Tag Archives: Beckett

A disaster in abstraction. For to end yet again…

A disaster in abstraction:  Two covered heads I’m staring at: Quantum part (1)

While I sit here and wait yet for another plane, I wonder what to do and how to do it. What to say, and how to say it. No, a crisis is not a joke. Yet, literally speaking, a crisis should push one forward. Yes, forward.

I’m staring at two religious radicals (both heads covered (maybe a fear of showing their baldness or simply a fear of falling objects from the universe), of opposite cleric convictions – while each sits with in full garment as if to make a statement about their “gods”. “Mine is better than yours”, one of the two must be thinking. “I hate your guts and want to blow you up”, is probably hovering around the head of the other.

So much for history. Yes, history. I’ve always claimed (in workshops, lectures, interviews, whatever) that one ought to know everything (and I mean or meant EVERYTHING).

But today, Wednesday, reality hits me in the face. It takes my skull and shakes it as does a Beckett conundrum “For to end, yet again, skull alone in a dark place pent bowed to begin”. For to. Non existing combinations. Joycean and Beckettian language: “for to” is meant to sound as 4 – 2 and then…. Pent. Oh yes: pent stands for the number five. 4-2-5. Was that the number of a train or tram line or does it stand for the unsolvable enigma that Churchill used to illustrate Russia (article below). 425 may well be a cabalistic number which, in reverse order or maybe summed up in cadences of (….) add up to some significance. One of the radical religious persons I am staring at has studied. Probably studied profoundly.

And why? What do we need to know about ourselves that hasn’t already been told in a better shape and form????? Please tell me.

According to Nathan Lane (starring in the Broadway show “The Adams Family” which was trashed, panned by the critics), it’s simply GREAT that Americans don’t read. So he says: ignorance is great.

Adams Family is a success, regardless of the negative reviews. In the past, a play or musical on Broadway would close within 3 days of its opening if panned by the critics, In fact,  a parody of this ‘ritual’ starred Nathan himself in Mel Brook’s fantastic “The Producers”. However, now, he claims victory for illiteracy.

Well, there is something to be said about this. I’m looking at two radicals in full garment who study (daily) their commandments, their protocol of manners and behaviors according to their “god”.

Nathan Lane claims that the best thing now – in this age of info bombardment – is simply to be illiterate and not keep a memory alive or, even, remember what ‘specialized opinion’ has to say.

Where do you stand, beloved reader????

If it weren’t for curiosity (and this is to be read as an anti-Lane statement), I would never have come across such names as Isaac Newton, for instance, or

James Maxwell, James Prescott Joule, Kelvin, Milton, Dante, Bruno or Max Planck.

I confess to be a frivolous reader when it comes to Quantum Physics, astrophysics and/or any other riddle which Churchill….No, forget Churchill for a moment and concentrate on the following formula

h = 6.626068 × 10-34m2kg/s

Yes, take your time: read it again:

h = 6.626068 × 10-34m2kg/s

Lots of people know what this stands for. But billions of others like myself do not. And here I fall into Nathan Lane’s category of the ‘glorious illiterate’.

Yes, illiterate and indignant. Why? Because I see the world in the light of a constant catastrophe. One happening and one about to happen. Why? Because I see our lives as worthless specks of nothingness and …a curious desire to counterbalance this “important self within us” with the immenseness of the Universe. Or, should I say, “our curiosity in measuring our size in relation to the galaxies”. C’est un joke.

Yes, today at this airport lounge I’m staring at these two religious radicals of opposite cleric convictions and I am incredibly nervous about the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. A newspaper’s headline on the adjacent seat reads: A disaster in abstraction. For weeks, a threat floating somewhere out there.

“Really?”, I ask. “A disaster in abstraction?” Will we ever learn? Or are we on stage? An oil rigged stage?


A well. The name says it all. So does the verb follow? Attack?  Not being able to understand WELL and to spell to verb means to spill the verb.

