By the way, that I am aware of, here are the teams in this entire ordeal:

The belicous team:
US
England
Spain
Australia
Deutchland
Italy
Portugal

I know Bush issued a list of 30 countries supporting the war, but so far, that`s all I know.

The pacifist team
France
Iraq
Belgium
Germany
Brazil

And I gotta get more info on this...

So, war has begun. I really don`t have much to say. Anything I could write here would only be a repetition of everything you`ve already read or listened elsewhere. Despite my former post condemning the US for the attack, comparing them to nazi Germany, I`m not on Saddam`s side either. I just think all of this is a thoughtless meddling with wounds of the past. A son trying to accomplish his father`s incompetent wish.

What I can say to my fellow countrymen is that hard times will ensue. Ever since our dear supposedly socialist president was elected, prices for everything have been blown out of proportions. I could understand this as an attempt to straighten up our economy, but I never did understand much about economy. The thing is, with the war and all, we can expect prices to raise even more. Living standards will become unbearably expensive...

Geez, I gotta get a job soon.

Well, Apparently there`s something wrong with my computer. It won`t load my recent posts on my blog page. Also, I can`t seem to be able to access the blogger login page. I can read them elsewhere. But not at home. Nor can I write at home. I`m writting from my computer class in the art course. So you guys can expect fewer posts while I figure this out...

Às vezes dá vontade de ter mais de uma existência. Como naquele filme cujo título não lembro sobre um ex-soldado americano da guerra no Vietnã que tinha uma vida e quando ia dormir acordava em outra vida. Mais ou menos como também fizeram no Matrix. Queria viver em uma vida com esta garota, sendo publicitário, ganhando minha grana e tendo família. E então, apenas algumas horas de sono e eu acordaria em um lugar qualquer, artista plástico sem família ou amor. Centrado em mim mesmo. Queria ter uma vida para ser um drone mesmo. Vida de empresa e nine to five, de hierarquia. Gosto dessa organização. Por favor, sem críticas adolescentes ao mundo capitalista... Eu gosto mesmo, e daí? A outra vida ia ser algo tirado da vaga sensação que temos ao assistir Mad Max: beyond Thunderdome. De ir levando como um sobrevivente qualquer, animalizado. E ter aquela ilusão de que, criticando as pessoas "de dentro do sistema", estamos vendo uma suposta verdade e sendo melhores do que eles.

Really nice writting: Anne... Straight from the hip
And a few nice sketches to boot!

By the way, if any of you know how to do that text wrap thing she does with her images, do tell me!

De repente, um medo insensato de fracassar.
Medo de não ser um publicitário decente e por causa disso não conseguir ser um artista decente. Eu já não sou um artista decente. Em alguns dos muitos sentidos da palavra.
*suspiro*
Para ser um profissional decente é preciso ter visão ampla das coisas. É preciso prestar atenção em tudo ao redor. Prestar atenção no mundo. E eu não vivo no mundo. Eu vivo no meu mundinho.
I am a drone. Tell me what to do and I'll do it the best way I can. But I'm still a drone.
Medo de não ter visão, de não ter confiança (círculo vicioso: falta de confiança gera medo que gera falta de confiança...), de não ter capacidade administrativa. Medo das minhas falhas de caráter. Medo de não ter a capacidade social necessária para progredir. Medo. Só isso.

Sou só uma criança querendo colo. Já calei.

A thought struck me on my way home.
Last friday was my first encounter with Dora and the beggining of my orientation towards the final work for the art course. She had asked me to bring my portraits so that the others who are under her guidance could have a look and get to know my work. We discussed for hours about very relevant things, which I'm sure you people would find completely boring, so I won't bother to write down. And we spent a great deal of time talking about Taís, my Tinkerbell's portrait (yes, I know i still have to post that one...). Dora was the first teacher to actualy understand why I glued a strip of canvas across Tinkerbell's eyes on the portrait.
If you remember, when I first spoke to Dora, she showed me some of Matthew Barney's stuff.
It struck me today, that perhaps one of the many reasons Dora enjoyed Taís so much, is because the figure dismally recalls Barney's fairies in Cremaster 4. All that red hair arranged in that fashion and the way the green contaminates the other colours creating a nightmarish undertone. It's a dreadful coincidence. Because those... "things" in Cremaster are also called fairies. For a moment I thought perhaps those images had been in my subconscious before I painted the portrait. But that's impossibe: I had no idea of the existence of the Cremaster series (or cycle, as it is known) until way after Taís was done

