Monday, May 30, 2011

drowning by brands (part one)

Melinda gets up at five o’clock in the morning, day after day. Before unfolding her eyes, she is already an invisible person, crushed by the hideous dominated-industry scheme, verging on torment and intermittent deliriums. When my protagonist wakes from troubled dreams, she does not get out of a comfortable LAGUNA queen platform bed advertised on WALMART noticeboard — it is not up to her; money is always in short supply.
Making an effort to let her senses begin more distinctly, and declining to remember her last disturbing day, she realizes that her daily overload is starting, once again. No time to yawn. Or to stretch out. Only to leap forward, to breathe the severely polluted air, to turn on the PHILIPS light while her own lighted-guidance feels dreadfully parsimonious, and to subtly complain about her long-standing backache — unfortunately, she does not have that splendid AMERICANFLEX pure gold mattress. In the end, there is no escaping — she needs to start her excruciating journey.
Straight to the bathroom! Melinda looks at her bad reflection in the GUARDIAN mirror — no sweet dreams would have resonated down the years, those sweet dreams tasted for over a decade, so she savors the awful facts of her own disappointments, as unpalatable as they feel in reality, and with innocence losing ground, Melinda turns on the LORENZETTI faucet and washes her face with LUX light soap to cool off. Cleans her teeth with a toothbrush and a toothpaste, both by COLGATE-PALMOLIVE INC., while she dreams of taking a hot shower, being almost sure that it will not relieve her everyday pain. 
And so she does the pressing needs: she turns on the FAME super douche, washes body and hair with a CASHMERE BOUQUET liquid soap, and finally dries herself with a soft TEKA towel. No pleasure. No whim. No redemption.

Sunday, May 29, 2011

drowning by brands (part two)

Time to get dressed: MARISA cotton panties and bra, HERING T-shirt, fake ZOOMP jeans, SPEEDY pair of socks and ALL STAR (Conversed Red). She is very lucky whether she is able to buy new clothes once a year — and with what pleasure she usually does it, one of the rarest things from which she obtains actual relief… The real sting of it lays in the fact that Melinda forgets, for a moment, stories and dramas which are just about to blow up in her face with embarrassing consequences. 
Even so, she still has thousands of such reminiscences of her personal misfortune, and at times some one stands out from the thousand and oppresses her, such as that despicable petit bourgeois — her boss — she needs to be in familiar terms everyday. When it happens, she avoids talking, and buries herself in holes.
Now straight to the kitchen! As Melinda does not have that too expensive BLACK & DECKER electric kettle, she takes her red ARNO thermos, the MELITTA paper strainer, and while the water is boiling in a ELECTROLUX stove, the poor girl adds UNIÃO sugar and OURO NEGRO coffee. 
Then she eats her CORN FLAKES morning cereal with PARMALAT milk, and a very delicious WICK BOLD loaf of sliced bread with BUNGE butter and BASS LAKE packer backer curds she earned last month from her boss. Not forgetting her favorite strawberry NESTLÉ yoghurt. Eating is the only thing this colonized girl does with special satisfaction, as though she could recognize, for a moment, and with a more intense pulsation, a vestige of humanity often taken away from her. 
Crossing the living room, and ready to go out, Melinda looks at her old-fashioned SAMSUNG television set and promises herself that she will have a SANYO 50” HDTV with a full SKY cable TV, at least with FOX, HBO and WARNER — with what intensity she deserves it! Her CREATIVE mp4 with PHILIPS earphone are prepared to provide her some satisfaction during the day, first while the MERCEDES BENS (or GENERAL MOTORS?) subway car is bound for downtown. The song? Tom Zé’s The Hips of Tradition (copyright recordings owned by TRAMA) will be a very special companion.

