Exceling in Life

I’m coming home. I’m not sad or happy. I came from St. Peter’s Grocery. I like going there. Groceries in San Pedro. On Mondays. The bar is most receptive. There are so many people. And some friends are always there. So I can lean on the counter, order a Heineken and quiet I flip through some books. Today I read some excerpts from the book of my friend Joca Terron. The last of it. One of Cairo. It has a cool name. I do not remember now. But then came a guy like that who like to talk about books. I run away from such people. I do not like talking about books with those who do not know. I do not permit such intimacy. He did not try to talk to me.Thanks to God. But I realized that he was trying to talk about books with the waiter from the bar. So I ran away as possible. I like nights. I like Mondays. When the bars are quieter. I do not like crowded bars. Perhaps it has to do with age. But the truth is I never liked. Not when he was young.

I like to drink with my friends. My friends did not appear. James was rotten. That’s what he told me. Linguinha also did not appear. So I took my Heineken and I was out there drinking alone, far from any persons who might like to talk about literature. I like to drink. With my friends. Or alone. Once I remember Angela Ro Ro said: “I’ve known too many people.” I have no more patience to get to know people. I want to be quiet, drinking my Heineken. Or a shot of whiskey. It was not the case. Today was really a Heineken. So why insist on a night out? I sink in the bars? Because I am a Bohemian.

Or a night owl.Or some shit like that. But I am well. And there’s no denying. Wanessa My girlfriend told me the other day: “You’re too young for me.” And look I’m 20 years older than her. She said that ironically playing with me from his realization that I am always willing to drink more than one, to stay the night at the bar every night. And I must confess that I have strived to stay at home. I like to stay with her watching a movie or a drinking whiskey and talking (with her!) If only because she’s great company, but nevertheless, it is not without reason. I am a nocturnal creature. And intense. Bizarre to say that.

But I remember another girlfriend (or so) who also claimed (not for me – told me this) that was fucking me cause I was too intense. And there was another that ended with me for the same reasons. Or at least she claimed that these were the reasons. Finally, what is true. I do not know if I’m intense. What I know is that I am a passionate night. Once in a while I realize how everything is useless. The same conversations, the same drunk froth. But so what? I’m all a result of this froth.Perhaps that is why my writings that impression to spend a bunch of people who insist on reading until the final. But I was talking to was on the Grocery, right? And there was a lot of time alone with my thoughts and my crooked Heineken. But then came my friend Marcelo Paiva and then Director Joe Belmonte Carolzinha Abras and my friend and we got talking about a bunch of other stuff.
And I was not illegally seized as well. Since these people know me. And they do not expect much from myself. So I’m more relaxed. I hate raising expectations. And then I entered the taxi and went home quiet, thinking about writing this post. In talking about these impressions I have of people who expect a lot of other people. And say I just hope they are ready. And on. What is even receptive. But simply connected. And they have little hope. And they return to their homes as well. And they have a cozy place to rest their bodies battered. And a hot shower to wash his wounds. Or do you think the Good Lord comes to all alike? Just because we are made in his image and semlhança? It will be spinning and you doin ’screwed.

And write their essential texts.And what calm sleep. And they have sort of like me, have episodes of “Sons of Anarchy” to watch. Thanks again, Jao. Have you seen this series? It’s about a gang of bikers. My friend is Jao rider. And the show is basically about loyalty male, so connected? And you should now be wondering if it exists. I’m talking about men’s loyalty. And I answer there is. If there was no woman in the middle. If you are a woman, I suspect. Always. Even friends. Men resist almost everything except temptation.

And who said that otherwise, of course, was a homosexual writer. I’m talking about Oscar Wilde. Is that gay men are also so connected? So they know what they say.  Abreu was essentially a male writer though he was openly gay. And what to speak of Rimbaud? Or Cazuza? “Baby, you cap marked / tagged / for I am flesh of her neck / you came across a crazy / to get rid of me / will be fire” so that time sexual preference has nothing to do. Because we are men. And because we like the night. And burn like fireworks, like say Kerouac. And because not many people out there that interests us.

And because we will not discuss literature with strangers. Because literature is a sacred thing. And it cannot be lost on anyone curious. Or any poseur. I’m not calling the guy in the Grocery Store “poseur.” Maybe he was even a nice guy. But I do not want to risk. Then went back home. And I’ll watch another episode of “Sons of Anarchy” or read a few pages of the “Beats” (comic) of Pekar.

And go to sleep fairly quiet. And somewhere in this city, there will be another guy waking up in a bar table and smiling awkwardly to the waitress who will look at him with a little anger, since it is the last client, and it’s just that is preventing you from closing the bar and leave. The waitresses hate us, you can be sure of that. And only the dogs in the parking lots of supermarkets in love.

The dogs with whom we share our half dozen beers Cintra. And look at that today I have had the luxury of drinking Heineken. I was more than half an hour sitting on a bench using the freezer as ice cream bar table. And I forgot to get a fucking ice cream. It would be a kind of tribute to my friend Kim Douglas (another great night owl and bohemian bully) that always keeps this ritual. Friends should always do homage to other friends temporarily missing. It’s a way to have them around.

Enjoy!

“A Good Place to Die” is the name of the latest book of poetry that I read, and in good, if you’re one of those guys scraping shelves of self-help books who believe in the power of positive thought, neurolinguistics and the like, I think this book is not a good one for you.

“A Good Place to Die” does not disappoint the reader, the content and the message is very clear in the title. The land cannot be a good place to live, then what remains for us to not be a good place to die? Dying alone is already a great achievement, die in peace is not for everyone, and the bottom is for this that we all live, so I can die in peace.

The book points the focus for those people who discovered early on that here there is a good place to live, are people who oscillate between heaven and hell, outcasts, prostitutes, lunatics, poets, suckers and all kinds of destitute, those who threw out God celestial window of his trailer.

The book gives a close-up, enter the habitat of all of them showing that it is impossible to be happy here, there will always be a crazy woman throwing your stuff out the window, there is the impossibility of loving and being loved, there’s a few memories drunk, distant parents, close friends … not everyone can cross the Atlantic in a sailboat, and who does it should’ve sick of it all.

But sometimes, when God looks away to check out some excerpts from cartoons, so many of us takes this urgent time and write poems, plays, painting paintings, staged choreography, composing arias confusing, books and write long letters to anyone make and raise children, try one last phone call, send, in the early morning rain and whiskey, meaningless messages, emotional, sentimental, shoot television sets, read a lot, dream of a perfect room in Arles, buy TV shows from seventies and hold the tears on seeing the picture of that friend who was … these are moments that console, it is these moments that fill the pages of “A Good Place to Die.” Times when someone, stuffed in a hovel fucked in downtown London, has an insight and think of pigeons.

I just hope that my children can die in peace because I know that life will live as I lived, you live in constant torment, suffering, longing, disappointment, to ultimately discover that nothing is worth, that all this here is a big joke in very bad taste. I have a great pdf with children mortality rate, I need to convert pdf to excel so I can make a few graphs and post them here)

But do not think the book is only complaint, however, in the end gets the feeling that it is best to enjoy every minute, do not waste a lot of shit doing, running after rats turbine, looking for a fight with enemies indestructible, talking nonsense , resented. Maybe a Sunday with friends eating paella, or simply an afternoon with the children, seeing old drawings on youtube, make all the difference and end up forming the great gift that I bring with me when you find a good place to die.