada até para traduzir uma porcaria de uma linha. Um dia igual ao outro é como a morte, cansa.

Às vezes me vem na mente que a morte é solidão pura. Um imenso e infinito contínuo branco, vazio, vazio. Um tipo de castigo pela intolerância que temos uns pelos outros.

Não devo ter melhorado em nada o seu humor, mas você não está só na sua solidão. Aliás, estamos todos juntos nas nossas solidões, tremendo paradoxo que só existe por um medo alienígena de tocar o outro. Vai que, tocado, ou saboreado, o outro nos engula por nosso sabor, e se alimente de nós, e se torne nós mesmos?


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Any Longer and Any Moore !

The world as I know it

The world as I know it

Any Longer and Any Moore.

(the fierce duel between 2 girls from Long Island)

– Maybe I’ll live to see the day when stupidities like “Celebrity Apprentice” won’t exist any longer and the likes of Trump will return to what he was: a builder, a developer.
– Maybe I’ll live to see the day when another “Seinfeld” or, even, another “Monty Python” will light up the screens of our rooms and bring us the joy of fun + parody together with the ridicule of life, all at once in a big bang of genius.

You think?

Maybe these reality imbecilities will exhaust themselves and run out of fuel or, maybe, the running out of fuel – in itself – will become a reality show on the Twitter Channel, now hosted on the NSA LEAKS CHANNEL– hosted by Greenwald’s boyfriend in Rio, David Miranda, or by Snowden himself, in Moscow! HA!

Maybe Top Chef and the absurdity of having to run around with a bunch of carrots and some raw octopus while tripping all over the place so that some rock star (who has never eaten anything anyway because of all the drugs) can give them their thumbs up “HEY, MR B**** liked my DUCK a la Provence”

Does B***** even know where anything is, other than the NRA and fucking GUNS? Yes, he does. He’s a well traveled Rock star and “bullets a la provence is his favorite!

Those Housewives talking crap – those Cops talking crap while arresting Gang crack crap talking are no different than those talking heads DAILY speculating on the WOLF Blitzer show, whether it’s Her or Him or HIM wanting to be a HER or vice versa…

Oh Any Longer ! Will I live to see the day?

But what will happen on that day?

The Frequencies have gone CRAZY, we complain.

Are we going to go crazy if they go silent?

Do they replace the VOID within us?

Any Longer, are you there???? Are you listening?

WAIT ! Any Moore is whispering in my ear (via a silent Tweet)… (what is it?) oh….”The Days of the Cold War are Back”

Yes, I understand.
I miss those days too.
Miss them very much!

WAIT !!! (Any Longer is texting me….)



Precisely, Any. Precisely.
I’m Instagraming you now, so…you can see my neck and my Adam’s Apple and…so you can see me and I can see myself and what I’m eating before I post the entire thing on Facebook or else, if I don’t post it, IT DOESN’T EXIST!!!

-Will I live to see the end of the Tweeting days? Or will everyone’s privacy be invaded by a Chinese man or woman on vacation in the Swiss Alps pretending they are the new Emerging Rich when, in fact, Chairman Mao and Bob Dylan and even Andy Warhol are twisting and horrified in their graves SCREAMING OUT: wait a minute goddamn it!!! WAIT A MINUTE!!!

“THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEANT’, says Warhol from his tomb when he came up with those 15 minutes…

“WAIT A MINUTE !!! “THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEANT’ – says Chairman Mao, from his tomb in a direct line to Highgate Cemitery with Karl Marx when he looks at Shsnghai and…

BUT … Any…Do I want go back to when there were only 2 newspapers and only 2 news channels?

Do I want to go back to one only Cronkite and Wallace and (maybe a Murrrow?)? Or a Bernard Levin?

Do I ?

What did Thomas Bernhard have to say about this? Or Walter Benjamin? Or, even, Stephan Zweig?

To think that I’m only 59 years old and…. What I’ve seen and done leaves ne this bitter taste of nostalgia. Yet, Any Longer and Any Moore remember the crazed out dude cab driver – a checker – here in NY in the late 1970s who said to me in that amazing Bwookwin accent: “ART KILLS!!!”

It does.

How lucky we are.

I was never meant to be a CEO.

Only 3 days ago I was sitting in a room in the middle of Europe with well educated men. They were in their 35 to 50 and well versed in the arts. And, believe it or not, Any: they had NEVER heard of Philip Glass.

