chronicles
to poop.
The goal here was never to talk "shit". But the chronicle seeks common ground
and I still don't know anyone who doesn't poop. I thought it was fair to go from here.
"gabi will be an aries"
"Damn. It's about to be born! It will be Aries”. The panel indicated the second floor. “It's going to be impulsive”, the girl in the business suit got the elevator's attention still on the third. The mother gently rubbed her stomach with her hand. Gabi was clearly about to rise with the sun in Aries. “It will be an extrovert”, wisely warned the bald man playing with his phone. That's it! All that was missing was the expert's comment to rise the debate to another level, and it had nothing to do with the elevator being on the tenth.
My stop was at twenty-second. My fear was that by then, they would have mapped out Gabi's entire destiny and there wouldn't be a decision left for the girl, who still didn't have life to choose between pink or blue. Imagine if Gabi didn't like pork: would she eat it reluctantly just because she found the great fortune teller in the commercial building who condemned her to eat bacon for life?
Do not get me wrong. Everyone has the right to find an explanation for their own existence. Nothing wrong with saying the rosary, lighting incense or kneeling towards Mecca. It is clear that the battle between “fate” and “free will” is still on. What doesn't work for me is an elevator horoscope telling me how to drink coffee, or in the case of the fetus Gabi, whether she would be a policeman or a thief.
It's like they say, "it's written in the stars". What? I don't know. Apparently, it's full of people who know. After all, if you're looking for meaning in life, go to YouTube and get all the answers right now.
I apologize to my astrologer friends, but if you're one of those people who knows everything about someone just by their sign, be careful. Perhaps you were born under the rains of March or the heat of summer, but if you believe in fate, you will never know if your life is the result of choices or the prediction of someone who was in an elevator. "You're on the twenty-second floor." Thank God.
"accept the appetizer?"
"Good afternoon. Do you accept the appetizer"? Ten seconds of white. People at the table stare at each other as if someone has questioned the meaning of life. Some widen their eyes and others stutter between “yes” and “no”. The food is right there, on a tray, waiting to be devoured by a hungry warrior. “A little bread would be fine now”, goes through the mind of one. “Will I be able to eat the dish later"? Cross the others. The endless hours in those few seconds are crucial for life or death.
I don't know if you're the appetizer type, but there's a fundamental question with this early dining experience. After all, that might be your favorite restaurant. How long did you wait for that mouth-watering dish, which the smell lingered in your nostrils for weeks, at work, at the gym, in line for ice cream or even in the public restroom? Are we too eager to spoil an amazing experience with bread and black olives?
I have a friend who is always suffering from love: “we've been seeing each other for months and he hasn't proposed to me”. Always crying her eyes out over some handsome guy with surfer hair. Appetizer? Waiting for the main course requires discipline, self-respect and autonomy. If you already attack the herb bread without even thinking about it, then you can't complain that you got full and missed the Michelin dish.
I could tell you about another friend who became poor investing money with the first “expert” he found on YouTube or a cousin who took anabolic drugs to get six pack. But by now you understand the dangers of caponata and stick butter..
Anxiety is embedded deep in the soul and that's nothing new. But just like the appetizer, we're going on impulse, without putting on the table what we're missing. In an era where it is a crime to have patience, try walking through the kitchen and smell the truffled risotto that someone is about to enjoy. If you still want the breadbasket, the best tip is to have stomach.
"marlboro droid"
The sun lit up the dry ground of the American West. The man adjusted his hat. Dust rose in the wind, yellow as fire. Fast horses ran wild, violently throwing the earth with their feet. The epic soundtrack set the tone for adventure. On the horizon, the man left with his horse in a dash, hitting the reins in masterful movements. The horses, understanding the superiority of man, formed an organized and fast conglomeration. Then, the lasso, thrown to fate, found the strongest horse. Finally, still at sunset, the man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette, inhaling the smoke of glorious Marlboro country.
I watched this commercial when I was a kid. The Cowboy guy, who died of cancer years later, seemed indestructible. I think that's why I never smoked another brand.