Saturday, May 28, 2011

drowning by brands (part three)


Outside: the progress of backward societies, in terms of industrial modernization even of a given peripheral country as Brazil provides this contemporary scene full of innovations and tempter offers. That is to say, the sphere of production and consumption where the large capital expands itself is, in fact, everywhere, and an overfilled image surrounded by advertisements imposes to Melinda its everyday “fine” products, brands, services. COLCCI, LACOSTE, NIKE, AREZZO, WALMART, CARREFOUR, MCDONALD’S, PIZZA HUT, BURGER KING, SUBWAY, PANASONIC, MICROSOFT, HEWLETT-PACKARD, NOKIA — those she will never have any access to.
Invisible is she, as a horrid insect. And those who have been turning her into it look at her now, absurdly scatterbrained or indifferent. But blind aren’t both the insect, who naturally accepts its invisibility, and the observer, who naturally converts people like my protagonist into invisible vermin? Maybe! Or not! It might be only a powerful way to make people pulse in synchrony, as though they always share the same beliefs or have the same interests.
Reaching the streets, Melinda is immediately in contact with FIAT, FORD, VOLKSWAGEN, CHEVROLET, and TOYOTA — these are the fashionable cars only to be delighted with, those she will live her whole life without.
So she takes the GENERAL MOTORS subway car. From Insect Disgusting Land (her peripheral area) to downtown: on the way to Hopeless Avenue (her workplace), nothing to appreciate but lots of rubbish overall, the chilliness of her city’s deeply-shadowed streets where all houses are immoderately badly arranged, alleys inhaling the odor of their thousand beggars, ill-fated and mysterious men and women crossing the street full of its deterring brothels, nights of usual gloom, the old Cult Cine... Melinda’s city is a frenzied metropolis such as New York or Los Angeles — there are only streets, viaducts and avenues; from the deep down, the unevenness between cosmopolitan opulence and striking penury.
After a long trip, she finally gets to work. Her day is going to be tiring. Apparently? Melinda is cleaning up, and washing, and sweeping, and swallowing her pride, and getting lost among bewildering feelings and things. AJAX cleaner, BOLT past wax, SCOTCH-BRITE sponges, SURF detergent, 3M brooms and squeegees.
Crouching down, standing up, three-four-five-six-nine times, and once again, once again, tick-tack, tick-tack, tick-tick, tack-tack, back and forth, singing, sweating, crouching down, working, cleaning, washing, and once again, one more time.
Being up to day with her moral obligation bond. Bad mood to pick up or randomize a better route to follow through. Despair. That book she would love reading to the end. Debts. Supermarket. 
A friend she intends to meet whenever. The streets. Cars. Luggage. The subway. A glass of pure water, please?
E-mails. HOTMAIL. GMAIL. YAHOOMAIL… The overload. No dialogue.
The darkness and directness of her failed requests. Those big exhibitions (Duchamp) opening, and galleries stretching out amazing shows, both only in her deepest dreams. Shopping. Books. Television. Movies. Entertainment. Chat rooms. Despair. Violence. The bus stop. Corruption. A man walking down the streets. One killing another, one prevailing over another. Screams. One of the same. Passengers in masses. Brands. 
Products. Services. Men and women misplaced. Fear.  

Friday, May 27, 2011

drowning by brands (part four)


Lunch around midday: on time. VASCONCELOS rice and bean. BRIDGFORD beef. Lettuce, carrot, potato. Seeds being altered by top engineering techniques; that powerful rondup herbicide; powerful and satisfactory (or “necessary”?) weed control by MONSANTO, anywhere in this big world with its GEOS or GMOS, the transgenic...
Melinda’s snack at four o’clock in the afternoon — an abundance of top brands once again. And this cycle exists to be restored, day after day.
Sleeping. Getting out of bed. Stepping. Having shower or breakfast. Getting to work. Crossing the streets. Wandering round and round nowhere to go. Dropping some friend a line. Enjoying a day off. Resting. Peeing. Waiting anxiously to get her pay. Visiting an art gallery. Studying. Reading. Writing. Expelling demons of deceit. Weeping. Planning. Meeting. Coming back home. Watching TV. Eating and drinking. Even throwing up. Cleaning the house. Looking for a route. Screwing things up. Laughing. Talking. Refusing. Kissing. Travelling. Making love. Looking at. Sending or receiving…
Almost giving up — as you notice, Melinda only exists by giving rise to some social functions operated by a devious everyday cycle (actually, a “push-you” and “pull-you” game) prompted by a mechanical reproduction. Of marketing. Feelings. Behaviors. Contemplation. Participation. Manipulation. Consent. Orders. Hard work. Long trips. Unattainable routes. Unachievable desires. Many ups and downs. Dreams not accomplished. Men and women misplaced. Exhaustion.
Existence, enforcement, endurance. Products, products and products. Objects. Plastic, metal, glass, wood — materials. Food and drink. Computers, sofas, writing desks, books, screens, magazines, chairs, boxes, wardrobes, ventilators, tables, digital or alarm clocks, pencils, staplers, cameras, notebooks, calculators, printers, cell phones,  cupboards.
"Man after man, woman, child, man, clothes, cigarette, hat, clothes, clothes, clothes, man, man, woman, clothes, man”. Our times! Objects exist for death. The quantity points to the constant renewal of the old. But all this innovation is to attest that we are risking defeat. Loss of identity? Or an excess of traces leading us to a vacuum existence? Both? 
If objects exist for supply, we exist for consumption — is that the reasoning, the compelling moral principle behind everything? As objects involve us in a too attractive way of life, our plea of both unconsciousness and ignorance — who decides? — of these devious rules in extenuation of our own agreed answers and consent is covered up. And the individual viewer disappears inside the vast “audience” in different places. Therefore, the process of “reading the world” is distorted. But not only this. We are distorted either. 
So let us redo our preamble in terms of a naive provocation: can't we reach the inside portion from our outside’s, which is corrupted by an abyss of excessive concreteness — the objects? From this perspective, we miss even that immediate reflection of a single representative image of ourselves. In front of a mirror, there is nothing to recognize but our own double-multi-faceted “invisibilities” — both external and internal.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

