segunda-feira, 23 de novembro de 2009

Assorted Nuts

Peculiar subject for a quick, speedy fix of my writing desires. I'm jonesing fucking about with words, and a mix of different kinds of dry fruits has been the best I came up with... Oh dear, I've hit pseudo-literaty rock bottom. Forgive me for this, but insane is, sometimes, the dodgy foundation upon which sanity may build itself, eventhough colapse is everything but far-fetched...

«Nut: noun A dry fruit consisting of an edible kernel or meat enclosed ina woody or leathery shell.»

One of many meanings of this lovely word, amongst other synonyms such as crazy or testicle, being the above mentioned botanic connotation the one I'm most interested in. You may, out of pure child-like curiosity, fetch a thessaurus and dive deep into the many words equivalent to the one which today is the subject of my little rant, I will leave that up to you.

Back to the matter. In a witty and cunning flash of intelectual clarity, one can draw a paralel between a nut -walnut, chestnut, hazelnut, pine nut and others of similar nature and importance in our world- and oneself. Not that I consider my blogging adventures witty or cunning in any way. I try to, but that always escapes from my creative grasp.

Bear with me for a second, it will become clear, this line of thought...

Like in a nut, and more obviously in a mix of assorted ones, simplicity is almost always apparent. The inside, edible kernel is enclosed by many different woody shells. Moreover, the kernel itself is made up from many different layers and textures, some more obvious than others, some worth revealing, others best kept away where the sun neither doesn't nor does it want to shine! So you see, the assortment isn't actually the mix of different, individual, lonely nuts, but rather a super-mega-tera-nut, a walhazelchestpine-nut, assorted in its uniqueness and intrinsic variety.

So, behold: yours truly is walhazelchestpine-nut, in a world full of walhazelchestpine-nuts, establishing walhazelchestpine-nutian relationships. The bottom-line is:


As I read what I've just written, I consider deleting it and replacing this poor, tacky text by a deep, soul-searching paragraph. I will not. It makes no sense whatsoever, but I like it.

Fuck off!

As usual, something really worth reading, it is my way of apologizing for killing some of your braincells-yes, my writing does that, it's worst than smoking a reefer:


Nao vou procurar quem espero

Se o que eu quero é navegar

Pelo tamanho das ondas

Conto nao voltar

Parto rumo à Primavera

Que em meu fundo se escondeu

Esqueco tudo do que eu sou capaz

Hoje o mar sou eu

Esperam-me ondas que persistem

Nunca param de bater

Esperam-me homens que resistem

Antes de morrer

Por querer mais do que a vida

Sou a sombra do que eu sou

E ao fim nao toquei nem nada

Do que em mim tocou

Eu vi,mas nao agarrei

Eu vi,mas nao agarrei

Parto rumo à maravilha

Rumo à dor que houver p'ra vir

Se eu encontrar uma ilha

Paro p'ra sentir

E dar sentido à viagem

A sentir que eu sou capaz

Se o meu peito diz "Coragem!"

Volto a partir em pazEu vi,mas nao agarrei

Eu vi,mas nao agarrei

Eu vi,mas nao agarrei

Eu vi,mas nao agarrei

Capitão Romance, Ornatos Violeta

Once again, I'm sorry. But beware, I will do it again

domingo, 22 de novembro de 2009

It has been a while, has it not, my dears?

Ridiculous, utterly absurd, this absence of mine... However, there may be an explanation that could, eventualy, put you at ease with my disregard for this ritual of personal exposure, as it is, to my mind, completely plausible and even understandable: I couldn't be bothered to give a fuck!

But I've decided to return and waste a tad bit more of my time, and more importantly, yours. And for that I am truely and sincerely sorry, mates. But I just couldn't resist that insane urge to scatter my thoughts around, with no actual purpose other than feeling like doing so.

Curiously (maybe not), nothing important or of great philosophical importance will arise from this sudden outburst of typing diarrhoea .

I guess I just like to fuck about with words, once in a blue moon.
Truth be told, I could dissert on relevant matters, on annoying events or actions, on surprising outcomes or even on insignificantly significant occurrences. Rest to sure, I will not. Some other bloke, or lassie will, as they see fit. Not me, not now.

I would just like to add, before stopping my fingers from moving across this keyboard and pressing the right -or wrong- keys, that Innocence, that evil and intransigent mistress, the ultimate ball and chain, is dead! Tarred and feathered, burried alive.

Now, something worth reading:

«Here lies Lester, more four slugs from a forty-four, no Les, no more

Out in Arizona just south of Tucson
Where tumbleweeds tumble in search of a home
There's a town they call Tombstone where the brave never cry
They live by a sixgun by a sixgun they die

It's been a long time now since the town was a boom
The jailhouse is empty so's the Palace Saloon
Just one look will tell you that this town was real
A secluded old dirt road leads up to Boot Hill

Walk up to the fence there and look at the view
That's where they were hanging eighteen eighty two
It's easy to see where the brave men have died
Rope marks on the oak tree are now petrified

At night when the moon shines so far away
It gets mighty lonesome lookin' down on their graves
There lies Billy Clanton never wanted to kill
But he's there with the guilty way up on Boot Hill»

The Ballad of Boot Hill, Johnny Cash

«And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!»