Some people worry about the whereabouts of Lord Mandelson who was seen in a 250.000 GB sterling pounds Ferrari being driven to a dinner with Russian oligarchs who were closing a deal worth 500 million GB pounds. Yes, I guess it is rather worrying when he writes in a disclaimer “not have known it to be a  business dinner”. Ha. C’est un joke.

Why? Why do I worry about things like that? Human nature, human species, the species as a whole and the size of what’s above our covered or uncovered heads. It’s all dark. All completely dark and solvable via riddles and….

And nothing, since, in the end, or at our last breath we are, as we’ve always been nothing but a “for to end yet again skull alone in a dark place pent bowed to begin.”

Gerald Thomas

25 May 2010

Thank you,  Jorge and Sandra Futoshi Yamamoto for the inspiration.


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Around the world in 5 days! “qui non usare acqua per spengere-incendi – “Rome-ing” while I look at the Ceiling: it has all been a big mistake!

No news to report! I’d say this is rather good, wouldn’t you?Part of Russia’s mystery – and remember, Winston Churchill once described it as a riddle wrapped inside a mystery hidden in an enigma – is the geography and the history. Russia is a vast country, spanning nine time zones, bordering three continents. It has gone through major geopolitical trauma, having watched its massive multinational empire collapse almost overnight.


(below this article, there’s yesterday’s article: “Autobahnkirche” a rest place for the soul)

It’s strange. I am not exactly responsible for this. On the same token, I’ll say the opposite. I am completely responsible for this.  And this is not what you’re thinking. Or, maybe, it is exactly what you’re thinking.

It’s what I’m daydreaming. A nightmare. A nightmare played out in Rome (rather than in Venice). Day after day I find myself confined to a room, a smaller and smaller room, looking at the ceiling. Day in, day out, I’m looking at a smaller ceiling –usually some kind of white tone or yellowish tone that makes the white turn older.

Yes, I’m in Rome, have you noticed? And have NO desire, whatsoever, to be engulfed by hoards and hoards of people who fill up the streets, “Rome-ing” in one direction, or roaming in the opposite direction carrying ones soul and soles where one doesn’t want to go. Some of these millions are seeing this for the 1st time. This is even more depressing. They are Columbus in reverse order: the discovery and the enthusiasm of the “old world”. Fuck them!

Yes, the ruins are still here where I played as a  child. Problem? Too many ruins. It’s all one gigantic ruin. The ruin that produces good economic results. Photographs are taken, cameras are snapping of one photographing the other for the billionth time. And where will these images end up? In some kind of blog or log book or in a porn slide show without the porn part.

In the 70’s when I used to come here, it was usually in connection with work: I was here because Amnesty was doing “this or that” or the League for the Liberation of People –Senator Lelio Basso’s NGO – was doing something more to the left of what Amnesty International was doing.

Back then, just as now: always hoards and hoards of people but I seemed less affected and perhaps less aware of the global problems and the density of this thing we call overpopulation or information overload or – what else do we call it? -,oh yes: globalized world. All in all and all ARE all outside this window close to Via Tritone on Via Arcione.

Yes, I’m living a Beckett life. Which? I don’t know. But I seem stuck in a Beckett story, be it The Lost Ones where people  roam each searching for their lost ones……be it in a Murphy or Molloy situation of watching the world go past my elbow and being unable to respond to the pressure.


When an image comes to mind, it has already been done. “But you used to kick the door open or shooting your enemies dead and only AFTER  the corpse lay there, only then, would you ask questions.” Yes, that was then.


Nobody can write the diary of a ceiling. A ceiling has no life, not even the Sistine Chapel has a life without the hoards of whores in horror of queuing up to look up and stay there looking up at Michaelangelo’s masterpiece. The holes where the lights are built into look like stars or dead planets or your firmament, firm in stating that I’ve grown over sensitive to the news, the overwhelming news of plane crashes, suicide bombers, improvised or not improvised explosive devices and my mind and body are scattered as if an IED has hit it right where the brain makes its decisions.