time to repost the "guttersnipe"

he scares you… his gun’s powerful enough to shoot you down… and his words, slashing to tear down whatever… he spends his time just hanging out at his stuff… his shit… and bucks… he could blow chunks right here… you’d clean his floor… you work for him… it’s sucking all your energy… but you’re just one of the pack to be burned out… no way to blow off some steam… that’s his great deal… to turn you a basket case… you could get bonkers about his condition of a fat cat… ain’t no good nohow… but you don’t, you’ll just put the case on the back burner… he’s in the position to kick your ass… and so he does… all the time, he kicks your ass… you, and all the fucked-up ones around him, are always about to crash… there’s no way to jump ship ‘cause this is the deal… to kick your ass… and to laugh off your worries, your losses, your own stuff… damn it… he just bears down on you from behind… or from all sides?
he doesn’t scare you… his power is not a strength… he’s weak… when he opens up his chair next to you, you have the guts to unveil him… he’s a goofy… a fraud, squandered in trivialities… a jerk, he’s a turd… but powerful… a no-brainer reasoning… the cycle of power… just common if you nailed him screwing up a riffraff… it’s so his scene… left and right, so his scene… and you are told to not give a damn ‘bout it… that’s the big deal… to not give a fucking rat’s ass ‘bout it… that’s the big deal, but not for you… you mustn’t dig it… it’s not fine and dandy with you… time to get cracking? he’s just always trying to hide that you’re in a bind… your kaput… and yada-yada-yada… will you kick the bucket? you — the loser? me — the nutcase? even though, I’m not a space cadet, don’t wanna be like that… we’re being lied to… and ripped-off… not in money… not in land… but in the right to dream…



Saturday, May 14, 2011

toc-toc-toc

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E quando a gente se sente assim... com vontade muita de agradecer, mas não tão-só ir num de retribuir mostrando-se grata? Faz o que a gente então? Agradece? É que, neste caso, fica sendo pouco da parte nossa – eis a complicadura! Que nem tanto. Pois que se a gente pensa que nada de contradicência tem mesmo nisso – sentir tal coisa e às vezes escassear palavreio para... Triplicando As, em circunstância esta. Se pra agradecer, eu diria que isso apenas se: Ademais, Afora, Além (disso) num de propriamente – a tal querência de... agradecer.
Tomo então emprestado o dito de uma muitíssimo querida – a Tatiana Carlotti. Agraciada! Foi como aprendi com ela a dizer quando isso de a gente se sentir... agraciada, pois ora! Em lisonja sincera. Honrada – num de fato. Como mesmo eu me senti. E daqui pra frente um muito mais.
Se agraciada, a querência toda minha no de agora é esta mesma – a de agraciar. Fazia tempo em bastantes que eu vinha, mineirice de fato minha, lendo e gostando muito e desfazendo pra refazer dentro e ouvindo e sentindo um lugar-virtualidade, que nunca que tão-só, mas muito desses a que a gente vai quando pra ler intrigamentos e apreciar um bocado mais de deliciuras por lá.
O meu agraciamento é, pois, o de agora estar mais perto, mesmo que antes também, mas agora perto e lá propriamente perto daqueles cujos muitotudos eu já de há muito vinha... apreciando e ressoando e... deixando desvairadas cá as delícias todas dacolá. Que agora em muito mais cá.
Agraciada eu, Página Cultural, por terem-me recebido com tanta generosidade. A mim e aos meus coelhinhos – ficcionismos nossos. Se em lisonja, é mesmo que num de sincero... mesmo! Vocês também de cá, meus queridos... zás pra lá, muito mais até que por aqui. Textos da Página muito interessantes. Uma deliciura! Conto-os todos, muitos sei de sabedura entranhada desse jeito mesmo na gente, sabem? Mas... Psiu! Que nada! Melhor vocês mesmos por lá, conferindo e apreciando, como eu.
Escrevo agora pra Página triplamente-mês. Ficcionismos. Vomitando por ali também os meus tais coelhinhos. E eles cismam, já me segredaram, que todos prenhes de novíssimos contornos. Senão vejamos...
Acho que sim – agora! Não? A vocês da Página Cultural redigo que eu cá... agraciada! Vamos então todos lá?
    