Silence, yes?

Yes, silence.

What does that mean to me?



Why? Because only months ago I was having to explain to a young and vibrant guy – deeply involved in the performing arts, who Marcel Duchamp was. Never heard. Never heard. Any, you still there? Ok, so rewind to 2002 when I conducted some theater workshops and found that Drama students – in there last year had NO IDEA who Artaud was. No idea. Or, for that matter, no idea who Julian Beck was. Yes, that bad.

Am I shocked? No. Only the other day (it’s always “only the other day, as if it were yesterday” I had to point out to a friend where Cedar’s Tavern used to be and what it represented: BLANK.
“You know, the Abstract Expressionists…Pollock , Greenberg, De Kooning…” BLANK !!!

Yes, the Seinfelds are Gone. Some will remember Monty Python and everyone knows who Donald Trump is.

Because the world has always been a STUPID PLACE.

I JUST happen to have lived through a period of extreme bonanza.

And for that I’m grateful.

Any Longer and Any Moore both know that.

But we’ll keep it a secret for the time being. Shush……

Gerald Thomas
Copyrighted Aug 24, 2014

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Rachel Maddow on Journalism is NOT terrorism


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UK acting like the KGB ???? The Guardian….And – Paying a tribute to the ones I owe: A Wild bunch, wild brunch (Philip Glass, Gerald, Riesman, Sarkovas, 1987)

Guardian's HDs  destroyed by UK security forces after Greenwald's partner (Miranda) had been detained at Heathrow for 9 hours while in transit.

Guardian’s HDs destroyed by UK security forces after Greenwald’s partner (Miranda) had been detained at Heathrow for 9 hours while in transit.

Samuel Beckett and GT

Samuel Beckett and GT

Ellen Stewart - La MaMa

Ellen Stewart – La MaMa

P Glass. GT, Riesman, Sarkovas

P Glass. GT, Riesman, Sarkovas

Haroldo de Campos and GT

Haroldo de Campos and GT

PS: Curtesy of photographer Ary Brandiand Bete Coelho

‘Sending a message’: what the US and UK are attempting to do
State-loyal journalists seem to believe in a duty to politely submit to bullying tactics from political officials

Glenn Greenwald, Wednesday 21 August 2013 12.28 BST

The remains of the hard disc and Macbook that held information leaked by Edward Snowden to the Guardian and was destroyed at the behest of the UK government. Photograph: Roger Tooth
Guardian editor-in-chief Alan Rusbridger on Monday night disclosed the remarkable news that UK authorities, several weeks ago, threatened the Guardian UK with prior restraint if they did not destroy all of their materials provided by Edward Snowden, and then sent agents to the basement of the paper’s offices to oversee the physical destruction of hard drives. The Guardian has more details on that episode today, and MSNBC’s Chris Hayes interviewed the Guardian’s editor-in-chief about it last night. As Rusbridger explains, this behavior was as inane as it was thuggish: since this is 2013, not 1958, destroying one set of a newspaper’s documents doesn’t destroy them all, and since the Guardian has multiple people around the world with copies, they achieved nothing but making themselves look incompetently oppressive.

But conveying a thuggish message of intimidation is exactly what the UK and their superiors in the US national security state are attempting to accomplish with virtually everything they are now doing in this matter. On Monday night, Reuters’ Mark Hosenball reported the following about the 9-hour detention of my partner under a terrorism law, all with the advanced knowledge of the White House:

One US security official told Reuters that one of the main purposes of the British government’s detention and questioning of Miranda was to send a message to recipients of Snowden’s materials, including the Guardian, that the British government was serious about trying to shut down the leaks.”

I want to make one primary point about that. On Monday, Reuters did the same thing to me as they did last month: namely, they again wildly distorted comments I made in an interview – speaking in Portuguese, at 5:00 am at the Rio airport, waiting for my partner to come home after finally being released – to manufacture the sensationalizing headline that I was “threatening” the UK government with “revenge” journalism. That wasn’t remotely what I said or did, as I explained last night in a CNN interview (see Part 2).

