Lucifer Rising

Absolution Blues

2006-01-14T22:52:00.000Z

This is it. I'm dead and gone. No turning back now...nothing there, anyway.
I look at this and it's not so bad. She said I had to end this, she said she'd kill me.

Well, I didn't.

So I guess she's gonna fucking do it for me.

Oh, well, it's been good so far.

See you around, cyberspace cowboys...

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

...my baby shot me down.

É sempre bom...

2006-01-06T02:16:00.000Z

...desde que não nos caia em cima da cabeça.

Noir

2005-12-28T02:01:00.000Z

Sinto-me um pouco fora de mim. Não de exaltação, nem de depressão. Apenas fora do meu corpo. Penso no que alguém escreveu sobre a própria escrita que praticamos: "Poderá ser um desejo inconsciente, mas nunca se escreve para ninguém. E existe sempre alguém que lê…". Sim, desta vez escrevo para mim, mesmo sabendo que outros poderão vasculhar estas imagens espelhadas de alguém que talvez não conheçam. Desta vez, escrevo para mais tarde ler (sobretudo à noite) este texto que dedico a mim próprio. Mas não é isso, escrever? É suposto ser a projecção textual de tudo o que julgamos ser, e também do que realmente tentamos ser. Por isso mino desde já o texto, tentando expressar-me de um modo que só eu compreenderei realmente o que senti neste momento. Mesmo que queira inconscientemente que outros leiam, a partir de agora está salvaguardada a remota hipótese de me perceberem. Esmerar-me-ei no código que será, espero tão ambíguo e labiríntico quanto possível. Resta ao leitor a sua interpretação, resta-lhe embalar nos seus próprios braços esta minha semente. Mas na verdade tudo isto me é indiferente...sobretudo desta vez. Penso em mim, sentado no meu quarto escuro, acompanhando nocturnas melodias com o pulsar do teclado. Penso num cigarro imaginário que com dedicação e prazer enrolei, e que jaz num cinzeiro fictício que o acolheu, esperando que eu o levasse novamente aos lábios, para o consumir como um amante inconsolável. Pondero seriamente sobre a criatura que observo a escrever estas palavras, este ser que tão friamente pesa compromissos numa balança, qual Thoth personificado. Avalio também as horas. Imagino possibilidades para resolver a questão da chuva que cai lá fora, questionando-me se é real. Olho pela janela, observo a noite, e sei que nunca vi um céu tão azul. Pouco me importa, tenho a memória, e sei que sem ela seria novamente um animal grotesco em busca de coerência. Como em tempos já fui.

Regresso por momentos à ilusão de que a vida dará o filme, no fim...quando na verdade não há filme. Nós vivemos o rolar da fita. Não há fotogramas seguintes, e não há fotogramas acumulados para trás, porque nós temos a tesoura que os corta. No entanto, temos também os olhos que vêem o que os pés pisaram. Penso em fazer planos, quando na verdade nem preciso de os fazer. Por vezes, eles fazem-se. E aí sei que sou feliz. A felicidade é uma arma acolhedora. No mínimo, serei poeira. No máximo, serei poeira universal. Na verdade, somos tudo porque tudo reside em probabilidades. A probabilidade revestida de ilusões tanto pode ser perigosa como o desabrochar de toda uma fortuna. A ilusão é o primeiro de todos os prazeres. Por vezes saboreio-a. Raios, por vezes quase a inspiro com tanta força que poderia dar-me por satisfeito e morrer de seguida.

Seja como for, esta é a vida. A rosa que deixámos cair porque alguém não apareceu, e cansámo-nos de esperar. Isto não é triste, nem dramático. É a ilusão. Fazemos outros planos. Nem há que pensar na hipótese em que a planta não tinha sido inutilizada. É como não ignorar a dor quando cortamos demasiado a unha, até sentir a vibração da carne ainda inexperiente que veio mais cedo ao mundo. Mesmo assim, ainda cheio o cigarro que não existe. Pego nele e fumo-o uma última vez, antes de o sepultar no chão (o cinzeiro não existia, lembras-te?). Olho para dentro do café, através do vidro e como na música, e sozinho (para maior efeito), danço até ao fim do amor. Os segundos são os óregãos da vida. Had! the manifestation of Nuit! Não danço, todavia, uma dança qualquer. Em redor da fogueira agito-me ao sabor da valsa que me foi dedicada. Quando ouvimos a valsa sabemos que não interessa o sentido, apenas o fogo é real. Se nos aproximarmos demasiado, queimamo-nos. Se nos afastarmos demasiado, passamos frio. Não existe uma distância óptima. Existem apenas distâncias. Depende da intensidade da dança. Mas dancemos até ao fim. E quando a música terminar, apaguem-se as luzes.

STAND!

2005-12-03T17:37:00.000Z

One of the greatest muthafuckin' albums I've ever heard...

"Stand!" (1969)
by Sly & The Family Stone

Everyday People

Sometimes I'm right and I can be wrong
My own beliefs are in my song
The butcher, the banker, the drummer and then
Makes no difference what group I'm in
I am everyday people, yeah yeah
There is a blue one who can't accept the green one
For living with a fat one trying to be a skinny one
And different strokes for different folks
And so on and so on and scooby dooby doo-bee
Oh sha sha - we got to live together
I am no better and neither are you
We are the same whatever we do
You love me you hate me you know me and then
You can't figure out the bag l'm in
I am everyday people, yeah yeah
There is a long hair that doesn't like the short hair
For bein' such a rich one that will not help the poor one
And different strokes for different folks
And so on and so on and scooby dooby doo-bee
Oh sha sha-we got to live together
There is a yellow one that won't accept the black one
That won't accept the red one that won't accept the white one
And different strokes for different folks

Ode a uma natureza morta

2005-11-24T22:10:00.000Z

Nunca quis fazer desta página algo pessoal
Mas o meu fascínio pelo objecto místico
Deleita-me o espírito num regozijo tal
Que tudo me parece belo
E calmo, sereno
O caos é derrotado pela ordem
E os dedos deslizam, suspiro, qual afrodisíaco
Só quem experimentou alguma vez poderá compreender
Tal comparação de actos
É único este limbo conflituoso
Como tanta coisa
Scarlet, devo-te tanto
E deves-me tanto
É esta reciprocidade que nos mata
É este amor que me consome e ilumina
E ressuscita sempre que abro a tua mala
E te faço cantar
Não preciso de te agradecer
Estás sempre aqui para mim
Estou sempre aqui para ti
Não és minha, nem sou teu
Mas venero-te na mesma
Se nalgum plano astral,
Flutuando algures em marés de realidade,
Ou adormecida nos sonhos de ninguém
Conseguisses apreender o que quero transmitir...
...seja como for
Agradas-me tanto.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy

2005-11-04T19:00:00.000Z

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

All work
and no play
makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes
Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack
a dull boy.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

Fictional Holocaust (not that fictional)

2005-10-31T00:46:00.000Z

November 14th, 1890. Sharp Words, a young man from an Apache tribe, was riding his horse through the fields near his camp. He had fallen asleep under the protecting shadow of a tree when suddenly the sun disappeared, and there was a storm. He woke up, went to his horse and tried to find the way back home. It should have been easy, but it wasn't. He was still sleepy, so he ended up getting lost in the prairie. However, the rain stopped shortly after and the sun started shining once again. Young Sharp Words smiled and continued the search for his camp.