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

untitled

Writing fiction has a disadvantage, which is even a curse. Sometimes you feel unprepared to touch the immateriality all the words carry beyond their appearance, or their “dictionary condition”. There is always this risk: an interspace letting the words emerge, but yet hidden, as if feeling threatened by a misalignment or a misapprehension. A place few persons are allowed to enter. And then not even the most delicate gesture, not even the most precise synonym or connotation will be able to capture and hold any movement of that unknown portion a word may have inside, even if claiming for explosion (its signification, its abstraction, its perception). Connotation: the inferred overtone of a word rather than any limited literal use of its materiality. A tenuous limit between an intent and the very gesture of comprehension… to immediately express. This complex motion… The silence and the whisper. The whisper and the utterance. The availability and the unavailability to mean and be meant, to express and to be expressed. Therefore, and one more time, the words: with their signifier (le significant) and their signified (le signifié). Semiotics, nude and crude? No, definitely not. Not a linguistic cloistered environment leading you to understand and explain the words. But the difficulty a fictionist has sometimes to go silently into the realm of words, with no alarm clocks, no uncertainties, no indelicacy in holding them so much loosely or tightly in hands, to reach them in their profound expression of a delicate dance.
Today, I’m afraid that I had an encounter with my own deep-down truth as a supposed fictionist. What I am not, indeed. And then I felt misfit. Much more preponderantly: as if this path being a delusion. And then I felt lost.
I woke up in the early morning. Birds were coming over to my imaginary misguidance. They were supposed to come to say their morning hello by singing me a melody. A pleasant routine. But today they passed off my garden, didn’t stop for a subtle conversation with me. They just flied away. Didn’t even blow any secret to my ears, nor even to my heart. And then I felt gloomy. There was one of them, however, that lovely said to me, as if feeling the solitude of my absence: “We are always between an absolute realm pendent from expectation and a significance only in relation to something else”, which mirrors the unexpected, the collapse, the preclusion, and the intangibility of being nothing but incapable to be comprehended. These words are until titillating within me. Words, words, mere words… My insanity today discredited me to capture the connotation of these so beautiful words. And then I still feel disconcerted. At the very beginning, my birds’ absence carried myself again on to some vacancy. A cycle. Their crude yet wise words on to my misguidance. This one on to my inability to cope with such that silence. This one on to imaginary words carrying myself on to the truth I just figured out in my early morning: it is still titillating, still feels like I have missed the way to home. Where could you find the right words? How could you make your match on fiction?  
In the middle of the road there is a stone, there is a stone in the middle of the road, there is a stone, in the middle of the road there is a stone. You were right, Drummond. I also feel my fatigued retinas. That see nothing but the sad motion of my thoughts and the empty reason of my words. My fictionisms today feel so incapable to make me reach the words. These ones seem to be unachievable, intangible. Their motifs, verging on insanity or just on non-adjusted paths. And then I sincerely tend to feel like the rabbits had moved out and away from me.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

o espelho que imagina... a gente

kfldsa
Sempre as tais... dualidades.
The pit and the pendulum. Pralá e pracolá. Os sinos batem – e sino lá bate senão o bang de um fazer estranhezas toc-tum... dentro? Di...na...miiiiiiiiiiiiiii...te... kaboom! Wilsons amontoados pra então desdobrando chapéus e capotes, ali mesmo, à nossa frente, tempo nublado ou aparecendo sem vergonha o sol, pois que na tentativa cabreira, ou cabisbaixa, que seja!, pra um de internação, ou expulsão... que... da gente.