But vowing to report on the nefarious secret spying activities of a large government – which is what I did – is called “journalism”, not “revenge”. As the Washington Post headline to Andrea Peterson’s column on Monday explained: “No, Glenn Greenwald didn’t ‘vow vengeance.’ He said he was going to do his job.” She added:

“Greenwald’s point seems to have been that he was determined not to be scared off by intimidation. Greenwald and the Guardian have already been publishing documents outlining surveillance programs in Britain, and Greenwald has long declared his intention to continue publishing documents. By doing so, Greenwald isn’t taking ‘vengeance.’ He’s just doing his job.”

But here’s the most important point: the US and the UK governments go around the world threatening people all the time. It’s their modus operandi. They imprison whistleblowers. They try to criminalize journalism. They threatened the Guardian with prior restraint and then forced the paper to physically smash their hard drives in a basement. They detained my partner under a terrorism law, repeatedly threatened to arrest him, and forced him to give them his passwords to all sorts of invasive personal information – behavior that even one of the authors of that terrorism law says is illegal, which the Committee for the Protection of Journalists said yesterday is just “the latest example in a disturbing record of official harassment of the Guardian over its coverage of the Snowden leaks”, and which Human Rights Watch says was “intended to intimidate Greenwald and other journalists who report on surveillance abuses.” And that’s just their recent behavior with regard to press freedoms: it’s to say nothing of all the invasions, bombings, renderings, torture and secrecy abuses for which that bullying, vengeful duo is responsible over the last decade.

But the minute anyone refuses to meekly submit to that, or stands up to it, hordes of authoritarians – led by state-loyal journalists – immediately start objecting: how dare you raise your voice to the empire? How dare you not politely curtsey to the Queen and thank the UK government for what they have done. The US and UK governments are apparently entitled to run around and try to bully and intimidate anyone, including journalists – “to send a message to recipients of Snowden’s materials, including the Guardian”, as Reuters put it – but nobody is allowed to send a message back to them. That’s a double standard that nobody should accept.

If the goal of the UK in detaining my partner was – as it now claims – to protect the public from terrorism by taking documents they suspected he had (and why would they have suspected that?), that would have taken 9 minutes, not 9 hours. Identically, the UK knew full well that forcing the Guardian UK to destroy its hard drives would accomplish nothing in terms of stopping the reporting: as the Guardian told them, there are multiple other copies around the world. The sole purpose of all of that, manifestly, is to intimidate. As the ACLU of Massachusetts put it:

The real vengeance we are seeing right now is not coming from Glenn Greenwald; it is coming from the state.”

But for state-loyal journalists, protesting thuggish and aggressive behavior from the state is out of the question. It’s only when aggressive challenges come from those who are bringing transparency and accountability to the state do they get upset and take notice. As Digby wrote last night: “many elite journalists seem to be joining the government repression of the free press instead of being defiant and protecting their own prerogatives.” That’s because they believe in subservient journalism, not adversarial journalism. I only believe in the latter.

Related matters

The Wall Street Journal reported last night that NSA surveillance has a far greater reach than previously imagined – including 75% of domestic traffic – and included this excellent graphic with it about how that is done, taken in part from the Snowden materials we have been reporting.

Here is David Miranda explaining to the BBC what it’s like to be forced to turn over your passwords to security agents who have detained you under a terrorism law, so they can troll through your emails and Facebook account and Skype program while you are detained. Just watch that short video and judge for yourself.

Finally, MSNBC’s Rachel Maddow had an excellent commentary on Monday about all of this that really captures the heart of it all (video not available)

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The New York Dry Opera Theater Company is on its way!

Street Art

Street Art

FROM “NOWHERE MAN” (1996) – to be revived and revisited

…..It certainly wasn’t a scene where an actor can afford to overact.
Well….I overacted it. I did.

And I cried and screamed all through it. There I was, …..standing before death itself….. the final silence…., a solitary moment….. where the character, that king of the underworld character who knew too much, would have to face up to his boss, a…. a… “delicate”, “precious” moment of suspense…..where cries turn to whispers and a scream is little else than a silent open mouth instilling fear and the ultimate sensation In the hearts of the audience….and….I fucked it up by screaming my way through it.

I’ll never forgive myself.

But I screamed. I screamed so loud that they all covered their ears….I didn’t kill myself….I killed the scene!