Understandable. You're young, your biggest fight is against pimples, the girl at school only knows how to smile at your best friend and if someone makes fun of you, maybe you want to make it clear that you're not a coward before you die. It was easy to start smoking at the beginning of the millennium.
The new generation was not condemned by this bang-bang publicity. At some point someone had the bright idea to ban cigarette advertisements.
But be warned: this would not be the end. Don't think that new thorns haven't found a worthy substitute. Welcome to the era of Vape.
For those who don't know, vape is a little electronic device, full of features, which heats a liquid of dubious origin and makes the magic of steam. The sensation is the same as smoking, but it is forbidden to say “smoke”, as fans of this “blueberry ice” flavor haze are judicious when referring to the act of inhaling as “vaping”.
But that's not the point. As a root smoker, I can't help but wonder what the heroic and imaginary representation for the electronic device would be. In other words: who would replace Marlboros' tough cowboy?
A droid in a hat? A trans droid in a hat riding an electric bike, swinging a lightsaber and catching drones instead of horses? There's a Cowboy Z. More complex. Much more inclusive.
I'm fascinated by how things have evolved after the technological boom of the last few decades. I'm from the dial-up generation: "get off the internet so I can use the phone". Today, in the relentless pursuit of TikToks and game streaming to stay young, I see the world in a mix of enthusiasm and longing.
Sometimes I catch myself talking: am I too old? With all the research out there, why are so many new people smoking this vape?
Then, I came across an article that provided the rationale for the Marlboro campaign in the 90s: “the idea is to bring in new smokers, who convey the right image to capture the fantasy of youth and project a perfect symbol of independence and rebelliousness”. That's when I realized: maybe things haven't changed that much.
"creativity
funeral"
I love it when someone says they're creative. I always imagine a guy with unbuttoned clothes, round glasses, disheveled hair, about to play a combination of colors on a blank canvas. I could stop there, but if my creative stereotype were too obvious, I might not be creative at all. After all, I'm committed to creativity, even if it exists only in the tangled mess of my idiotic thoughts.
So my creative human has a hiccup of inspiration, presses the brush hard and with a single squiggle makes a shape never seen before. Voila. A doodle. A masterpiece.
Many imagine that creativity works like magic. If you were still young and lucky enough to receive a visit from an owl carrying an invitation to study at Hogwarts, congratulations. You are creative. For me, it's more like the story of the little mouse that finds a sorcerer's hat and, from then on, makes a lot of shit.
There are strong indications that Einstein did not discover the theory of relativity because he got together with his friends to watch Stanley Kubrick films or that Mozart wrote Symphony No. 40 because he liked to wear sandals with colorful socks to the supermarket.
Creativity is more likely to be a prank that takes practice, sincere mistakes, and has nothing to do with flowery shirts. Maybe a little courage. Courage to face the blank page. The color that reflects everything does not always reflect creativity. At least not the quality one. It will take several tries to find a phrase or just a word that works. Then you realize that no words are good. And back to white.
It is true that, contrary to what many think, working with creativity is not a sativa session of wonderful ideas and divine inspirations. The sad reality is that most of the time there are just crap ideas.
This brings us to the second point: persistence. You don't invent the wheel because the square already plays an extremely useful shape, right? It is necessary to go further. Carving the stone day and night until its shape means something new and suddenly you're in an F1 car going 300km per hour.
Okay, so what is creativity? There are people who love to say this or that. I don't even know if that's what I just did without realizing. I don't think so. I see a subtle difference between saying how to tackle it and defining it completely.
I hope that some smart ass creative never gets to define creativity. For if they do, prepare the flowers and ivory casket. We will be facing something creatively new: the day when creativity finally died.
"changed the tires?"
A nap at lunchtime renews even an old tire. What does tire have to do with sleeping? Anything. But if we think clearly - which always happens after a nap - when do we remember to change the tires?
