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It's been a week since I arrived in London.  I've used these past days to say goodbye to this city and friends that I love so much. I fly back to Brasil on Friday... I have no clue when I'll be back in the UK.

My good friend [ profile] live_life_like  started this journal in Brasil in May 2001 as a way of keeping in touch with myself and another friend we had in common. Thus the name. In September that year, a week after 9/11, I left Brasil and moved to London with my boyfriend to start a new life.

This journal has been a great place to inhabit during my 12 years in London.  I survived many dull temp jobs thanks to it, and met tons of people who went on to become close friends. I'd like to one day sit down and read through it - there have been some dramatic posts and some epic flamewars!

This journal will come to an end when I fly to Brasil on Friday. It brings to an end my 12 years in London.

Here's to whatever comes next!
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Baby swim by Eythor
Baby swim, a photo by Eythor on Flickr.
I went swimming today and it was just as good as last week. 1pm on Sundays are the ideal time: lessons are finished and extra lanes are opened for free swimming; however, most people are either hung over or sleeping in, so the lanes tend to be empty!

I was spoiled when I learned to swim in Brasil. I was taught in an Olympic pool that was pristine and well-tended, with round-the-clock coaches happy to give you exercises and tips. You always had a lane to yourself.

Here in the UK, on the other hand, you have to share lanes usually with about 4 other people (optimistic outlook.) And at least 2 of them are in the wrong lane (should be in a slower one.) Plus, the pools are quite grim (just ask [ profile] steer about the one we use in Bethnal Green) and the pool staff couldn't care less. I actually think most can't even swim - would hate to put my life in their hands if I suddenly had a cramp and sunk to the bottom...

But whatever... I have this hour on Sundays and I will try to stick to it. Feels good to let my thoughts wander and just go and go and go.

My boyfriend is currently in the kitchen, making cookies. In 11 minutes I'm going to embark on an hour-long writing session.
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TWIN PEAKS, a photo by WMHART on Flickr.
It's a Sunday for spending indoors, cooking lunch with friends (brasilian feijoada) and watching Twin Peaks. It's a Sunday where I've finished Madame Bovary for the 2nd time while getting through my 2nd cup of coffee and now have a skype date with my family in Brasil for 8pm tonight (but my mom says my nephew may not be there as he's afraid of computers.)

It's a Sunday of two fried eggs on top of toast for breakfast. It's a Sunday where my boyfriend and I had initially planned to go for a 5K run in Victoria Park but now we are aiming for an hour-long walk to our friends' apartment in Clapton (where said Twin Peaks marathon will take place.) It's a Sunday for further inroads into A Storm of Swords (Game of Thrones #3).

Grey, uninspiring Sunday. Like the radioactive dust that falls on your hands and on your face... on your face... on your faaaaace.

Hungry Sunday.

Monday never comes too late. And for the 6th week running I'll find a coffee shop in the neighbourhood, around 8.30am, and do a bit of creative writing before heading into work.
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Friday Night:

Watched Paedo Roman Polanski's The Tenant. Still a disturbing movie after all these years, in particular its climax in the building's courtyard. Would love to know what Zizek makes of it: teeth inside walls, cross-dressing, people hanging out in public lavatories covered with Egyptian
hieroglyphics. To me, it's a film about schizophrenia brought on by isolation, perhaps an allegory of Polanski's own life - and even foreshadowing his escape from America and life in France.

On Saturday:

Ate pancakes with homemade syrup, honey, butter, bananas and blueberries for breakfast.  Drank coffee.  Listened to the Best of the Subway Sect while reading an article in Uncut about Vic Godard. He became a postman in the 80s and has been in that profession for nearly 30 years, but still recording music on his spare time. Then I listened to Tom Waits first album, "Closing Time", while reading another article in Uncut about how that album came to be created and what Waits was like at the start of his career. I did not like the album (too sentimental) but found a cover of "Lonely" by Bat for Lashes that is very good.

Went for a walk with my boyfriend to his
studio in Bow, keeping track of our movements through the App "RunKeeper" on my iPhone.[2] Wandered to Mile End afterwards and had lunch at a new restaurant on Mile End Road, Box Noodle. Walked through Mile End Park and visited Matt's Gallery. It had two free exhibitions: an installation by Susan Hiller called "Channels", with flickering TVs and real recordings of people who have gone through near-death experiences; and an installation of found objects by Mike Nelson which reminded my boyfriend of "Outsider Art", and for myself of Jason Voorhees.

