It’s been a long time since I wrote a great piece of text. I think I’m not trained to write well means just letting the words flow with no obligation to make a masterpiece and without concern for style or verbal agreement and stuff. I spent much time doing this and it was very natural for me. Today it is not.  I just arrived at the bar. I’ve been kind of sad and some people notice and ask me why. I just say that they are wrong and open up a silly smile and talk on a Tuscan something stupid to change the subject.

In good, not to be rude, nobody has anything to do with it. I do not like to talk about my problems. To write about them, but I do not feel comfortable talking. And my problems are not that important (should not overestimate the bastards for them not to feel so important and not be thinking they have the right to drink at my expense) and are certainly not larger than you or those who ask me what I’m feeling solidarity. It’s just my letters and I make music and write poems and I am drafting an unlikely romance that I think no one will read, it should not be in anyone’s interest, but’re making me a good fucking son of a bitch to write the novel . I dreamed of a row of bunk beds.

As related in these beds, right? I remember the barracks barracks or gyms. When we toured the theater festivals, slept a lot in gyms. I remember the Festival of Ponta Grossa when we went in a dorm room. The guys invited us to a party and had no idea the shit they were doing. We arrived at the party and took over. There was plenty of booze. He had a bottle of rum and two pineapples. So we cut the pineapples filled with rum and we drank and only at the party. Then the Pedrão not like the music that was playing.
Then he took a tape of Tom Waits and I was stuck in the machine. One of the owners came to claim the house music. He said: “This party is not for you. You do not have the right to choose what music to play.” So the guy staring Pedrão said: “This party is not ours, the house is not ours and not our city also. Not give a damn. We’ll hear the music we want and the son of a bitch who will touch this devicetake a beating. ” The guys were on them.

It was not wise to further irritate the Pedrão or Robocop who has paraded with the other pineapple making it very clear he would not give any other drink for party guests. I remember Clezio who complained of our “good manners”. I did not care. He sat on the floor with a can of beer with a silly grin on his face. The same smile that outline when asked why today I am sad. It’s a way of disguising the immense embarrassment.
In hindsight, I think nobody has really nothing to do with it. So I go to sleep now with that silly grin that could be a sad smile or just a fake smile and awkward. Whatever. I will look into the ceiling and make the best of them. It will not do me any good, of course. But who said we need this? Have a good evening if you can.

Yesterday I saw the cabin of the Antichrist, the new film from Lars von Trier. Perhaps the very antichrist is Von Trier, having done the Dogma, on the understanding that to make a good horror movie you need to film it with camera in hand and shaking as if in the hands of a drunk in days of abstinence, because I think the shock, by itself, suffice to that make a good movie.

The camera shake exists since decided that she should move there in the silent film. It turns out that the intended effect is that of chaos, agitation, confusion, action. Several films, classic or modern, takethe camera shake in some places, a chase, for example. In The Conformist the camera seems to jump on the grass in a chase sequence. If the director makes this the whole movie, the most we can do is make the viewer go to the bathroom to vomit. Even Woody Allen, with the beautiful Husbandsand Wives, took the heavy use of camera shake.

In von Trier, we have one of the worst uses of the tick, because it is blurry and looking for something,seems to want to stop shaking, but could not. It’s annoying because it’s stupid, not because itprovokes, disturbs or enhances a discomfort.

Antichrist is a moral fable. But does not the slightest desire to want to understand its details.Knowing the best references. The characters are there simply so that Willem Dafoe and CharlotteGainsbourg, two cult actors, scenes prove controversial, such as an erect penis ejaculating blood or anervous masturbation in the woods. The only thing really scary is the thinness of Gainsbourg.

At least we have a truly awful film to enter the circuit. Enough of the poor as ever. In this sense, living Lars von Trier.

They were so guys paying in St. Andrew today in a band called “Blues Al Capone.” They are good. Too bad they play covers too. Particularly not stand to hear a British band playing “Got my mojo working” or “walking by myself.” But I liked when they played one of the first discs of “Ethyl Blues,” “The sun also lift me up.” I was drinking what Katy forgot on the counter (or did she left it to me?) And I was listening to the guys. Then I went down to Augusta Street alone. I like to walk alone at night. I am returning to old habits. Today I got home in the morning.

I was drinking with Brum and talking about life, disappointments and all the usual menu. I have not had much motivation to do a damn thing. Will finally sending me to Mexico once and keep writing nonsense in my hotel room at bum. I really do this. I think it’s only gig with the band that holds me here. Yesterday I went to see “Autobahn”, text by Neil LaBute directed the Soledad Yung. Yesterday was the last day of the show in Parlapatões. I have the resume in a pdf. I need a pdf to excel converter.

As always, the direction of Soledad is meticulous like that I like, that is, it is not putting the guy in the window and making a fuss. It is unobtrusive and accurate. Sometimes you forget you have a director there, and that’s what’s cool. The actors are all well and it’s always really cool to see Fernanda and Nelson on the scene. But I was not there to talk to the actors after the play. I sent a message pro Nelson and left.

There’ve been feeling very sociable. Before the play a friend talked to me about swing clubs and he said how he enjoyed frequenting the place. I thought, “This is to be sociable too, dammit.” I think I must be really frown. I can not laugh about it. It seems to me that sex becomes exhibitionism. But if he’s having fun, it’s alright by me. I knocked on the back of my friend, wished good luck to him and got to watch the play. I took some books on the market and the money I was drinking a Guinness in Damis.

I often say that the taxi is the greatest invention after the Greek barbecue and corkscrew. Just stretch the toe. If you have any money, it takes you where you want. I’m usually at the very center, so not spent on taxi. But when I get out, so it’s not hard. Returning to old habits. To old blues, walking alone at night, the dawn at the bar talking to a good friend and texts scatterbrained this blog. Maybe even some sense.

Maybe I just feel the smell of gasoline when she spread the asphalt. Maybe I just try to sketch out a prayer when you hear the scratch of the match. Maybe it’s too late. But I think there is still a little whiskey bottle at the bottom of my forgotten for some time in the pocket of my pants. As I said, I’m returning to old habits. Still do not feel comfortable, but I glimpse in the mirror my face smashed a prisoner of my bathroom. Not the best view that a man would have so wake up, but I’ve never been too much to ask. I think that’s why I’m still here. Somebody up there does not give any attention to that I forgot half on top of the chimney. You know what? It comforts me.