Time

I want to write posts in this blog, but I don't have time. Need to study more, but there's no time. Wanna sleep more - but have to wake up early. Where the hell is my time?

Moving off

Need to find a new place to live. Alone, without parents, brothers and the noise that comes with them. The apartment has to have one or two bedrooms, a living room, kitchen, a bathroom. It has to be big enough to stock my books. That's enough. Also, it has to be near the subway. But it's to difficulf to find a cheap rent with those characters.

But I'll have to find soon. My mother has already selled the place we live. The are looking for a house beyond Tietê river, too far from my job.

Besides, I'm going to start a curse to prepare me to Itamaraty test. The school is downtown. I need to settle near there, otherwise I'll arrive home near wake-up time.

I would like to live near Paulista avenue. But it's not so easy to find a cheap condo there. That's the same problem of Perdizes, where I live now.

I'll have to cook, to wash my clothes, clean the house, do the dishes (I already do). I won'thave nobody to help me, when I get sick. Nobody to talk with. It won't be piece of cake. But it's going to be nice, anyway.

Kafka

I've been interested on Kafka since I was a kid, when I heard about the man that became a bug - this kind of subject is common in terror movies. Then, ten years later, I've bought Metamorphosis and started to read it. Finished. Didn't understand a single word. That novel is about things that, until recently, I just couldn't comprehend - familiar conflicts, opression, rejection, absurd. Last week, I decided to try again: acquired Entrelivros Magazine number 27. Franz Kafka's caricature was on cover, with huge ears.

It seems that his geniality rely on the sad relationship with his father, who was rude and obcessed with enrichment and social elevation. The sense of absurd and other Kafka's characteristics, presumedly, came from the struggle with the temper of his parents, specially the man, what left marks upon the writer's entire production.

The creator of Gregor Samsa died 41 years old, in 1924, in a sanatorium in his hometown, Praga. He didn't had in life half the recognition that came after death. All fame was post mortem.

Some genius are just like manhood's scapegoats. They come, bear true important works, that influence all the world, and die with no rewards. They come to suffer. Suffer to create. Create but few understand. Pass by. Only then, somebody discovers the qualities of the departed. Kafka, Van Gogh, George Orwell, they are so many.... At least, one of those, the most important, came back from the dead.

Bolivia

Bolivian government is complaing about the building of two hydro-eletric power stations on Madeira river. They say that there are no studies about the impact of the generators on bolivian fauna and flora, for the river crosses both brazilian and bolivian territories.

But they forgot one thing: Madeira comes from Bolivia to Brazil, and not the contrary. So, there are no much changes to happen beyond our boundaries.

In fact, our neighbours want to bargain, to push Brazil in order to obtain advantages on energy sector. But Amorim's diplomacy won't allow this behavio, and rejected any possibility of negotiation on this.

Maquiavel era brasileiro

Um assessor do governo foi filmado fazendo um gesto obceno inominado, vulgarmente conhecido como "top top" (sic), supostamente escarnecendo da responsabilização da Infraero pelo desastre aéreo ocorrido semana retrasada. Todos ficaram estarrecidos com a imoralidade do servidor público.

Ninguém ficou escandalizado, contudo, com as circunstâncias que envolveram o flagrante: a gravação foi clandestina, realizada por jornalista desautorizado, em violação flagrante a princípios constitucionais dos mais básicos. Não houve espanto também com relação às palavras postas na boca do flagrado, e dos pensamentos postos em sua cabeça: mesmo sem provas, estava comprovado que Marco Aurélio Garcia (acho que é esse o nome) estava morrendo de rir de outros, pouco se importando com a tragédia e a dor das vítimas.

Essa tal de "opinião pública" nada viu de errado no procedimento jornalístico. Como se sabe, os nossos fins justificam os meios.

We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year.

Running over the same old ground, what have we found?

Same old fears. Wish you were here.

Crash

On the day before yesterday, an aeroplane crashed in the middle of São Paulo, after it had tried to land. It seems that the vehicle slided on the wet airport track, crossed the avenue beyond the airport and hit a building, where there was stocked a great quantity of inflamable material. Fire everywhere. The heat in the place reached 1000ºC, according the rescue staff. About two hundred people died. A real tragedy.

On TV, a middle-aged, blonde, blue-eyed gaúcha gave an interview, telling that she lost two daughters and her mother in the disaster. How can one express this pain?

Do we have to be afraid of flying? Who can guarantee that we are safer on ground, in a violent city like this? Or that we won't die with any deadly disease, like cancer, or some rare illness, for wich cientists haven't yet created a cure? Or that a plain won't fall down on our heads, like happened this time? Even a lightning can strike anyone of us, it happens many times in Brazil.

We aren't more than ants marching, carrying grass leaves on our backs, and hoping that no bug, tamandua, rain, fire or boy shorten our short lives up or, if it happens, be our executioner merciful, ending our lives with a precise finishing stroke.