Of all the arts, I could forsake some that I actualy have a talent for if it would render me the talent for music. See, there's something in music that cannot be attained in painting, writing, or photography. Something that can only be hinted at in acting. It's the way music uses time as a tool. Music strikes rage or joy in the hearts of people. Always with this intrinsecate feeling that this rage or joy has a precise moment to burst. Paintings and photography, perhaps even writting can strike similar feelings. But never in the same intensity, because you can stare at a painting endlessly, to the point of banalization. You'll never miss the moment. Because there is no moment. Music is about that precise instant, that precise accord or beat that sends you into some orgasmic outburst. Acting can trigger feelings in that precise moment, but it requires a plot to do it. Music conveys a feeling without the complementing illusion of a plot. It's just the pure feeling. It's much more simple than acting. Yet it can be much more sublime...

I've promised myself that, once I get a job, the first thing I'm going to do with my money is start taking sax lessons. After Cowboy Bebop, I'm definitely a jazz fan.

Entrei na sala 1114 da fundação ontem um pouco temeroso. Levava debaixo do braço quase todos os retratos que pintei, com excessão do retrato da Lioness, que atualmente encontra-se no quarto dela, e o meu auto-retrato, que ainda está secando. Destes eu trazia só fotos. Na sala, o desafio: Dora. Ela percebeu minha presença, mas só foi levantar o olhar algum tempo depois, quando eu já estava mais perto. Tem algo nela que é como uma garotinha envergonhada debaixo de toda a pose de edgewalker. "Eu vim te importunar de novo" eu brinquei, "mas desta vez com outras coisas". E sem titubear abri na frente dela Mariana e Lilly. Agora que penso nisso, eu devia estar com muito medo naquela hora. Mas tem algo nela que me deixa estranhamente à vontade com ela. Talvez essa história da garotinha... Eu já tinha me preparado para tudo. Para receber um olhar de total desprezo e críticas pesadas que destruiríam minha última esperança. E para receber alguma exclamação de simpatia com outro pintor.

E sabe de uma coisa? Aconteceu a segunda opção!

"Olha, você sabe pintar!". E a partir daí ela deu uma olhada melhor em tudo. Gostou mais da Lilly, seguido de perto por Taís, o da Anual, que eu ainda não postei aqui (mas em breve...). É claro que ela comentou que estavam muito pequenos. Mas isso eu já esperava. Já me avisaram que ela gosta de pinturas grandes. E mais, hoje em dia, nada causa muito impacto nas artes se não for muito grande ou minúsculo. No final da conversa toda, depois de um pouquinho de pressão, ela aceitou ser minha orientadora para o trabalho de graduação!
Agora só resta resolver algumas pendências burocráticas...

On related news:
No corredor, mostrei a foto do auto-retrato para Caetano de Almeida, um antigo professor que criticava muitas das coisas que eu fazia. E curiosamente, foi o único que entendeu o que é para mim pintar um retrato de alguém: o apaixonar-se pela figura de outra pessoa, obcecar-se. E perguntou-me como eu tinha me sentido pintando a mim mesmo. Pareceu muito interessado naquilo tudo e até me pediu para mostrar mais coisas. Fiquei felicíssimo! Tentei por três anos ganhar o respeito daquele professor... No final, ele disse que só não me pega como orientando porque já está lotado de gente. Marquei bobeira... Acho que seria um orientador interessante. Mas ainda acho que a Dora pode ser melhor.
Veremos.

On related news, I watched Roman Polanski's The Pianist...


You know, a year ago we had this teacher in the art course who taught art history. One day, she handed out this text about the sublime. See, we have a wrong notion of what is sublime. Most people seem to think it applies to things that are beautiful and yet fragile, subtle. The term was actualy coined to determine that which is so great and powerful that it strikes fear and respect.

What I can say about Polanski's film is that it was simply sublime. The sheer horror of the war parading in front of you for a couple of hours at the sound of Chopin, Bach, Strauss. Hats off to mister Polanski.

Obviously, in case he does get that Oscar, he won't be around to receive it personaly due to certain... affairs... with younger girls. But I won't be dwindling into this subject.

Schizotypal thoughts about the impending war:
Ok, this might sound like a bunch of conspiracy theories, but I found some interesting coincidences.

Circa 1920: First World War
Circa 1940: Second World War
Circa 1960: Vietnam
Circa 1980: The Persian Gulf
Circa 2000: War on terrorism?