I’m from the Brave New World.

And this world, such as any other, seems bleaker than usual.

Yes, water is pouring out of the Fontana di Trevi and, yes, 1 million people sit on the Spanish Steps.

And why? Why do they sit there? Why do they throw coins into the Fontana? Because they expect their lives to have a closer encounter with…..with what?  Eternity? Oh, of course, I’d forgotten eternity.

Because I am in bed, almost immobile, looking at the ceiling with no horizon in mind. My mind (at this moment) are the steps at Piazza d’Espagna or the water flowing out in huge amounts, from the ruins of the di Trevi, Da Vinci, di Modena or the water which surrounds Taormina, Sicily.

Nobody knows a thing about History.

Maybe I know too much about it all. Yes, a white ceiling may just be the most appropriate scenario for here and now.

Gerald Thomas

23 May 2010.

(a new draft of “BOOK” is available on the videolog: (http://geraldthomasvideos.blogspot.com)

And Eugenio is in Porto Alegre

Yachts of the stinking rich: Cannes.

Yachts of the Stinking Rich: Cannes.


Service station with a soul or Rest Stops for Christ!”

Yes, people take time out and off when driving the German super highways and pray: “a moment with myself and for myself and my soul” says a guy who just parked his Porsche outside of an autobahn praying station. No, before you ask, his God’s name ain’t Diesel.

As for me, en route to Rome ( this Tirreno is tricky and dramatically historical), I’m wondering if I’m going to bump into Antonio, Sebastian, Trinculo and all other foes who displaced (uncrowned) the Duke of Milan, Mr. Prospero.

The Tempest: Shakespeare’s last play (1611) and his only tragedy NOT ending in blood or bloodshed.

Prospero plays around and even tortures his enemies but acquits them in the end (through the applause of the audience – which condemns HIM to continue with his Renaiscence soliloquy for the rest of eternity on the makeshift island called THE STAGE.

I had no idea that Picasso and Braque were friends. I had no idea that Cubism was actually a common and ongoing joke between the two of them. I always thought they were enemies.

In the Cubist world, there is no Tempest because there are no waves, There might be square angled waves, as there is a Star Spangled Banner but the question remains:

IF, in fact there had to be a pardon issue between Picasso, Braque and Matisse…would they have had the dignity to act like Prospero/Shakespeare?

Don’t think so.

That was a “French Ship”, hardly a friendship. Bullfighting fans and painters who live in exile and protest against dictators such as Franco, could hardly be forgiving humans.

Are we able to be forgiving? I mean, now, in the age of nothingness, are we forgiving? Or do we look at a bleak future without a proper (prosper) ideology, since it’s all done and dead and dead for nothing.

When I looked out of the window and saw the yachts of the STINKING rich in Cannes yesterday, it dawned on me that  (perhaps) we shouldn’t be all that forgiving after all.

Yes, a Stink King rich!!!. The Brave New World of the former Duke of Milan.

I sit alone and wonder if Caliban will eat me up alive – or chew up and suck my bones dry after I’m dead. And…what difference does it make anyway???

Yes, the TemPEST,

Best Regards

Gerald Thomas

PS uptdate on Saturday May 22

Eugenio Barba speaks to Zero Hora (in Porto Alegre, BR)

Zero Hora – Aqui no Brasil recentemente foi assunto o fato de Gerald Thomas, um conhecido dramaturgo e diretor, dizer que estava deixando os palcos por estar cansado de mesmice no teatro, que, como em outras artes, nada mais apresentava de novo. Qual sua opinião sobre essa posição, observando o panorama global do teatro?