Time passed and he saw a river which he had never seen before. "Strange", he thought, and he decided his horse should drink a little water, the animal was probably thirsty. While the horse drank some fresh water, the young indian sat on the ground, whispering a song from his elders. Suddenly he saw a man walking in his direction. It didn't look like an indian, it was a white man, all alone. Sharp Words decided not to wield any weapon, though he only had a knife with him. It was an old man, white hair, white beard, but dark skin. "What a strange man!", was the first impression by the indian. So the man got to the place where he was, and said "Hello".

"Hello", replied the indian, "Who are you? Are you lost"

"I am not lost. I am God."
"Who?", asked the curious Sharp Words.

"God. I created everything you see. I am the father of all things"

"I see", said the young indian, without saying or asking anything else. God thought that was awkward, for a human being.

"Don't you want to ask me any questions?"

"No"

"Wouldn't you like to know why I have created all of this?"

"No"

"Really, then? Aren't there any questions, any questions at all, for which you would like me to give the answer?"

"No", and strange as it may seem , God himself asked Sharp Words:

"Why not?"

"You say you have created all things. I worship all of them. The sun, the wind, the water, the fire, the earth, those are my gods. My spirit is touched by none other except these. I love them, my people loves them, always have, and they return our love with more love; giving us warmth when there is cold, giving us wind when it is hot, giving us water when we are thirsty, feeding the buffalo so that we can have clothes and food. I am very happy this way. So why do I want to worship a god that created all my gods? I thank you, but nothing more. I cannot wish you good things, either peace, love, health, plenty of food or prosperity, because you are a god, you don't need these things."

"True, I do not need any of them, but I love everything I have created."

"How is that possible? You say you don't need them, so you can't give them any sort of importance or value, for they simbolize nothing before yor eyes. You are indifferent. So why do you create things you don't need?"

"So that Man, my final creation, can prosper"

"And so you speak of me and my people, and all the others in the land, just like we speak of our dogs; and we are not your dogs"

"You are my children"

"We are not, because I just left my father and my mother in the tepee this morning. I am their child"

"Yes, because I have given you the power to love and procriate"

"Then why are you still here?", asked the indian. Beware, don't read these words as threatening, he was just thinking about all those things and asking back his doubts to God. Anyway, God vanished in the air. The indian fell asleep and when he woke up he thought it had been a dream.

Many years after this strange encounter, the white men were killing indians in order to gain control over the continent. Tribes were being slaughtered, women and children mutilated, and their bodies were frequently thrown into ditches, just like Nazis would do with the Jews in some years to come. Old Sharp Words was now the leader of his tribe. He consulted his elders and all the other people from the tribe, so he could take a decision, whether to chase the buffalo and face the white man in the future, or simply stay there and face the problem as soon as possible. They all decided that sooner was better. If they had to face the white man, it was better to do it now. One night, Sharp Words was alone by the fire, smoking his pipe. Once again, and out of the hot air, God appeared. He turned to the indian and said:

"Hello"

"Hello, god of all things"

"I come to warn you about the danger your people is facing. Tomorrow afternoon, men will come and try to kill you"

"We know"

"Don't you like the life you live? Doesn't your instinct tell you to survive?"

"I like my life, we all do. My instinct tells me many things, but I am not an animal. I am a man. Unlike animals, I can see. I know. I will stay here, for I have done nothing wrong, and we are willing to share the land if the white man comes in peace. Because the land is not ours, and that's why it gives all these good things to us. We love the land, we don't want to control it. We live in harmony. But I know things are not like this to the white man. He will wage war on my people."

"Yes"

"And he is always speaking of you, blessing his peers in your name. Many times during all those years, when I faced the white man, I heard things like 'in the name of God', or 'God bless you'...but still, they worship violence and they have hunger for control. They do what they do with your blessings, and in your name. That is why, even if it's not your fault that the white man uses your name in vain, we don't need you and won't share a god like you with the white man. We could never devote our lives to a god that allows the ones he calls his children to kill and spread terror on others, just because they are different. And you are not here. You don't exist, and you never have. Goodbye"

So the old man disappeared forever. No other person, indian or not, tribal leader or man of the church, ever saw him again. That night, a dance was organized, in honour of peace, chants for the battle they'd fight next day were sung, The following day, the white man came, quickly killing Sharp Words and all of his warriors, cutting their scalps (for mockery) and mutilating their bodies. When they saw the massacre, the indian women and children, who were hidden behind some trees and bushes on the nearby hills, came back running, to cry their dead. The soldiers then shot at them, leaving no one alive, and also mutilated them in horrible ways I won't describe here. Then they opened ditches and threw the bodies inside. They sealed that disgraceful dusty tomb and then gone away. The army had to rest, for there were still many tribes to destroy, still a lot of territory to build the future homes of the free, land of the brave. Well, the brave were dead.

The Apache people were the last major tribe to surrender to government control, back in the 1880s

The Tape Recordings

2005-10-30T05:15:00.000Z

Imagine life is like a tape, with two sides. At the present time, you're living in side A. When you go to bed, usually your body falls asleep because you're already passing on to side B, which we suitably call "dreams" here in side A.

The interesting thing is that you can't have memories from both sides at the same time, which means that you never remember, alias, you never have the slightest clue about what's happening on the other side. Sometimes you can actually remember an experience/dream from side B, although it doesn't make any sense and generally things are slower, or faster, or simply foggy. That's because each side of the tape has different contents. For example, using analogy, your side A may be rock 'n' roll, and side B might be classical music. Different speeds, different meanings, different compositions, structures, etc.

Now you're wondering, "Damn, what the hell am I doing every time I'm living in side B?! I can't remember anything! Or vice-versa, for that matter!"... Well I don't know. I really have no idea. But anything can happen, I guess. And is there a MAIN side, I mean, is one of the sides of more significance than the other? If this theory makes any sense at all, then I dont't think so.

Perhaps what we call "dying" is simply to become fully alive/gain total conscience in one of the sides, and perhaps that's what happens. Because if you die while in side A, it means the tape is over, so what do you do? You listen to side B. But when you listen to side B, side A is being rewinded, so you still "dream" about it, i.e., you start going there all over again. Now I'm playing side A, while having glimpses of my latest side B (probably that's why my dreams have people I know, others I don't, places I know, others I don't...because I'm always changing tiny details every time I run each side). So life is an endless tape being rewritten on both sides, never the same, always brand new and original. But who, or what, created the damn tape? So the question continues, although I really don't care. So good recordings, all of you out there. Whatever side you're on.