Why is it that the US seeks war at intervals of around twenty years or so? Why does the US need war so badly?

On other coincidences, check out this picture:
A fascist country seeks war on another country using religion as an excuse but actually seeking control over territory. In order to succeed, this first country uses tactics that include ideological warfare, demoralizing the country they want to conquer. On the other side, nations from Europe gather around an international agreement against the fascist country. If one of these countries is attacked, all others will be forced to aid in it's defence.
Now you could easily say that the fascist country is Germany under the leadership of Hitler against the jews using Goebels' ideological propaganda and that the european countries gather around the peace treaty of Versailles

or

You could easily say that the fascist country is the US under the leadership of Bush against muslims using their own mass media (movie industry and news network) and that the european counties gather around the UN.

The gap in this chain of thought is that the muslims are not part of said international agreement, and if they are attacked, I guess most of what the UN countries will do will consist of economical attackes rather than military. One thing is for sure, if war ensues, just like Versailles, the UN will loose any credibility and cease to exist.

You know, Chamberlain said about Hitler: "let him be. He'll frighten the comunists. When he's ready for war, we'll stop him.". But they didn't stop him. Do I hear someone say the same about Bush?

I'd like the opinion of my foreign friends on this. Note that I don't intend to quarrel. I just want to take a peek at opinions straight from the horse's mouth.

Estratégias do jogo de cartas chamado Presidente aplicáveis à vida:

- Antes de dar os grandes golpes, as grandes cartadas, livre-se das cartas fracas. É muito mais fácil ganhar a rodada baixando a carta máxima por último. Save the best for last

- Trincas e quadras de cartas baixas são uma armadilha. Elas são tentadoras demais para serem consideradas fracas e usadas no começo, mas fracas demais para ganhar alguma coisa no final da rodada.

Já ouvi essa comparação antes...
Vivo a dor e a delícia de ter sido Anita. Mal comparando, é como Rita Hayworth e o papel de Gilda -- dito por Mel Lisboa (obviamente...).

E na festa de carnaval à qual fomos là na cidadezinha, experimentei lança pela primeira vez. Imagine: mais de vinte anos de idade e eu ainda não tinha passado por isso. Na verdade tinha, mas algo deu errado e aquilo acabou com a minha garganta e não deu barato nenhum. Dessa vez aparentemente deu tudo certo.
Nos primeiros segundos nada aconteceu. E eu estava quase crente que nada ia acontecer como da última vez. Mas então as escadas que eu estava subindo começaram a girar aos poucos. Tudo ficou um pouco mais lento enquanto eu subia as escadas. Senti como se eu estivesse saíndo do meu corpo. Ou melhor, como se tivesse crescido um pouco. Afinal, ainda sentia meus pés nos degraus mas o ponto de vista parecia estar mais alto. Minhas mãos formigavam deliciosamente. Fiquei atento para o som ilusório de uma sirene ao longe que, diz a lenda, todos ouvem ao consumir a droga. Intercalado com o ritmo da música, a tal sirene parecia sirene de polícia, modulando o tom em intervalos sempre iguais. Fiz mais uma experiência no meio da pista de dança, mas não achei muita graça. Estar na pista já é tamanho estímulo para os sentidos, que as ilusões da droga somem.

Tá, e agora como fica o post escrito lá atrás dizendo que eu tenho medo de drogas? Pois bem, como eu disse, tenho medo do efeito a longo prazo. Não diria que eu nunca mais volto a experimentar lança. Mas vou continuar tentando evitar. Essa experiência já foi. Próximo...

Carnival

It literally means festival of flesh. And according to what my atheist self can gather, the name is given to the days before ash wednesday. Days in which we are granted permission to enjoy the pleasures of flesh before that religious day of mourning. We allow ourselves to sin. Carnival in my country is among the most famous in the world. If applied to all the seven deadly sins crap, it would be a condemnable example of lust.

Speaking about religion, I could practically say we went through heaven, purgatory and hell this year.