Eugenio Barba – Conheço o Gerald Thomas. O que posso dizer é que percebo, sim, uma falta de interesse global pelo teatro. É uma arte para a minoria. Mas é preciso saber de que teatro estamos falando. Teatro tem muitos gêneros, diferentes objetivos, diferentes espectadores. Creio que 95% do teatro que se faz no mundo é feito por anônimos. As pessoas não tomam conhecimento deles, que fazem teatro em cadeias, hospitais psiquiátricos, campos de refugiados. É um teatro que cumpre a função de ajudar na interação das pessoas.

Thanks Eugenio.


Roma: 22 May, 2010 I am in Eugenio Barba's town

You Too.


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Breaking news: London calling. Gordon Brown will resign: 50 is a number stronger than 300: the anti Darwinism has finally arrived: more on Monday

GREECE is in LONDON (British Museum)


12:15 PM ET

British Prime Minister Gordon Brown Will Resign as Labour Party Leader By September

When 50 is a stronger number than 300

Saint Ives, Cornwall: Rocks that don’t roll, Tristan und Isolde, “my vote counts”, “press the hash key, UK – press the pound key – US”, if Britain were to press the pound key, the City would make billions!”  Hash!

Greece is in shambles, in shreds, in tatters, but if you go to the British Museum, you’d see part of the Greek ruins still there where Sofocles played as a child!”. Athens is burning! Atenas ligadas!!!!! Antenna.


That time, that last time, were the ruins still there where you played as a child…..When was that?” (Samuel Beckett). It’s amazing. But not many people know who he is! “When was that”. I’m looking at the Scilly Isles and, far away, the coast of Ireland, where Beckett was born and where the ruins are where he played as a child. “When was that?”

Have you heard of “Waiting for Godot”, I ask.

“no, not really”, he answers looking at me with small wide open 20 year old eyes.

“Never heard of Endgame, Godot, etc?”

“no, never”.


In the National Interest, it’s best to move forward”. Not my words. These are Alastair Campbell’s words. This is our man. Blair’s man. Blair’s conspiracy man. The man who is capable of forging words, forging documents and the man who (ultimately) took the UK into Iraq. I can imagine an Alastair as he would be perceived by Andy Warhol. Imagine all the Campbells, all the Elvises and all the Maos and Monroes together in stark pink and yellow. That’s my man! Star Spangled Banner! Rauschenberg has always been a HOAX. Not Jasper Johns but Robert Rauschenberg. Castelli needed a few and made them up as they came along.

I’m writing from Saint Ives, Cornwall where King Mark no longer reigns and where Tristan, Isolde, Kurwenal and Brangaene fought for their lives, love and revenge. Brazil’s emperor, Don Pedro, gave Wagner the idea: and the most incredibly beautiful opera was born. This is where I walk along its very very incredibly very narrow alleyways and look at the ocean, from the corner of my shy eyes:  “The Boat, The Boat (Das Shiff, Das Shiff) ”, as if it where the delirious last scene of a Richard Wagner opera which ends with the transcending of love and death: his Liebestod. Our lovedeath. Our deathlove.

And looking at the low tide with its boats almost capsized, resting its sides on the sands and on its sides as if a collapsed government, I realize that math has played a huge trick on us: Fifty is stronger than 300. Clegg has managed to become a pop star! Wow!

Everyone wants to go to bed with him: he holds THE power, in spite of the small representation he has. Make sense? Does it?

This proportional vote here in the UK must change. And so must the American system of electing officials who form the electoral college, change. I mean, CHANGE!!!!!

D-Day early morning: Great day. Clegg, Cameron and Brown are seen in a “presidential or prime ministerial manner” standing behind the Prince of Wales , Charles.


Yes, we can.


Yes, we can.

Harrods has been sold.

Another Fayed is dead.

I can’t go on. I’ll go on.

Terror: London Calling.

Doomed by ASH clouds whether up here in the North. Or down below, in the Gulf of Mexico.


No we can’t!

Gerald Thomas

9 May 2010

some rocks don't roll

FOOTNOTE: Again a reminder: my TWITTER name is
geraldthomas1 (with the number 1 following my name, as you could easily notice)

any other – especially those badmouthing Brazil – is NOT me!

