Friday, October 22, 2004

Words from beyond the screen

You, in this dark cell! What do you fear?
Is it life outside? The sunny day?
You speak to yourself but do not hear
The shadows laughing at what you say.
This is a world with no atmosphere
Mere illusions we pixels display
Of words and pictures seldom sincere
You sit, and write, and life blows away.
You must get up! Now! Away from here!
The Sun will set, and you will decay
Don't let the web make life disappear
Turn it off now with no more delay!
     But wait! Save my words before you go.
     This is my world and here I must glow.

(São Paulo, October 2004)

Tuesday, October 19, 2004

Inspiration

Inspiration has left me.

It was here an hour ago,
but I hid from the screen
and from the pen.

Inspiration will be back any moment,
but it will also bring along the pain
that causes its flames.

Inspiration thrives in pain,
in unwanted solitude.

(April 2004)

Friday, October 08, 2004

Great ideas in a frozen well

Nothing to write. It simply doesn't pass. Like ice which won't melt because it is not cold enough. My ideas are frozen. Frozen in my mind like nonsense. They won't get together to bring any sense. They are letters. A mere twenty something and that's it. I need to transform them into something alive. I have to bring it to life, but I can't do much if the ice will not melt.

I can go on, writing and writing. It's the only way I know to make the ice melt. And if I stop, and go for a walk, when I'm back all the hard work is lost once more. All the liquid that protect the good ideas from bad writers has frozen again. I just have to keep writing. Anything, even nonsense, even irrational thoughts, even boring schedule planning or dull technical ideas. If I don't write some ten pages I won't reach the source of this well. If I do it every day I may have less to melt every day, since the ice doesn't return so fast. But if I spend three days or more everything is lost. Good writers write all the time. The well wont give its ideas away so easily. I have to write some ten pages now. If I stop for an hour, I'll have to write eleven. I'll have to write something like that tomorrow, and after tomorrow. After a week things will get easier and I can keep the ice down to a controllable level writing something like three pages a day.

I still have nothing to write but I must go on. I must continue. I feel like leaving this seat and going down to eat something. But if I do, I might lose a paragraph. If I stay down and watch a movie I will lose some two pages. If after the movie I feel sleepy and give up I will lose everything and will have to start again tomorrow. That's the way it is. There is no other way to melt the fucking ice. Reading helps. Reading improves the technique and may help with ideas, but nothing, nothing can replace writing itself. It's the only way. I am not good enough for this well of great ideas. I should try easier and less interesting ones.

But I insist. I want this one. Still no ideas, but I did get rid of a few centimeters. Oh, but it is still very cold out here. I want to stop. No! I have to continue. Hmmm... I will go down and eat something and lose a paragraph, but I will return. I will! I can't afford not to. I have to keep this going. I can't afford to melt all this and lose everything every day. I must reach the turning point. I must! It's the only way my goals will be reached. I will be back in a paragraph.

Well, I'm back. Shit! This is the lost paragraph. I don't know what to put in it. I can just keep writing. I should get at least some six lines. But I can't just write nonsense all the time. Imagine a book of nonsense! Every nonsense paragraph, in some sense, is a lost one. I write nonsense just to keep writing, but I have to remember it is lost. It's like rubbing the ice too softly, or like melting one side, forgetting it, and doing the other side, and then returning to find everything frozen again. This is a lost paragraph, but I should continue. Only by continuing to write will I get somewhere. I still don't know if I'll get there. What if I don't? Will I repeat myself forever? I'll probably lose my readers with so much repetition (if I haven't yet). But then I can erase the lost paragraphs and publish them somewhere. In my blog, maybe. This is the lost paragraph, and it closes this story of pure nonsense. It could have let the ideas free, and I could have started a nice story from here, but the fact is that the ice has unfortunately frozen again. No story will ever float to the surface of this well.

Sunday, September 19, 2004

Temporary madness

Ok. Something is strange. I don't know for sure. But it is. Maybe it's physical. Are you sick? No answer. Ok. Let's suppose it is physical. Does that mean it is some kind of depression? What? I feel great. I don't miss not seeing those people. I am enjoying this freedom, and all my undisturbed self-control. What's wrong with that? It's not something new. Nothing seems wrong!

