Puoi leggere, leggere, leggere, che è la cosa più bella che si possa fare in gioventù: e piano piano ti sentirai arricchire dentro, sentirai formarsi dentro di te quell'esperienza speciale che è la cultura.
~
Pier Paolo Pasolini
segunda-feira, 18 de janeiro de 2021
LINDAS YANKEES DESCENDO A PORRADA
Sinopse: Majisuka Gakuen é um colégio de yankees onde a porrada come solta e a única regra existente é: apenas a mais forte pode chegar ao topo. A barulhenta Onizuka Daruma e a silenciosa Maeda Atsuko são alunas novas e vão ter que mostrar toda sua seriedade se quiserem se dar bem. Para ver a 1ª e as outras temporadas, clique na imagem/ pôster e vá ao Hinabesubs.
JOSETE
Foi espantoso. Ao redor do buraco de Josete, tatuadas com infinito esmero e extrema competência estavam três damas com seus lindos vestidos de babados. Uma delas tinha na cabeça um fino chapéu de florzinhas e rendas.
não acredito no que estou vendo, Josete, você tatuou à volta do seu cu para quê?
homenagem a Pound, Crassinho
mas isso deve ter doído um bocado!
the courageous violent slashing themselves with knifes (que quer dizer: os violentos corajosos cortando-se com facas. Continuação do Canto XV).
coma meu cuzinho, coma meu bem, andiamo, andiamo (cacoetes de Pound)
Aí achei o cúmulo. ‘Jamais, meu amor, machucaria essas lindas damas”. Josete começou a chorar.
ó, Crasso, você é o primeiro homem a quem eu mostro esse mimo, essa delicadeza, essa terna homenagem ao meu poeta, andiamo, andiamo in the great scabrous arse-hole (no grande escabroso olho do cu)
Aí pensei: essa maldita louca vai começar a choramingar mais alto e o prédio inteiro vai ouvir. Enchi-me de coragem e estraçalhei-lhe o rabo com inglesas ou americanas (Who knows?) e babados e o chapéu, não naturalmente sem antes lhe tapar a boca, porque tinha certeza que ela ia zurrar como um asno.
“Contos D’Escárnio”, Hilda Hilst, Sciliano, 1990, SP.
domingo, 17 de janeiro de 2021
DIAS MAUS
"Don't plant your bad days. They grow into weeks. The weeks grow into months. Before you know it you got yourself a bad year. Take it from me. Choke those little bad days. Choke 'em down to nothin'. They're your days. Choke 'em.” ~ Tom Waits
KIMONO
José Marcelo
Como uma boneca de linda porcelana: pele suave e olhos sinceros. Ela me seduziu sem palavras; despiu-se do kimono colorido e esqueceu-se de todo pudor.
TEMPI TREMENDI
“È una piccola cosa, lo so, ma insomma spero che vi faccia passare un paio d’ore piacevoli, meglio che niente. Stiamo tutti a casa, leggiamo, giochiamo, vediamo film, e auguriamoci che questi tempi tremendi finiscano presto” (Tiziano Sclavi).
Tiziano Sclavi colocou à disposição, grátis, em italiano, o seu romance Dellamorte Dellamore, inspiração para Dylan Dog, para quem quiser ler: é só clicar na imagem e fazer o download ou desfrutar online.
Eight O’Clock in the Morning
“Eight O’Clock in the Morning” is a short story written by Ray Nelson almost a half century ago. The well known movie “They Live” was based on that story and I just wanted to share it because even thought it’s supposed to be a work of science fiction, the story holds many analogies to our current situation.
by Ray Nelson
At the end of the show the hypnotist told his subjects, “Awake.”
Something unusual happened.
One of the subjects awoke all the way. This had never happened before. His name was George Nada and he blinked out at the sea of faces in the theatre, at first unaware of anything out of the ordinary. Then he noticed, spotted here and there in the crowd, the non-human faces, the faces of the Fascinators. They had been there all along, of course, but only George was really awake, so only George recognized them for what they were. He understood everything in a flash, including the fact that if he were to give any outward sign, the Fascinators would instantly command him to return to his former state, and he would obey.