Em Por-au-Gois:

Mais um lembrete: no twitter eu sou

geraldthomas1 (NUMERO 1 atras)

qualquer outro – especilamente um IMBECIL que so fala mal do Brasil, nao sou eu.

MINE HAS MY PHOTO. MY IDENTITY and leads to my blog.
O MEU TEM A MINHA FOTO, MINHA IDENTIDADE, e tem ligação com meu blog

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vomiting ones life away

Strange to think that we’re all about just surviving, winning, paying bills, getting by, meeting people, answering calls, returning favors, making appointments, falling in love, telling the stories that are there to be told (so many, so unreal it seems), thriving, ‘making it’, stepping up to, stepping down, masturbating thinking of the impossible, taking a look from the distance. Taking a look from a distance, it makes more sense to simply vanish.

These are the words: “for to end yet again” Beckett wrote about. But one thing is to stage these words. It’s quite something else, to be pounded with this feeling over the head.

Every arrival, every departure, a tiny fragment of death. Yet,  the idea of having to “be correct”, “behave correctly” so that we can flip out in our metaphorical lives is insane, yes,  “follow the norm”, a voice says: “follow the norm” and take care of the bills and wondering where the next idea will come from: if it’ll ever come….If it will ever come.


Gerald Thomas

27 April, another 27 April amongst so many 27th of Aprils that have gone by.

PS: A vida não é medida pela quantidade de vezes que respiramos, mas pelos momentos que nos tiram a respiração. Life is not measured by the amount of times you breathe but by the amount of times that they take your breath away. (George Carlin)

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Isle-landic repetitions: hostages without a cause

The shortest way (sometimes) seems as if it’s the longest.

An oig rig burning out of control in the Gulf of Mexico sank Thursday morning, with 11 workers still missing and the authorities fearing a potential environmental disaster. What are we to make of such things? A few days ago, if I remember a-right, a ship was sinking off the coast of Australia, leaking hundreds of millions of thousands of dozens of tens of billions  of crude oil. Oil. And oil. Oil oil oil. And “our growing dependency on FOREIGN oil” is on the mouth of every president, prime minister, minister, ter or just on every publicly elected  mouth. Mouth. Monmouth.

Yes, we’ve been witnessing disasters like never before. Since the catastrophe in Haiti, so many others followed that …That what?  What? Yes, and Iceland holding us all as hostages without a cause….Strange days. And there is greed. Oh yes, the greed. Not ending, never bending, never minding, always on the foreheads and the forefronts  of our delicious capitalism. So, after the Detroit automotive industry and a daring Health Care plan, Obama now goes to Wall Street and takes on the money guys.

Pushing an overhaul plan for financial regulation on Thursday, president Obama said, “Unless your business model depends on bilking people, there is little to fear from these new rules.” Meaning, “work with us, not against US”.

Speaking in the bankers’ backyard inManhattan (what is a banker’s backyard? What does it grow? Alan Greenspan trees?), Mr. Obama castigated a “failure of responsibility” by Wall Street that led to the financial crisis of 2008, and he pressed his case for what he called “a common-sense, reasonable, non-ideological” system of tighter regulation to prevent any recurrence. He took issue with the claim that his proposal would institutionalize the idea of future bailouts of huge banks. Let me repeat this: “institutionalize the idea of future bailouts of huge banks”. I wonder what all this really means.

Oh yes, the banker’s backyard and the “natural” disasters that have rocked Haiti, Chile, China…the unnatural disasters that make us smaller and smaller by the day, by the hour: the ash cloud pending over our heads for a week here in Europe: a cloud of ash and TEN straight days of pure (I mean pure) sunshine in London. Not a drop of rain. Just police activity, but not a drop of rain.

