HELL HAS BEEN UNLEASHED...

www.braziliandisgrace.com

ps - this stillborn blog is officially dead.

Por que Tucker Max virou meu escritor favorito

"So this girl was going down on me... it wasn't amazing, but it was alright. All of a sudden, I realized she had one of those bracelets that reads: 'What would Jesus do?' Well, I'll tell you right now. He'd have used less teeth and worked the balls."

E tem gente que ainda acha que Einstein era genio...

Segunda Entrevista!

Como tem anos que não atualizo, resolvi fazer um post esclarecedor, novamente entrevistando a mim mesmo. Faz 11 meses que estou em Sydney, então tá mais do que na hora de dizer pras 5 (talvez 6) pessoas que visitam meu blog o que mudou desde que cheguei aqui. Com vocês, mais uma fantástica entrevista com Diogo Britto fazendo perguntas para ele mesmo!

Entrevistador: Oi Diogo, como você vai?

Diogo: Vai tomar no CÚ.

Então é isso pessoal! Até a próxima!!!

(e quem vier falar que CÚ não tem acento, vai tomar no CÚ dobrado)

Pela glória de Rá

Sério, certas histórias não podem ser inventadas. Só quem já ficou muito bêbado entende que, quanto maior a loucura, menores são as chances dela ter sido inventada. Eu não tô postando muito aqui porque quase ninguém lê essa porra, mas essa história merece ser lida, nem que seja por meia dúzia de pessoas.

Sexta-feira. Aniversário de um amigão meu aqui, o Taylor. Depois do trampo, vou na casa do cara. Cerveja, churrasco (tipo Australiano = lixo), Jim Beam... tudo na faixa. O cara é cheio da grana, então só tinha cerveja fina, o que me fez beber mais do que o normal. Além disso, tá uns 32 graus aqui, o que também colaborou pra eu aumentar a dose. Resultado: volto TOTALMENTE MALUCO pra casa, sei lá que horas.

E aí começa a insanidade.

Eu formatei meu laptop há uns 3 dias, e desde então o puto tá me pedindo pra fazer um download de 700 mega pra atualizações. Eu fico adiando, mas eis que, BÊBADO E ÀS ??:?? DA MADRUGADA, decido que a hora não poderia ser mais apropriada pra fazer a porra do download. Como tá quente pra cacete e eu ainda não comprei um ventilador, o que eu faço pra aliviar? Cervejinha, claro. Imagine a cena: ??:?? da madrugada, eu sentado em frente ao meu computador, olhando a porcentagem dos números mudando lentamente, tomando minha cervejinha e pensando em sabe-se lá o quê.

Mas calma. Fica muito melhor.

Estou bêbado e entediado, uma combinação perigosa. E, como qualquer combinação perigosa, há um fator extra pra deixá-la ainda mais maluca: eu tinha comprado uma bateria eletrônica NAQUELE MESMO DIA, e nada parece ser mais conveniente do que tocar um System of a Down na calada da noite.

Depois de mandar BYOB, alguém me cutuca no ombro. Normalmente eu pularia dois metros de susto, mas como estou bêbado quase nem me incomodo.

“Yep?”

É a Nikki, australiana lésbica que mora comigo. Ela tá com aquela cara amassada clássica de quem não apenas acordou, mas FOI ACORDADA.

“Dude, it’s [some time I can’t remember] in the middle of the night.”

“I know, but I’m bored.”

“But dude... it’s [some time I can’t remember] in the middle of the FUCKING night.”

Ainda sem entender o motivo dela estar tão brava, desisto de tocar. Não porque ela pediu (todo mundo sabe que bêbados fazem o contrário do que qualquer pessoa pede), mas porque tocar bateria me impede de tomar cerveja. E porque tá me fazer soar como um porco numa maldita sauna.

Umas duas latas depois, eu apago.

De repente, sinto o sol batendo na minha cara. Abro os olhos. Estou dormindo na sala. Não faz o menor sentido. Cogito a ideia do Steve (amigo canadense maluco) ter vindo dormir na minha casa porque o apê dele ficava longe da festa do Taylor. Volto pro quarto. Não, ele não tá lá. O quarto tá vazio. Eu rio. O Steve nem tava na festa do Taylor, me recordo. Então porque diabos eu dormi na sala? Sei lá.

Enquanto ando em direção a lugar algum na casa, percebo o essencial: ainda estou bêbado. Desidratado, boca seca pra caralho, gosto de cerveja ainda lingering on my tongue. Então me bate o desespero:

CARALHO, TENHO QUE IR TRABALHAR!

