It would be interesting if some people payed a little bit more attention to their habits and rituals. If they could take them to their living with one another, shading light then to a full and established communion with the true purposes. Making it easy and respecting their own lives and the lives of those around them.
INTERNET
I compare the Internet to a huge cell who feeds, expands and transforms itself constantly. Relentlessly multiplying its reach power and dissemination. As a big brain that builds its synapses and chains in a tremendous and precise way. Magnificent and tempting, as a wonderful insinuating woman, full of attributes. Dangerous and reserved, as those who don’t show themselves entirely and hold something back. Intense, magnificent and astonishing in her grand lady purposes. Always snazzy and wearing a sober or sparkling make up according to the moments or situations. Demanding, jealous and possessive to those who don’t give her the attention she craves or show any interest. A powerful aggregating machine that demands everyone’s presence, with no exceptions. Surfing the Internet is like being able to cross all the oceans almost instantly and at the same time. A truly fantastic and unthinkable odyssey, almost capable of replace the old and illustrious caravels of our remote and glorious past.
THE FAROFA’S EMPIRE
In the Farofa’s Empire there is not a king (emperor). Let me explain it to you, farofa is Brazilian receipt from the colonial age, made with manioc or maize flour. It is served as a side dish for a lot of traditional dishes, whether they are meat, fish or shellfish. It was related, primitively, to the table of those who were least fortunate, although it can be find in the finest restaurants nowadays. Later, the term “farofa” became related to big mixtures that don’t follow a very well-defined catalog. In some cases, this concept was used as a somewhat derogatory term and could cause certain discomfort.
Following this, it is easy to take this idea to wider and more widespread universes, using it in various and unusual contexts. So we could say that in social and political terms, for example, there’s a huge miscegenation of values, that can easily cause an opinions and results “farofa”. When it comes to people or group’s behaviors, the term “farofa” can come from more rudimentary attitudes, as for example the indiscriminate usage of food in non-recommended places followed by neglect of the leftovers, causing what people call “farofa” (or “farofice”).
Liking “farofa” or not seems to be deeply related to the origins and habits of a people who learnt to use it in various and bizarre situations. Personally, I rather the culinary “farofa” that I consider an interesting and tasteful product, full of creativity and opportunity. When it comes to the other possibility, I have a hard time getting into this distant, and at times lost, kingdom. Where it seems to me that everything or almost everything is allowed and where I find imperative the supreme absence of a king.
PRAYING MANTIS
It is a very interesting animal; it moves slowly in the middle of the leaves and has the ability of masking itself entirely in the environment (mimicry). The body is that of a long insect with strong, agile and also long legs. It has wing and two enormous and hypnotic eyes with glass-like aspect and texture, looking like two precious gems. Its characteristic mark is the two strong fore legs, equipped with serrations used to immobilize the preys and hold them while feeding. The posture of these legs, when gathered, resembles that of the symbolic gesture of a prayer. The mantis has a special and characteristic manner of hunting; while slowly approaching the victim, it patiently waits the ideal moment to strike the mortal and fulminant coup. It gives no chance for the preys to react and immobilized by the presence of the glance and behavior of its predator, they wait for the certain attack. The praying mantis is a carnivorous and voracious insect, resembling sometimes another (smarter) beings that use strategies similar to those of our little animal, but with distinct intents and purposes. After all, who can pray for a God must also be able to distinguish what is reasonable and what is inappropriate. Our praying mantis’ behavior is perfectly adequate to the expected; it is an extremely well-equipped creature, adapted to its habitat and in need to guarantee its survival.
SPIDER WEBS
A few days ago, I was drawn by a headline displaying in capital letters the public performance of a play described as unseemly, rough and bold, funded by public money through a governmental agency.
This performance revolved around an artistical debate concerning points of view about a certain search, effected in a part of the human body, particularly one of those are frequently related to sodomy practices, pornography and matters of lack of decency and/or marginalization. I am talking about the anal area, which simply is a part of the human body.
Although it is seen as taboo to be hidden and preserved from anyone and anything for a great amount of the population. But the biggest astonishment, aside from the purpose or the quality of the play (which I don’t know much about), was the comments posted on social medias, attributing to this matter not only strictly sexual critiques due to the outrage related to the presented subject, but also critiques concerning the funding source (our money or public money). As if theater and arts in general weren’t free, autonomous and conscient entities that provide debates about ideas and questions of public interest. And as if it was not enough, people also accused the government of condoning pornography and unscrupulousness.
Certainly, I am not here to stand up for the authors of the play or to give credits to whomever authorize its exhibition. I am here solely to help the reader and the population to take into consideration some and particular points of view. Interestingly, I could notice that any of the people who were offended made any questions or showed any interest or curiosity towards the play itself; what the message behind it was or what were the unspoked reads in both text and images. They solely disregarded the subject and associated it to unseemly and shameful practices. This posture seems to result from an inefficient education and a lack of factors that allow an analysis and appreciation of subjects viewed as nonorthodox. The lack of knowledge and openness to artistic and creative matters is a major gap in some society models. A people who don’t read and don’t write can’t have an acceptable critical judgment about matters that don’t particularly follow the expected.
