Leo Dias is a brazilian artist living in Porto Alegre, south of Brazil. He’s done cover art for Sepultura and many horror sculptures well noticed here and throughout the world.
It ain’t without reasons that I decided that, when I have my own Sandman mask handmaid, he’s the one I’ll thrust with the request. Just look at how amazing is his artwork when a friend of his request art with a theme he knowingly enjoys: I am one who hasn’t seen more than three or four Hellraiser movies and I’ve only played chess when I got myself into a rehab clinic, yet I want this chess set more than I want peace on Earth for all good people. This is the result of professionalism and the technique acquired after years of learning and making art. Just try to imagine how honored I feel to have been a barely grown kid alongside him in the streets of my hometown. You may follow him on facebook and keep track on his work: Leo Dias.
Não é à toa que o dia em que quiser uma máscara de Sandman, a única pessoa em quem confiarei pra fazê-la é o Leo Dias. Olha o tipo de trampo que esse cara faz por uma encomenda amiga e com uma temática de seu gosto: eu que só vi três ou quatro filmes da série Hellraiser e só aprendi e joguei xadrez durante uma internação hospitalar to querendo esse set mais do que quero paz na Terra à gente de bem. Profissionalismo e muita, muita técnica de anos de aprendizado e construção. Ces não imaginam a honra que sinto por já ter “molequeado” com esse cara nos tempos de Osvaldo e Escaler.
“The feeling is why I want to. The feeling is the reason I want to die. I’m here because I want to die. That’s why I’m in a room without windows and with cages over the lightbulbs and no lock on the toilet door. Why they took my shoelaces and my belt. But I notice they don’t take away the feeling do they.”
‘Well this–she gestured at herself–‘isn’t a state. This is a feeling. I feel it all over. In my arms and legs. (…) ‘All over. My head, throat, butt. In my stomach. It’s all over everywhere. I don’t know what I could call it. It’s like I can’t get enough outside it to call it anything. It’s like horror more than sadness. It’s more like horror. It’s like something horrible is about to happen, the most horrible thing you can imagine–no, worse than you can imagine because there’s the feeling that there’s something you have to do right away to stop it but you don’t know what it is you have to do, and then it’s happening, too, the whole horrible time, it’s about to happen and also it’s happening, all at the same time.’
“Mario is basically a born listener. One of the positives to being visibly damaged is that people can sometimes forget you’re there, even when they’re interfacing with you. You almost get to eavesdrop. It’s almost like they’re like: If nobody’s really in there, there’s nothing to be shy about. That’s why bullshit often tends to drop away around damaged listeners, deep beliefs revealed, diary-type private reveries indulged out loud (…)”
Continue reading “my favorite Infinite Jest quotes halfway through”
“Boy, I get a smell of happiness off their upset, however. I think they enjoy getting outraged and vilified and unjustly ignored. (…) We gave it to them too easy, boy. I mean their Daddies. Men that I was youths with. And these youths today are *pissed off*. They ain’t never once had to worry or hurt or suffer in any real way whatsoever. They do not know Great Depression and they do not know desolation. (…) We’re taking away folks’ suffering here at home through these careful domestic programs, boy, without giving them nothing to replace it. Take a look at them dancing across over there, boy, shouting *fuck you* like they invented both fucking and me. (…) I see some animals that need to suffer, some folks that need some suffering to even be Americans inside, boy; and if we don’t give them some suffering, why, they’ll just go and hunt up some for themselves.”
‘Lyndon’, short story, is part of the book “Girl with Curious Hair”
#literature #quotes #quote #suffering #davidfosterwallace #lyndonjohnson
A short story showing three errors by one probably unsuspectful on being a bigot bigot father as they are percepted by his daughter Milla.
Link (pdf): family unfair (try #1) – a short film by Coiote Flores and The Godnapper Fooleries Cot
So love being this or love being such, those assumptions, conclusions, arbitrary statements could never work. But yes, there is love in such and those.
There is love in feeling your arm numb and not caring at all with the tactless of your fingers on the plate because you’re happy that you’re making her breakfast and that it was under her that your arm stopped receiving blood.
There is love is not caring about not using the heavy drugs the substance you cared so much you almost gave your life for. There is love in loving pot because you did pot with her but still not growing fond of pot because you’re all fond of her.
There is love in that smile that sends your lonely beat up self away and pulls the real you inner on the in that is the company of her.
There is love in her body pressuring yours and pulling yours under her; there’s love when she rests her head on your face or move her legs through yours and you feel such grace while thinking “this body is with my body and she cares for me” and you’re so amazed that happens because it happens with that person so perfect that a couple of weeks before you thought the idea of such happening was nonsense daydreaming.
There is love in all that and much more and love is finding love in such.
I shall not die unartistically; my body is to perish the abandoned shell of unquiet soul.
You couldn’t kill me when I bore no treat. You can’t kill me as of now for I ain’t to be harmed.
This is a construct. The soul is long spread.
Too late, too late; this treat walks live with the dead.
I just got the major boner as I got my bag of cocaine and sat here thinking about me.
Maybe I’m addicted.
You’ve obviously never met me
so I’ll let you swim gently
into the dark waters of me
They call me the wild rose
but my name
is not for you
* line in italic from this song:
The first episode was quite an introduction, I should say. 25 minutes into the episode and I had my mind set that they got the adaptation right, even though, no matter how much is invested in series in these days and putting aside my unbalanceable faith in Neil Gaiman, we always have doubts at first.
If you’re not familiar with the literary, you should read it as soon as possible. You will get much more of the TV show. Trust me on that.
Ian MacShane is just perfect in the role of Mr. Wednesday.
As for the Leprechaun? It took me a while to know who the character in the book was, but in the show I could see the Leprechaun right there, in his noticeable and righteous 6 feet in height.
What else should I say? Emily Browning, an actress I admire and whose presence in the series gave me great joy, makes but a small appearance in the first episode, but I’m sure we are to see much more of her: the show is not taking away the occasional (and used only as necessary in the books) dreams and flashbacks of our main character Shadow.
As for those who have read the book, be not afraid. Just watch and indulge yourselves.
It’s been a daily struggle to shake off that feeling of a constant collapsing surrounding us, which is not a constant but rather just something increasingly more frequent. One perishes and that feeling comes strong and you have to remind yourself that while that one tired off and led themself out of this apparently collapsing world we must struggle forth. And it really is not as hard as it seems: there is so much growth around those collapsing pillars — we just have to lean on that instead of leaning on the dying.
As for the sadness cast upon us on this day, on the passing of a largely admired artist, a human being, someone who I don’t remember touching me in a personal level as much as has done to others, I can only understand it through the words of a preacher: if a part of Europe gets watered off in the sea, Europe changes, for that stranded land was part of what made Europe itself. The same way, the death of another man diminishes me, for I am part of human kind. (ask not for whom the bells toll — the bells toll for you)
Mister Sandman, bring me the sand. Lots and lots of sand A whole two hundred square miles of sand. Also some water to wash off on it. And palm trees and little turtles and the seagulls.
Well, I didn’t know that was an island but if that’s what I need to get some sleep then I’ll take it.
#sandman #sleep #shortstories
The past is for staying as it is. Death won’t kill. Time changes no bygones.
Every moment of joy is to be reliquished and every pain hurts.
The sadness is that the most joyful moments past can’t be revived yet the most paintful days sore constantly.
Home is where the harsh is.
a sail left for burial at sea as
the gone captain sails larger vessels out
and reckons: those there left deserve to drown.