Corro pro quarto em busca do meu celular. Tenho que começar às 10:00, então tem que ser no máximo 9:40 pra eu poder pegar o trem e chegar a tempo. Olho no meu celular. Nada. Tela preta. WHAT THE FUCK? Não tenho nenhuma lembrança de ter jogado ele na água ou qualquer coisa, então só pode ser a bateria. Em um devaneio típico de bêbado, porém, não consigo lembrar onde botei o carregador. Além disso, meu Nokia idiota não permite que eu ligue o celular logo depois de começar a carregar, então é inútil tentar.

FUDEU. QUE HORAS SÃO, PORRA?

Ainda bêbado, ando pelo casa em busca de um relógio. Já estou cogitando coisas insanas, mas tenho certeza que não chegará a esse ponto. Calma, Diogo. Você vai achar um.

Não acho um relógio. Bate o desespero.

O COMPUTADOR, IMBECIL! ABRE O LAPTOP E VÊ AS HORAS LÁ.

Ótima ideia! Sento na minha confortável cadeira de couro e, menos desesperado (mas ainda ansioso), ligo meu HP.

WINDOWS UPDATE. INSTALLING COMPONENTS. 1 OF 63.

(sei que parece que é invenção, mas juro que tinha 63 componentes a serem instalados.)

Pronto, agora estou oficialmente em pânico. Sem celuar, relógio, ou computador, não tenho como saber que horas são. O que fazer?

Então me lembro de como acordei. O raio de sol bateu no meu rosto, como uma prostituta desdentada esbofetando um cliente caipira depois dele sugerir pagá-la com ovos de ganso.

"DO IT ANCIENT STYLE," eu digo pra mim mesmo, solucionando o mistério. "VOCÊ PODE SE ORIENTAR PELA POSIÇÃO DO SOL NO CÉU!"

Dito e feito. Abro a porta da varanda, asilo meus ébrios olhos do sol escaldante, e tento dar um palpite aproximado.

Resumo da ópera: eu não apenas convenço a mim mesmo que já são mais de 10 e de que estou fodidamente atrasado, mas também que são aproximadamente 11:20, 11:30. Sim, eu tinha bebido pra cacete na noite passada.

Troco de roupa o mais rápido possível e, antes de sair, confiro o monitor. 12%. Vai se fuder, Bill Gates.

Quando tava correndo em direção à estação de trem, vejo um cara passando. O que eu faço então? Pergunto as horas pra ele, certo?

CLARO QUE NÃO. Pô, eu tô bêbado e 100% seguro das minhas capacidades de saber as horas pela posição do sol. Pra quê perder mais meu tempo? Além disso, o cara era asiático, e eu não tava tão desesperado assim (OK, isso foi só pra tentar causar uma ciber-polêmica sobre xenofobismo pra que mais pessoas fiquem sabendo do meu blog.)

Quando eu chego na estação, dou uma olhada rápida na tela dos horários dos trens pra saber quando o próximo vem. E é então que percebo que minha habilidade de "Ler o Sol" não é tão acurada quanto pensei.

8:50. Sim. Errei por três horas. TRÊS HORAS. E ainda tenho uma hora até meu shift começar. Puta merda.

Sei que é realmente ridículo e nada crível, mas você tem que considerar o seguinte antes de dizer que isso foi inventado:

1) eu ainda tava bêbado;

2) mesmo se não tivesse, quem consegue se orientar pelo SOL, pô!

3) ainda tinha a porra do horário de verão

BÔNUS: eu tinha esquecido a minha carteira, o que significa que eu não conseguiria pegar o trem de qualquer forma, porque estava sem ticket. Que manhã linda.

Lição de hoje:

"Você sabe que bebeu pra caralho na noite anterior quando acorda pensando que pode dizer as horas observando a posição do sol no céu"

(nota final: quando o computador acabou o update, eu já tinha tomado um banho e uma xícara de café, o que me fez ponderar se eu tinha que trabalhar mesmo aquele dia. Sei que seria mais engraçado se eu tivesse errado o dia também, mas infelizmente não quero acrescentar nenhuma mentira nessa história. Sim, eu tinha mesmo que trabalhar aquele dia. Mas não era às 10:00, e sim às 12:00.)

(nota extra: essa história tem que ser imaginada sob o seguinte detalhe: eu estava no dia 14 do movember, e tinha feito a barba - mas não o bigode, claro - naquele mesmo dia.)

