So much ado...

... and yet I`m gonna talk about nothing.
A gruesome twin  attack in Norway that shocked and saddened me much more than the death of  a junkie singer; my working life turning upside down, bringing frustration and hope at the same time; the void left by stopping seeing some friends in my day-a-day; personal goals on the verge of being achieved - none of these have actually inspired me to produce a decent text.

I just wanted to write but there was too much ado to decide on what to say. I didn`t want to wax either philosophical or political, thus I decided to write about nothing. And here you are: a short post about nothing; the sheer writing for the sake of writing.

Maybe another day, when polemical and depressing topics become scarce, I might write about something useful. For the time being, nothing will do way much better.

Now, if you excuse myself, I`ll watch the South American Cup finals.

Rock and roll isn't dead, unfortunately.

     I remember being about 10, shamefully holding a Barbie doll - once I was too old for that - playing with my sister and a haven’t-seen-her-for-ages friend when the recently arrived MTV Brazil started to show Metallica’s Enter Sandman video clip. Much as I had always been keen on music, I had never really felt it, it had never really touched me. Well, as it was Metallica, touch is inaccurate. I had never felt a song rip my innocent young skin, get deep into my guts and make me want to spit them out in excitement.

     It was like the first sniff of coke – not that I’ve ever had it in my life – exciting, energetic, brutal. Of course after a short while I discovered that the Black Album was far from being as brutal as rock and roll could be, but to my pop-ballad-used ear it was a huge shock. The rough voice, the drums, the deep riffs, everything: I just knew it. I knew I should, I had to look for more. I was already addicted, and it had only been my first dose.
     From that moment on, thanks to some neighbors, friends and even my father, who convinced me Sepultura was one of the best bands ever (thanks, Dad! They are!), my heart has beat rhythmically, following Lars’ and Igor’s drums and Harris’s and Burton’s bass lines. I went further to any kind of rock that was at hand: classic, hard rock, heavy metal, death metal (even its name was aggressive!), punk, gothic rock, gothic metal. All that senseless teenage aggressiveness had a way out; it could finally get out of its den.
     Yet… It was not enough… It was too powerful a sensation to stay still in my bedroom just listening. There had to be more. There had to be a place, a moment, anything, to let all that energy explode and become a virus and spread itself and pulse and gain more strength and … there was. And I discovered it, again with Metallica, in the early ‘90s: a rock concert. There, me and my sister, two teenage girls, on the ground, standing shoulder to shoulder with long-haired tattooed fetid bruisers, ogres and trolls, who would pointlessly hit each other and look happy… That was it. That’s where we should have always been, where we should have been born.
     As time and concerts went by, getting as nearer to the stage as possible was the challenge. Elbowing our way through such peculiar and violent fauna was our biggest achievement and we would brag about it for ages. Well, we have been. Year after year, concert after concert, song after song, we lived happily, energetically, meaningfully.
     Eventually, of course, we grew older, but that addiction never grew weaker – it only grew more expensive. From that on, concerts only of the Monsters, of the Gods or of the Best. Too much money, too much age, too much adulthood to go.
     Good old habits die hard, though, and Ozzy Osbourne, the lord of darkness, the mad man, the bat biter, was announced to play in our city. That’s it, we’re going! On the ground, at the front, not even showering before going. Faded rock and roll tees and worn out sneakers on, let’s rock!
     That thrill, nonetheless, lasted till we got there. We were at a stone’s throw distance from the stage, but again – and this time unfortunately – it wasn’t enough. The trolls were gone, the ogres, vanished. Instead there was scent, high heel and party make-up. People looked healthy and neat and you could stretch yourself between them without even touching anyone. And if you would, they would apologize.
     Sepultura’s concert then started and to my utter surprise there wasn’t even a single fight, let alone a hitting-each-other-pointlessly group. Nothing. I tried hard not to care and started jumping, swearing and singing along with the band. That was when I was interrupted by a girl politely asking me to stop, for I was on a puddle and she was getting wet. What shocked me the most, however, was that she looked terrified when I politely asked her to fuck off. I could have been ripped into pieces if I had done that 15 years before. Well, she would have been ripped, actually.
     By the time Ozzy stepped in the stage, I was already in pieces, devastated, miserable. Rock and roll is not dead, as it has been said for ages. I wish it was dead. I wish it was six feet under. I wouldn’t be disappointed if that was the case. But those people – and they were actually people, civilized people – liked rock and roll, they were happy and they could even sing the songs. But they couldn’t rock. And I could understand: God (or the devil) gave rock and roll to all of us, but put it in the soul of a select few.