Os então espelhos exalando maledicências e benfazeções. Não seriam... multiplicaduras inclassificáveis da gente e dos Outros-quais-então com... a gente? Que, em caminhos tortos ou camadas uma-depois-a-outra em dias [intransigentes], nós-todos, comprando ou entregando, mãos abertas ou fechadinhas, assim... a gente?
Ela... pessoa comum. Trinta e quase um ano – a idade. Profissão: perigando coisa ou outra. Distração: qualquer uma que não a obrigue a coisas indesejáveis demais. Escolaridade: sempre o embaraço de não saber dizer de si o que nem ela tendo tido, mesmo que em intenção dia desses. Vício: o de então vinha sendo esquecer, por a + b, que tinha com o que ser feliz sem se perder em madrugadas adentro, de frente pra uma frieza em tela, resquício de um desagrado muito marcante de meses antes – que ela cismava... não devia esquecer. Ou devia?
Acordava hoje em disponibilidade pra... quê-querendo, ou desgostando de... um certo propósito-atitude, que portanto talvez cintilante. Vontade de. Descomplicar lançando uma-alguma iluminatura corajosa pra dizer tão-só um desdito que ainda. Mas era preciso. A manhã foi intensamente vazia de afazeres com que nos pretendem insanos, ou dedicados, aos olhos dos... homens e mulheres, distintos ambos, e a gente, não, porque levando o porrete, mesmo que silencioso-pliiiinnn, pelos crimes todos que se cometem em nome... deles mesmos, mas atribuídos sempre... à gente.
Relembrou, de frente pro espelho brilhoso do banheiro de azulejos amarelecidos com o tempo por um vapor baratíssimo escorrendo do chuveiro sempre esfriando, que é pra gastar menos energia elétrica [oh-claro!], ficou então calculando a sua sina do dia: pentear os cabelos e não esquecer o gel superpoderoso que dá lustre ao que de há muito ofuscado pela fumaça das ruas e avenidas com que [os alguéns que a gente não conhece, mas pressente] faziam do seu cotidiano-dela um semblante daquilo que ela só queria, ainda que não tivesse com o que. Depois, ali mesmo saindo do cômodo de aprontamentos higiênicos, em face e corpo ensimesmados de algum contorno, talvez fosse isso mesmo, ela desembaraçou a fita verde que não mais no cabelo, por certo que nunca a tenha tido, pelo menos não se lembrava, e rumou pra cozinha, que é onde se faz o café pra ser engolido muito raramente com algumas bolachinhas compradas em quadradinhos pacotes de manter ali os conservantes todos que os tais alguéns querem muito comidos... pela gente.
O semáforo estava esperando na entrada do prédio. Sempre assim. Ela e ele andam juntos, um olhando pro outro – mas só quando é possível corredeira com dedicação a verificar um pro olho piscante do outro. Quando não, o pisar asfalto pavimentado e esburacado das ruas conta com a sorte. Ou com a má-fortuna de um esbarrão-carro, misantropos quase todos eles mesmos e amassando, se pouco, a pontinha dos sapatos da gente.
Hoje o dia seria o mais importante da vida dela... torta. Estelar – foi como ela aprendendo, no correr dos tiques e taques, a permanecer contando os segundos pro de agora... dia. Não compraria nada. Nem se meteria a bestidões corriqueiras de cumprir o horário certinho de ponto em emprego meio-salário, o único que tinha conseguido pra ir dobrando jornada em vias de acertar mais de prontidão-sentença os tais talões mensais.
Tinha até umas poucas bagatelas pra vender e ir-se arranjando pedacinhos de cobre pra somar e comparecer à casa dos $$$ quitando isso ou outro do mesmo-aquilo... mensal. Mas hoje, naquele extraordinário dia, não era pra vender coisa qualquer que ela saía... às ruas. Nem mesmo pra tomar o sorvete de casquinha, anunciado sempre e fermentadinho de umas leitosas matanças de destinos alheios, explorados até gota última em extração do líquido, ou penúltima [nunca se sabe]. Não. Ela não tomaria o tal sorvete nem cogitaria comer o seu preferido pão-de-quê servido no armazém do seu Nicomedes Alves dos Santos. Tampouco ela, que nunca tinha se metido a comprar à vista mercadoria qualquer-uma, saía então de casa às oito e vinte sete da manhã, um pouco atrasada, pra pesquisar o preço em promoção limpa-estoque.