The Raven, Edgar Allan Poe

See you soon

domingo, 2 de agosto de 2009


Well thought-out plans, intelligent strategies and blueprints for a future set of actions, however cunning and clever they may be, can only do so much. The heat of the moment, that courage, inherently connected with stupidity, which it is not palpable nor does it announce its arrival, play a much more important role. The defining moments can't be rehearsed. They wouldn't be so, if otherwise.

They just fucking happen.

«No dia seguinte ninguém morreu. O facto, por absolutamente contrário às normas da vida, causou nos espíritos uma perturbação enorme, efeito em todos os aspectos justificado, basta que nos lembremos de que não havia notícia nos quarenta volumes da história universal, nem ao menos um caso para amostra, de ter alguma vez ocorrido fenómeno semelhante, passar-se um dia completo, com todas as suas pródigas vinte e quatro horas, contadas entre diurnas e nocturnas, matutinas e vespertinas, sem que tivesse sucedido um falecimento por doença, uma queda mortal, um suicídio levado a bom fim, nada de nada, pela palavra nada.»

José Saramago, Intermitências da morte

quarta-feira, 1 de julho de 2009


Overstepping the line has become the highlight of the day. Apparently that's how one achieves true recognition.

Who can argue that?

It is useless trying to understand, as comprehension and simpathy are pretty far-fetched concepts just about now. Being a dickhead has become a must, or so it seems.

However, once in a while, this tendency is broken. Fortunately.

Fuck. It isn't ok. Not by a long shot, mate!


Get in on

I had to get up to get down to start all over again
Head on down to the basement and shout
Kick those white mice and black dogs out
Kick those white mice and baboons out
Kick those baboons and other motherfuckers out
And get it on get it on get it on
On the day that you got born
They had to dig him the ground
They chipped him from the frozen snow
They dug his monkey fingers
But he had no where to go
They dug his pink hair curlers
They dug his sequined gown
They dug his Stratocaster
They dug his pornographic crown
He's got some words of wisdom!


He crawled out of the ooze
He defied evolution
He had green flippers and sang the blues
He caused a revolution
He got in the British weeklies
He got in the dailies too
He drank panther piss
And fucked the girls you're married too
He's got some words of wisdom

On the day that you were born

You gotta do The Vaughan
Yeah, papa's down
Sweets is sweet
Tex is on

Then one day he went away
His neighbour claimed he'd shot him
If he hadn't of dissappeared
The Taxman would have got him

Yeah but before I leave
I call out from the storm
For those who gave their lives
So we could get it on


On the day that you got born!

[Obri-fucking-gado Nick!]

segunda-feira, 29 de junho de 2009

Aqui deixarei fragmentos da minha pessoa. Palavras minhas, que poderiam facilmente sê-lo, ou que gostaria imenso que, de facto, fossem.
Espaço de catarse, tentativa de fuga, capricho idiota e presunçoso de alguém com tempo a mais... Não sei.

Sei que a inocência, aqui, morreu.


John Cooper Clarke
Evidently Chickentown

the fucking cops are fucking keen
to fucking keep it fucking clean
the fucking chief's a fucking swine
who fucking draws a fucking line
at fucking fun and fucking games
the fucking kids he fucking blames
are nowehere to be fucking found
anywhere in chicken town
the fucking scene is fucking sad
the fucking news is fucking bad
the fucking weed is fucking turf
the fucking speed is fucking surf
the fucking folks are fucking daft
don't make me fucking laugh
it fucking hurts to look around
everywhere in chicken town
the fucking train is fucking late
you fucking wait you fucking wait
you're fucking lost and fucking found
stuck in fucking chicken town
the fucking view is fucking vile
for fucking miles and fucking miles
the fucking babies fucking cry
the fucking flowers fucking die
the fucking food is fucking muck
the fucking drains are fucking fucked
the colour scheme is fucking brown
everywhere in chicken town
the fucking pubs are fucking dull
the fucking clubs are fucking full
of fucking girls and fucking guys
with fucking murder in their eyes
a fucking bloke is fucking stabbed
waiting for a fucking cab
you fucking stay at fucking home
the fucking neighbors fucking moan
keep the fucking racket down
this is fucking chicken town
the fucking train is fucking late
you fucking wait you fucking wait
you're fucking lost and fucking found
stuck in fucking chicken town
the fucking pies are fucking old
the fucking chips are fucking cold
the fucking beer is fucking flat
the fucking flats have fucking rats
the fucking clocks are fucking wrong
the fucking days are fucking long
it fucking gets you fucking down
evidently chicken town