Nobody is in the middle of a meeting, trying to open a jar of palm, or checking the negative bank statement for the tenth time, when they suddenly remember: “Wow, my tire is worn out, I think it's time to change it”. No. We only remember the tire when we are looking for a spare tire, supposedly in the trunk, while we mumble on a dimly lit street: “what a shitty car”.
Perhaps it is the city's fault. It doesn't matter. The fact is that after it get stuck, we go through a complete reanalysis of life. We realize that it was actually time to change the damn tires, but we were too busy with the more important issues, like that picture your friend posted while you blinked.
We want to cross Latin America, hike a trail to the waterfall, catch the snow and the sun with the good old bald every day tire. Then one day we get stuck on a dirt road without understanding why fate is so cruel.
I can't resist the temptation: the issue of tires is deeply linked to the meaning of life. Yes. Because not changing the tires is self-sabotage and not in the car's sense. It's too much time deciding where to go, checking the maps, the indications of a trip profile, and in the eternal search for the perfect itinerary we forget that without the tire, we're not going anywhere.
So what is the tire in this mechanical analogy of existential questions? It's certainly not squats to strengthen the quadriceps. If there's something rubbery that supports us to get anywhere, I have no doubt that it's inside that bony box we call head.
At some point a light will come on on the dashboard and it will be time to change ideas. I mean, full review. Take the opportunity to change the oil, the air filter and certainly the tires.
At the end of Sunday, after a beautiful season on the coast, it's up to you to decide whether to go home for dinner or to wave to the people going up the mountain.
Now, if all that hasn't crossed your mind, I advise a little nap.
"essa foi a minha sacada"
Me considero um bom entendedor de sacadas. Não do tipo que goza de certos talentos cognitivos e tem facilidade de interpretar os sinais sagazes de quem fala uma coisa, porém com intenção de dizer outra mais espertinha. Tô falando de sacada, sacada mesmo. Aquele lugar com gradezinha, do lado de fora, dentro da base de cálculo do IPTU. Sim. Porque passo horas e horas dos meus dias na sacada.
Imagino que todo mundo tenha um lugar preferido da casa. Pra quem maratona séries, o sofá. Poltrona com banquinho de pé para quem lê. Cozinha pra quem cozinha. E quarto para os zumbis. Mas se você vive como eu, pensando na vida como um filme que nunca acaba, então é a sacada.
Algo mágico me chama a atenção pra esse pedaço de chão aberto. Num passado não muito distante era ele a vitrine do mundo. Antro das fofocas. Observatório natural das coisas rotineiras. Uma verdadeira rede social para as tias de plantão.
É bem verdade que a sacada ficou obsoleta com o tempo. Como bom frequentador, posso afirmar que os moradores não ficam mais a ver navios, do lado de fora, a contemplar o calor e o frio.
Luzes apagadas. Cortinas fechadas. Uma vez ou outra alguém para jogar o papel de chicletes, não sem antes averiguar se o vizinho de baixo flagrou o crime.
Agora só se vê vidrinhos segmentados, de trilho, vedados, que impedem o ar-condicionado de se descondicionar e as pessoas de contemplarem os milagres das coisas de fora. Um assassinato a piso frio, que fechou a sacada pela empáfia decorada das varandas gourmet e um sofá que não pode molhar.
Alguns jurariam de pés juntos aos santos padroeiros, que a sacada não tem grande importância. Que é espaço perdido. Que não há nada de sagrado em ficar do lado de fora enganando o tempo. Mas tanta religiosidade contra a sacada só pode ser uma obra infernal. Afinal, não é por uma pequena sacada que se vê o Papa?
Condeno os falsos profetas. Pois não conheço outro lugar no mundo melhor para se fazer os planos do futuro. Para remoer uma briga conjugal. Para degustar uma cerveja gelada. Ou para tomar o café de toda manhã banhado pelos raios tépidos da alvorada.
Faço tudo e mais um pouco daqui. De onde até mesmo estou sentado, escrevendo esse texto no silêncio que só a madrugada aqui tem.
É verdade que tem coisas que você precisa ser mais espertinho pra entender. A minha sacada foi que na minha sacada tudo é possível.