E se...

2005-10-28T07:11:00.000+01:00

...no dia em que Adão, feito primata, desceu da segurança dos seus ramos, Deus tenha adormecido após o esforço criativo que os seus planos exigiram? Então nesse caso, Adão, peludo e ainda com ligeiras dores nas costas (de caminhar erecto), deambulou abandonado pelo olho divino que lhe deu vida. Atravessou o matagal e deu por si numa praia; assustado com a impetuosidade daquela coisa azul enorme que lhe surgia na frente (e que era o mar), fugiu para a selva, onde permaneceu a saborear suculentos frutos silvestres nunca antes experimentados. Tudo era novo, e dentro de si o medo e a curiosidade por umas vezes mediam forças, por outras juntavam-nas. Mas todo este "se" narrativo não é sobre Adão, ou não seria um "se".

Alguns milhões de anos antes do momento em que Adão desceu, hesitante, da sua árvore, um réptil marinho aproximou-se demasiado da costa. Sem querer, esta criatura com mais de dez metros deslocava-se em direcção a terra, e o seu corpo pantagruélico era trazido involuntariamente pela maré que, uma vez sob a forma de onda, violentava sem misericórdia a costa arenosa da praia. A criatura, nos limites da sua ferocidade, estava claramente assustada. Ocorreu-lhe, por momentos, na pequena imaginação decorrente de um cérebro menor, o que poderia acontecer se fosse parar à costa. A sua inteligência não foi suficientemente astuta para gerar mais do que este terrível pensamento, e por isso o medo tomou conta de cada pingo do seu sangue frio. Não obstante o receio inicial, a fera marinha deu por si sã e salva, na segurança e calor da areia. Esta sensação foi muito importante no desenrolar dos acontecimentos, pois o medo criado pelo perigo que correu no mar desapareceu e a criatura sentia agora novos cheiros. Queria desbravar este novo mundo que lhe era revelado. Contudo, havia um pequeno problema: não se conseguia mover sem algum esforço físico adicional. As suas barbatanas teriam também de servir de pás para se deslocar na terra. Arrastou-se na areia e viu um pequeno réptil que, estando faminto, ingeria a sua refeição herbívora sem dar conta do perigo que corria. Ora o animal marinho, recém-chegado a esta nova realidade, arrastou-se até lá e, auxiliado pela cortina de som provocada pela rebentação das ondas do mar, abocanhou de uma só vez o indefeso lagarto. Como era deliciosa aquela carne! Como sabia bem o gosto do sangue e ossos daquela criatura que simbolizava a novidade! Contudo, independentemente da maravilha que era a vida na terra, a criatura viu-se obrigada a regressar à água (mais uma vez o instinto apelou a tal procedimento), pois algo lhe transmitia que era necessário por motivos de sobrevivência. Mas este animal formidável acabou por regressar a terra muitas vezes após o primeiro contacto, e as eras passaram. As barbatanas mostravam agora poderosas garras, e a sua pele era agora escamada e dura como um rochedo. O seu pescoço, outrora longo, havia diminuído drasticamente, enquanto que as suas mandíbulas se tinham prolongado em mortais fileiras de dentes. Até que houve um dia em que, auxiliado pela força que acumulou durante incontáveis anos de evolução, o animal nadou pelos rios acima, e nas suas margens encontrou um lar. Nasceu assim o venerável rei lagarto, o crocodilo.

Voltemos ao momento em que abandonámos o pobre Adão, cujo criador estava adormecido após os dias laborais que mantiveram todas as suas forças ocupadas. Ora o ex-primata percorreu a selva, erecto, e foi dar ao rio que a atravessava. Assustou-se com o seu próprio reflexo mas rapidamente a sede se revelou imperativa, e lá sorveu a fresca água que as suas escuras mãos, em concha, reuniram. Aqui começa o "se". Era o fim da tarde, o sol estava prestes a desaparecer, e o céu estava pintado de um púrpura que fazia de toda a Criação um sonho. Enquanto Adão bebia, o rei lagarto entrou no rio. Estava na hora de comer. Da outra margem, no meio da folhagem que o camuflava, avistou aquela peluda mas rechonchuda criatura que grunhia e se espantava com tudo à sua volta, mas que não reparara na sua presença, continuando inocentemente a saciar a sua sede. O réptil nadou com a sua paciência habitual. Entretanto, Adão (o venerável Pai de todos nós) tinha reparado que, se esperasse um pouco, a água acalmava e poderia ver o seu reflexo uma vez mais. Quando o conseguia, o instinto levava-o a tocar naquela projecção visual da sua primitiva animalidade, e acabava por ter de esperar novamente. Perplexo, embrenhado naquele triste jogo que o fascinava, não deu pelo aproximar do monstro, e nunca chegou a perceber que parte da ondulação provinha do movimento assassino do predador que o seleccionara. Numa fracção de segundo, o enorme crocodilo ergueu-se da água e, num salto decisivo, abocanhou a cabeça e ainda metade do tronco de Adão, com um braço incluído no processo. Rebolou na água com o corpo do Homem cravado nos afiados dentes e em seguida levou-o até às profundezas, com o intuito de afogar a vítima prisioneira, para depois devorá-la durante o tempo necessário. Assim que estava comprovada a certeza da inércia do Homem, o rei crocodilo levou-o para a margem, onde a água não era tão funda, e banqueteou-se na caçada como se não houvesse amanhã, devorando a carcaça que na sua irracionalidade momentânea perdera a noção das coisas e via-se agora ali, morta, esvaindo em sangue. A evolução do Mundo estava agora para sempre alterada, pois a criatura que o iria controlar provara que não era digna de tal confiança. Adão tinha sido expulso do Éden.

Ao Eça (e com uma nota de agradecimento ao Solignator)

Às Vezes As Frequências Fritam-me Os Miolos

2005-10-25T06:41:00.000+01:00

Free will. It's like butterfly wings: once touched, they never get off the ground.
No, I only set the stage. You pull your own strings.

I'm here on the ground with my nose in it since the whole thing began. I've nurtured every sensation Man's been inspired to have. I cared about what he wanted and I never judged him. Why? Because I never rejected him, in spite of all his imperfections. I'm a fan of man!
I'm a humanist. Maybe the last humanist.

God? Let me give you a little inside information about God.
God likes to watch. He's a prankster. Think about it. He gives man instincts. He gives you this extraordinary gift, and then what does He do, I swear for His own amusement, his own private, cosmic gag reel, He sets the rules in opposition. It's the goof of all time. Look but don't touch. Touch, but don't taste. Taste, don't swallow. Ahaha. And while you're jumpin' from one foot to the next, what is he doing? He's laughin' His sick, fuckin' ass off!
He's a tight-ass! He's a sadist! He's an absentee landlord!
Worship that? Never.