He left the theatre, pushing out into the neon night, carefully avoiding any indication that he saw the green, reptilian flesh or the multiple yellow eyes of the rulers of the earth. One of them asked him, “Got a light buddy?” George gave him a light, then moved on.
At intervals along the street George saw the posters hanging with photographs of the Fascinators’ multiple eyes and various commands printed under them, such as, “Work eight hours, play eight hours, sleept eight hours,” and “Marry and Reproduce.” A TV set in the window of a store caught George’s eye, but he looked away in the nick of time. When he didn’t look at the Fascinator in the screen, he could resist the command, “Stay tuned to this station.”
George lived alone in a little sleeping room, and as soon as he got home, the first thing he did was to disconnect the TV set. In other rooms he could hear the TV sets of his neighbors, though. Most of the time the voices were human, but now and then he heard the arrogant, strangely bird-like croaks of the aliens. “Obey the government,” said one croak. “We are the government, ” said another. “We are your friends, you’d do anything for a friend, wouldn’t you?”
“Obey!”
“Work!”
Suddenly the phone rang.
George picked it up. It was one of the Fascinators.
“Hello,” it squawked. “This is your control, Chief of Police Robinson. You are na old man, George Nada. Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, your heart will stop. Please repeat.”
“I am na old man,” said George. “Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, my heart will stop.”
The control hung up
“No, it wont,” whispered George. He wondered why they wanted him dead. Did they suspect that he was awake? Probably. Someone might have spotted him, noticed that he didn’t respond the way the others did. If George were alive at one minute after eight tomorrow morning, then they would be sure.
“No use waiting here for the end,” he thought.
He went out again. The posters, the TV, the occasional commands from passing aliens did not seem to have absolute power over him, though he still felt strongly tempted to obey, to see things the way his master wanted him to see them. He passed na alley and stopped. One of the aliens was alone there, leaning against the wall. George walked up to him.
“Move on,” grunted the thing, focusing his deadly eyes on George.
George felt his grasp on awareness waver. For a moment the reptilian head dissolved into the face of a lovable old drunk. Of course the drunk would be lovable. George picked up a brick and smashed it down on the old drunk’s head with all his strength. For a moment the image blurred, then the blue-green blood oozed out of the face and the lizrd fell, twitching and writhing. After a moment it was dead.
George dragged the body into the shadows and searched it. There was a tiny radio in its pocket and a curiously shaped knife and fork in another. The tiny radio said something in na incomprehensible language. George put it down beside the body, but kept the eating utensils.
“I can’t possibly escape,” thought George. “Why fight them?”
But maybe he could.
What if he could awaken others? That might be worth a try.
He walked twelve blocks to the apartment of his girl friend, Lil, and knocked on her door. She came to the door in her bathrobe.
“I want you to wake up,” he said
“I’m awake,” she said. “Come on in.”
He went in. The TV was playing. He turned it off.
“No,” he said. “I mean really wake up.” She looked at him without comprehension, so he snapped his fingers and shouted, “Wake up! The masters command that you wake up!”
“Are you off your rocker, George?” she asked suspiciously. “You sure are acting funny.” He slapped her face. “Cut that out!” she cried, “What the hell are you up to anyway?”
“Nothing,” said George, defeated. “I was just kidding around.”
“Slapping my face wasn’t just kidding around!” she cried.
There was a knock at the door.
George opened it.
It was one of the aliens.
“Can’t you keep the noise down to a dull roar?” it said.
The eyes and reptilian flesh faded a little and George saw the flickering image of a fat middle-aged man in shirtsleeves. It was still a man when George slashed its throat with the eating knife, but it was na alien before it hit the floor. He dragged it into the apartment and kicked the door shut. “What do you see there?” he asked Lil, pointing to the many-eyed snake thing on the floor.
