Just like Pennywise the Dancing Clowns starves until the fear from scared children feeds him, I’m sure to starve for others to describe what an amazing experience watching Fukanaga’s, Palmer’s and Muschietti’s* vision of Stephen King’s “It” has been. For starters, you’ve got the Losers Club assembling and going through the epiphany of discovery what and how It works its way into people’s minds and actual lives: well, yes, it was made in sort of a rush, but it is all there. Not an use thing to put every detail in less than two hours, but if you want all the kids’ experience, there is no way of getting way unless you read the book. The movie made the job of a movie and got that well done, as far as this long time King’s fan is concerned.
The acting? You can’t get it better. And I mean all the cast: from the teenagers to the old lady ignoring that kid in yellow raincoat crouching to a sewer, which is a perfect opening to let us know how Derry folks behave in relation to It’s actions. That was an amazing moment, to me. The rain falls. Someone watches but sees nothing. A cat that shows more reaction than humans do in front of what happens so clsoe to them. That is one of the main points in It’s story: they let it happen because it’s part of what’s being happening long time before they were even born. And it’s all there. And we get to know about all that in that first initial hour, which, as said, is an accomplishment.
And I was honest when I started this short fast review: I’m still cooking up the words for what has been, for me, to be back there through this all new production of a story that has been not so new for me but is still alive as it was almost three decades ago. The second part of the story is coming upp next year and, like the Losers Club children, I plan to be ready for It, yet I know I won’t. It is bound to be a whole new experience just like this first part has been. And I’m eager to live it.
* screeplayers: Chase Palmer and Cary Fukanaga; director: Andy Muschietti
“I had hopes, but I was snot prepared for how good it really was.”
Remember we used to sing
but you were ever out of tune
and always off the beat
Sad, sad, sad. One of my favorite singing voices. The ever echoing reminder that salvation is free. Much to thank for and much to miss, resquiescat in pace, Dolores O’Riordan.
To all the people doin’ lines: don’t do it. Inject yourselves with liberty — it’s free, it’s free!
I’ve decided to take a chance and publicly embarrass myself through my awful accent and diction: poetic reading in english. I recommend that you use ear protection and have compassion.
Veio do choque e moveu-se pelo ar no entorno, seguiu os vãos das janelas de um longo corredor e atravessou a porta de madeira. O som que entrou na concha auditiva e seguiu pelo condutor auditivo pra eventualmente atingir os nervos que o fariam ser percebido pelo homem desprovido por ele de seu sono era um som metálico e vibrante, como de algo grande e pesado caindo sobre uma enorme placa de ferro.
Seus olhos se abriram com raiva; sim! Seus olhos, d’onde esses são o órgão chave da visão, se abriram: pálpebras violentamente movidas, pupilas dilataram-se buscando luz enquanto as membranas e camadas de lágrimas escondidam a luz, evitando choque maior, pra imediatamente se fecharem. Antes que músculos perceptíveis à última camada de consciência subesses, os olhos percebiam. Estava acordado.
Pensaria no zero absoluto mais tarde tentando calcular quanto tempo poderia ter dormido entre o deitar, fechar os olhos, passar para o raro momento entre todos os pensamentos em que se sente apagar, e ser trazido de volta por aquele som.
Nenhum livro precisa de capa Escritor só escreve
Linhas são guias pro pulso e pro olho
E fomos nós que as criamos à ida
Sentiu a pausa?
Nada pode nos parar.
Ascend to stars on a gentle slope, my friend
and stop for rest if you will or if you must
I’ll make a bed of my thighs and
caress your hair between my fingers
You may fall sleep then and so shall I;
into dreams of unknown softness we travel then
only to come back fully restored.
On that gentle slope we part ways waving hands
that felt warmth, from our lips shall pass but smiles
and not one word for goodbye: we either meet again
or we never unmet.
So I want to get know more and more about the ska music, get more tips on bands and such. I’m planning to start up a series of ska parties here in my hometown (Porto Alegre – RS, Brazil). All insights will be thankfully welcome!
time lost ain’t all gone:
it stays right behind you
kicking you in the ankles
to remind constantly
that all that’s been lost
is lost forever.
The following text is a free translation of a report published last night by Gabriel’s lawyer and friend Helena Vasconcellos:
“Here is the story: my good pal Gabriel went to Coldplay’s concert last night. Gabriel is black.