Al Pacino as John Milton in Taylor Hackford's "The Devil's Advocate"

Quickie

2005-10-23T04:33:00.000+01:00

A friend of mine and I, like, we both wrote two ideas for porn scripts the other day, during a boring class at the university. As one can easily guess, it doesn't take much time to write a porn script. It's a quickie. I've been increasingly haunted by the idea of making shitloads of money out of people's stupidity. And because stupidity is like blood, everybody's got some, we ended up with two great stupid ideas. And the way people spend their feckin' money on online sex contents is plain absurd, so...I wonder. Anyway, we kinda made it a comedy-based script. Because watching porn associated with humour would be fun, I suppose. I'd go and see it...or so I think. Well, if put into practice, this could actually work. These things usually do, nowadays. I guess it's a good motto for this century. The 21st century: everything counts.

Where do consequences lead? Depends on the escort.
Stanislaw Lem

Movimento Perpétuo

2005-10-22T04:18:00.000+01:00

Carlos Paredes
16 de Fevereiro de 1925 -
- 23 de Julho de 2004

Este homem transcendeu o desconhecido
Porque criou e sentiu os sons na pele
Compôs peças que são mais do que a "pequena música"
Como ele próprio dizia
São o legado intemporal de uma nação
Expressos na linguagem universal

A sua música é a alma lusitana
Transposta para o lugar onde a comercialidade não entra
O seu metrónomo era a respiração
Quando preso, compôs música num pente
Andando às voltas numa cela em Caxias
E se toda uma cultura nacional pudesse alguma vez
Ser derretida para se transformar num elemento abstracto
O resultado seria certamente "Acção", que cheira ao país
E soa ao que ele tem de mais antigo e próprio

Eis que o oiço neste preciso momento
O meu teclar acompanha por instantes
As unhas que dedilham a guitarra com amor
Os seus sons são um comboio que nos leva, de graça,
Até às nossas memórias, para a nossa imaginação
Desafio qualquer um que tenha vivido um pouco
E desde que seja alguém-que-sinta ou saiba fazê-lo
A escutar com atenção o nosso Mestre, pai musical
Este verdadeiro deus que veio ao mundo e falava a nossa língua
Saberão então coisas passadas, e já esquecidas
Como o bravo sentimento que incendiou a alma dos homens de outrora
Para se lançarem na escuridão, pela madrugada
Acenando ao Tejo e à família, decididos a navegar
Em embarcações que fundaram todo um império

Paredes é imortal
Paredes é sobrenatural e supra-terreno
É uma ideia incompreensível mas amada
E assim,
Não obstante os tempos,
E apesar das vontades,
Carlos Paredes é um bilhete para o que há de mágico na palavra "Portugal".

Brain Damage

2005-10-21T17:09:00.000+01:00

Ha!, doors of perception?

Look at it,
Insignificant
In all its apparent beauty
Deadly
In its convenient waste

No!, doors of contraction

Nothing to do besides waiting
And never have I shown a deeper respect for Time
I walk the halls, mystified inside the grey morning
Which whispers trails of imprisoned lunacy
An early rise gave birth to inutility,
While announcing the first letter of the alphabet
The letter "A", which I quietly proclaim in a yawn
I still feel the fragments of the latest dreams
Visions that kept moving for a five-hour sleep
It's fertile in its monotony
All the rats and worms inside wander
Nowhere to go
Except heading for the next second
The next minute
The next hour
What for, we ask?
To hear the speeches
Of anti-knowledge, the sliding propaganda
Dictators who speak without rhyme or reason
They sell themselves, proud of their treason
Indifference saves my madness
Peacefully preserved in all its confusion
Still shining due to immortal thoughts
Never raped by the worms in there
I'm glad my world is light years away
Of all this muddy womb of decay
I care not for such a place
Although tied to a building ungraced
I gently stir my sleepy face
It goes on and on, until I find the key
The key to my releasing
The key to get out
To search for other prisons
Castles made of sand...

So I play the game called "Go Insane"
I know the rules which gave it fame...
...I nest apocalypse in my brain.

A Smile Increases Your Face Value

2005-10-18T07:34:00.000+01:00

A smile is the light in your window that tells others that there is a caring, sharing person inside.
Denis Waitley

Smile. It's the second best thing you can do with your lips.
Anonymous

There are hundreds of languages in the World, but a smile speaks them all.
Anonymous

Masterpieces

2005-10-17T05:46:00.000+01:00

Image from "2001: A Space Odyssey" by Stanley Kubrick

Opening theme: "Also sprach Zarathustra" by Richard Strauss

1968
The Ultimate Trip
I tried to create a visual experience, one that bypasses verbalized pigeonholing and directly penetrates the subconscious with an emotional and philosophical content. I intended the film to be an intensely subjective experience that reaches the viewer at an inner level of consciousness, just as music does. You're free to speculate as you wish about the philosophical and allegorical meaning of the film.
S. Kubrick

Lucifer Rising

2005-10-17T01:35:00.000+01:00

Lucifer Rising

Note: this expression comes from a film directed by Kenneth Anger, and you can read more about it here. The purpose of this motion picture to generate a film that would welcome ‘Lucifer, the LightGod’. In this film, Lucifer is the egyptian god Horus.

I don't believe in christianity because their blind faith makes them refuse the concept of probability. There can be several explanations to the christian myth. I tend to find the whole thing slightly ridiculous, especially all the theatrical play that envolves the life of Yeshua.

This man could have been a mere polititian ahead of his time in terms of speech. This man could have been a simple lunatic. He could have been an absolute marketing genious. Despite everything that he could have been, he can also be the greatest hoax of all time, never having existed in the first place. However, I assume that he existed. Why not, anyway?

A Story Of Gods

Lucifer was an angel among many, son of God, and he was expelled from Paradise. This happened because he refused to bow before Adam, a human being, God's creation in his own image, but which was clearly an inferior being compared to all those who, like Lucifer, preceded him. God didn't like Lucifer's reaction and ordered his angel Michael to convince Lucifer he was wrong, therefore giving him one last chance. Michael failed, for Lucifer had no other view of the matter. In his last attempt to prove to God that Man could be indeed a victim of failure and sin, he tempted Adam and Eve. They fell in the trap Lucifer set for them, hence proving him right. God was furious and expelled them all from Paradise. From that moment on, they'd be confined to Earth and, worst of all, mortality. However, mortality didn't apply to Lucifer, for he was a divine creature, although disgraced by his father. God, for what is worth, turned his back on Mankind, after realizing that Lucifer was partly right, so his final creation had obviously been a failure. Anyway, Lucifer decided he had to go back to Paradise, or Heaven, or whatever it is you wish to call that place, and so he set up a plan. God was always watching him, of course, so he would have to play the game for real. Lying wasn't an option. So the only game he could play within these rules was a game of Love.

How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning!
How art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations!