“Mister…Mister Coney,” she whispered, her eyes wide with horror. “You…just killed him, like it was nothing at all.”
“Don’t scream,” warned George, advancing on her.
“I won’t George. I swear I won’t, only please, for the love of God, put down that knife.” She backed away until she had her shoulder blades pressed to the wall.
George saw that it was no use.
“I’m going to tie you up,” said George. “First tell me which room Mister Coney lived in.”
“The first door on your left as you go toward teh stairs,” she said. “Georgie…Georgie. Don’t torture me. If you’re going to kill me, do it clean. Please, Georgie, please.”
He tied her up with bedsheets and gagged her, then searched the body of the Fascinator. There was another one of the little radios that talked a foreign language, another set of eating utensils, and nothing else.
George went next door.
When he knocked, one of the snake-things answered, “Who is it?”
“Friend of Mister Coney. I wanna see him,” said George.
“He went out for a second, but he’ll be right back.” The door opened a crack, and four yellow eyes peeped out. “You wanna come in and wait?”
“Okay,” said George, not looking at the eyes.
“You alone here?” he asked as it closed the door, its back to George.
“Yeah, why?”
He slit its throat from behind, then searched the apartment.
He found human bones and skulls, a half-eaten hand.
He found tanks with huge fat slugs floating in them.
“The children,” he thought, and killed them all.
There were guns too, of a sort he had never seen before. He discharged one by accident, but fortunately it was noiseless. It seemed to fire little poisoned darts.
He pocketed the gun and as many boxes of darts he could and went back to Lil’s place. When she saw him she writhed in helpless terror.
“Relax, honey” he said, opening her purse, “I just want to borrow your car keys.”
He took the keys and went downstairs to the street.
Her care was still parked in the same general area in which she always parked it. He recognized it by the dent in the right fender. He got in, started it, and began driving aimlessly. He drove for hours, thinking–desperately searching for some way out. He turned on the car radio to see if he could get some music, but there was ntohing but news and it was all about him, George Nada, the homicidal maniac. The announcer was one of the masters, but he sounded a little scared. Why should he be? What could one man do?
George wasn’t surprised when he saw the road block, and he turned off on a side street before he reached it. No little trip to the country for you, Georgie boy, he thought to himself.
They had just discvered what he had done back at Lil’s place, so they would probably be looking for Lil’s car. He parked it in na alley and took the subway. There were no aliens on the subway, for some reason. Maybe they were too good for such things, or maybe it was just because it was so late at night.
When one finally did get on, George got off.
He went up to the street and went into a bar. One of the Fascinators was on the TV, saying over and over again, “We are your friends. We are your friends. We are your friends.” The stupid lizard sounded scared. Why? What could one man do against all of them?
George ordered a beer, the it suddenly struck him that the Fascinator on the TV no longer seemed to have any power over him. He looked at it again and thought, “It has to believe it can master me to do it. The slightest hint of fear on its part and the power to hypnotize is lost.” They flashed George’s picture on the TV screen and George retreated to the phone booth. He called his control, the Chief of Police.
“Hello, Robinson?” he asked.
“Speaking.”
“This is George Nada. I’ve figured out how to wake people up.”
“What? George, hang on. Where are you?” Robinson sounded almost hysterical.
He hung up and paid and left the bar. They would probably trace his call.
He caught another subway and went downtown.
It was dawn when he entered the building housing the biggest of the city’s TV studios. He consulted the building director and then went up in the elevator. The cop in front of the studio recognized him. “Why, you’re Nada!” he gasped.
George didn’t like to shoot him with the poison dart gun, but he had to.
He had to kill several more before he got into the studio itself, including all the engineers on duty. There were a lot of police sirens outside, excited shouts, and running footsteps on the stairs. The alien was sitting before the the TV camera saying, “We are your friends. We are your friends,” and didn’t see George come in. When George shot him with the needle gun he simply stopped in mid-sentence and sat there, dead. George stoond near him and said, imitating the alien croak, “Wake up. Wake up. See us as we are and kill us!”
