Welcome to the Losers Club, asshole: 27 seven years later

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.

a scene from the movie with the whole teenage cast in the shot

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.”

Stephen King


Great American Poetry

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.

Good-Looking Men In Small Clever Rooms…

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[366] — ‘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”, by Brian Bilston

“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.”

Brian Bilston

wave bye-bye to the bureaucrat

James O. Incandenza’s Wave Bye-Bye to the Bureaucrat

a synopsis by David Foster Wallace, part of the world created in Infinite Jest

A bureaucrat in some kind of sterile fluorescent-lit office complex is a fantastically efficient worker when awake , but he has this terrible problem waking up in the A.M., and is consistently late to work, which in a bureaucracy is idiosyncratic and disorderly and wholly unacceptable, and we see this bureaucrat getting called in to his supervisor’s pebbled-glass cubicle, and the supervisor, who wears a severely dated leisure suit with his shirt-collar flaring out on either side of its rust-colored lapels, tells the bureaucrat that he’s a good worker and a fine man, but that this chronic tardiness in the A.M. is simply not going to fly, and if it happens one more time the bureaucrat is going to have to find another fluorescent-lit office complex to work in . It’s no accident that in a bureaucracy getting fired is called ‘termination,’ as in ontological erasure, and the bureaucrat leaves his supervisor’s cubicle duly shaken. That night he and his wife go through their Bauhaus condominium collecting every alarm clock they own, each one of which is electric and digital and extremely precise, and they festoon their bedroom with them, so there are like a dozen timepieces with their digital alarms all set for 0615h. But that night there’s a power failure, and all the clocks lose an hour or just sit there blinking 0000h. over and over, and the bureaucrat still oversleeps the next A.M. He wakes late, lies there for a moment staring at a blinking 0000. He shrieks, clutches his head, throws on wrinkled clothes, ties his shoes in the elevator, shaves in the car, blasting through red lights on the way to the commuter rail. The 0816 train to the City pulls in to the station’s lower level just as the crazed bureaucrat’s car screeches into the station’s parking lot, and the bureaucrat can see the top of the train sitting there idling from across the open lot. This is the very last temporally feasible train: if the bureaucrat misses this train he’ll be late again, and terminated. He hauls into a Handicapped spot and leaves the car there at a crazy angle, vaults the turnstile, and takes the stairs down to the platform seven at a time, sweaty and bug-eyed. People scream and dive out of his way. As he careers down the long stairway he keeps his crazed eyes on the open doors of the 0816 train, willing them to stay open just a little longer. Finally, filmed in a glacial slo-mo, the bureaucrat leaps from the seventh-to-the-bottom step and lunges toward the train’s open doors, and right in mid-lunge smashes headlong into an earnest-faced little kid with thick glasses and a bow-tie and those nerdy little schoolboy-shorts who’s tottering along the platform under a tall armful of carefully wrapped packages. Kerwham, they collide. Bureaucrat and kid both stagger back from the impact. The kid’s packages go flying all over the place. The kid recovers his balance and stands there stunned, glasses and bow-tie askew. The bureaucrat looks frantically from the kid to the litter of packages to the kid to the train’s doors, which are still open. The train thrums. Its interior is fluorescent-lit and filled with employed, ontologically secure bureaucrats. You can hear the station’s PA announcer saying something tinny and garbled about departure. The stream of platform foot-traffic opens around the bureaucrat and the stunned boy and the litter of packages… The film’s bureaucrat’s buggy eyes keep going back and forth between the train’s open doors and the little kid, who’s looking steadily up at him, almost studious, his eyes big and liquid behind the lenses… The bureaucrat’s leaning away, inclined way over toward the train doors, as if his very cells were being pulled that way. But he keeps looking at the kid, the gifts, struggling with himself… The bureaucrat’s eyes suddenly recede back into their normal places in his sockets. He turns from the fluorescent doors and bends to the kid and asks if he’s OK and says it’ll all be OK. He cleans the kid’s spectacles with his pocket handkerchief, picks the kid’s packages up. About halfway through the packages the PA issues something final and the train’s doors close with a pressurized hiss. The bureaucrat gently loads the kid back up with packages, neatens them. The train pulls out. The bureaucrat watches the train pull out, expressionless. It’s anybody’s guess what he’s thinking. He straightens the kid’s bow-tie , kneeling down the way adults do when they’re ministering to a child, and tells him he’s sorry about the impact and that it’s OK. He turns to go. The platform’s mostly empty now. Now the strange moment. The kid cranes his neck around the packages and looks up at the guy as he starts to walk away: ‘Mister?’ the kid says. ‘Are you Jesus?’ ‘Don’t I wish,’ the ex-bureaucrat says over his shoulder, walking away, as the kid shifts the packages and frees one little hand to wave Bye at the guy’s topcoat’s back as the camera, revealed now as mounted on the 0816’ s rear, recedes from the platform and picks up speed.

Thanks for all, Len Wein

Len Wein, co-creator of Wolverine, dies at 69. Cause of death unknown as of 5 a.m.

My first contact with comic books happened when my cousin introduced me to Wolverine comics back in 1992. I immediately started reading every issue from then on, and a couple of years later I was lucky enough to receive from an old time collector a box with all his comics, which included earlier Wolverine and X-Men releases.

I grew up with those stories. Alongside Spider-Man, Wolverine was the base grounds for my personal education. Well I have my flaws, but so do the characters I looked up to.