As I actually write this, the 3 candidates are debating (in Bristol), on British Television. The very 1st televized debate here in the UK. It took the Brits 40 years to repeat or to imitate the US pattern of a Presidential debate: now they’re talking about whether or not to get “closer” to the European Union, or stay away from the Brussel sprouts.

What do the 3 have in common?: President Obama.  Obama has become the number ONE reference for the British candidates. It’s amazing, if not funny, how “the buck stops here” (G. Brown) or “guys, you (Cameron) are either anti European or anti American. Again, Gordon Brown’s words against the constant rhetoric dribbling out of Cameron’s mouth: CHANGE ! CHANGE! . Yes, the “Obama era” is here and it’s staying.

Nick Clegg and the 2 others are good performers. There’s something America can certainly learn. American candidates do not perform well. No education. McCain’s morose speeches were based on GOP cheering and nothing else. Oh yes, there was the POW drill, always: “I was tortured in Vietnam and so on….”. Does past torture a good president make?

But here in the British isles there are no women competing. No women since Thatcher. No women since Queen Victoria. Queen Elizabeth…well, Queen Elizabeth. What can one say? Nothing. That she picked a fight with Annie Leibovitz and???

The level of discussion or, say, the argument is far more intelligent here in England. That is a given fact.

Walk the walk and talk the talk.”

As I was sketching out a column, along with the withdrawal symptoms of the (serious) Topamax effects, I began to write what the candidates then actually said: “Walk the walk and talk the talk.” I don’t walk. I do indeed (seriously now)… talk.

So, please forgive me for any….Well, it’s the lack of Topamax in my system. I’m not on any ‘legal high’ , believe me. Just the wonderful cup of coffee (blended with ice, a sort of coffee shake), from Patisserie Valerie.

Tell me, for real: do we need Jim Cameron  (who makes the biggest fortune with his mediocre films)….do we need him to teach Brazilians just because he spent some days (or maybe more, who cares?), amongst a tribe of Brazilian Indians? How does it sound when a film director  takes on the “save the rain forest” campaign and tells the world what Lula is doing wrong or right?

Everything (or maybe nothing) seems more surreal than a withdrawal.

Zweig. Zweig means twig, branch.

Twig. Stephan Zweig committed suicide.

Branches and twigs, however, is what Beckett meant when he planted a tree in the middle of the set for Didi or Estragon to hang themselves in “Waiting for Godot”.

We have become disaster watchers. Oil.

Change. We have become witnesses to television crews being embedded in tanks in some mountain in Pakistan or something. We’re passive when film directors tell us “what is” and “what isn’t” (remember? Titanic sank!) and when Labour, Tory or Liberal Democrats copy a system which is, as I write, being dismantled. While America is deconstructing its system, Britain is trying to build a version of America (not aversion). An isle-landic version of what America once was. Oh, the colonoscopy! Oh, the colonies!

Is Kafka having a ball? Well, if not, then he should. Is Orwell turning in his grave? Huxley? Are they all meeting silently with Stephan Zweig and talking about the dry tree? The last tree? The last tree on earth?

Sad, very sad update: bombings kill hundreds in Iraq. Why are we there? oh yes, Oil.

Gerald Thomas

London 23 April 2010

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Grounded: no way in, none out

no way in, none out


No flights in, none out. Imagine that

Sounds like Beckett, looks like Beckett  and plays like Beckett. Including the volcanic ash cloud over our heads”. But it’s not Beckett.

Strange thing, this ‘volcanic cloud’. We’re told to wear masks. But how can I? My face is, in itself,  a mask.

What? Wear one over the other?

My London” isn’t mine anymore”

Better still, doesn’t seem to be. Always safer to speak hypothetically. Why? Because things “aren’t” or things “are”, depending of the time of day or night, depending on so many things that – a City of this magnitude is only (really) nothing but a state of mind. No way in, none out!

London now belongs to muggers, thieves of all kinds. From what I’ve been hearing or overhearing  and actually underhearing whilst eavesdropping amongst the ashes of yesteryear, everyone is having some sort of a problem with ‘identity theft’, actual theft and, pickpocketting and legends of the sort.