Time passed, for ages, and Lucifer was clearly noticing that Man had changed. They had become vicious, like him. They weren't necessarily "good" or "bad", but they were heading for a behaviour which would compromise them all in the future. So he possessed the body of a sinner, a carpenter called Joseph, who already had several children from his wife, but secretly kept a lover, whose name was Mary. As Joseph, Lucifer generated a child with Mary. As soon as she was pregnant, Lucifer assumed the body of that child, who was going to be named Yeshua. He, Lucifer, as Yeshua, was determined to bring Light upon all people, and spread peace and love among every single generation who'd follow. Yeshua was born and for about thirty years he helped his father with his wooden craft. Perhaps he wanted to redeem himself from the time he possessed Joseph's body, so he helped the poor man prosper so that he, Mary and Yeshua could have a good life, and still have the economic power to support the other family he had left behind. Suddenly, Yeshua's speeches of a new world order set some hearts violently on fire, but found shelter on other hearts as well. People would follow him everywhere and the word spread that he could do miracles. Indeed, he could, for Yeshua was indeed Lucifer, a mystical being. People loved him, and he learned to love them all, even the wicked. This was already quite an accomplishment, but not enough. He would have to give his life for it.

One day, Yeshua was in Yershalayim with a man who wasn't totally of his liking, but he let him follow him anyway. This man's name was Mathu Levi. He had been a tax collector, and he met Yeshua on the road. At the time, and after insulting Yeshua, who clearly didn't matter at all with the insult (Levi called him a dog, and Yeshua couldn't find anything wrong with this animal to see those words as an insult), and after listening to him, Levi threw all his coins to the ground and started following Yeshua all around. So, they were both in Yershalayim, and during one of his speeches, Yeshua proclaimed that "the Temple of the old faith would fall and that a new temple of truth would arise", and he said this in these words so that people could understand him better. However, this never happened, for he was accused of conspiracy to demolish the Temple of Yershalayim, so he was brought before the Procurator of Judea, Pontius Pilate. Their conversation was rather long. Pilate didn't want to sentence Yeshua to death, but the people wanted to see him dead, mostly because the High Priest of the Hebrews, Yoseph Kaiyapha, had ignited their hearts for that very same end. And if the people wanted something, he'd better do as they pleased. If he wanted to survive as the Roman leader in there, of course. So he washed his hands from the case, and stepped aside. Yeshua never fought these events hard enough, for he knew this was his big break.

Soon after all this, Yeshua Had-Nozri was crucified nearby, thus dying to prove to Man (and God) that he loved all the forsaken God's children with no exception, were they murderers or nuns. God's mercy befell onto Lucifer once more, and soon he joined all the celestial party. Shortly after, people realized the mistake they'd done. They merchandised the whole thing and even nowadays Yeshua's/Lucifer's followers make lots of money on his account, even changing the whole thing in order to influence people's minds. Despite all this hunger for money, the gods died long ago, shortly after Lucifer's rising back to Paradise, Asgard, or whatever you think its name was. They died willingly, for there was nothing more to be done, and Man wasn't worthy of their devotion anymore, so they ceased to exist. They started a majestic war among themselves, and in the end no go or goddess was left to tell the tale.
We're all alone now.
We're forever doomed, as we always were since the beggining of Time.
This isn't a bad thing, though... quite peaceful, actually.
Let's spread all the love we have to give, shall we?
Let's not waste our little time waging war on ourselves for petty things that never mattered.

For seven years I dwelt in the loose palace of exile,
Playing strange games with the girls of the island.
Now I have come again
To the land of the fair, & the strong, & the wise.

Brothers & sisters of the pale forest
O children of Night
Who among you will run with the hunt?

Now Night arrives with her purple legion
Retire now to your tents & to your dreams
Tomorrow we enter the town of my birth.
I want to be ready.

(Jim Morrison)

Insómnia Lusitana

2005-10-16T08:59:00.000+01:00

Certa noite não consegui pregar olho. No entanto, a minha insómnia não me deixava cair na inutilidade do nada-fazer, e por isso tomei as minhas precauções. Armado com um copo de leite e uma fatia de bolo de chocolate, peguei num lápis, num bloco de papel e no telefone.

Escolhi 9 dígitos ao acaso e liguei para um número. Atenderam-me com uma voz ensonada. Era uma mulher. Eu expliquei que estava "com insómnias, e por isso liguei para conversar até me dar o sono, se não se importasse". Ela praguejou em bom português, ameaçou chamar a polícia no caso de eu persistir e desligou o telefone de forma rude e abrupta. Não percebo que mal lhe fiz. No entanto escrevia todos os números no papel. Para mais tarde recordar, caso necessitasse uma vez mais de combater a insómnia.

A segunda "vítima" foi um homem. Este atendeu e ouvi música de fundo. Ele informou-me que aquele número era de um bar. "Que tipo de bar?", ao que obtive uma resposta "O tipo de bar que a esta hora está às moscas". Perguntei-lhe se estava muito ocupado, pelo que me deu uma resposta engraçada. "Depende", disse, "Ganhei algum concurso?". Eu respondi negativamente, mas expliquei-lhe a minha situação. Ele retorquiu educadamente, dizendo que lhe acontecia frequentemente e que sim, é verdade, era algo muito chato para acontecer a alguém. Ele perguntou-me se eu já tinha contado carneiros, pelo que respondi que sim e que, aliás, já os tinha mandado saltar a cerca novamente e desta vez abati-os. Ele proferiu um "hmm, pois" em aprovação. Perguntou-me se eu já tinha ido ver qualquer coisa desinteressante na televisão, mas eu já tinha tentado isso noutra ocasião, mas sem efeito. Perguntou-me também se eu já tinha tomado comprimidos para me ajudar, mas eu também não queria essas coisas. Ele deu-me bastantes sugestões: marijuana, chás, bater fortemente com a cabeça na parede até perder os sentidos, apanhar uma grande bebedeira à moda antiga, ir acordar e seduzir uma vizinha qualquer, entre muitas outras coisas. Nenhuma me convenceu. Perguntei-lhe "o que é que costuma fazer quando tem insómnias?". A resposta dele foi inesperada: "Vou ao Multibanco, levanto uns euros e depois vou às meninas". Resultava sempre, dizia ele. No entanto, eu não conhecia nenhuma casa de alterne por perto e, mesmo que conhecesse, já não estava para ir vestir-me para sair, ainda para mais levantar dinheiro àquelas horas da noite. Não obstante, agradeci-lhe o tempo e a ajuda, despedindo-me cordialmente e pousando o auscultador.