Faria o que, então? Se não isso nem aquilo, era o quê? Estudar – não estudava mais. Só rasgava os muitos conhecimentos acumulados nos embates do dia a dia-trabalho dela. Quando muito, permanecia bestamente de frente pra tela sem saber sequer o que via... Trabalho ali seu feito bastante em exatidão. Ou quem sabe ela nem enxergasse no embaralhamento de letras com que se consomem vidas às vezes não se dando conta. Não compraria. Não beberia. Comer estava fora de resolução. Também não se encontraria com amigos ou parentada pra dizer como vinha difícil a vida. Nem mesmo pra receber o ordenado era que aquilo-dela tinha decidido na manhã de então sincronizar partida assim tão esperada prum de... fazer o que na rua? E hora daquela mesma se não pra...?
Era um mistério. Isso pois? Ela queria sair às escondidas sem dar notícias do que... faria? Mas se nem pra ninguém mesmo ela tinha pra quem relatar episódio qualquer... Fosse outra coisa – isso é que não... seria.
Não planejava cantar. Sequer passaria na porta do Cine Malvadeza pra ver o cartaz do dia. Ora que nunca também é que procuraria nova terceirização dos suores todos chamados por uns – a mão-de-obra... da gente. Não saía a passeio – luxo que a ela, ah! não cabia. Tampouco faria qualquer coisa que alguém em normal estado de mentalidade, como dizem, conseguiria ali, ou noutro canto qualquer, imaginar.
Faria, portanto, o quê? Uma pessoa comum – ela. Expropriada e corrompida, torta e desencontrada de caminho um qualquer... Como os muitos-quase-todos... perdidos.
Daí que, hora pra outra, desandou a atravessar a rua correndo muito, que era pra poupar... tempo. Talvez. Quase nove da manhã. A cidade a essa altura já buzina inteira na gente. Foi entrando na loja. Que era até um algo... chique. De espelhos – inteirinha, a loja. Escolheu um enorme pra ir rumando em sentido. Ou na contradicência mesma... dele. Esperava ela, e de braços meio abertos, uma moça. Bonita. Quase que o oposto dela – era o que se notava. Ela então, tendo saído de casa pra mais de trinta e três minutos antes, foi-se aproximando... da Outra. Ambas se olharam detidamente. De início, uma algo desconfiada da outra. Mas que, no fim das contas, parecendo uma pra outra.
Sem nenhum movimento abrupto, mas com receio de talvez espantar aquela que ali de braços ainda meio abertos, ela tirou do bolso um papelzinho pardo, que foi onde anotou, durante dias, pra não esquecer uma palavrinha sequer, tudo o que planejou ali dizer... pra Outra.
– Por não ter te escutado quando deveria. Pelas horas infindáveis diante de um vazio, que me afastava da nossa imaginatura-muito-nossa. Por ter tido olhos agigantados pruma tão imensa brutalidade que te direcionei, quando poderia ter vindo aqui simplesmente e te dito “não é isso, é mais mesmo que fiquei perdida por conta de não saber lidar com a estranheza de me ver desarranjada em desconexões contigo”. Por todas as madrugadas em que te expulsei de mim pra me dedicar a um fantasma de mim mesma – ou de você, sabe-se lá. Pelas lágrimas que esqueci de chorar contigo, em solidariedade à tua dor. Por ter-te abandonado naquele momento doído em que perdemos ambas o eixo pela ida de uma nossa intimamente linda. E por todos os dias em que fui leviana acreditando que eu, quimera pura, poderia me desgarrar de imagem esta que eu agora vejo eternamente entranhada em mim, compartilhada contigo, vida inteira como tínhamos planejado... Daí que eu me curvo diante dos todos crimes de mim pra mim, estendidos e talvez um dia compreendidos por você... Não fiz por maldade simples, mas por ter perdido o sentido pro que de mais em mim, no correr desses dias tantos perturbados e consagrados com coroa entristecendo o que de muito vivaz na gente...
Parece que se reconciliar(i)am... E foi ela, já tendo feito o que precisava e queria, tomar o coletivo de volta pro apartamento-casca dela mesma... morada. O trânsito estava, como sempre, frenético. As pessoas, descabidas. E ela agora, se refazendo duplamente ela de novo... 

