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I'm on fire! Now I've just spelled "labyrinthitis" right from memory! Labels: language link to this post ~ 2:33 PM I just spelled "photosynthesise" right without a second thought. Can I try that spelling bee now? Labels: language link to this post ~ 3:40 AM I dreamt I was reading this century's opus. Part of it was set in a high school. It involved mutants and geopolitics. I remember particularly of how a dilemma was solved: the dog wouldn't eat because it was really a fish (a mutant fish). There was this smiling, ultrapopular guy called Swoomi (Swann + swami + swoon) that wore a striped red'n'white shirt and foresaw the future through his tiniest actions - but he did not know it. There were at least 3 tomes, and I read parts 2 and 3. Reading, in my dreams, means to incarnate into a character which I identify myself with. So, after I read the beggining of tome 3, when the few teen survivors of tome 2 gather in a new high school building for their first day of class, I woke up and stared at the ceiling feeling beside myself. - What's wrong? - JP asked. - I've just died in an atomic explosion. - That's good. At least you didn't feel pain. - Yes, I did. Because I was stupid. I hid behind a lead thingy. - So... you were stupid. You died slowly and painfully. - Yes, I did. And they had developed these mini atom bombs. You could see tiny mushroom clouds. There was even time to hug strangers. - Someone told me about this stupid flick where the guy flees an atomic explosion by going into a lead fridge. - That's... the last Indiana Jones. I saw it. - Pretty stupid. - Now I can say it doesn't work. I know it for a fact. Been there. Last thing I felt were my wrinkled toes touching each other. And that was all that was. Labels: dreams link to this post ~ 9:38 PM Does anybody know an English word that could mean "nail it completely with no helping references"? I thought up "point-blank", but that's not it. It's driving me nuts. Labels: books, language, literature link to this post ~ 1:37 AM And I post this UKeyed bit here, set at a Brazilian New Year party, specially for Rachel's enjoyment! : ) (I'm pretty sure I made some translation mistakes there, though, and I apologize for them.) Clinically sober, on I walked, looking for something I was too unfocused to find. Mr. DJ had embarked onto a trippy oldies’ séance and I, pre-morning mode on, stumbled at cabbages who wouldn’t take notice at all. Only the cabbaged attend afterparties. I envied them. While I moved on and kept my mouth firmly shut, I had this grasp on reality: to me, it was yet another year to end, yet another year to come. The lack of seasons in this town would be the thing to freeze me: non-summer, non-fall, non-winter, non-spring. A bloke was standing right in the middle of the floor, sweating, holding this cigarette he wouldn’t puff. I examined him closely. I took his cigarette and puffed it; I saw no display of reaction. I put it back, but, as his fingers were frozen, it fell on the lino. That was my cue: fed up I tried to walk away, which ended in a thud. The body I had thumped upon absorbed the shock as firmly as a rock. I lifted my eyes. The stranger had a grip on my wrist. The man didn’t just look much more conscious than the rest; he looked a lot more nitid as well. He looked like a Real Man. Labels: books, Brazil, Brazilian fiction, literature, new authors, new Brazilian fiction, novel link to this post ~ 11:33 AM I decided to post the translated beginning of my book, which I plan to call Nasty Nights in English. It probably looks a bit different of the version that's been taken to Frankfurt Book Fair, but no worries. Sample it, taste it, enjoy it. He turns to one side. Four in the morning. He turns to the other. A woman. By color, shape and smell of it, it should be Amanda. He checks the face. Amanda. The skin under her eyes is shiny. But over her cheek, it’s opaque. She called that a mixed skin type. Her hair was changed. He touches it. The tresses fall apart in between his fingers. He cannot tell her new colorwave right in this darkness. It’s probably located between color numbers 3 and 6, maybe a mix between two or more tones in the brown-reddish scale. He knows such things because he’s about to complete twelve years of hair intimacy. She had a perm on the first time he met her, at Paulinha’s, at a time when he was but yet another boy in a trenchcoat in that miserable heat, and when she was considering to hold off college and go lounge around Europe just like her sisters and cousins had. She had spent the ’88 Winter as a redhead, recycling the half-coats and boots worn during her Hitchcock blonde stage (spiral buns and hair-sticks); in ’91 she mimicked a native girl, long dark straight hair, artificially tanned, tribal accessories, only to appear just before New Year’s Eve with a