Finalmentes...

Finally. Bloody. Finished. The sodding Hemingway.

Don't get me wrong, I recognize the brilliance of it - especially the end bits, when he finally took us out of the bloody american's head and into the thoughts of the actually interesting characters of the book, Pilar, Sordo, and my personal favourite, el viejo Anselmo. But by god did I hate reading about Robert Jordan (what's with the constant surname dammit?), his love for the once-beautiful-and-incredibly-annoying-and-pointless Maria (oh, yes, she's no longer pretty because her hair was shaved off *eyeroll*), the moralism that would just go on and on, and the extremely disturbing "translation" of Spanish speech into English (as a biligual myself with some experience in translation, I have to say that was just ridiculous - just because the manner of speech seems archaic, translataing it into achaisms of another language does not necessarily translate the meaning and expression - some things just don't translate into the same bloody word!!). I did, however, enjoy the book, somehow.

Isso merece uma nova lista:

Mood: desperate for inspiration. always.

Quote: "Nós, gatos, já nascemos pobres, porém, já nascemos livres."

Film: MASH, which I finally understood; Waking Life, which I finally watched de cabo a rabo and also understood

Song: I Go To Sleep - The Pretenders

Book: I needed a break, so I went for something "lightweight" - Máquina de Pinball, Clarah Averbuck

This last one is something to talk about. I'm ashamed to say I first discovered her in Marie Claire - as in the magazine, yes, it happens to be the most intelligent thing to read when one is being girly at the manicurist. As things go when one is online, one thing led to another, and I spread to interviews, blogs, columns, books and a movie based on her work - often mistaken as auto-biographical, which she vehemently denies rebuking that people can't tell the difference between art and life. Her writing is ranty - kinda how most of us write at this age online -, self-indulging and annoying at times. I love it. Symptom of my wannabe-indie-cool ways, of which I am somewhat ashamed, but have learnt to accept and live with. Both my own prejudices, as well as those of my bossy boyfriend are replied to with a sharp let-me-be. "Deixa eu ser fútil e feliz, porra!" I know I'm better than that, I'm smarter than those idiots who spend their lives destroying themselves (for the sake of art, for Averbuck's "charatcter"), but that doesn't stop me from wanting to live the life they lead - were I not too much of a scardy-cat. I want to be a rock star, a new wave bohemian, a junkie, an avid writer, a party-girl, antenada, hooked, a member of the underground scene. Foda-se if its the now-inexistent true underground or the media-pushed-teen-filled-pseudo-indie underground of today...

One aspect of Averbuck's writing struck me: her no-comments blog policy. She claim she writes for herself alone and no one else; fuck everybody else. I don't. I write to feel cool and less useless. I write for others to tell me I'm a good writer, even though I haven't written anything decent here for months; even though I don't write for months. I write to feel like I have some sort of future in writing, even though I know I don't. I write for myself; but I write for others for the sake of myself. The self I want to be, pretend to be, wish to be, fantasize.

One of these days I'll actually have something to say. Eloquently. Someday soon, I can feel it. Be warned...

Realization of the year: I suck at titles

Andava no ônibus numa noite qualquer com música no ouvido observando cidade afora pela janela. Se depara com uma parede cinza, onde se encontra o pixo:

Editor's note: this blog would have been illustrated by a picture of the grafitti itself, but the author found this lovely piece of urban poetry had been painted over the next day...

Haha...urban poetry...I amuse myself...

Andava pela faculdade no primeiro dia de aula com música no ouvido quando se deparou com um muro opressivamente branco. Onde estariam os rabiscos coloridos que o muro ostentava há uma semana que pertenciam à comissão de frente comfiliana, com Zappa de mestre-sala e uma fadinha color-esquizofrênica como porta-bandeira? Contraste com as rosas paredes rabiscadas da velha Pontifícia...tradições apagadas...