Susan Hiller "Channels".

Mike Nelson

Walked down Mile End Road and had a look around a small exhibition in the Whitechapel Gallery on the multi-media magazine Aspen, which was published between 1965 and 1971. It was a bit like McSweeney's, with each edition curated by a different person and featuring people like Susan Sontag and William S. Burroughs. Roland Barthes' "Death of an Author" was first published in it and you can see the original draft with corrections at the exhibition. I studied this essay back in Montreal when I was in Uni - reading it again reminded me of contemporary dance for some reason, and the question of how much of a piece is the choreographer's and how much is the dancer's (limitations). Still, obviously, an interesting question for writers and what they create.

Bought pizzas and salad at Tesco, took the bus home while my boyfriend returned to his studio to collect some material he'll have printed this week. Played Xenoblade Chronicles. Made pizza with salad and ate it while watching cheesy 80s Brit chiller Haunted based on a James Herbert novel (somebody please make him stop writing! Won't somebody think of the trees?) The only good thing in it was Aidan Quinn, a bit of eye candy to distract you from the terrible performances, the silly story and the ridiculous special effects. Bizarrely, during Aidan's sex scene with Kate Beckinsale, a body double was used for him!

Next, we watched the documentary The Dungeons Masters, about three people whose lives revolve around Dungeons and Dragons. Funny, fascinating and horrifying in equal measures.[1]

On Sunday:

Had bagels, fried eggs and coffee for breakfast.  Went for a 5K run in the glorious sunshine over Victoria Park. Ran past a Canadian couple we recently met through a Scottish friend we have in common and said a quick hello. Drank a protein smoothie, took a shower, shaved and washed in the bathroom's sink a pair of winter gloves and socks.  Now writing this while waiting for Wink to bake some french fries in the oven and prepare Tuna sandwiches with the last of the bagels.

[1] I used to play Dungeons and Dragons in my early teens - I got all my friends into it.  There's even strong evidence I was the first to play Dungeons and Dragons in Brasil!!!  And I'm not kidding - it was something that didn't exist over there - it was given to me as a gift by my dad in the mid 80s after one of his trips to England. But I'll never be able to prove it.
[2] By the end of the day we'd walked about 9km accumulated over an hour and a half.
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An evening at the Barbican with colleagues from work, to see Deborah Colker's Dance Company perform Tatyana. Based on Pushkin's novel Eugene Onegin, it's a story of unrequited love and tragedy. Two young men, Lensky and Onegin, meet two beautiful young women in the countryside, one being Tatyana.  She falls in love with Onegin and opens her heart in a letter - but he rejects her.  Years later, he runs into her again - this time married to a rich man in St Petersburg - and realises she was meant to be with him... but now her feelings have changed...

The first Act has a large contraption on stage - a sort of wooden tree - which the dancers climb all over, jump from and dance around. The second Act is more surreal and modern, with the dancers dancing as if suspended in the air while light is projected and run through them.  Their style is more modern dance than contemporary - with a lot of ballet thrown in the mix in the second half.

Two interesting details which I thought raised the performance: each character is played by four dancers, and a new character is introduced into the story - Pushkin himself (played by a blonde male character dressed entirely in black which I first thought represented death, and who sometimes was substituted by Deborah Colker herself.) This idea of a character having four dancers works well when demonstrating emotion: four Onegins surrounding one Tatyana gives the impression of "overwhelming emotion" or "excessive love".  And the idea of Colker herself taking turns with Pushkin inside the story was an obvious, but nice, idea of the author never being too far from its creation, and that maybe a love story written a century ago by a man can gain new life today through a woman from another side of the planet (Brasil).

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Gotta Love DVR by LeftOnBase
Gotta Love DVR, a photo by LeftOnBase on Flickr.
It's coming to an end! The two quietest weeks I've experienced in London in the eleven years I've lived here! Empty tube trains, empty buses, empty parks... it's been a sort of bliss. Where have all the Olympic tourists been staying? I don't care - I'm just glad it's not anywhere near me!

We originally had plans of going to Kew Gardens today but I'm feeling a bit lazy. Feel like tidying up the flat a bit, going for a swim, lying in Victoria Park, reading books.