Uma ode ao Saldanha

Tive um exercício no qual eu tinha que colocar dois ídolos falecidos (um da música e outro da literatura) conversando. Fiquei satisfeito com o que eu fiz, mas depois reli e vi que ficou a coisa mais aluno da FACOM da minha vida. Logo, dei dois títulos.

The importance of being dead

(aka - A Saldanha's Tale)

“We’re dead, aren’t we?” a voice says.

“No. We’re immortals.”

“Hum.”

The two men are atop a mountain, its peak so high up that almost touches the stars. But it doesn’t need to. There are already two stars perched over its lushy, green meadow.

“Why are you sitting in a throne?” one of them asks.

“Because I’m the Queen.”

“I like your style. Had we lived in the same time, we’d have been best friends.”

“Agreed. Maybe best lovers.”

The one who’s standing smiles, and then starts to wander around.

“I was imprisoned for being gay, you know?” he says.

“And I killed myself for being crazy.”

“Suicide?”

“No. Unprotected sex in the 80s.”

“Almost the same thing.”

There is a thick mist hovering all around, but the egos of these two men are so big and adamant that not even the white fog seems massive enough to cloud their presence.

“How do you think the world down there is doing without us?” the one on the throne asks.

“There are people who can match up to us, I guess.”

They both laugh, tilting their heads back, blowing wisps of cold smoke along with the loud sound of their sceptical laughers.

“We were unique, and there’s no chance that someone as witty and talented as us has been born since we departed.”

“You forgot to add humble to this list.”

“Yes, my dear. And humble.”

They fall silent for a minute, and the one standing up walks to the edge of the mountain. He tries to gaze at the world below his feet, but it seems to be too far, too bland, too uninteresting.

“You know what?” he says, giving up on trying to see some life in the world he once lived in. “I bet we could write a great love song. Not as good as the things you wrote, but I think we should give it a go.”

“Gotta a title yet?”

“Yes. Immortals in a dead world.”

The man sitting in the throne caresses his moustache, contemplative.

“Immortals in a dead world. Written by F. Mercury and O. Wilde. Yeah, something good could come out of it. But don’t count on MTV to promote it. A friend from Seattle told me they just play shit nowadays.”

Nothing is gonna change... till you change

It hasn’t been one day since I had my “Staff Appraisal” in this place I work, Event Cinemas. For those who have never had the opportunity of working for a big company, “Staff Appraisal” is a chance to close the gap between the hot shots and the Slaves-of-the-big-machines—or Casual Employees, as they like to call us. We sit at a table, discuss our progress insofar, comment on the positive and negative aspects of the work environment, pinpoint relevant flaws of the way the cinema is being run, etc. It’s a good idea, actually. It makes us feel that the company cares about our opinion, even though in a ridiculously small dimension.

It’s rather intimidating. You’re facing up people whose annual salaries sum up to A$200,000 (or so the legend tells), and as a pawn you have to watch out for every move you make. It’s like playing chess against a Russian dude: no matter how good he could actually be on his game, you already start the match thinking that you’re losing. I guess my problem with these companies is that you have to feed a bigger creature that has no principles or real concern with human beings. I mean, it’s all about profit. So if you can write a thesis about changing the way the popcorn is made (so it can taste not so much as plastic wrapped up in colourful salt), they won’t even bother to listen if this project of yours is going to prompt them to lose money.

There’s no room for flavour, feelings, or smile. Actually, there’s only one way of making these big companies feel satisfied: the tinkling of coins, the flapping of bills, the sliding of credit cards. Human beings are just a way to get to the dollars. That’s why I chose to be writer, and not a bookkeeper. The only numbers I care about are the sum of words in my writings. That’s it.

I think it was thanks to this way I envisage big companies that I fell really surprised by the way my interview was conducted. The Assistant Manager pushed all the binders away and, looking me in the eyes, asked me to tell her the story of my life.

“You mean…?”

“I know you’re a good worker here. I know you’ve been with us since May, and I know you came to Australia in February. I know you bust your arse wherever we roster you, I know you have an accent that make us laugh and ask you to repeat what you said half of the times, but I don’t know who you are. So tell me: why are you in Australia for? What did you do in Brazil? Who did you have to leave in your hometown?”

So I explain her. It’s supposed to be an easy thing, because I’ve done it several times.

I begin telling her that I’m a writer. She interrupts me.

“Really?” Her eyes bulge, and her face almost glows.

“Yes.” I shrug. “It’s not that exciting, come on.”