Purgatory
After about a month or so working at Águia de Ouro, we finally got a chance to see our work on the parade. Better yet: we were actually on the parade! Me, my Tinkerbell, Methodless and a few other collegues from the art course. It was my first time on a carnival parade. And they say the one in my home town is the second biggest in all the country. The effort of carrying the huge costumes, the pain inflicted on the body and the action of carrying all that weight down the avenue reminded me of penitence and that's why I deemed this my purgatory. I mean, everything was so beautiful and lavishly decorated and we had been a part of this! But a series of small worries and discomforts made it all slightly annoying. For one thing, the decorations in our costume, put toghether with hot glue, kept falling appart. And we lose points in the parade for that. So we had to be extremely careful with everything. But those things are to huge to be careful! Plus, disorientation makes the whole ordeal a living hell (no, that part comes in later...). Last but not least, the costume itself inflicts a certain amount of damage to it's wielder. Tink got to the end of the parade with her shoulders mangled by the wieght of the piece on her back. She couldn't raise her arms the following day. I myself spent most of the parade with a head piece cruching my skull. But no lasting damage.
On the overal score, I'd say it was one of those experiences that everyone must have at least once in a lifetime. Once. Twice is too much for me. But who knows... maybe in the future...

Hell:
After the parade, all I wanted to do was sleep. Embrace my Fairy and sleep for at least eight hours. But after only thirty minutes of slumber, my dear brother woke us up. He insisted that we travel at the ungodly hour of six in the morning to avoid traffic. We were going to a place owned by the Comediant's family in a distant little town. The gang had been trying to fix this trip for quite a long time. Specially the Comediant and the Former Rebel. It seemed they wanted to check out the street parades in the little towns. Legend has it that those little parades rock. But everytime something came up, or they ran out of cash and the trip was cancelled. Anyway, after about four hours in traffic, barely awake (gladly, I wasn't driving...), we got to the place, a tiny house a few blocks away from the town itself. Let me hasten things up. All accounted for, we were fifteen young adults inside a tiny house (seems everyone who had been envited in the previous attempts decided to come...). No problem: we had a similar number at General Anarchy's. But nevertheles, hell would ensue when the house's water supply seemed to be cut off... We were soon unable to cook, unable to wash dishes, unable to bathe and above all having difficulties in simply going to the bathroom. Aside from all that, all I and Tink wanted to do was get some sleep. But the other thirteen kept right on playing techno at top volume in the porch and yelling at each other. Anyone who has watched reality shows can grasp what happens when fifteen people (some not all comfortable with certain presences...) are put toghether in a house with nothing to do: tension soon build up to the point where we were almost leaping at each other's throats for stupid reasons.
If I may say, I really didn't mind all that hell. Somehow, I seem to have fun in survival situations. Going to extremes only to bathe or eat. In fact, I would like to do this again some day, when not in a relationship. It would be a deeply introspective experience, like hell in To what dreams may come. But I was responsible for yet another soul. One who was growing much impatient and annoyed by the whole situation. And I was feeling very much responsible for dragging her into this.
And so, at dusk on the very first day, we gathered in one of the rooms to conspire. Me, Tinkerbell, Sis, my brother and Big Mama. All who had travelled toghether at my brother's ungodly hour. We decided to wait for a day and see if things got better. If not, we'd try alternatives. Tink's family had a place in a nearby town, but her grandma was staying there for carnival, so that kinda ruled this option out. Then Sis suggested her family's place about an hour and a half away. After an interesting night at a party (about which I'll write on another post...) though, the situation didn't improve.
The last image scorched in my memory of that place was that of the Comediant and Little Wonder standing at the gate. Those were the two people I felt most sorry for. Our little companion waved goodbye at us with a mocking sad expression. Deeply I knew she was in fact rather desperate. She wanted to go along but there was no room in the car. She remained there: the only girl in a house full of boys (read troglodites...). As for our comic friend, he was visibly feeling guilty for the situation. Walking out on him like we did felt like treason. It wasn't his fault that things went awry. But we couldn't be forced to stick around against our will.

Heaven
The last part of the trip felt like paradise. We spent the last couple of days at Sis'. Her family was there. They're all japanese with the exception of her father. So the food hada a tendency to be slightly exotic. And speaking of food, we were finally able to eat to our heart's content. And to our hungry tongues, food never tasted better. I slept with Tink all the sleep we lacked for the last two days. And when we were finally rested and fed, we played a small variety of games. From card games to ball games. The latest with a series of moves and chance events worthy of ESPN's plays of the week!! Wished I had caught those on tape! There was even enough room for me and Tink to train some of the stuff we learned at the circus. On our last night out there, we even thought about going to town for the parade. But things were so comfy in the house, that we soon gave up on that idea. No objections.

All I can say is that Yin would not seems as good without Yang.

I apologize in advance to any hard feelings this post might create in the future to anyone involved. This is merely an account of things.