“I’m wired wrong”.  I overheard someone saying something like it. A City can be wired wrongly.

Writing or breathing under the spell of a volcanic ash cloud, makes me wonder if people are actually thinking right, in the right direction, in the writing direction. Uh, this is becoming a complicated way to say that….I saw, I witnessed some incredible Police activity.

London is becoming a dangerous town. Over the weekend, six friends have had their bags stolen, their apartments invaded and “cleaned out” and….I saw a scene close to 10 Downing Street that in 55 years on this planet I don’t recall ever seeing.

A white tall half drunk dude, holding a teddy bear in his hands was (literally) grabbed by the police and MI5, and other security agents on Whitehall, where the fingers or hands of the Big Ben sound like the ending of time itself: the un-Big Bang.

What I saw live is what I see on TV in America: cops from all sides holding a gun to this guy’s head. HOLD YOUR HEAD DOWN – DOWN – DOWN I said DOWN!!!!

Strangely enough, his head was down. And with a gun pointed right at it.


Could the teddy bear be and IED or a proper explosive?

Then, on Sunday (sunny morning, hundreds of thousands of people walking and sunbathing in Hyde Park…), police cars from all sides, sirens ringing, roaring, groaning from north , east, west and south, STOP. They stop a vehicle!

A white car. This white car was right in front of mine.The driver is grabbed by the most aggressive police activity, brutal forced and yanked out of the car and onto the tarmac.

I didn’t overhear a thing: we were told to MOVE!!!

Clockwise and Anti Clockwise

“PORRIDGE, an episode of crassness.”

What a language assault! Porridge! Imagine that. Oatmeal. Much  easier for the ear and the eye.

That will be the next chapter.

Please be patient. Queen Victoria was. Patient, I mean. See what happens?

Gerald Thomas

19 April 2010


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Um Oswald Em Plena Antropofagia



 (Junkie, 32 anos, mas com um corpinho de 33)


Dos países baixos! 

A algumas centenas de quilômetros abaixo do Castelo de Elsinore… 

Amsterdam– Ou Amstel Dam – Paro de tão exausto. A cidade está impossível de se andar, tamanha a horda de pessoas se espremendo nas ruelas. Algumas delas como se estivessem num conto de Beckett (The Lost Ones), comendo “batata frita com maionese”, assim como se fossem gado, umas seguindo as outras e todas na mesma direção, ou em direção alguma. 

Sempre que venho aqui me pergunto por que fiz essa escolha.

São verdadeiros comboios de turistas e junkies e indonésios e turcos e uns poucos holandeses que restam (simpaticíssimos) e as milhares e milhares de bicicletas. Mas parei nessa esquina onde todos param. Na Praça Dam, onde a garotada senta e olha o nada, ou se entreolham ou… vêem os bondes passarem ou simplesmente fazem uma pausa pra andarem de novo ou ficam olhando o nome do hotel mais misterioso do ocidente: Krashnapolski. Tem o Kempinski de Berlim, claro, mas esse ganha todas. 

Ir na contra-mão do fluxo é impossível. Como aqui se toma muito ácido, o negócio é tomar um antiácido! Um Mylanta, Omeprazole, algo assim. Nexium é o melhor.

Sim, os velhos hippies, as lojas de produtos pornôs, uns mais pornôs que os outros, uns com cavalos, cachorros e outros animais (com mulheres, anões, etc.), outros com os ânus dilatados onde entra até hidrante. Sim, a Amsterdam de todos os fetiches, todos.  

A configuração é mais ou menos assim: uma loja pornô, uma de pizza, uma de parafernália de drogas e uma de cerveja (espécie de pub, Heineken, Amstel e Grolsch) e uma de batata frita com maionese. É só seguir essa fórmula por quilômetros e quilômetros que se chega a Centraal Station (com dois aa mesmo). 