Ao terceiro telefonema, surpreendi uma mulher. Ela pensou por instantes que eu era o marido que finalmente descobrira que ela de facto tinha um amante, que era o melhor amigo (cujo número eu acabara de marcar). Ela suspirou de alívio, e eu resumi, uma vez mais, o meu problema. Ela e o amante (o melhor amigo do marido) tiveram a ideia de ter sexo enquanto eu ouvia, desde que eu não me importasse de pagar vários minutos de chamada até me fartar. Eu lembro-me de pensar, na altura, que quanto muito ainda acabava era mais desperto e meio excitado. Não obstante, acedi, pois estava disposto a tudo, mas não tive muita sorte. Eles não fizeram barulho nenhum, só ouvi o que parecia ser a cama a ranger e uns gemidos ocasionais. Ainda por cima demoraram menos de cinco minutos, pelo que ela veio ao telefone e inquiriu "está lá?". "Sim, minha senhora, ainda estou aqui...já acabaram?". "Já sim", diz-me ela, "então não adormeceu?". "Não, acho que este seu plano não foi o melhor". Desejei-lhe boa sorte para a sua relação adúltera (pois se uma alma tão simpática traía o marido era porque ele é que era o canalha, certamente) e desliguei.

Foi no quarto telefonema que, sem querer, liguei para um atendedor de chamadas. "Ligou para casa do Fernando e da Maria. De momento não podemos atender, pelo que agradecemos se deixar a sua mensagem após o beep." (BEEP!) Acontece que desde há uns minutos que eu me lembrara de ir reler um livro qualquer, pelo que disquei novamente o número deste casal e comecei a ler o primeiro capítulo de "Guerra e Paz". No entanto, não adormeci. Desliguei a meio do segundo capítulo, pois não estava a ter sucesso nenhum. Aquele casal, contudo, ficou com uma bela dose de boa literatura para escutar no dia seguinte.

Quando me preparava para escolher aleatoriamente outro número, eis que surge em meu redor uma melga. Aquele barulho do seu motor biológico irritava-me e ainda perdi uns dez minutos até a matar. Aparecia e desaparecia na semi-escuridão do quarto como o próprio Diabo. A minha fúria e desprezo pelo insecto apenas serviram para que ficasse mais desperto. Raios partam as melgas, rogar-lhes-ei pragas até morrer.

Foi o quinto telefonema que me fez dormir. Liguei um número que já não estava atribuído, pelo que adormeci a ouvir a voz da mulher da gravação. Foi fantástico, e fiquei bastante feliz por ver, na manhã seguinte, que tinha habilmente registado o número desta nova pessoa que já não existia no meu mundo, mas que me deixara um presente de valor incalculável para as minhas noites de insómnia.

From The Shadows

2005-10-16T04:08:00.000+01:00

The Shadows (left to right): Bruce Welch, Tony Meehan, Jet Harris, Hank B. Marvin

Never have I heard such an individual, like Hank Marvin of The Shadows, use his fingers with a guitar to describe the best that a melody has to offer. A guitar god, for sure. And I speak of him not because Hendrix, Page, Gilmour, Blackmore and all the others aren't as good. It's just so that people don't forget this man, Hank Marvin, one of my first guitar heroes.
The Shadows have spawned so many hits that I can't expose them all. Here are a few:

"Apache"
"F.B.I."
"Man Of Mystery"
"Theme for Young Lovers"
"Peace Pipe"
"Wonderful Land"
"Theme from The Deer Hunter"
"The Savage"
"Dance On"
"Nivram"
"Guitar Tango"
"Geronimo"
...and many, many others.

The Shadows are also one of the first musical impressions I had as a child. Therefore, this post is dedicated to Hank Marvin and the rest of The Shadows.

Religion Swims Across My Mind

2005-10-16T02:43:00.000+01:00

When I was a little boy I sank in indecision
People always came to me promoting their religion

One fine morning I awoke and found my own true law
Fanatism spreads violence and no one knows what for

So music became my religion
And I learned to play an instrument
And I learned the ways of the notes, and tunings
And my visions are all golden, for I can compose my gospels
My church is everywhere, never silent
I can choose my prayers, and my prayers' tuning
I can choose my priest, and my priests' speeches
I can pray whenever I want, for I am taught with the ways of sound
The Wall of Sound
Magnificent in its message
Honest in its spreading faith
Better than a crucifix, crucified at my neck
Although an ascetic enemy
Music has no opposite
No Satan for this church
Therefore this is my temple
Our temple, our pagan ritual
Divided within an exponential combination of notes
Superior relative freedom available for all
No need to create propaganda for this church
People come on their own
Sometimes never realizing their devotion
To the one religion which can be tamed by rationality
The senses

An Ode

2005-10-12T18:50:00.000+01:00

In italian,

Forfollota pimpinnella,
Guarda, ma che cosa bella!
Mi amico, guarda quella
Forfollota pimpinnella!

In portuguese,

Farfalota pimpinela,
Vê lá bem, que coisa bela!
Meu amigo, vê aquela
Farfalota pimpinela!

Text by David Woland
Drawing by James Douglas Morrison

Celebration

2005-09-22T22:51:00.000+01:00

Midnight colours scarcely lit the tribal feast. The moon smiled in consent while echoes of their new language were swimming throughout the forest, turning into fragments of words softly carried by the wind. Red fires ignited realms of joy, odes to gods long forgotten and dances around burning flesh. Chants for the long departed ruled the night. The dead danced with the living while fat animals were being prepared to be eaten. Wine was floating down their throats, and the smoke made them sing even louder.

Suddenly an electric bolt announced the time to be silent. Nearby, a telephone rang and their faces showed awe and enthusiasm for the moments beginning shortly. A wire was connected to an old speaker and suddenly the voice spoke. Its tone was warm and gentle, and its message was clear. They listened quietly, and in the end they set the telephone on fire. The last object from times before. The last link to days where concentration was impossible, and living was acting. The fire grew up to the sky, or so it seemed, I don't know. When it was over, they resumed their dancing, their love, their cries and their chants. They performed the human ritual while getting drunk, for it was divine. It was a path to a higher level, a level where all was one. They forgot the voice, lit more fires so they could dance around them, and ate and drank more, as if there was no tomorrow. Suddenly reality exploded and happiness was spread all across the universe.

Homo Sapiens Sapiens

2005-09-21T06:59:00.000+01:00

I dream of purple mornings
Daily striking onwards through the mystic night
Never before have I seen in my thoughts such hybrid breathing
Revelations...who doesn't?
A personal sailing boat coming out of the island
A private inner sanctuary where we become masters
& apprentices
& gods
The social giant factory produces incomplete dreams
Followed by all those who are worms
There's so many of them out there
Are you one of them?
Aren't we all?
Human, I mean.
Human? Where?
I don't know, we just gotta go.
A piece of virgin paper claimed the touch
Of a lonely starving pen
Black rivers of forgotten insight flow
Endlessly through the warm night
Light singing from the ancient moon
To a gutter sea sailed by the midnight creatures
The ones who don't know
The blind ones who just eat what they're given
Getting fatter for the big slaughter
At the end of the road
At the end of their lives
They never get to see the movie
Or choose the title
They just roam and foam and moan
And smile when they get what they want
Creatures that never got what they need
Feeding each other with their own hunger
I want to swim out of the mud
Bubbles in my blood
Inhale all you can
We're about to dive into the abyss
We'll never come back
Although we've never left.

