how to spot a Cylon

I feel ridiculous writing in Portuguese. I've gone so deep in terms of significance, I've so thought up every word - every usable word, because extended vocabulary hardly has its place in Brazilian Portuguese modern writing, and believe me, I've looked for their place - that I cannot bring myself to put them to a natural use any more. By eleven I was starting to get fed up, by fourteen I had had enough. Bestselling is for the ones - not the dumb ones, these don't care for words at all - bestselling is for the late ones (pardon the pun: not dead people, just retarded). They are still mesmerized by the mere power of words. They've just discovered them! When you learn all the usable words in their depth, and you're pretty sure you can uncrypt whatever other may appear, it's all stale. You lose interest. You want to do something different. That's where the other languages come in. To replenish thy cup of thirstiness for writing.
In Portuguese, I find it really hard to write. I have to invent words and shapes. Yes, shapes. I have to develop new syntaxes. Write with Portuguese words as mistranslated English. Or Japanese. Portuguese no can do.
At Englishland, i feel at ease. It's easy to write here. It's a breeze, sentences popping out one after another. In Portuguese, I have to sit and wait. A lot. And the worse part is the final result, which seems so much better here, at least in some ways.
Now you're gonna ask me why I detest my poor mother-tongue. Well I love my language. But I can get enough of it. I'm a slut, that is. I'm prostituting with all other tongues. In fact, I write in all of them at the same time, same line. It feels so good.
I think my books in Portuguese are really good for their deconstruction of what may seem not only a right, but a cool way of writing. The first book (called No shopping, for that matter) was a "wannabe cool book" with a twist. I cannot get by without a twist, ever. I'm practically rococo. I love Nabokov (who dropped his Russian himself). But the second book I wrote and is about to be released - oh, man, so evil - i wrote it like around words. Then moments. It was like a vintage book. It exposes today's challenges in an old-fashioned way. It is supposed to be a pun, which I know not exactly every man will get. But I did it anyway.
Variety. That's the word for my style. I'm always playing around. I develop ways. I'm a carver. You can't go and tell me I abandoned my previous style – you just hadn't seen all of it, love.
If I wanted to bestsell, it was easy. I'd just have to write in English, then translate. But until now I had been tied up by the language "of my own" - I write around it.

link to this post ~ 11:39 AM

It looks as though it's all fiction - the English language, for example. I know it. But I can't believe that it exists outside of my mind. It does exists inside our collective minds, cuz people answer me but - I don't believe it still. Trouble is, I think that I'm dreaming. For the first time today i didn't feel safe when i saw my house again, just out of a bad dream. I was not sure that it was actual, for the first time. So I still think that I'm dreaming. I awoke, slept and awoke again in that dream, and now I'm working still in the dream. I'd like to wake up. Difficult thing. I have been mastering a waking up technique since I was a little kid: slamming my eyelids shut in the dream. As I aged, I had to press them harder and harder to force me back into awareness. Till one day it didn't work anymore. I couldn't get away from that particular bad dream. Some followed. Sometimes I could awake, sometimes not. I was about six. It was a bad time.
Somehow, though, I managed to improved that technique. I think it was in the middle of some horrid nightmare: I struggled so desperately to get out of there that I sent a massive discharge of adrenalin down my spine - while still sleeping, so I could just - get - out. It was freaky horrible, I felt dizzy and unrested the first time I did it. In fact, I felt dizzy and unrested every time I did it. But it was still better than staying there with the monsters and my sadic subconscious mind. Anyway, I had always had the theory that the line between my conscious and subconscious mind was not that thick. I could always remember what I dreamed with an amazing amount of detail. When I dreamt I knew it was a dream and I had a real life to get back to - and I'd even learn to tell the difference, within time. But that was only the you're-not-that-postal part. Sometimes I could see places I had dreamt of repeat themselves in real life, sometimes I'd write fiction and tiny details of it subsequently came real in a quite haunting way. Things were escaping into life and I'm sorry that they do. But now apparently what I want is to escape life, because somehow, I'm not really sure that I woke up today.

link to this post ~ 11:32 AM