I'm happy and a little excited to be finally meeting [ profile] olamina for the first time this week after so many years of being friends on LJ. I'm happy about my two upcoming weeks of annual leave (which will probably be a staycation as we really can't afford to go anywhere). I'm happy that things are going well with my family in Brasil and the stressful emails have stopped. I'm generally happy with life right now.

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My family bought its first VCR in 1985, when I was ten years old. Our building had an inhouse cable TV channel (very modern for the time) which showed two films at night (picked by the building manager); but we lived right by a large film rental shop and had wanted for a while the option to choose our own films. The weekend routine was for me to pick five films (this would allow us to keep them until Monday morning) - one comedy, one drama, one action/thriller and two horrors.

The first two films we rented were Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom and a B-movie horror from 1983 called The Lift. Indiana was my brother's choice while The Lift was mine. Afterwards, I invented a game with my friends in the building where everyone was trapped in a space (say, a part of the playground that was made up of three walls) while one person played the killer lift (arms for wires that snuck through the door, latched onto legs and dragged them out to their death.)

This memory came back to me today as I was waiting for my tower block's elevator. There's a sign by it that says: "don't throw any garbage in the elevator. CCTV is in full operation." Pointless: you can find all sorts of things in the elevator, from chewed chicken legs to napkins and candy wrappers, and as far as I know nobody has ever been penalised for this. The elevators are new too, installed just last year at great expense to all property owners, but they are already keyed, scratched, spat and battered.

I toyed with this private fantasy as the elevator rose, of it coming to life as someone was defacing it, the walls slowly starting to close in on them as the light flickered and they desperately tried to get out (to no avail). Squish.

The version of The Lift I watched back in 1985 was dubbed in Portuguese - I somehow always thought it was an Italian film. Just discovered that it's actually Dutch and you can watch the whole thing on YouTube.

Here's the trailer with a Marc Almond lookalike for the hero:

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Robinson CrusoeRobinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

It's hard to believe this is the first novel in the English language. It still feels very modern - to the point where I wondered how much of it was plundered by the writers of the TV show LOST. It was also the first book I ever read on an ebook, which I thought was nicely symmetrical.

A young sailor and adventurer ends up on a deserted island after a storm catches his boat as he returns to England from "the Brazils". He's already an experienced adventurer by this stage - having escaped captivity in Africa as a young man, set up his own plantation in South America and crossed the Atlantic Ocean a few times. After a dose of initial good luck (his shipwrecked boat is not too far in the water and he can salvage quite a few useful items), he settles down to survival and exploration of the island.

It's written as a memoir, probably based on the real experiences of a sailor in the 1600s. Because the voice is so convincing and attentive to the details of the experience, suspense is notched up and intensified as one obstacle after another appears in Crusoe's life. (Did Defoe invent the Adventure Genre?) It's also a fascinating read if you put on your post-colonial/queer lit glasses: Crusoe goes into some length about the slave trade and the differences between Africans and natives in the Americas; and he also develops a passionate and intense love for a captive he saves - Friday - that stands at odds with his complete lack of mention or desire for any women. Well, after more than twenty years on a deserted island, would you say no to a young, beautiful man whose life you save and who worships you? (This could be, though, Defoe's way of also reflecting the very well known habit of sailors having love affairs with other men because of so much time spent without any women around.)

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I'm feeling stressed at the moment with work - pulled in too many directions (given too many tasks) - and not feeling as if I'm doing any of them well. I'll be up North again this week, on a day trip similar to last Friday's. A lot of time spent in trains. People are a bit scary in the small towns but the green hills are adorable though.

I've been going to the gym in the mornings these past few weeks. I've got tickets to see Porcelain Raft, Veronica Falls, Babel (some giant secret event in Islington in May - #secreteventsfatigue) and my lovely Lovebox in June. I'm still reading "Robinson Crusoe" and enjoying the anachronistic gay subtext.

I'm now lying on the sofa with a belly full of chicken and mushroom soup, listening to the 10,000 songs on my iTunes on shuffle.

Have a good night!

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

My Bubus

Nov. 22nd, 2011 08:40 pm
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beauty after rembrant by Aquini
beauty after rembrant, a photo by Aquini on Flickr.
A few days ago Kelly Rowland told me she'd like to visit my mom's guesthouse in Brasil with her boyfriend.

'Are you sure Kelly?' I asked.