Not To Touch The Earth

2005-09-19T06:49:00.000+01:00

Some days ago he got out of his life for a couple of hours. He got himself into a cafe and then he lit up his cigarette. Ordered a coffee and suddenly everything changed. This heavenly creature attacked his eyesight, as if his world had come to an end. So apparently pure, but so desireably wicked. Vicious, tasteful, embracing everything he could ever aspire to have in existence. Ah, women. The greatest creature of them all. She noticed him also. However, she sat in a way that seemed to obey to a previously articulated and studied manner, as if a higher power demanded an artistic and near perfect way to do such common act. She was sitting down with her back turned to him. But there is always some magic when we get out of the boat that takes us to the other side of morning. A large part of the wall was covered with glass. Mirrors everywhere. And then suddenly he realized that the game of reflexes revealed her face, right in front of him, in the wall. And every gesture she made would give a painting which no man could ever have the money to pay for. They'd have to sacrifice their blood at her feet just to deserve a quick glimpse.

But he wasn't looking at her constantly. He took a glance now and then, and sometimes he could see she was looking through the reflex too. He was enjoying the moment, even knowing that in this reality nothing would ever happen. He chose so. The probability was like a drug. Thinking about what could happen if...this was the opium. And she knew it. How different would the world be if they could actually get acquainted. How sacred would their nest be, golden and divine. They were both enjoying the moment. Nevertheless, they both had a somewhat thoughtful look, as if they knew pretty well that nothing was really going to happen. There were no gods to look for, there was no karma to drive them into each other. Besides, her finger was being choked by a ring, which could say a lot but mean nothing at all. I don't believe any of them cared. Looking from the outside, I could tell that they could never get together. The passion would be so powerful and the love so grand that they would destroy the world. Their lust for each other would consume time itself. Their hunger would be assassin. They would kill each other out of plain desire. Either of them knew that the possibility existed, that they could actually do it, and this was all that mattered. But they couldn't and they wouldn't do it. I suppose it's because they were not from this world while in there. As if inside the cafe physical contact was impossible. And they knew it was, because that's what happens when we get out of our lives for some time. Our bodies are there, but we're not. We're swimming in a sea of thoughts. So they left, never looking back.

Better Remember Before Forgetting

2005-09-18T06:10:00.001+01:00

I keep six honest serving-men
(They taught me all I knew)
Their names are What and Why and When
And How and Where and Who.

Kipling

"Within You Without You"

2005-09-17T02:09:00.000+01:00

We were talking about the space between us all
And the people who hide themselves behind a wall of illusion
Never glimpse the truth, then it's far too late when they pass away

We were talking about the love we all could share
When we find it, to try our best to hold it there
With our love
With our love we could save the world
If they only knew

Try to realise it's all within yourself
No one else can make you change
And to see you're really only very small
And life flows on within you and without you

We were talking about the love that's gone so cold
And the people who gain the world and lose their soul
They don't know, they can't see
Are you one of them?

When you've seen beyond yourself then you may find peace of mind is waiting there
And the time will come when you see we're all one
And life flows on within you and without you

(George Harrison)

Ode To An Urban Vagabond

2005-08-29T09:39:00.000+01:00

My dear friend,
The cement trees reflect your face in its glass leaves, while you simultaneously think about having a cup of coffee & what your next destination's going to be. You travel with the wind, and despite your body motion, you also travel with your mind. You dream. "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose" (Kristofferson) is your motto, and what a fine lifestyle it is. Money is available for those who want to work, so I know you'll have no problem getting around whatever problems that might strike your existence. Crafted in a society of excesses & wild consuming, you are truly an exception. You are one of those special people who don't mind to sleep in a garden bench or a train station. A flower in the sun. The city was your cradle, but you condemn its behaviour. The road is your helping hand & your best friend, but you hate the damage transportations inflict on the environment. Nevermind that, I love you still.

Let's flag a ride & get somewhere. Our destination is unknown, but what matters is the ride. Everything that happens between our starting point & our journey's end is simply magical. It's life. It's the human poem. It's an exhilarating form of breathing special fragments of air which are given to us & that no one else will ever breathe again, for nothing is truly our own but the experience.

& are you experienced?

I know what you want. You want the only thing which is both supreme and accessible to human aspiration. You want to become a starchild (whatever that is), because you know we're all stardust. You need those metaphysical notes you only find in improvised music. It's a healthy drug, just like women. So freight the train, hitch a ride, stretch your thumb with all your might & life will smile at you. You see, your will is everything. I know you know that. We've got friendship to prove it. Let's depart. Let's arrive. Let's come back happier than when we left. Let's live & embrace everything which is given to us, because we might never have it again. You know who you are & therefore this is especially for you. I write this out of love & awe. I write this because I have no other option, but also because I want to.

I feel free.

Horse With No Name

2005-08-26T07:11:00.000+01:00

Adam's head cried out in a loud voice, forcing his eyes to open. In his dark room there were several people lying around sleeping, dead or whatever. He absolutely had no idea of what happened in there. All of the sudden, his phone rang. Was it important? Well, I suppose it could be, but it doesn't really matter, because when a phone rings most of the times we pick it up anyway. He stumbled on a still body and hit the floor. He fell so hard that the glass belonging to a broken bottle cut him in the arm. Instinctively, he tasted his own blood and, strangely as it seems, he felt alive. The fresh flavour of himself was trying to teach him something.

While Adam was dazed with the bizarre scenario, no one woke up with the ringing telephone... "Are they dead", he wondered. He started looking for the phone but he couldn't find it, so he freaked out a little bit, jumping around the lying bodies. Again, he tripped on someone, and while on the floor he reached his hands in order to lift his falsely heavy body. His touch absorbed a naked body. In some parts of the room he could smell what seemed to be vomit. Adam went to the bathroom for a shower, but he soon found out someone was already in there. Wasted people in the wasting room. More vomit. The most recent user of the toilet probably fainted before flushing it. The faeces were mixed with the floating vomit, creating a hardly forgettable fragrance. The smell was completely hideous. It was the smell of the living Adam wanted to leave behind. But those people weren't dead. They just weren't alive anymore. And was he hung over?

Unfortunately, yes. Sick and tired of it. But he didn't know how to stop. His friends...no, not friends...and certainly not his. Those people...they made him do things within his own will, but nevertheless regrettable things. Drugs, orgies, violence, disrespect for other people's freedom...in a word, decay. He had lost his values, his principles, and he no longer thought about things he used to like to think about. Whatever happened to his old friends? All in all, his mind was full of garbage, and he needed to empty it. Actually, the first thing he emptied was his fuel deposit.