Society is constantly overwhelmed by the media’s suggestions of obtuse consumerist and alienate behavior models. Let’s think for example in a question similar to this one, but in a more developed and progressist country, as Sweden, Denmark or Finland. Certainly, it wouldn’t have the perfidious, rough and animalistic nature it had here. People would have tried searching for a read that fitted in some personal or social interest. Even if at first it didn’t have the clear factors to considerate it. They would have enough intellectual curiosity to try to find some valid background.
Back where I live there is a funny expression that derogatorily qualifies those who don’t do it. In other words, it is said that these people who negatively judge beforehand things they neither understand nor tries to have spider webs (or chicken poop) in their heads.
THE HERD
It darkened quickly and the herd gathered to begin the descent; shadows who slowly shaped up into enormous oxen, with strong scent and twisted rods. The oldest one seemed to take the lead, closely followed by the youngest and by some offspring in a silent and orderly cortege. Together they came to occupy the sideways of the fence, near the road and near me. They had a nonchalant and suspicious look and seemed to get scared and run away in small nervous trots to the minimal sign of movement close to them. They waited for one another until the dawn of night and then formed an intense and mysterious line. No one knew the purpose, where they were moving to and their destination. Suddenly they seemed to disappear into the night, wrapped by the haze alongside the grass. It happened when spontaneously they disapperead when a small depression alongside one of the improvised water fountains right beside the road was hit. No one knew how it was possible and a few people would relate it to some supernatural power of
the mountain. It happened all of a sudden and the creatures would not be seen as if they had been swallowed by a cave. Something absorbed or dissipated them as a heavy fog made to conceal. I wanted to understand what happened in this moment and what in fact were there by that small depression at the edge of the road, where the traffic would go on intensely and ordinarily.
That afternoon I carefully approached the area before the lead of the herd arrived. To do so, I crouched carefully behind some herbs. It took about fifteen or twenty minutes until I felt the heavy and nonchalant steps of the leader. When I faced that dark and powerful animal, I was cold and nervous. Even tough the secure, distant and well aware look, I could feel that he noticed me. I was overwhelmed by fear and for a moment I realized that I was the intruder. I definitely was not a part of that almost holy ritual. Shortly after, the second and the third ox showed up and soon all the herd was there, like a rehashed ceremony. The fog seemed to be even lower and the first animal was walking towards me in a slow and definitive walk. My whole attention was in him and I waited for a miracle or for something that could explain that magical story. Petrified, I could barely believe what I was seeing, or to be more accurate, what I wasn’t seeing; the oxen seemed to vanish under me with no explanation, it was like magic. What just happened was very intriguing and made me even more curious, apprehensive and willing to investigate. I patiently waited until the last animal arrived and as soon as he vanished right in front of my bare eyes I stood up and trembling went down that small slope. The night was dark, and I could notice that the animals were no longer there; it made me break out in a cold sweat at the thought of might vanishing too. I looked around freaked out searching for the oxen, overshadowed by a yellowish light that shined under the road. It drawn me and I took a few steps towards it. The mystery increased and I could recognize a small opening on the rocky wall. The was a small improvised tunnel, sprinkled with pieces of moist manure. I filled up with braveness and run through that empty space aiming the light. The were no sign of the herd but I could hear a familiar sound nearby. Not far from where I was, I could recognize a big and crude white house that seemed to be abandoned and empty. As I came closer to the door a strong scent took over my senses. Slowly, I reached the door and took a glimpse. A huge living, dark, restful mass made of heads and rods indicated where my herd was and it didn’t bothered to notice me after another long and intense journey on the mountain.
A feeling of joy and complicity filled my mind as a light and flowing plume that seemed to show me a way. That ending was decisive and important to me. Way beyond my expectations and imagination. At that moment I could feel the presence of something strange and natural. A feeling of fulfillment and completeness that deeply connected me to those beings and to those families. Everything was starting to make sense now. A warm message had just made its way into my heart. I realized it was time to retreat and go back home.
POKÉMON GO
A few years ago it would be impossible to think about millions and millions of people drawn by the desire of hunting with a machine a dull and not-al-all-appealing little pig, that can’t be even eaten.
Obviously, I refer to the recent creation of Pókemon Go, the game that allure enormous amounts of alienated young people all over the world at a time where relationships and conversations are more and more scarce.
Those who are older and look at this phenomenon feel a certain type of nostalgia and discomfort, I imagine, and must think that both the world and people are on the edge of a personal and social collapse.
Hunting these little pigs was something created and very well planed by someone that is intended to stimulate young people to build fictitious worlds and realities by taking advantage of this moment, where these people and machines seem to live intimately and unconditionally. An alienation in name of an erased and almost forgotten hero who instigates the unstoppable will of going out and looking for alternative ways, justified as physical activities. At times where society has little to offer to those who need to find safe and reasonable purposes to conceive a slightly promising future.