O espelhando-tela é de Paul Delvaux, Le Miroir (1936)

Saturday, May 7, 2011

behind the scene: if you love a man/woman being a man/woman, of course you should be valued… after all... you are a consumer, and we want you ― buying!

jjkfds


Richard Hamilton, Just What Is It that Makes 
Today's Homes So Different, So Appealing (1956) 




This week, May 5, the Brazilians got the message. Did they?
Extra-extra: The Supreme Court of Brazil unanimously recognizes same-sex civil unions.

“A watershed by gay activists”. “A landmark decision for the deeply Catholic country”. “The best-case-scenario to put a [necessary, I add] stop on violence, assassination, and discrimination against homosexuals”. “A case of equal rights”!
Legalizing gay marriage in Brazil is, for sure, a great advance forward. It is undeniable that this decision was urgent, not only in Brazilian lands but all over the world. Barbarian times those ones in which people do not recognize that love, companionship and sharing cut across all our realities and are a bridge among all differences [of any type]. Tick-tack, tick-tack... Last but not least! The decision coming from the Supreme Court of Brazil ― out of question, then! And here is the voice of the country with the world’s biggest Catholic population: guaranteeing the gay couples the same “legal rights” as other couples represents a landmark indeed… Something pointing to much equality in [gender] rights that claimed to be reverberated ― for sure! Which appears, by the way, to be tuned to other “greatest hits” in a moment that we have recently chosen a woman as a President ― the highest political position in a democratic State!
“The very question”, however, is to my knowledge beyond those simplistic frames “depicted” [and announced] by the major yellow press, “ruled” [and asseverated] by the majority of our high court justices: “No one should be deprived of rights on the basis of sexual orientation” ― said, for instance, judge Ricardo Lewandowski.
No one should be deprived of… No one… Deprived of… Beautiful [and requisite] statement! There is no occasion for mistrusting that ― I insist, and hope that readers will not misunderstand my key-quest words herein, once the struggle for human rights is itself the most preponderant one I assume, even indirectly, on my speech… it is, in reality, part of my fictionisms one way or another…
But, for a case in point, where is [and how appears to be hidden] the “very question”? Isn’t there a logic behind a speech that has been so beautifully done this week in Brazil concerning the [supposed] equal rights for those who have [long-standing] entreated of governments to hear them out, and to comply with their requests for these same “equal rights”? Why only now “justice has been served”?
A shift, argues philosopher Zygmunt Bauman, has taken place in our contemporary times! This is, in my offhanded ― and dangerous, I recognize ― opinion, what I have called “the very question”. A shift ― from modernity to postmodernity, from solidity to liquidity. The passage from a society of producers to a society of consumers. There is even a compelling moral principal behind it: the pressing-increasing freedom, or equality, demanded in “our times” is not one of that for human rights; neither for love; nor even a battle against discrimination and violence. Quite the contrary, this is a war on the freedom to… [kaboom!] purchase, to consume, to enjoy life in a way that should appear to be synchronized to the terms of the major pull-you and push-you game: the corporations’ rules to make you… buy!
THE STRATEGIC DISCOURSE FROM ABOVE: If you love a man, being yourself a man, it is no longer an absurd ― we assure you! Just look around, Powerful Man: you do not deserve to be excluded “on the basis of your sexual orientation”… no more, no more… We have the best offers for you! If you love a woman, being a woman, please, do not feel yourself out of scene: you have right now a mélange of goods and amazing-places vacation packages to travel around with your lover! And so forth… That’s the big deal! Your big deal, huh? Yours? Whose?
This is exactly the demanding “liquidity” from our epoch, as explains philosopher Bauman: there is no time to waste, no against argument that could possibly impede a scheme of mass standardization prompted by consumerism… All-in-all: most “solid values” [most of them, horrid, since their origin is often based upon discrimination and violence] ― such as the long-standing prejudice against homosexuals, women, black brothers and sisters, and so forth ― have to be dismantled them all! The new and unprecedented setting for individual life pursuits points to “enlarged rights” not in terms of such dignity on [making the] living, but in terms of episodes from anyone’s lives ready to be captured and converted into great scenes of the great spectacle of consumerism fed up by “the specialized class” ― the corporations’ sectarians! [and the target includes every single person who has their $$$ to buy, even those with their no more “exquisite sexual habits”, as they seemed to be considered back in the day]. How curious, huh? What an open-minded decision, isn’t it?