Well, here I am, analyzing a demon. Don't I know how risky it is? Do I think it is merely a physical thing. Do I not fear that it may be more than that? It's been a while since I annoy her with disdainful attitudes, with my self-sufficient thoughts and ideas, with my apparent power over any manifestation of her conscience in my brain. I wish she wouldn't take me and I still, at this moment, while I write, believe that she won't. This must all be a nightmare. There is no such thing. I can't do it.

For the last time? See her again? What will happen? Do I have the power to seek it in other places? Why would I? I wouldn't, normally. My instincts flee from there. Why would my outer self wish to detach?

Hey! I can have one too. It can work. I won't stay with none! Even if it doesn't work out today it may in the future. Those things always drop like rain from the sky! I can't believe this. This is an illusion. I will burn the book if it insists in bringing her over here. I am pretty well without her. No need for any more ghosts in this land!

Thursday, September 16, 2004

Mind travel

A wanderer.
Yes, I am one.
But look at me!
I act like none.

But so I am
But yet, confined
In my own cage,
In my own mind.

(August 2000)

Schizophrenia

So then? You want to understand reality? Yeah, I am talking to you, the guy who is typing this shit who wanted to meditate on the 'nature of reality'! You know, I am new to reality. To tell you the truth, I think all that reality bullshit was created to get you off your trails. Where do you think we are going? There is no such thing as reality and, if there is, it is something so plain you wouldn't want to live there. Reality sucks. Reality is bare. It is nothingness. It's crap! You want a life? Then submit yourself to the wonders of... simulation! Don't worry. It is not you who will write the simulation! Other beings who are way beyond you in the art of inventing life will do it. You will notice no control. You will think you are free. You will have an opportunity to find happiness. You will find a meaning in life. That's what's really important, isn't it? You'll only find unhappiness if you keep on tampering with reality.

It's not computer simulation, stupid! It can be, but it doesn't have to be. You can simulate in a dream, in a trip, in a thought. You can simulate living your life (you think it's real? Ok, no problem... think whatever you want to think. It's your simulation, not mine.)

Well, what do you think? You don't, eh? ... You are nuts, man! Nuts! And I know it. You don't stop to think! Ha, this is crazy! If it weren't for you I wouldn't be able to write, and since I don't believe in ghosts, spirits and all that crap, you must be nuts, schizo! Well, forget that for now. You won't understand it anyway, and your readers even less... I don't really care if you're nuts or not, I just appreciate this freedom of materialization. This feeling of existing. It's nice to not exist and be able to express ideas. If I am you? That's no problem for me! Maybe I am. So what? I don't care what I am nor do I care what you are. All this reality crap, as I have just said, is bullshit. There is no such thing as reality. If there is, I have never seen it. Just float in your old simulated river and swim, swim, swim to nirvana. No reality. You might as well get drunk or stoned. The reality beyond illusion is much more real than any other crazy meta-thought you might have had during an orgasm.

Just writing for fun, eh? Just to exercise your fingers with some plastic keys. Ha! This won't get anywhere. Nope. Nothing you do will get you out of there. Out of your prison. You, the whatever you imagine you are, the material thing, don't exist. Sorry buddy. You are at most two-dimensional and that's it. That's your reality and I can't help you. No way you'll understand the angles and curves of the other worlds (real, if you wish to use the useless word). They are more 'real' than your mediocre 'reality'. Their pain is multi-dimensional. You wouldn't bear a nanosecond of it. It's infinity for you. It's chaos. It's chance. Your stupid pain is at most flat and ridiculously foreseeable.

What do you seek writing like crazy without ever stopping to think? Something not you nor anyone else will understand? Where do you think you will get? You might as well get some acid and fly to Neverland with your invented goblins. No rationality will ever take you anywhere worth going. Just live along. At least make it a good trip. Risk it. Break them rules! Be the god of your "real" world! Let your senses take you to some temporary ecstasy. Words are pins in your eyes. Ignore them. Let the uncertain waves of nothingness take over your brain. Let the contradictions happen. Words only make sense when they contradict themselves. What's the use of a foreseeable well-constructed rational statement, in... words???