It was George’s voice the city heard that morning, but it was the Fascinator’s image, and the city did awake for the very first time and the war began.
George did not live to see the victory that finally came. He died of a heart attack at exactly eight o’clock.
GNA?!
As duas primeiras páginas de fumetti inspiradas no livraço Dellamorte Dellamore, de Tiziano Sclavi.
ESCREVENDO OUTRA OBRA-PRIMA
Kurt Vonnegut escrevendo mais uma obra-prima, porque tudo que esse homem escrevia (nasceu em 11 de novembro de 1922 e faleceu em 11 de abril de 2007) era uma obra-prima. Até os seus prefácios eram um deleite. Que puta escritor! Leia, por exemplo, Matadouro 5, misto de viagem no tempo, dia a dia, romance antibelicista, histórico e de memórias. O que que é aquilo! Perfeição, é claro. Um escritor a ser lido e relido e relido e relido e relido.
sábado, 16 de janeiro de 2021
FELIZ ANIVERSÁRIO, JOÃO CARPINTEIRO
Do filme Eles Vivem, dirigido pelo fodástico John Carpenter, nascido em 16 de janeiro de 1948.
A MULHER PINTADA
Essa imagem me lembrou do livraço, A Vegetariana, o meu preferido do ano passado (acho que já disse isso), escrito pela autora sul-coreana Han Kang.
PORNOGRAFIA ASIÁTICA
José Marcelo
De-repente a puta meio china disse:
– Pagamento adiantado, meu bem.
- E se eu não gostar?
- Garanto que te faço gozar. Não é isso que tu quer?
- Gozar por gozar eu gozo com minha mão, que é de graça e tudo o mais.
- Você quem sabe.
- Eu que sei. Tá caro, hein. Não rola um desconto não?
- Não. Sabe como é, cara. Eu tenho que me valorizar.
- Como assim se valorizar? Você é uma puta.
- Ei, velho, essa é só minha profissão. Não quem eu sou.
- E quem é você?
- Pra descobrir isso você tem que gastar muito mais.
- Não vai rolar. Eu fico só com a trepada. O que você faz?
- Sem beijo na boca, taras estranhas ou essas porras sadomasô e violentas…
- E anal?
- Anal é por fora. No anal você pode gozar dentro.
- Parece bom.
- Eu sou boa.
- Quanto?
Ela disse. Em valores.
- Muito boa então.
- Eu garanto.
- Mesmo?
- Não sou boba. Sei que cliente satisfeito volta.
- Garota esperta.
- Fala baixo.
As freiras passaram pelo corredor entre os bancos de madeira. Eu tinha entrado na igreja porque estava com dor de cabeça e um bocado cansado. Precisava de uns minutos de sossego. Não sou religioso nem nada disso. Mas gosto da tranquilidade dentro das igrejas, apesar dos inúmeros santos com expressão de sofrimento que encontramos em todas elas. Acho que a puta me viu assim que entrei e veio atrás.
- Noite fraca? – perguntei.
- É o meio da semana no meio do mês. Sempre é fraco. E aí, tá a fim ou não?
- Tou. Tem um lugar…?
- Tem um hotelzinho aqui perto.
- Prefiro na minha casa.
- E onde é?
- Aqui perto também.
- Como nunca te vi por aqui?
- É num hotelzinho. Vai ver é o mesmo.
- Tá só de passagem?
- Isso. Só de passagem. Você é chinesa?
- Japonesa. Meio. É bem diferente.
- Desculpe.
- Vamos então.
Dei uma olhada no Cristo sofrendo pregado na cruz atrás do altar.
- Você na frente, querida.
E saímos da igreja sob o olhar do Senhor: a puta jovenzinha e o velho depravado.