late-yuppie look. He could barely make out he was married to a blonde. From his vantage point he could see stars, even laying down as he was. Stars. Shining as if nothing was happening. Whilst somewhere in town people were drunk and naked having dirty hot sex. And laughing as if things were granted and easy, not belligerent and covetous. So stars were bothersome and he would close them curtains if they existed. But they didn’t. His wife had asked for his input and he had said whatever. Now he sorely repented in a china cabinet. At least he has nothing of interest to be looked upon. In the trash bin, he discovers an auburn chestnut color. Its name: Tobacco Honey. Amanda’s watching turned-off TV. Again. The first time he busted this behaviour of hers, in the middle of a black-out, he was sure she didn’t sit there every afternoon, first thing when home from work, just to watch TV. No way. She was brooding. He cooks up an approach. He opens the cabinet door left of the TV. There’s a half-bottle of whisky. He quickly closes it. She had lightened a cigarette. TV still off. Of course, TV does get worse each day, but the fact that she had stopped to bother turning on the TV before complaining about the quality of the programmes, and even allowing the irresponsible color-show to disguise any darker thoughts, was very worrysome. Labels: books, Brazil, Brazilian fiction, literature, new authors, new Brazilian fiction, novel link to this post ~ 11:13 AM I've got a real problem. I do not adapt into Brazil. I was born here, raised here, but I've never ceased to be amazed at the ethos you can see here. My problem, in a nutshell, it's that my values differ significantly of my people's values. For some reason which I can not put my finger on, unlike my fellow countryman and women, I hate wild parties, vulgarity, intimidation, informality, immediatism and showing off my beauty (meaning my ass) and success (meaning my buying power). Let's not forget the hipocrisy that varnishes all the previous behaviours (and which will award me with tons of angry mail if any Brazilian reads this). Brazil is a place where push is always coming to shove. Except when you can pay for it. Then it's a gentle nudge. Then seemingly no one will notice that you got into the Congress on narc money. Or that you kept your mistress' daughter private school off public funds. But if you're a commoner, if you can't afford a blinded car with film-coated windows, then you're subject to the law of the concrete jungle. You may be assaulted, disrespected, extorted, run over by bikes. The "res publica", the public patrimony, is of no one's concern. Not the people, not the government. The sidewalks are littered, crapped upon by dogs, destroyed by parking cars, parceled by "car caretakers" that demand money to "protect" your car from themselves. Nevermind the written rules that say (so naive!) pedestrians should have preference at all times. Here is what really works on Brazilian streets: pedestrians should fear bikes, bikes should fear cars, and cars should fear buses. Truly a food chain. If you think just because the lights are red you can put your foot on the street, think again. You could lose that foot, like I almost did the other day, when a minivan came from behind a bus and flew across my face five seconds after the red light was on. What is more shocking is that no one offered a hand, no one asked if I was alright, no one barely looked even though I had stopped in shock at the middle of the avenue. They just crossed the avenue. They knew they weren't getting another "chance" so soon. This is normal. Common Brazilian sense. When I went to England the first time, I saw a different kind of nasty, but a nasty I could deal with. I remember that when I went out at night I used a crack on the sidewalk as a reference for where should I get off the bus. A crack on the sidewalk! You'd have to see my neighborhood's sidewalks to understand the joke. Here, an uncracked sidewalk is a landmark. No joke here. I mean it:  Copacabana Beach sidewalk Labels: Brazil, countries, tourism link to this post ~ 1:42 PM I'm going backpacking in Scotland (and some other countries). Do not say when, crazy stalkers may ensue. I've carefully chosen my hostels in order to avoid 24/7 party moods and STINKING PEOPLE. "Oh, let's save 8 bucks per night so we can spend it all on beer, shall we?" Vade retro! If you see things my way, you must have some guidelines in order to make the best of the available data. One of them is finding out which is the town party district (there is often more than one) and STAY AWAY of the damned site. Just take a look at the map of the hostel's location and see if it's far enough from the party 'hood for you to have a nice sleepy time. It's important to sleep well to fully enjoy your trip -- you don't wanna be half asleep and irritable when you find your