Claro, a cidade é linda, tem uma história linda e triste e quem sabe o que Hitler fez aqui, bem, deixa isso pra lá. Tem o lindo entrelaçado dos canais (sim, assim como Veneza, A’dam também está afundando aos poucos). 

Nada mudou desde os primeiros anos em que comecei a vir aqui: 1971. Nunca parei de “pousar” aqui por um motivo ou outro. Quando a Amnesty International fazia suas enormes convenções… ah, que nada, chega de Amnesty!

A Europa inteira é um único cenário: pessoas espremidas, num enorme empurra-empurra, andando em ruelas, seja aqui, seja lá, seja em qualquer monarquia ou república. É tudo gado! O cheiro enjoativo de maconha no ar prova uma coisa: não há porque não legalizar essa erva ou droga. A cidade aqui é a mais pacífica do mundo. Nada acontece. O pior é justamente isso: está todo mundo chapado e NADA acontece. 

Mas não sou guia turístico e não vou descrever a cidade. Quem quiser que venha aqui pra ser empurrado! Falo com algumas pessoas. Poucas conhecem, de fato, a história da Holanda. Mesmo os que moram aqui, e isso sempre me deixa pasmo. O oportunismo do mundo rápido de hoje, de quem pisa e vive numa terra e pouco ou nada sabe sobre ela, me deixa boquiaberto. 

Rembrandt? Mondrian? Van Gogh?  A escola Flemmish toda? Nada! O auto-retrato, o homem se olhando no espelho e se pintando pela primeira vez e exclamando “eureka” num silêncio de Anne Frank, o cálculo minucioso dos navegadores, os importadores de chocolate, enfim, até Spinoza que veio parar aqui. 

E hoje, Segunda, tomo conhecimento de que um otário, de nome “my nerd”, difama Chico Buarque de Hollanda, justamente quando estou na Holanda. 

Pergunto-me: por que, nerd? Por que construir uma carreira difamando pessoas? Que tipo de gente é essa? Não, não é gente. Sofre do mesmo ditatorialismo que tanto criticam. Nunca saberiam lidar com países livres, como esse aqui. Não é à toa que não agüentou Veneza. Precisam viver em países pobres e incultos para soltarem seus venenos, aspirantes de celebs que são. Mas não serão, jamais, celebs,  já que não se constrói uma obra em cima dos destroços da outra. 

Enquanto isso, Waldecy, agradeço às menções honrosas. Ah, quem não sabe quem é Waldecy… ele era o cameraman do Ernesto Varela (Marcelo Tas). Montou a produtora O2 e viveu bem de comerciais. Até que lhe chegou um bom roteiro nas mãos, aperfeiçoado pelas mãos de ouro de Bráulio Mantovani. Esse filme chama-se “Cidade de Deus”.  

Bem, já são quase 11 da manhã e a horda de junkies lá fora me chama! Todo dia elas fazem tudo sempre igual, me acordam às seis horas da manhã. Não, não pra me injetar com heroína ou nada, não. É que parece, assim me dizem (as “Mulheres de Atenas”), tem uma nova droga pra ser experimentada t-o-t-a-l-m-e-n-t-e pura e inquestionável (e que dá um enorme barato: batata frita com maionese, levemente picante, na veia.

Há tempos que eu queria escrever sobre o mais avançado sistema de transporte urbano de toda América Latina, o TransMilenio, em Bogotá.

Por que na Colômbia, com todos os seus problemas, e não em Sampa, por exemplo? Mas isso fica pra próxima, depois que o Sarney e o Daniel Dantas já tiverem dado seus pulinhos aqui em Amsterdam junto com o Lula e todos os outros milhões de safados do mundo. Quem sabe um bom baseado, uma fileira de cocaína e uma injeção de smack e três ecstasys não fazem esses caras falarem logo o que tem que ser dito?


Gerald Thomas



(O Vampiro de Curitiba na edição)


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