'I'm sure bubu,' she said with a slight smile. I explained to her how my mom would arrange for a driver to pick her up at her hotel in São Paulo then drive them for two hours until they reached the guesthouse. The room at the guesthouse would be smaller to what she was used to, but the views were fantastic.

When I told my mom Kelly Rowland was flying down, she asked 'Who?' 'Kelly Rowland!' I said. 'And get the camera ready to take loads of photos so we can then promote her visit afterwards and get more guests.'

Later, I was hanging out with Madonna and two friends of mine when the subject of music reared its head. 'What's your favourite music at the moment?' I asked Madonna, who kept flitting back and forth in the TV room, unable to sit still. 'Treme,' she replied.

'Treme? That's Sinead O'Connor's favourite too!' I said but Madonna was not impressed. She'd heard some negative things about Sinead.

'Sinead is lovely,' I promised to Madonna, and my friends agreed. 'Honestly, you should get to know her a little better.'

When Madonna turned her back, I asked my friends if I should log onto Facebook and check in "with" Madonna. They laughed and I realised I didn't know their names.
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I went for a proper swim this morning for the first time in, I think, a year. 11am, the gym empty apart from a few kids on their half-term break, the fast lane all to myself. I did just over 1km before the plastic around one of my goggles ripped apart and I had to stop. I'd been daydreaming in Brasil of returning to the pool as a form of getting active again in London, and I'm proud I got my ass out of the house this morning and did it.

When I got home at lunch time, a good friend texted me to say she was heading to the British Film Institute to watch an Argentinian film and if I'd like to join her. She was sitting in Liverpool Street station reading We Need To Talk About Kevin when I found her. We took the Underground and drank coffee before the film in the BFI's cafeteria. I was surprised to notice how packed the cinema was. Monday, mid afternoon - don't these adults have a job to go to? It turned out to be the first screening of our film, Medianeras, in London, with the presence of the director for a Q&A (as part of the current 55th London Film Festival.)

The film is LOVELY: a sweet and funny homage to Woody Allen, with Buenos Aires standing for Allen's Manhattan. Very well written, well acted, well paced - a romantic comedy that will probably be remade in a few years time into a horrid mess by idiots in Hollywood. Go see it when you have a chance. It's the story of two solitary individuals in Buenos Aires, living in shoeboxes, searching for some meaning and love in their deeply neurotic lives.

There were two scenes in the film that caught my attention: the first one had to do with the two main characters loving to swim but always putting off a visit to their local pool. Finally they do it (just like me this morning.) The other involved a brief monologue from one of them about the electrical wires that criss cross Buenos Aires' skies, of what a mess they are and how they ironically misrepresent the connections people have in that city. It was something I was recently thinking about when traveling brasilian cities, which are very similar to argentinian ones. I mentioned to my mom how here in England (or at least in London), there are hardly any visible wires because it's all underground - I even took a photo of my street on my way to the cinema to show my mom (unaware that this would be a theme in the movie.) I do love synchronicities.


Oct. 22nd, 2011 09:25 am
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The piece of black fluff hanging in the air which I grabbed with my left hand turned out to be a tiny spider.  Luckily, it didn't get squashed; I gently placed it on the dresser table beside my bed.

I'm packing my suitcase and catching a bus to the airport in 4 hours.  21 hours of traveling to London, door to door; not so bad.  I have books, I have laptop, I have an iPhone.  I don't have a job back in London so maybe I should join #OccupyLSX.

A gay couple arrived at the guesthouse last night: one is American and the other is Colombian.  The surprising thing was that they had heard of the guesthouse from a listing I placed in AirB&B two days before.  I think this is a sign.  Thank you [ profile] yearning for the tip!  A very sweet way to bring closure to this trip and hope for what can be done here (marketing does work, you know.)

In 2014, Brasil is hosting the World Cup and some of the games will take place in a city near my guesthouse.  I want to organise a group trip from England to the guesthouse, see some of the games and then spend a week by the sea.  Who's interested?


Oct. 13th, 2011 12:38 pm
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The Lost City of ZThe Lost City of Z by David Grann

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I first heard about Colonel Percy Fawcett when I read a biography about his life written by brasilian author Hermes Leal. Fawcett was a celebrity explorer in his time, responsible for braving uncharted territory in the Amazon (he was, for example, responsible for defining the boundary between Brasil and Bolivia) and promoting the idea that a large and complex civilization - the City of Z; or El Dorado - had once existed somewhere under its tree tops. Fawcett, amongst other things, inspired Conan Doyle's Lost World and the character of Indiana Jones.