***

Sun shone again in São Paulo, after almost a week. It's so good to live in a sunny country, how we do. Gray days are depressing.
I have a studentship test on saturday. That's for a preparatory school for diplomacy career test, wich happens in next january, probably. It needs determination and a great effort to win this challenge. But someone believe in me, and I won't let Him down.

São Paulo is the most important brazilian state, for it provides one third of Brazil's total gross domestic product. With about the same size of the United Kingdom (244.000 km², crossed by Tietê river) and a population of 41 million people, São Paulo is called "the locomotive", carrying the other 26 federation states.

The capital has about 9 million people, more than many countries. It's an ocean of gray buildings, raised without any logical order. Traffic is overloaded. Pollution turns skies to gray. Violence grows as fast as the slums. The city is, in resume, abandoned by politicians.

If Brazil was a soccer team, São Paulo would be like Real Madrid's Robinho: a great player, who needs care in order to make goals. But, in here, things don't work as they should: the best striker has no attention, obliged to sacrifice itself to help the other (bad) players.

Brazilian sub-continent

Brasil is the biggest country in South America, with precisely 8.514.877 square kilometers. That's the 5th largest country in the world, behind Russia (17.098.242 km²), Canada (9.970.610 km²), China (9.640.821 km²) and USA (9.629.091 km²).

Brasil's area correspond to almost half of South America (47,78%). It means that the country is bigger than Argentina, Peru, Colombia, Bolivia, Chile and Paraguay together. It has boundaries with almost all contries of the continent, except Chile and Equador.

The South-America's extention order (km²) is:

1st: Brazil (8.514.877 )
2nd: Argentina (2.780.400)
3rd: Peru (1.285.216)
4th: Colombia (1.138.914)
5th: Bolivia (1.098.581)
6th: Venezuela (916.445)
7th: Chile (756.096)
8th: Paraguay (406.752)
9th: Ecuador (283.561)
10th: Uruguay (176.065)

Changes

Last two years and next two ones are going to mark my family, including close relatives.

My parents are moving off the place we have been living for more than a decade. I'm not going with them: I'm going to rent some place downtown. I want to live alone, to cook my dinner, clean my home, wash my clothes.

My older brother is about to get married. Good luck, Marcel, you are going to need - everybody does.

Four of my younger cousins - Milena, Dênis, Maísa, e Márcia - got married as well. Milena is in Londrina, putting up her Mother-in-law. Dênis is further, in a small city in the middle of Rondonia's amazonic rainforest. Maísa goes on her home town, with two children - turbulent Davi and adorable Livia. And Márcia is just married, now in the southern side of Bahia, a little bit alone. I love the four of them.

Manuyla, my beloved sister-cousin, moved to São Paulo, dates a great guy and will be asked soon, it appears.

Mileninha is now a doctor. I don't know why, but I think she is not ok. She doesn't look happy. She chose a hard career, maybe that's the reason.

Levy, a very inteligent guy. He's now dealing with his emotional troubles. Once he come over this, nobody will be able to stop him.

Brother Fernando, also, is struggling against himself. He's doing good. But parents can confuse sons, sometimes.

Miron, Vaine and Lucianinho demand a particular post.

Concerning me, I just miss all of them.

What is that for?

This blog was created for me with three purposes:

First: register thoughts, plans or any other thing popping in my unstable mind;
Second: Save some informations about myself to my offspring; and
Third: practice my english, español, português, or whatever.

It's been raining since early morning, what is uncommon, at this season. Yesterday, Brasil beat out Argentina's football team in a great game, played in Maracaibo, Venezuela. It was the Copa America's final match. 3x0. No one could imagine that, for los hermanos had the best squad 'till that time. In the other hand, brazilians hadn't their best players, such as Kaká and Ronaldinho Gaúcho. Worse: Dunga was the coach.

ants marching - Dave Matthews Band

He wakes up in the morning
Does his teeth bite to eat and he's rolling
Never changes a thing
The week ends the week begins

She thinks, we look at each other
Wondering what the other is thinking
But we never say a thing
These crimes between us grow deeper

Goes to visit his mommy
She feeds him well his concerns
He forgets them
And remembers being small
Playing under the table and dreaming

Take these chances
Place them in a box until a quieter time
Lights down, you up and die

Driving in on this highway
All these cars and upon the sidewalk
People in every direction
No words exchanged
No time to exchange

And all the little ants are marching
Red and black antennas waving
They all do it the same
They all do it the same way

Candyman tempting the thoughts of a
Sweet tooth tortured by the weight loss
Program cutting the corners
Loose end, loose end, cut, cut
On the fence, could not to offend
Cut, cut, cut, cut

Take these chances
Place them in a box until a quieter time
Lights down, you up and die.