SELVES AS OBJECTS OF CONSUMPTION: The blatant fraud on “freedom” [whatever it seems to be] instilled in people’s mind is after all historically shaped, and needs to be remolded, remanufactured from time to time.
The current “needs for… freedom”? Oh! If you love, you buy ― after all, being happy is an outrageous motif to make you spend your time and your money at shopping malls doing your utmost to find “the right object” to compete with your feeling… of loving someone. If you suffer or have already lost a loved person, you also... buy ― chocolates, in this case, can be a great partner to make you feel better; after all, you need to pour out all your frustrations anyway. If you cry or get desperate for any reason, you also… buy… And so on…   
To the “eyes” of this current [hideous] scheme prompted by the corporations motion, irrespective of where they carve out their tentacles [because the scheme has to be considered in global terms], you… need to buy! This is the big deal! Their ― not your or my ― big deal! Shopping malls, new franchises, online shopping, whatsoever, open every $$$ minutes… They are making money, not recognizing you as a person… Ops! For them you are a… consumer… Tick-tack, tick-tack, bang-bang, bang-bang: their big deal!
In the end, consumption on a truly mass scale appears as a foundational rather than any other instance of society. Characterized by the growth of advertising and marketing [those boring and irritating “parrots” that make their large-scale efforts to generate and manipulate the audience, and to celebrate the consumption as a pleasure], the postmodern consumerism has its own preoccupation with the gratification of desire. Plus: it intends [and almost always gets] to make anyone, irrespective of how Very Men or Very Women they should be, a [fine or rustic] Slave of their own control over… everyone… you and me and anyone else! Men or women, adults or children ― it does not really matter because this is not a question of sex, gender, age, race or whatever…
Selfishness, self-centeredness, individualism, foolishness, and processes of self-identification are only ones of the package! Unfortunately! All this is kindled not when needs for specific objects are created and consumed, not only when the need to need or the desire to desire is manifested, but when you develop a sense of who you “are” and what you want to “become”… through consumption ― as stated another theorist of the postmodern times, Jean Baudrillard. All this is… what? A shame, for sure! Especially yet human needs can never be satisfied through any process of consumer goods… but insisting on the opposite is the big deal, isn’t it? To create the false need for… buying, not for looking… ahead and around, and then… feeling ― much more than... filling the carts at a supermarket!
On the other hand, it is undeniable that my country made great advances forward by recognizing that men/women can love other men/women [and share their patrimony with: it is important to notice this "detail" because it is “on the basis” of the high court decision ― the magic word "patrimony"]. As far as I understand, and ever declared herein, this is after all a remarkable decision for all those who still suffer from discrimination and violence just because they… what? Love persons with the same [or different] sex as theirs? Barbarian times!
That means: who has been [or is, or will be] in the position to choose or point out who we should love, and parent together, and share values, commitment, faithfulness, and a life with? Barbarian times since there will be those to (mis)guide our own [and most beautiful] choice to love and share with!
The Brazilian Supreme Court yesterday decision is, in fact, a landmark… Maybe to free up those men and women from the chains of disgrace and shame when saying “yes” on the altar, in front of… God. Whose God, a propos? Probably the One picked up to be their God… Maybe not. In the end, let us consider that this remarkable decision especially rules that $$$-gay rights will be finally respected, such as retirement benefits, inheritance, health benefits, and other $$$ questions… at least…  But what could be argued concerning those brothers and sisters who suffer from the very discrimination and violence on [large or] small-life avenues just because they… love… or make love… or walk down the streets with their [different- or] same-sex partners… or this… or that ― it does not really matter!
Ah! Maybe those who do not still have $$$ to state their “sexual orientation” to the eyes of society will keep verging on solitude, and discrimination, and violence… Or, which would be better ― to the corporate scheme of selling forged dreams: maybe there will be a day in which they will invent a new and extraordinary shopping mall to commercialize misfortunes [mine, yours, anyone's]! Maybe…
Dedicated to those who still believe that life can be lived-tasted by everyone and the world, inhabited by selves ― not by consumers… A dream within a dream ― to be considered as a person, not as goods that buy goods or share such patrimony with… What a waste dream, after all... Is it?