He took his car for a drive and found a car salesman on the way. He sold his own vehicle and got himself an old convertible. The car was all messed up, but it would do. Adam felt like having the wind caressing his hair throughout his trip, so he bought the convertible. It was the first thing he did in a long time that he truly wanted. As he was driving, Adam started thinking why the hell he gave up on life. He remembered Roger Daltrey's voice, so many years ago, coming out of his radio: "too much of anything is too much for me, too much of everything gets too much for me". Those words finally made sense.

And Adam was heading for the desert. He wasn't doing it on purpose, he was just randomly riding his car like a wild horse running in a prairie. The desert sounded good, though. There wasn't much in the desert besides sand, snakes and the occasional hitchhiker. The wind was the only thing that would stay with him during all his trip. Now...what was he going to do when he got there? Well, did it matter? No. Adam felt he was happy. Really happy. He screamed at the sky: "Goodbye, old days!". He took a deep breath of life and before he could open his eyes to see he was in the wrong side of the road, a truck hit him.
Immersed in bliss, he never knew what happened.

The Devil's Music

2005-08-24T08:21:00.001+01:00

Robert Johnson claimed he sold his soul to the Devil at the crossroads in exchange for the ability to play guitar. I don't care. They said the same happened to Jimi Hendrix. It's alright, people. And what if they did? If the Blues is the Devil's work, then I love the Devil. And I don't need to sell my soul. I love the Blues, so in logical terms my soul already belongs to good ol' Satan. Doesn't matter. The Blues are about love (lost or won), crying, losing and winning, riding freight trains throughout the country, working hard in the cotton fields from early morning to late night just to eat a piece of bread and have a cool drink of water...and earning some money to send back home. But there is also a positive vibe in the Blues; and a humourous, ironic side; and a mocking side; and a drunk side. Resuming, it's the greatest musical celebration of life alongside classical music. And it is original in a sense that it doesn't have any roots. The Blues is the roots. All the way from Africa to the American Night, playing in the Mississippi Delta or in electric Chicago. The Devil's music! What a laugh. If true, this means Satan loves us, so all in all he's "a good guy". He wants us to express ourselves and share our ups and downs with others. This positively instigates human relations, so it is a good thing.

The Sixties were (in my view) the most creative period of comtemporary popular music (rock included). If you notice, in those days almost very band played Blues. Whether it's Pink Floyd's surralistic approaches or Janis Joplin's down-to-earth, sing-my-heart-out style of making love to the Blues. Although there is still an enlightened small minority, nowadays this knowledge is lost in music. People think about sounding fresh but they don't know where it all came from. They want a hit single, a video clip, a contract, appear on MTv and also a bag of gold. They want a palace and 20 cars. They want bathrooms built in pure solid gold. They don't want to elevate the spirit or reach higher grounds, musically. They don't want to feel alive by exploring the wall of sound. They forgot the Blues. They forgot The Source.
So I'll forget them.

The Giant

2005-08-19T07:32:00.000+01:00

Eyes closed. Darkness. Suddenly, a door opens
A door, not the eyes. A door
This warm sound greets us, but it leaves as quickly as it arrived
What was it? Where are we?
Suddenly, vivid colours swim around our senses
Caressing our ears with soft drops of honey
Licked by a cool, soft utopian drum.
Keyboards paint wild imagery in our minds
Oh, there it is again, the golden sax
It's a giant sillouette swimming in a sea
Of blood & sweat & tears
Its weapon is the golden sax
Wait a minute, it's not a weapon
It means no harm

It communicates. It's trying to transmit something
Something definitely larger than life
Words are gone now but we no longer need them
It speaks a fresh language but no one gets lost in translation
Where are we?, it was asked
We are now in the creative realm
What are we?
We are
We see
Here, we truly exist, among the stars
The kingdom of a love supreme & ritualistic devotion
Here anything can happen
We no longer embody anything
Gaze the spiritual experience
Its essence is divinity
We're all stardust & this is where the connection takes place
Passionate & wicked
Complex but pure
Frenetic, wild, bold, empowering
A pantagruelic wall of sound formed within everything
Our spirit is pure & we breathe bliss
O hypnotized mind singing at the Abyss
After all these words, one comes to me
It's the last one, flying past things which in fact required no attention
Past all my atoms and beyond the Infinite
It's the dawn of thought
It's the word that sums it all up
Beautiful.

Lonesome Joe Morganfield

2005-08-18T05:59:00.000+01:00

Old Morganfield's a noble bum
He lost his wife & lost his son
Left his home, sold his car & quickly learned to play guitar
He rambled on through worldy streets
Where people heard the latest hits
But soon old Joe did realize
His own few songs would make him cry
He sang and played folk stuff & blues
& soon appeared on prime-time news
This happened for a special reason
You've never heard this tale before
So let me tell you something more.
A change would cheer up Morganfield
He started playing happy tunes
Beatles, Stones, Beach Boys & such
And even some Electric Prunes.
The reason why media wanted the bum
Understandable yes, but not to everyone.
Here's the deal.
One day he was playing in the sun
A crowd of people was coming along
He played and played as if he was mad
Then gave away all coins he had.
'The bum who returned charity'
That's how they called him on TV.
Soon old Morganfield was broke
But not far from him a mind awoke.
A man watching among the crowd
Took Joe home & helped him out.
Friendship soon came for Joe
Who was so sadly sinking low.
Lonesome Morganfield, loneliness was over
He got new friends & found a lover,
Every morning sings his creed:
Love is all we really need.

Incendiary, Incendiary, Where Art Thou?

2005-08-15T22:45:00.000+01:00

O incendiaries of the World,
But especially those from the land where I live,
All ye burners of a piece of land that lets you breathe,
If I could find out your names and your ugly faces
I'd present you with a painful death, coloured with all the horrors
A painful death is supposed to be painted with.
I'd eat your livers and then I'd show your corpse to your families,
And let themselves ignite the match that would set your lifeless body
On fire.

Surfboard's End

2005-08-14T08:20:00.000+01:00

So one of these days I met a man who claims himself to be a surfer.
He is a surfer by personal choice and social trend,
Not by call of nature.
The ocean means nothing for him,
And his condition his a part of a quest.
A quest for cunt.
Finding out that most pretty female faces
Nowadays dance around the masters of the board,
He decided a board should be bought immediately.
I mean, all his friends did the same...dig?
Speaking to me in a language I couldn't comprehend,
But nevertheless that I could decipher,
Explaining to me his love for a fake philosophy,
His eternal love for this aquatic religion,
That never really existed in his mind, nevermind his soul,
He told me he was a surfer.
Despite he hated sitting on his board for a whole morning
Just to ride a couple of decent waves,
He retold me he was a surfer.
After much self-rejoicing about being what he wasn't,
He asked me if I was going to buy myself a surfboard too.
As the sun was sliding to another side of the world,
And my own life started echoing in my mind
Like a whale chant coming from the depths of the dominating blue,
I looked at him in the eye, and said
I'd rather feed my cock to a whore
Than be a slave to a board.