Wolverine’s anger comes from caring and trying to protect the people he loves. Even being too young to a real identification with such persona, it did inspire me: who doesn’t want to be at least as heroic as that? And who doesn’t feel the need to see your fears and hatreds and whatnot in their favorite comics or books or films?

I’m pretty sure that just as it did to me those comics have being a great part of many other peoples lives, be that on childhood, adolescence or adult life.

And we are grateful to Len Wein. My heart goes out to his family & friends & fans.

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

my favorite Infinite Jest quotes

“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”

from David Foster Wallace’s ‘Lyndon’

“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

so, what do you want?

You want to have a travel-through-time-and-space-and-become-a-more-warm-inside-person experience?

Watch Doctor Who.

Want to have a metaphysical yet loveful and human-consciousness-and-behavor-perceiving experience?

You read Murakami.

You want to have a completely blank experience or possibly just come out even worse than you started off?

Hug me.

“A pause to prose and pause”

And so it comes that the poet can no longer bear to verse to punctuate to divide to paragraph rhythms allegories neither embellish.

Prose becomes necessary, also the pause that follows — to think because all that was written, though still true, was badly or mildly felt.

                But he feels.

—-/ /—-

“A building gets torched. All that’s left is ashes. I used to think everything was true about everything. But now I know…” (James O’Barr)

“Have you seen above?”

Oh! Have I seen land!
            I’ve seen land, safe coasts
            and green and
            swimming waters

Throughout every sea
          I’ve sailed or un-
          shipped to…

Yet I have not seen ocean
    in its almight
Pressure too much
    The feel too much to enlight

(but frightful as it is
therein spreads life!)

– – –

“Three little syringes in a pile of blood and epoxy resin — and a note-to-self”

No more analogies, metaphors, figurations, interpretations or comparative analysis and all else involving oceans from a self-taught with no teaching skills who can’t even swim.

There are other means to stop the brain

Climb up a mountain. More pressure, less air. Lower the oxygen going to the brain. Dumb one self. It’s kind of like sniffing glue, except that you come back with scratches all over and built up musculature.

“Despite it all”

Life has being a ever
growing puzzle of
beautiful pieces
each itself another puzzle.

It has presented itself to me
as fractals of Beauty and Tenderness
Yet I wait and long for its end since childhood.


“I had begun having nightmares about the reality of adult life as early as perhaps age seven. (…) Then, when real sleep descended, it becomes a real dream, and I lost the perspective of someone merely looking at the scene and I am in it — the lens of perspective pulls suddenly back, and I am one of them, one part of the mass of grey faced men stifling coughs and feeling at their teeth with their tongues and folding the edges of papers down into complex accordion creases and then smoothing them carefully out once more before replacing them in their assigned file folders. (…) and in the dream, as our eyes meet, it is impossible to know what the adult me is seeing or how I am reacting or if there is anything in there at all.”

from David Foster Wallace’s “The Soul is not a Smithy”, one of seven stories contained in the author’s book “Oblivion”

I had too much to dream last night*

Last nights dreams involved cocaine, cigars and anal sex. I think it’s normal if I’d wake up feeling like those people who scream “U-/S/-AY![x2]”.

There was also some Edgar Allan Poe in it. I couldn’t remember The Raven, which I’ve known by heart, at least parts of it, since I was like 12 or 14, but couldn’t get it. But parts of it appeared as I browsed my mind, as in using some sort of search mechanism, only it was written in an older kind of english, more phonetical, and I then had to re-write it as the original poem was, and then wasn’t quite sure I was doing it right.

* The Electric Prunes – I had too much to dream (last night)

diaries from the rehab

It’s been three days. Three days out of thirty-three years in which I have been able to read and write at least since I was about four, maybe five, and this is the first time I ever remember having been impeded ––no! Prohibited from writing. I actually believe that maybe russian anarchists and the Marqués de Sade felt less troubled finding ways to write while confined.

And the reason? Well, I could, and that is a fact, kill myself with a pen. It would takes lots of strength, but it is doable. Okay. Thing is, they also prohibited me from taking in the pen’s refill. You know, the ink refill, confined in a soft plastic rubber-like tube? So I can’t take a pen or an ink tube into the clinic because even this second one carries suicide risk (don’t ask me how).

One look around any room in this institute an I can already think of various manners of assaulting, fatally or not, anyone here, yours truly included. Bureaucracy is stupid. Burrocracy11 does not treat addiction. Bureaucracy obstructs art.

It also took three days to get the books I brought with me when checking in. Note that they were already with me. They had to go though “customs”, which is also understandable, but that administrative area is close by the patients house where I would be settled in. Meaning: they never even left the institute’s premises. Still, three days. I had to read Hemingway. Slowly And I mean slowly. That’s slow- — take a big pause there… wait… just a little more… now: -ly

11 That’s a wordplay on “burro” (portuguese for “stupid”, “dumb”), which slightly resembles the brazilian word for bureaucracy, which is “burocracia” [bu.ɾu.kɾɐ.sˈi.ɐ]

If you don’t have a song
To sing you’re okay
You know how to get along

If you don’t have a date
Go out and sit on the lawn
And do nothing
‘Cause it’s just what you must do
Nobody does it anymore

No I don’t believe in the wasting of time,
But I don’t believe that I’m wasting mine

If you don’t have a point to make
Don’t sweat it
You’ll make a sharp one being so kind
And I’d sure appreciate it
Everyone else’s goal’s to get big headed
Why should I follow that beat being that I’m
Better than fine