And all that exaggeration?
And all that screaming and overacting?
Would you believe they loved it????
Would you believe they awarded me every prize and award in the universe?
They thought the scene was incredibly well acted and covered me in gold !…
The worst moment of my life, the worst acting choice and…I get ….. a…. standing ovation!!!
Really! It’s getting ugly out there. It’s enough to make you puke!

So I decided to create this choreography “the reverse of mortality” or the “awakening of the dead muse”…..intended to be the worst choreography ever created, the most disgusting, the most horrendous, the trashiest dance EVER!
The dead muse would start dancing around with her skirt raised high up in the air, showing of her hairy….(thing)…..and whirling her gorgeous body towards a tacky blue clouded sky backdrop….Oh yes! The music will be loud and very Brazilian, a Brazilian pop tune….That will be the formula for more golden awards and a great and prosperous career….They would give me another standing ovation, wouldn’t they? You know that these things have a tendency for ovations, right? You know that these things have a tendency of becoming cult, “cult”, CULT,CULT…..

(talking to the dead muse)

Dance women, dance!!! Stop this lie and get up on your feet and dance!!!….(reconsidering) it doesn’t work….DANCE, c’mon now baby, let’s see the dance. Dance for me, baby, do it for me…..

Oh this is too much work. Too much work. I was born in the wrong century. This is too much for me. I’m a romantic, baroque really ! 19th Century. Not made for nowadays!

And watches another commercial

He spent his days like that. If anyone knocked on the door he would simply shout….

“Sorry….there’s nobody to answer the door right now, we are all having a…..collective neurosyncretic massage!”. (to the lampshade) YOU ALL SHUT THE FUCK UP OR I’LL PUT A BULLET THROUGH YOUR HEADS!
Oh my God…what did I do???? What the fuck did I do?

ACTOR: (off)
Escape …fugue….improv…Yes! Take me. Wrap me. Kill me. No, don’t kill me. Touch me. Feel me. Urgggggghhhhhh. Let’s see……This music never stops. It’s music, it’s noise. This noise never stops. (to sound operator)
Increase it. INCREASE IT. Higher! That’s it! Escaping through noise, through music. Let’s see….Beethoven. No, not Beethoven. Too poetic and poets leave tears behind. Shoenberg. Yes! No! Not Shoenberg. Too intelligent and intellectuals leave trails behind. Wagner, that’s it: “Wagner”, “the work of total escapism”…No. Too idiotic. Plus, Wagner leaves too much damage behind. Gerschwin. That’s it. Gerschwin and his “neuropseudoclassicaljazz”…the misunderstood sympathies…I’ll escape in a certain way and they will interpret it in another, just like in a rhapsody. I’ll escape and they’ll never find me….I’ll reappear as someone else, with a different mask, hiding my old features with an expression of the future…just like it was with jazz, with the twelve tone music, with the fugue, with the blues, with samba when the slaves from Africa drummed their dead ones to the bottom of their unnamed graves….or the dead beat tone of the monossilabic rap / shit ‘ bull….pit…..

Our friend had a revelation. Or, at least thought he did. It was one of these ingenious jewels that descend upon people once in every decade. He thinks that has seen the light through the evolution of the sounds of music, just like all those geniuses who have captured the human soul in those unimaginable tones and semitones, afonic scratches and computerized squeezes of verbal declines….

Yes! Gerschwin, the origin! I’ve got to be able to figure out the calculated transformation of jazz into classical and back to jazz again…and then, I’ll be able to live anywhere on this…planet….and immigrate….and reinvented and leave this place….this mountaintop…and become everyman. No man. Everyman. No. Nowhere Man.

He bit his hand until he saw blood. What fugue? What intelligence did he think he saw in Gerschwin? What does he think he has seen? What fugue? What musical evolution and scratches of computerized rap / shit / bull…pit? How does he think that this will bring him renewal?
She is just as dead as she has always been…He had the impression of growing a little smaller every day, shrinking like a speck of dust or sterile pollen being drifted along the landscape of his imagined mind. Our man spent his days monologuing in order to pass the time.

I bit my hand until I saw blood. I felt my sharp teeth cut into my skin and I turned my thumb slowly until it was cut all around. I held it there until the pain climbed up to my arm and shoulder. I grabbed everything that reminded me of her and started to tear it all up. I was determined to rid her from my system, to flush her out, to associate her image to physical pain and, thus, rid myself of pain. I tore up her clothes.