email-pal to be. Another pointers are: 1 - TOO CHEAP - like I said, cheap youngsters tend to save on the littlest things so they can get very wasted. If you do the same thing due to financial reasons, you'll be stuck with all the bad things extreme drunkeness can bring with it - use your imagination about the creepy stuff, but I should warn you: it can even make you spend harder, if they trash the room, for instance. Or you can say what the hell, befriend them, overdrink them and become their problem. Your pick. 2 - AVOID BOARDING SCHOOL DISTRESS - I often wonder what kind of people craves to sleep in a dorm with another 15 unknown human beings -- and the answers I've come up with are not enticing. The least appalling of them would be a compulsive friend-maker -- a kind I've come to hate. Do not stay in huge rooms with many beds. 3 - LINEN IS GOOD - and so are towels and breakfast. But try to find out which kind of "breakfast", "linen" and "towels" you're going for. The reviews by former guests of your prospective hostel in many sites can help you do that. If you're going to travel during chilly times, you don't want to pay through your nose for an extra duvet. Or proper heating. Or a nice hot shower. Maybe it's better to go out and pay for breakfast than paying "a little extra" for the in-hostel "goods" and getting hungry, frozen and annoyed. 4 - INTERNATIONAL DORMS - A good friend of mine said that, when in hostel dorms, she usually woke up twice at night: at four, Americans and Canadians coming back drunk from the club circuit; then Koreans, Japanese and Chinese at six o'clock, so as to get their cam schedule started. That's it; there's nothing you can do about it. I intend to do some clubbing and some sightseeing, so I intend to use the Asians as alarm-clocks sometimes. If they're OK I may team up for some clubbing and sightseeing as well. Or not. 5 - MIXED OR SORTED - I've heard horror stories about mixed rooms. Most Europeans are pretty cool about it, but let's remember: in hostels and trains we have people from different cultures, who may not be used to seeing a pretty girl sleeping in their pajamas beside them. As to avoid distress and have the best experience possible, I always go with female dorms. Which, as we know, is not 100% creep-proof but it's nicer. Besides, most lesbians are against rape. 6 - JUDGING BY THE LOOK OF IT - Would you be a good secret agent? Just by the uploaded pics and info of each hostel you can muster an idea of what they actually are. While looking at those pictures, you must take into account: 1) what they did not show or say (wonder why?) 2) the kind of people who occasionally appear in the pics (party animals? jocks? evil staff?) 3) the layout of the rooms (too busy? too much light? bad mattresses?) 4) the overall cleanliness (consider the cleanliness displayed should be an exemplary one for their standards, as they were taking pics for marketing purposes). That's all for today, folks. link to this post ~ 9:56 AM This is part of a synopsis for my second novel, published only in Portuguese up until now, called A feia noite (literally, The ugly night or The nasty night). I plan to call it Nasty Nights in English, which mantains the original sense while keeping a nice alliteration. Sorry about any mistakes and hope you like it. Francisco is 37 years old. Even though he is a political consultant, out of the office he is an extremely righteous and rule-abiding man living in Brazil, where rule-bending is the only rule. But he feels left out of the great party of life. He is on antidepressants so as to stop his panic attacks and obsessive-compulsive disorder, and also to save his marriage. It’s election year and we’re in January, a high-Summer month crammed between year-end holidays and Carnival festivities, where everybody is out on vacation, including his psychiatrist. The book starts with Francisco being left by his diva of a wife, Amanda, and breaking down. The following day, he’s unable to remember much. There’s a girl not in his bed, but in the single bed of the children’s room (that he and his wife kept even without children). She’s about to be 21 and her name is Maria Luiza. Not knowing what had happened between them and not strong enough to show her the door, Francisco offers her shelter, unaware of his own intentions, let alone hers. From this point on the book is divided into “nights”, in a total of fifteen. Francisco is soon to find out that Maria Luiza too is involved with an occupation that is despised by society: a whore’s. A libertine, as she favors. Maria Luiza is just what Francisco has always secretly yearned for: his entrance pass to a world made up of crazy flings and debauchery – but why exactly would she be leaving all this behind? Labels: books, Brazilian fiction, literature, new authors, new Brazilian fiction, novel link to this post ~ 2:47 PM |