A PELE
Tentei afastá-la da minha frente. Tinha de sair dali. Sabia o que ia acontecer se não saísse e sabia que não podia deixar aquilo acontecer. Poderia matá-la. Aquilo poderia trazer o mal-estar de volta. E, mesmo que nada daquilo acontecesse, eu ficaria visado. Ela comentaria. Ela berraria para que todos ouvissem. E as pessoas começariam a pensar, a pensar e a se perguntar a respeito daquele outro episódio que ocorreu fazia quinze anos.
Ela me deu um tapa tão forte que meus ouvidos ficaram zumbindo, primeiro de um lado e depois do outro. E continuou me batendo. Meu chapéu voou longe. Quando me abaixei para pegá-lo, ela me acertou o queixo com o joelho.
Perdi o equilíbrio e caí sentado no chão. Ouvi uma risada cruel e depois outra, um tanto receosa. Ela disse:
''Ai, xerife, eu não quis... eu... me deu tanta raiva que... eu...''
''Claro'', sorri. Procurava recuperar a visão e a voz.
''Claro, moça, eu sei como é. Eu também reagia assim. Me ajude aqui, por favor?''
''Você vai me machucar?''
''Eu? Eu não, moça.''
''Não'', disse ela num tom de quase decepção. ''Sei que você não faria isso. Qualquer um percebe que você é um cara tranquilo demais.'' Ela veio lentamente na minha direção e me deu as mãos.
Levantei-me. Prendi os pulsos dela com uma das mãos e a esmurrei com a outra. Ela quase desmaiou; eu não a queria completamente inconsciente. Eu queria que ela percebesse o que estava acontecendo com ela.
''Não, querida'', sorri. ''Eu não vou machucar você. Nem passaria pela minha cabeça machucar você. Eu só vou acabar com a sua raça.''
Disse exatamente o que pretendia fazer e quase cumpri. Puxei o pulôver dela, cobrindo-lhe o rosto, e dei um nó com uma das pontas. Joguei-a na cama, arranquei-lhe o pijama e amarrei os pés com ele.
Tirei meu cinto, levantei-o acima da cabeça...
Perdi a noção do tempo até parar, até voltar à razão. Só sei que meu braço doía muito, a bunda dela estava muito machucada e eu, apavorado, experimentei o pavor no seu limite.
Soltei as mãos e os pés dela, descobri lhe a cabeça. Molhei uma toalha com água fria e passei no corpo dela. Servi-lhe café na boca. E durante todo esse tempo eu falava, implorando-lhe perdão, dizendo-lhe o quanto eu lamentava.
Ajoelhei-me ao lado da cama, implorei e pedi desculpas. Finalmente suas pálpebras tremeram e se abriram.
''Não'', murmurou ela.
''Nunca mais, juro por Deus, moça, nunca mais...'', disse eu.
''Não diga nada.'' Ela encostou seus lábios nos meus.
''Não se desculpe.''
Ela beijou-me novamente. Ela começou a tirar minha gravata e a minha camisa desajeitadamente; foi tirando a minha roupa depois de eu quase ter-lhe arrancado a pele.
Trecho de O Assassino em Mim, escrito por Jim Thompson.
sexta-feira, 15 de janeiro de 2021
O KUNG-FU QUE SABIA DEMAIS
Esse é o Shang Chi que gostaria de ver no cinema, como desenhado por Paul Gulacy acima: uma pegada espionagem/ filmes de kung-fu dos anos 1970's. Esse é O Mestre do Kung-fu em sua melhor fase (talvez a única que valha a pena).
A MENINA QUE MATAVA PESSOAS
Em Serial, Zoe tem 10 anos há 50 anos. A maior parte de sua vida foi gasta em fuga lutando contra o demônio que vive dentro dela, a mantendo jovem e a transformando em uma assassina em série. Agora livre do demônio, Zoe descobre que seu amigo de infância foi a última vítima em uma série de assassinatos. Determinada a por um fim ao reinado de terror, Zoe usa suas próprias habilidades mortais para perseguir o predador e vingar o amigo morto. Tradução, sinopse e capa: Antiprechades. Letras: Le-X. Um prazer trazido pelo Gibiscuits. Para ler, clique na capa.
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