See how strong you still are? Keep it up, c’mon. Tear it to bits, “be a human shredder”, I said to myself, “be a human shredder” as I continued to rip through all the stuff.
It was then that I noticed something curious. An alien sound overcame me. I heard it and ignored at first, but after a while I couldn’t resist it any more. (NOISE)
I was grunting like a dog, barking, grunting, making mad dog noise. After a few minutes I realized: I was making the noise of a mad dog.

link to bits of the 1996 production:

Luiz Damasceno in Gerald Thomas's "Nowhere Man"

Luiz Damasceno in Gerald Thomas’s “Nowhere Man”

And an interview with Alberto Guzik about the production:

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What a beautiful life!

Pretend that the present has been stolen from you by a hacker.

So it is.

Imagine this. Imagine what incredible pleasure and divinity and amazing life I’ve had in these last 59 years!!! Just imagine the privilege. The privilege !

Then imagine the hacker!

Then imagine all this TRASH that’s online these days and this less-than-trash that these TWIT-ters and FacelessBooks and the GOOOGLES and this and that and the aimless SHITS who know NOTHING – (age 18 to 30) but pretend they do… Imagine! Just imagine!!!!

Imagine the BANKS and GOVERNMENTS lying to us, day after day (and at night), robbing us of our dignity, robbing us of our hoods, and these 1984 like cameras looking us in the face and in our toes and FUCKING WHAT?


TO JUMP FROM 59 TO 69 for instance? To and for what? To increase my already saturated dementia?

To become …what? 79 and a cripple? Or a hunchback or a hatchback or a bad fishtail?

What? To see and, perhaps, even to see and survive another WORLD WAR?

Why? What for? The Syrians are already doing that on my behalf. Those fucked up people in the Congo or in Darfour are already doing that on my behalf.

Does not 59 seem a noble age to LEAVE?

Out of my window I watch a spider devour a fly. Nature depresses tremendously, however, the TV is on the Nature Channel and those JAWS open up and devour yet another creature and so goes DARWIN and I feel so silly carrying my papers around – thinking that I might leave a legacy behind, thinking that my books, my plays, my name might even be recognized when I come back as another entity or when these eyes of mine shut for the last time, for the very last time and take a look around only to realize that I am nothing, was nothing, nothing is absolutely nothing, will never be anything because….we spin around a myth, an ego, an axe which is round and needs only a glimmer of light and this light is now…..OUT.

Gerald Thomas
August 13, 2013

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Gerald Thomas no Conexão Roberto D’Ávila

Gerald Thomas e Roberto D'Ávila

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“Eu Queimo Basco” (peça copyrighted)

Hill of Tara Cloud

Hill of Tara Cloud

Gerald Thomas

July 2013

Antes d’eu me mandar pra TUNISIA (Epa!) ainda vou dar uma passadinha em Bilbao! E dar uma olhadinha nos neo-concretos do museu de arte neo-moderna lá no Guggenheim do Frank Gehry! Quem sabe eu não encontre, tomando um café, uma REPLICA de um…..Haroldo de Campos falando em BASCO:

(A dança da PHOENIX levando um banho de leite, grosso – efeito de luz e liquido)

“Oi Haroldo, minha janela Basco-lante do banheiro de empregada precisa de reparos: quebrou. O Sr. Conhece alguém? São as “dependências da empregada” entende? Ela fica….mal ! Ela fica MAL!”

É evidente que não se espera de um Haroldo um sorriso nem dois. Os concretos são assim: esculpidos em concreto! Não esboçam um sorriso. Piores que um Paulo Coelho! Haja humor. TUNIS e TANGIER HERE I COME!

Sim, isso pode ser interpretado como uma tentativa de ensaio pré-orgasimica. Na verdade é ! Senão já estaria sentada numa classe económica da Paquistan Airlines da Royal Air Marroc e….mas não estou PORQUE…

(Phoenix já de pé ! – asas abertas, leite transbordando..)
….eu ainda tenho que mandar fazer um exame das MINHAS fezes e urina pra ver eu não estou com essa gripe aviaria. Esse meu xixi não anda me cheirando nada bem!

Outro dia foram me chupar e desmaiaram. Romântica que sou, achei que foi de amor. “Ah, que lindo, desmaiou com o elixir do amor!” Nada! Desmaiou com a cândida ou o pessimismo e a correnteza e o TRIconoma lá de dentro mesmo e no chão ficou. E caiu em cima do meu sapato de salto alto.