“I find it amazing.”

Yeah. Right. I hate this reaction. In a way, it makes me feel like a mouse in a crazy scientist lab. It makes me feel like I’m exactly a character of a book. Foreigner, with a Latin accent, a man of creative arts. People respond to that description as if I’m a sexy genius (I wish!), but I can read their minds. All the writers can.

You’re a writer! That’s awesome! I wish I could write!

O.K., let’s now translate to what they really think.

You’re a writer! That’s… NUTS! When are you going to wake up, take a bus back to earth, and start living a real life? You can’t make money out of that!

As usual, I try to make it short. I’m a writer, and as I love to tell stories, I know by own experience that if I don’t rush things up, people will get tired of my obsession with details and just beg me to finish it already. So I keep on telling my life-changing decision as laconically as I can.

“It was a do or die situation. I had a good job. I liked it. I had a girlfriend. Friends. All of my family lived nearby. My life was set. But in Brazil people don’t read much. I don’t have any chances of getting published there. I’d become just another bitter old man, regretted of the things I haven’t done. I would have had an O.K. apartment, vacations every once and a while. A dog, perhaps. But there would have been a cancer growing inside me, a cancer that would eat me alive and make me perish within my own frustrations for not trying as hard as I could have. I knew that nothing was gonna change unless I changed. So I had to let go of all the bonds that kept me tied up to Brazil. Adeus família, amigos, namorada. No more the old life. I’m heading to an English-speaking country, I’m gonna translate my novels, and I’m gonna make it.”

The reaction to this statement is always the same, and it wasn’t different with the two women who were interviewing me for my appraisal.

“My gosh! You’re a brave man.”

“Really, really brave. I don’t know if I’d have the guts to do it. Actually, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t.”

I nod and smile, although my throat tickles and I feel an urge for telling them they’re wrong. People who say that they wouldn’t have the nerves to do it are always wrong. Let me tell you one thing: if you’re afraid of making a big change in your life, that’s because you don’t need to. If the time to say goodbye to all the things you’re familiar with comes, you won’t even blink. Believe me. It’s not easy, but it has to be done. Those who think they would rather play safe and not take chances are the ones who can’t understand the beauty of daring. It’s that stuff Nietzsche says about darkness, monsters, and battles, right? If you gaze into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you. Your desires and fears are not detached from your true self. They’re all one. Whether you yield to them or fight them back, it’s still you. So you have to take over. Do or die. Drag with your head down and accept that you can’t be brave enough to go after your dreams, or just take a leap of faith.

I know that this subject amazes people, and it's not different with my bosses. I can see they’re having fun. They are watching the show, they’re having the chance of analysing the poor rat running in a maze in a lab, as I said. Everybody loves to see a beautiful lion. Everybody loves to watch shows where people struggle to lose weight. Everybody loves to meet writers. However, nobody would like to live in an African Savannah, put on 100 Kg, or be in the publishing industry. That’s the magic of it… some things are only meant to be beheld, not lived. If it happens that you’re one of the animals locked in a zoo cage, trembling on a TV screen, or writing in the solitude of your own room… well, then it’s just too bad for you. You’re the one meant to entertain. You’re the entertainment.

“Well, it was great to hear that from you,” the Assistant Manager says. “Now, let’s get back to your appraisal.”

The meeting goes on, and I try my best to give the right answers. I need this job. I can’t afford to lose it. I’m still in my first year in this country, and I need at least one more until I get my grammar right. Then I’ll have to get an agent. It can take years to get published, if I ever get published. Let alone the chances of actually make a living out of my fiction. Damn, this is crazy. My future is blurry, and chances of succeeding are not on my side at all. But what can I do? I knew it would be hard. I knew I’d have to strive for perfection, even though I’m pretty sure I’m miles away from reaching it. I knew I’d have to tell the story of my life and see people grinning as they beheld a dreamy boy who thinks that his writing can take him somewhere. I’m up to the challenge. Hell, I’m up to the mocking. My past life is nothing but past. It’s good to remember it. I had a blast. For real. But it’s past, as I already said. It won’t happen again. I’m living in the now. Unlike these people who work for law firms or whatever company you could name, I don’t live in the expectation of numbers by the end of the week.

I live for the words.

Translate, write, edit, and review. Let the other people feel entertained by your own life.

You’re a writer, damn it. Giving the world a good time is your job, after all.

It doesn’t pay well, but I guess it pays off.

Quem dá mais pelo meu coração?