Oh sweet... nothing!

So I am back, in a much better mood and still nuts about Top five lists.

I've been having a difficult week: too much work, low self steem brought by PMT, late nights and early mornings, some flirtation with insomnia...

Anyway, it's almost Thursday, which means almost Friday and the wild amount of work I had is tamed. Too good a perpective to be mourning for little things. 2 episodes, however, reminded an unpleasant Top 5 list:

Top 5 Worst Things That Can Happen To You When Your Self-Steem is Low Because Of Your Weight
1. Somebody stands up on the bus to allow you to sit because that gentil bastad thinks you're pregnant.
2. A man comes to you to give you the business card of a lose-weight-now-ask-me-how products shop. And adds he himself has lost 20kg in 6 months!
3. A passer-by whispers something about you being hot and chubby, in a vain attempt of making you feel desired.
4. Your mother points out how fat you look, even if you are only swollen as a result of suffering from PMT
5. The chair you are sitting on breaks down noisily and you collapse on the floor

After having experienced 2 out of these 5 situations in a 24h interval, the only thing I could do is go to the gym every day. Let's see what top 5 list THAT will generate...


Soundtrack: Oh, sweet nothing by Velvet Underground

I’m Wrong About Everything

Yeah, yeah, yeah... Long time no read, I know. Loads of news, but since this is not my Dear diary, I'm not updating anybody about my life. Wanna know any news? Ask me. Period.

Actually, what has driven me to updating my blog was just PMT and my mother. And the fact that I am reading High Fidelity - a book that makes you want to go around creating Top 5 lists.

So, here goes the first, in a teenage tone.

TOP 5 MOST IRRITATING THINGS A MOTHER DOES:
==> Always having a nasty comment about your weight.
==> Always knowing the right moment to utter that: when your self-steem is at the lowest.
==> Always giving that I-told-you-so look when things go wrong - your diet included.
==>  Always having something 'alternative' to take: juices with lettuce, homeopathy, good vibrations and crap like that.
==> Never complimenting in a clear way. When doing so, making sure it sounds like an offence.

There, I made my first High Fidelity list. I'm only half way through the book, hence there will be more lists. Hopefully made by a better mooded writer.

Cheers.


Soundtrack: the title of this post, by John Wesley Harding

'Good Luck' and unemployment

I'd never been unemployed agaist my will in my life until last December, when a shameful process of ass-kicking was started by the school I used to work. That would be ok, after all and according to a psychologist, this was an important step towards maturity*.

Actually, what upset me the most wasn't the demmission itself. It was the fact that, from the time I talked to the responsable for my demmission to the moment I was hired by a new company, the words I heard most were GOOD LUCK.

The woman who fired me: Good luck!
All the interviewers from all the companies I apllied: Good luck!
The man who hired me: Good luck!
The doorman from the new company: Good luck!

Well, in my disturbed point of view luck is something that's independent of any skill you may have. You need luck when you bet the lottery, when you participate in a contest to win a car or something. Getting a new job and doing well in it depend only and exclusively on your competence and skills. So WHY ON EARTH do I need LUCK to it?!


Soundtrack: New Life - Depeche Mode

*like hangover, psychologists have a ready-to-post text in my mind. I DO need to post both...

The more I hate people...

... the more they try to speak to me.

I have a strategy that involves having (actually, it was a blessed gift from my boyfriend) an MP3 player in order to isolate myself from the world only because unknown human beings annoy me enough to make me wish them to be extinct.
But it doesn't work... Why on Earth one tries to talk to a person with headphones on?
I try to ignore them, although it's hard to pretend your not feeling someone pinching your arm to comment about the rain.

Anyway, I'm in a get-away-from-me-because-I-don't-like-to-talk-to-people-I-don't-know phase (ok, I've been there since my teenage years, it's just got worse) in which I just want to be alone, quiet, unaware of things and people around me and whose symptoms are my headphones and my few-friends face.
Can't it be respected, specially in a rainy grumpy day, after waking up at 6?

Soundtrack:: psycho killer, Talking Heads