Tive que sair na rua mancando.

Ouvi a policia chegando

Vi a ambulância chegando.

Acho que ele morreu com o pulmão perfurado pelo meu super salto. Era o único sapato que eu tinha, digo de salto daquele tamanho- eu chamava ele de “foz do Iguaçu”. Tristeza. Não ha mais chances pró mundo. É deus contra deus, é religião contra religião: com tanto GOOGLE pra lá e pra cá, com tanto I-Phone e I-pad e I-fuck e I-Me e I-MEUDEUS o que sobrou mesmo foi aquela flor no fundo do jardim pedindo um pouco d’água.

“mas não tem flor. A não ser que seja um golinho de Evian, quer?”

Qual flor no mundo vai recusar uma Evian?

Também com tanto suplemento!!! A culpa é minha. Tudo bem, a culpa é minha, é um tal de te dar antioxidante, vitamina E, C, SUPER C, B, B12, Pancreatina, lactase, Zinco, zinco chelado, Boro Chelado, amilase, Manganês, Magnésio, Selênio, Cálcio, Ferro, própolis, DMEA, Rivotril, Topamax….GABA, Nortripolina, Wellbutrin, ZoloFT, Enzima GOLD, Luciana Gimenes, Vitamina D3, Metanfetamina, extrato de gingseng, Açaí em pó orgânico do Amazonas, Gooji, Aloé Vera (uma babosa metida a besta), amilase, extrato de rosas da Turquia quando morrem. O que? “Extrato de rosas da Turquia quando morrem” Cada coisa.

Entendi tudo! Eu me catabolizo! Uma emoção que se “puxa” pra dentro, uma introversão. Não, nada disso. É que um personagem está tentando desvendar o cheiro do outro, já que todos ali estão super medicados e vindos de um dia duro de trabalho e, sem saber se em Bilbao, Tunis ou Tangier ou no centro de São Paulo….
Ora….ah…me poupem.

A gente toma qualquer, QUALQUER negócio qualquer tipo de solução, mineral ou não mineral, e ficamos todos num silêncio (pausa) sepulcral tentando entender o que o outro está tomando, já que ninguém mais entende nada: hoje é tudo na China, em Dubai, em Abu Dhabi e em Maracanãs que não ficam prontos e a COPA –

Haroldo….a Copa….e as Olimpíadas Haroldo quando não sabem nem da Tarsila e de Ícaro e de quem tenta levantar um vôo um um jorro de PORRA ! Não leram GALAXIAS e ….nada. Não sabem nada sobre SCHULDE e SCHULD – GUILT, CULPA, DIVIDA, dinheiro, entende? Você me entende! Mas e eles que quebram meus ossos e se esbarram em mim e gozam em suas calças e descem em paradas erradas por causa das paradas.

Oh Brasil tão retumbante e tão redundante!

(Se livra das asas e toma uma chuveirada que molha um pouco do publico)

Eu sei que não é fácil viver afastado do mundo. Sei como é difícil “tentar” estar envolvido e, no entanto, não estar. Imagino como deva ser enfurecedor.
Digo, frustrantemente enfurecedor. O conflito em querer ter o poder e não tê-lo é difícil. Olhar para as grandes nações do mundo e sempre ter que imitá-las, importar seus produtos, “fazer tudo igual, mesmo com anos ou décadas de atraso” acaba virando um recalque. Sim, um furor de recalque.
Uma nação conquista sua história com INDEPENDÊNCIA, sangue, e formula sua CONSTITUIÇÃO através de uma, duas, três ou mais Revoluções. São sanguinárias essas guerras internas, os conflitos internos, e, principalmente, a luta que se trava entre grupos de interesses e a moral da grande maioria silenciosa e os os direitos civis, e a liberdade INDIVIDUAL vai ganhando um preço! Um preço alto.
E vem destilado, babado, cagado, amerdalhado, assim como os (des)editores bem entendem, já que ninguém entende porra nenhuma: é sentindo o cheiro das esquinas e comprando no coreano que fica aberto 24 horas e cortando legume na calçada de NY que se conhece uma cidade, e não pelos seriados de TV.
Resumido: Nós aqui no Brasil discutimos e nos arrastamos em vão, ah, vá pra puta que pariu!

