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S.O.L.O my solo piece with Lisa Giobbi – opened in Copenhagen on November 24, 2018, is finally on Vimeo.
Ricardo Boechat: Brazil news anchor dies in helicopter crash
Ricardo Boechat, one of Brazil’s best-known journalists, has been killed in a helicopter crash in São Paulo.
The aircraft carrying the 66-year-old news anchor hit a lorry on a ring road on Monday morning. The pilot is also thought to have died.
Tributes have been paid to Boechat, who was an award-winning radio and TV broadcaster with Bandeirantes, or Band.
Breaking the news live on TV, a colleague said it was “a very sad moment for Brazilian journalism”.
Boechat had finished recording the popular morning radio show Café com Jornal just hours before the incident.
He was travelling from Campinas, near São Paulo, when the helicopter came down on the motorway at 12:14 local time (14:14 GMT).
The driver of the lorry was rescued by paramedics.
Writing on social media, fellow journalists described Boechat as “a journalist’s journalist”, praising his down-to-earth approach and “impactful” reporting.
Diogenes was BLOODBATH !
Diogenes was BLOODBATH !
YOU DIDN’T KNOW THAT, DID YOU ?
A FUCKING BLOODBATH! Yes, I must hold on to this image for some time, some time, it has to last some time, as long as the prose lasted. How long did prose last?
YOU DIDN’T KNOW THAT, DID YOU ?
YOU DON’T know ! you …
The ship shipwrecked, it didn’t earthwreck nor did it sandwreck. “The sunken”. The Titanic lasted. Did it? It is a tragedy that did not become an opera, did not become a play. But a beautiful opera, no doubt. A tragedy in two acts: the journey and the disaster in the first and the rape in the second, in the second act. Imagine that!!! The soprano, arms outstretched, with her back to the audience, a linear murmur at the highest point of her voice, small moist gestures, choir and actors floating their presence in small concentric circles, and the ship / lying / giant / monster / animal, violated by the nautical curiosity of the master and his orchestra. I held that image. It lasted for some time. Then he lost all lyrical meaning and became a metaphor.
DIOGENES WAS A BLOODBATH ! but I wasn’t affected.
I’m still young. I know it and at the beginning of a beautiful twilight. That, for example, they tell me. I have had several steps behind me. This, for example, they speculate on. Attracting to the present, present from other times, true catalogs even, immense entries until…..In this, for example, few people will believe in. Its NOT that I do not understand those who do not believe. NO. Not that I do not understand what they want to tell me, even though I know it will pass, it has to pass, first they, then me. This is the logical sequence. This is the logic: some say to, others say to few, still others, define what some say to others.
It’s NOT that I do not understand…. You see? I don’t understand some of the words I’ve just spoken because…. Well, they seem as if regurgitated by them, these poor stuffed souls. And I must have heard them from Jules Verne.
I don’t know. I get lost. Hours and hours at the morgue cutting and slicing and weighing and bleeding out. No, it’s not that I don’t understand death.
I do. I stare it in the eye every day, hour, minute. Just like Verne, just like Diogenes.
But I’m a copywriter. I mean, a ghost writer. A “gheist wroughter”. A Carbon copy of what I used to be !
Now that… bloodbath: a little bit of a shipwreck, but only that, just that, no more. Although this time around, quite different, something more crumpled. Not that the bloodbath is not crumpled. Not that all the other inconsequential images are not crumpled. They are. They’re crumpled. But the latter is still not an image in itself, only a texture, and quite valid at that. A few days ago, just before sleep…. No, not getting into the sleep thing. Not here. Dinner served, excellent wine. Rude ! This seems to have texture and nothing else, not another image.
She …. (I said she, didn’t I? ) I’m SO IN LOVE WITH HER !!!! OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD I AM SO IN LOVE WITH HER… And yet…..she went out of the door, never looked back and it was over. SHE did not tell me to be a clarity ideas… any ideas or to clarity nighttime. One can, in principle clarify the meaning of nighttime without having an effect or an incidence of light on the night. But what does it matter? I loved her. She’s gone. Not that I did not pay attention to this “clarity”. Not that I did not pay any attention to that damned clarity that makes me see with even more clarity that I still can not sleep peacefully, and that no one still knows anything, and has not even come close to anything and that the rest is all but pettiness, are just pass times, hobbies, mere embroidery. From the simplest tapestries to the most complicated thesis. Embroidery. Some interesting patterns, some motifs not totally uncreative, but embroidery all the same. And where’s the laugh? The laugh, huh? Where is the laughter of a Shakespeare, for example, or of an Aristotle, for example, or of a Joyce?
I’ve had my loud laughs. I did. They heard them.
Not that I do not laugh for real. It was real. Not that I do not die of laughing at times when I could not sleep without the meds and without stuffing myself.
BLOODY POISON ! ALL OF YOU!!! BLODDY FUCKING POISON !!!
BUT WOULD IT HELP ? the poison….to poison, I mean….
The old, the poor, the drunk, the drugged, the crazy, the political fans, the extremists, the goddamn radicals…. WOULD IT HELP ?
WOULD IT HELP ?
Would it help them, the old, the poor, the drunk, the drugged, the crazy, the political fans, the extremists, the goddamn radicals…. WOULD IT HELP them overcome their ailments if I died?
Gerald Thomas @ New York – Copenhagen 2018 /2019
Words of wisdom, emotional support and so much more from a friend (@Prob21) on Instagram: Thank YOU Paulo Guimarães !
I have my freedom.
But I wonder if my freedom is also my biggest fear.
I know it to be my biggest prison and … No!
I’m not just lonely.
That’s the term and the price to pay for….
I have always pioneered being alone in my quests.
How can I now be moaning and tearing up ?
I’m not just at the end of a long journey.
I am tired.
It doesn’t matter what I used to.
It doesn’t matter what I used to be.
It doesn’t matter what I used to do.
It doesn’t matter what I used to feel.
It doesn’t matter what I used to achieve.
None of that is a reality in 2019.
Now it’s capital CAPITAL letters and they spell: DESPERATION.
But nobody – not a single soul – will ever believe me.
They all think it’s yet another act.
And (who knows) it might be?
I own my freedom.
And since my freedom has me, we will disappear into the beyond and just stop THIS CLOCK. STOP THIS TIME !
STOP THIS HORRIBLE DESPERATION !
NYC February 7, 2019