Two white girls complained about him being “in front of them”; complained about him, who paid for his ticket just like everybody else.
Long story short: The police understood that this black man does not belong in a Coldplay concert, even though he bought his ticket. Gabriel got beaten up, handcuffed, arrested and is now under a process opened by the São Paulo’s Tourist Assistance Defense for contempt.
Did you think there was no racism lingering in 2017?
This is a side to a live concert that no one will show. The violent police that thinks a black person should not be there.”
I miss being inside
Because the loneliness inside
is the loneliness of me
Whilst the loneliness out here
is inflicted by others
I miss the meds
that made me forget
what it was I left behind
I miss being locked up
and unable to scream
Because the silence then
was the silent me within
Whilst the silence out here
is that of not being heard
I miss being inside
Because out here
I hear that inner me
screaming for help
Yet find no voice
or care or hand
to help out
When there’s loneliness
and the need for someone
to heal the pain
You can always count
on running shoes
to keep you away from
needy saddened friends
GET ONE NOW TRY IT
ALL MY FRIENDS ARE WEARING THESE
I have never seen so many sane people. I mean it: those who are there either know themselves or are trying to know. Out here, most people only se themselves yet what they see is but a reflection, an image reflected in a mirror. But that mirror doesn’t reflect them, it reflects others, and those are also ignorant to who they are seeing. But in the mental home, not one person is looking at others, much less at the mirror. They are looking or trying to direct their sight toward themselves, so then they can see their surroundings. And once they achieved, it really works out greatly.
Good-Looking Men In Small Clever Rooms That Utilize Every Centimeter Of Available Space With Mind-Boggling Efficiency, by James O. Incandeza, from David Foster Wallace‘s Infinite Jest
“Thus the Flood’s real consequence is revealed to be desiccation, generations of hydrophobia on a pandemic scale,’ the protagonist was reading aloud. Peterson’s The Cage was running on a large screen behind the lectern. A number of shots of undergraduates with their heads on their desks, reading their mail, making origami animals, picking at their faces with blank intensity, established that the climactic lecture wasn’t coming off as all that climactic to the audience within the film. ‘We thus become, in the absence of death as ideologic end, ourselves desiccated, deprived of some essential fluid, aridly cerebral, abstract, conceptual, little more than hallucinations of God,’ the academic read in a deadly drone, his eyes never leaving his lectern’s text. The art-cartridge critics and scholars who point to the frequent presence of audiences inside Himself’s films, and argue that the fact that the audiences are always either dumb and unappreciative or the victims of some grisly entertainment-mishap betrays more than a little hostility on the part of an ‘auteuf pegged as technically gifted but narratively dull and plotless and static and not entertaining enough — these academics’ arguments seem sound as far as they go, but they do not explain the incredible pathos of Paul Anthony Heaven reading his lecture to a crowd of dead-eyed kids picking at themselves and drawing vacant airplane- and genitalia-doodles on their college-rule note-pads, reading stupefyingly turgid-sounding shit — ‘For while clinamen and tessera strive to revive or revise the dead ancestor, and while kenosis and daemonization act to repress consciousness and memory of the dead ancestor, it is, finally, artistic askesis which represents the contest proper, the battle-to-the-death with the loved dead’ — in a monotone as narcotizing as a voice from the grave — and yet all the time weeping, Paul Anthony Heaven, as an upward hall full of kids all scan their mail, the film-teacher not sobbing or wiping his nose on his tweed sleeve but silently weeping, very steadily, so that tears run down Heaven’s gaunt face and gather on his underslung chin and fall from view, glistening slightly, below the lectern’s frame of sight. Then this too began to seem familiar.”
“America is a Gun”
transcript from this tweet
England is a cup of tea.
France, a wheel of ripened brie.
Greece, a short, squat olive tree.
America is a gun.
Brazil is football on the sand.
Argentina, Maradona’s hand.
Germany, an oompah band.
America is a gun.
Holland is a wooden shoe.
Hungary, a goulash stew.
Australia, a kangaroo.
America is a gun.
Japan is a thermal spring.
Scotland is a highland fling.
Oh, better to be anything
than America as a gun.”
The Little Engine That Could But Decided Well Fuck This Shit I Won’t And That’s Final