Haroldo, agora que você já esta ai no….seu 74 livro, me diz: por que, ODEIAMOS O VENCEDOR, mas adoramos dar um tapinha nas costas daquele que PERDE?
Eu sou uma dessas. Perco todos os dias.
Até meu salto alto eu perdi.
Perfurou o pulmão do outro ou da outra , sei lá. Nem pra matar eu sirvo. Só consigo por acidente.
O Brasil é um porco voador e fui engolido por esse porco.
O negocio então é esperar. Esperar o matadouro matar essa merda e vender a minha vidinha pra um açougue qualquer onde alguém, algum poeta sujo e boêmio, como Artaud ou Rimbaud – veganos, obvio, que nem passam perto de açougues e não moram no Brasil, me comprem.




Vou sentir falta da novela das 8, DAS 9, DAS 10, DAS 11, DAS 12, DAS 13, DAS 14, DAS 15… 16… Mas não se pode ter a Dinamarca dentro da Inglaterra e dentro da Suíça aqui dentro da ACLIMACAO, Caralho!

Nem eu, nem ele e nem o Haroldo!
EU SOU o “Recalque brasileiro”, e com orgulho!
Ociosos, retóricos, opinativos. Merecemos um divã com pregos ou espinhos! Ah, e antes de me virem com respostas levantadas pelo Google (inventado aqui em Sorocaba!), lembrem-se que TUDO surgiu aqui, a não ser Confúcio ou Sófocles.

Enquanto isso eu queimo, vocês queima, queimam e entra em vossos pulmões para virar, digamos assim…TUDO vira uma enorme fumaça de rancor cancerígeno.

(Phoenix já de pé ! – asas abertas, leite transbordando..)

(vai indo embora…..fundo do palco: para)

Ah, Haroldo, minha janela Basco-lante do banheiro de empregada ainda precisa de reparos: quebrou. Nada mudou. Nada muda nunca. O Sr. Conhece alguém? Não, não conhece. São as “dependências da empregada” entende? Ela fica….mal DEPENDENTE PACAS. NOSSA! Uma dependência de drogas e desse Porção….(Lágrimas)

Mas eu adoro tanto…..
(caminha pró fundo)
Adoro tanto….


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A Message to my hacker!

Touching "the stone" at Hill of Tara - Druid Land

Touching “the stone” at Hill of Tara – Druid Land

Standing outside of the O2 theater, Dublin

Standing outside of the O2 theater, Dublin

If I were to lose my pants, I'd replace them by a new pair, by a pair the FBI gave me today!

If I were to lose my pants, I’d replace them by a new pair, by a pair the FBI gave me today!

Paying homage to my master- sitting by the Samuel Beckett Bridge, Dublin

Paying homage to my master- sitting by the Samuel Beckett Bridge, Dublin


“Holy city
Holy cow
Holy Moses
Holy Mao
Specks of dust
I think I must

Fly them circus Flying fly
I don’t know how I don’t know how
They managed what they did and what they knot
They did what they managed
They sorted what they sorted, the needle from the haystack is a smack

But they didn’t sort the needle in my arm
But they didn’t sort the needle in my arm
But they didn’t sort the needle in my arm

Ow Chairman Moses
Ow Chairman David
Ow Master Lunatics
Please help me crave it
Please help save it
Please help me crave it
Please help me crave it

And if the world were to
End today
I want a postcard
Showing a branch
And thru this branch
Another ranch
The ranch where Jesus
Used to have his brunch

Holy city
Holy cow
Holy Moses
Holy Mao
Specks of dust

But they didn’t sort the needle in my arm
But they didn’t sort the needle in my arm

Where the gas is cheap
Where the sheep use Jeeps
And where the Jeeps are holy

Ow! How Falafel of you! Ow how Tahini!
I’m sure that my grounded horses would
Kick you away and away you fly you high!

Ow what a Circus this is and how much fun
Each and single one
Selling his image of the holy one
Nailed to the wooden branches of a bank

And what a bank
And what a bank
There’s money to be made here
There’s spirits in bottles and a bar
Where wailing men
And wailing women

But they didn’t sort the needle in my arm
But they didn’t sort the needle in my arm

Gerald Thomas

(Jerusalem, about a year ago and there’s IF I WERE TO LOSE MY PANTS)

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