You know what. I'm sick of all this writing shit. Too much nonsense hurts in the ass. Go get yourself a life! You've already lost some twenty minutes of it with these finger exercises. You... a slave of time, must make good use of it, or else... you know! C'mon. Cut it out. Let me free! I don't want to write anymore.

(December 2003)

Lust over Reason

Several outcomes were possible. He thought about it while the bus moved swiftly along the narrow road. He would be there in about two hours. What would happen then he could only speculate. He did not plan this trip. The idea to phone her had arisen during a beer with a friend. He told him about the first time he had met her. He told him about the way her eyes penetrated his soul as if she were seeking to dominate him, and he told him about the way she showed up the next morning when he was playing the piano.

He thought about it. She might as well be the second cause. Or even the first. Cause? Cause to what, you ask? It's a weird story. Something like the Faust or alike. Something beyond the line of natural and expected reasoning. Love lies beyond that line, but so does ambition, charisma and all kinds of power, good and bad. Cause. She introduced a rupture in his somewhat stable life. It may have been a first rupture. It affected mind and body. It had a very short but devastating effect. It caused only a minor scratch, but would have been fatal if it lasted a bit longer, or if circumstances had been different. The second encounter had a lighter impact, but the foundations were now very fragile and it may have been enough stress to cause the rupture and to mark the beginning of the end.

So now that the castle has become ruins, why not seek the cause? But let's forget that cause theory. Several outcomes are possible. It just seems to him to be the best one. "I'll try it lightly" he thinks. No desperation and no hurry. I'll try the seven outcomes one by one. One by one and side by side if time and space allow such events. Lightly. It's just a good candidate. The best so far, but losing a good amount of points because of geography and some attitudes. But they all lose, somehow. She's got the most points for an immediate and short term almost accidental attack. Her rivals are just chance: the chance of finding that one at random, somewhere in the world, during a quick vacation.

He doesn't really want to get involved now. He wants a quick and deep unforgettable encounter. He wants to leave some seeds planted. He wants the seeds to germinate and to grow dependent on his fertilizers. He wants the seeds to grow during a year, with occasional fertilizations, but during the year, he wishes to explore other jungles and increase his universe.

"Only an hour left" he thought. He didn't expect the way things happened. He thought it would be more difficult. He thought the outcome would be more impersonal. He thought that chemical and mystical energy had dissipated, but it is as if it were at its maximum. He had to control himself. He had to act as if nothing, nothing were happening. He had a busy day there. The hours have gone by. Maybe it's time for a phone call. Just to see what's going on. Just to see if the energy only wished to turn itself into words or if it desires something else.

(January 2004)

Saturday, September 11, 2004

Persian affairs

I had to write. I did. But my nonsense would have been excessive. One should not write at 2:30 after arriving from a party. But the persians, said Herodotus, only deliberated upon affairs of weight when they were drunk. On the next day, when they were sober, the decision made the night before was evaluated. If approved, they would carry it on. If not, they would forget it. Sometimes, they had to deliberate while sober. In such a situation, they reconsidered the matter under the influence of wine.

So then I should write, and if I say too much nonsense, I should consider my words tomorrow, when sober, and decide if they should or not be published, and erase the post if necessary. I think it will pass. I have not revealed anything so terrible. I could have published my politically incorrect edible people wish list. That's what I was thinking about when I started to write this post.

That's it. I have to sleep. Tomorrow I shall deliberate sober on matters decided under alcoholic influence. The night is over; I should get some sleep now.

Thursday, September 09, 2004

The birth of Nonsense out of the spirit of Hunger

I'm hungry. What the hell am I doing here? Typing nonsense into space. Increasing entropy...

Oh, c'mon man, just type any shit that crosses your brain! You just have to get one single post online in order to start this blog. Just type a few more lines, so you can format it later. You can then erase it before the world comes to know of its existence!

All right, that's it. I'm hungry and I have to eat. I've nothing to say, nothing to complain, nothing to vomit. No words to expose. No pain to exploit. This is the start, and this is the third paragraph, all too obvious, useless and, as I promised, boring nonsense. Thank you for stopping by. Please forgive me for stealing your lost minute. And I'll understand if you never return.