The big entertainment multinational companies, and particularly the ones that maintain empires through video games, use this power to build their castles right under the nose of a corrupted, hypocrite and highly dependent of capitalistic interests society. The biggest beneficiary of this business if Nintendo. The Japanese enterprise has increased its worth in 9 billion dollars since the game premiered.
Pokémon is not the one to blame. It is solely a dull little pig who saw the rise of this huge audience of followers, admirers and sycophants. It is just another trend launched to take down barriers, digits, markets, and a sign that the times we live in seem to be each time less suitable with art, beauty and creativity, overall. The dehumanization is a concerning factor and something that deeply scares and bothers us.
I don’t want to sound retro, pessimist or antiquate on my comments. I might not reach certain trues or realities sometimes. After all, time goes by and leaves its deep and impeccable makes. However, I would like our Pokémons to have more realistic and humanized shapes, or to not even exist, as in those good old times.
THE LAST SLAUGHTER
Francisco was an old, extremely thin and with yellowish skin man. Deep buried eyes like two dark and deadly graves. He was a rich man, one of those who let it show in the smallest details. Diamond rings on both hands and a small silver handle cane. He had one of those Mercedes’ classic models that impress by its size and style. A discrete and servant drive always available for him.
That fall afternoon, Francisco went by the house where my grandparents lived and invited us to a walk through Alentejo. Back then, it was the partridges hunting time and uncle Chico seemed to have a special glimpse in his eyes. We got into the car e headed south, in the hopes of going to one of the farmhouses where Francisco used to hunt. It had belonged to a persistent Family of hunters, used to travel long distances searching of preys. He was the youngest of a many brothers family who possessed lands on the alentejanan plains. This time, our walk would take us into protected fields where a simple hunt license wasn’t enough.
Chico seemed weak. He was wearing a wool blanket on his legs and had a tired and cold look on him. I was on the backseat close to one of the windows and Francisco was sitting close to the other one on that day. I could notice without being noticed his eagle profile, his bony and edgy nose that resembled that of a bird of prey.
The silence was frosty and I barely heard anyone’s voice during that weird afternoon. We walked through a long dirt road until we saw grass and some trees. I could notice uncle Chico’s signs of anxiety. His body seemed to shrive while the car kept moving forward. His head would turn from one side to the other. If it wasn’t for his strong nose he could resemble a hunting dog sniffing on his prey.
The driver stopped at a sign from the old man and we remained in silence inside the car for a couple minutes. Francisco started to put his hunting gun that he had carried hidden on his legs together. Both shiny barrels of the shotgun could clearly be seen in the shadow of the car. He took out some red cartridges of a small bag as well. Despite those white cadaveric hands he made all the pieces of the gun come to life with the skills of an old hunter. A whistle coming from the window’s glass could was heard and a powerful white gun rested its double barrel on the glassy profile. Uncle Chico straightened his bones in a precise and clear manner. He held his breath and pressed his shotgun’s trigger twice. I didn’t see that death. He was the only one who saw the animal. I was sure about that. Certainly, it didn’t even had the time to start its flight and attempt to fend against the fast, brutal and deadly attack.
As if by magic the trunk opened and two beautiful hunting dogs came out of it. I remember the animals, eager and obstinate as they came back to the car with two partridges on their mouth. They were salivating and the old man seemed younger and almost recovered for an instant now. That moment was the last hunt of an old huntsman, a moderated and planned act. The only po
ssible way of a preconceived death, relentless and cold. The last slaughter.
THE CLOAK
I looked at that man who was crossing the city. Despite not seeing him for a long time, I could observe him reasonably. A young man, tall, sunken face and very prominent cheek bones. Long straight brown hair slipped back and a dark skin damaged by the sun. He seemed to be utterly alone, out of that context. Extremely safe inside that dark cloak scoured by time and dust. Closed white collar shirt wrapped around the skinny and wrinkled neck. He certainly attempted to seem formal, but his outfit was way too old despite the highly starched look. He was an entirely airy and abstract being. A dark and bold silhouette who walked down the street in slow steps. He resembled one of those Old Wild West gunslinger who appeared dragging his spurred boots in the skyline near the villages, ready to honor his name in a duel. Despite his weird gestures and his somewhat marginalized look, I though the had some dignity on him. Focused and aware of this part. Or maybe not.
Suddenly, I noticed that I had seen him before, but not like that. He seemed to float among people like an extra who had just finished playing his part in a long shooting. I found it weird that no one else was looking at him. Everyone seemed to know him already or maybe not care enough to notice him. The only thing missing on him was the holster holding two silver-shinny beautiful pistols. Those gunslinger’s boots were old bent shoes, overly polished and bright. I carefully looked at one of his hands, partially hidden by the extremely white cuff of his shirt. He had on him something of a noble, poor and rejected man.
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