A few years ago, this new book on Fawcett by David Grann was released and secured a nomination for the Samuel Johnson's Best Non-fiction Award and praise in many newspapers. I'd been wanting to suggest to my bookclub a read to do with Brasil and I thought this would be the perfect choice (even though the author and the main subject were not brasilian.) Although it's a compelling story about Fawcett's disappearance in the Amazon alongside his son Jack and his son's best friend, as well as its effect on his family and the world's imagination, the book's strength in my opinion is in exposing the holocaust that occurred to the Amazon's native tribes. Through Fawcett's diaries, we discover the obstacles Fawcett encountered in the Amazon (killer bugs and snakes; famine) but also why this region fascinated him so much, and why he had respect for native tribes and horror for the ways other explorers were quick to kill them. The book throws into relief the history of the Amazon from its discovery in the 1500s to the present day and the importance of preserving and studying it despite its fast destruction.

The final pages finally reveal where the Lost City of Z was located and how, ironically, Fawcett found what he was looking for without realising it.

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A good gym session is like a good shag, isn't it? At least in the way your skin tingles and glows afterwards, and you feel like you can take on the world. Or something.

I'm glad I hauled my ass to the gym this morning because it was exactly what I needed and had missed. I haven't felt this alert in weeks.

This evening I'm going to begin downloading True Blood episodes to watch when I'm in Brasil (I'm currently at the end of Season 2). I may also take a long bath and watch a film. I opened a bottle of red wine last night that needs my attention today.

I dreamt last night with my nephew and it freaks me out (in a good way) that I'll be seeing this little entity next week who now walks and chatters when before he was just an 8-month-old ball of fat and Johnson & Johnson's hair. I want to buy him some toys and books but can't make up my mind when I walk into the shops. So much to choose from.

I love this song: very Inner City circa 1990, very British pop.

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Most Brasilians dream of one day visiting Portugal just as I imagine most Americans wish to eventually cross the ocean and take pictures of themselves outside Buckingham Palace. It's one of those things that is drilled into us from school: this is the country that discovered you, that you fought against to gain your independence, that you now have a special relationship with thanks to shared history and language.

Last week, at the height of the riots across the UK, [ profile] wink_martindale and I hopped into a plane in Stanstead (terrified we'd encounter rioters as we took the No. 8 bus at 4am to the train station) and flew to Spain for 8 days of traveling down the Iberian coast to Lisbon. We visited Bilbao, Gijón, Ferrol and Galicia in Spain; and Braga, Aveiro, Lisbon and Porto in Portugal.

Spain and Portugal are very similar to France in the widespread restaurant and café culture, except that they mostly specialise in sea food. Alcohol is very cheap and the food is mostly excellent, sometimes really great. Watch out though for the bread and butter placed at your table without your request - if you eat from it, you pay for it.  We found the Spanish and Portuguese to be friendly and helpful.

The Portuguese are obsessed with that American reality show "The Biggest Loser" - they have marathons of it on the telly as well as their own version of it. In stores, you see all sorts of Wii games dedicated to the show. I'd always heard that their tellies were filled with Brasilian soaps but I didn't spot any. Fado was played in touristy restaurants, Arcade Fire in the ones used by residents.

I didn't like Lisbon very much: it was decadent, decrepid, dirty, crumbling, depressing and a little creepy. But I also saw loads of potential there for rejuvenation - it needs some kind of artist revival that breaks through the hashish haze and brings life and vibrancy back to the streets. This bit of urban art was sweet and inspiring, reminding me of projects here in London that involve community residents: it was an exhibition of photos of elderly residents that lived in the hills surrounding the city's castle; a sort of remembrance. We also saw some great graffiti, including this strange altar in a dead end alley. Sadly, there was also a lot of rubbish tagging that spoiled the beautiful, historical buildings.  Loads of grand homes that would be worth millions in London were completely abandoned, boarded up, trashed.

Porto was lovelier and I want to visit it again. Beautiful beaches that are close to town, loads to see - our day and a half there wasn't enough.  I'd like to go back for a week and have time to spend days on the beach, swim, discover all of Porto's bookshops and history.


Jun. 18th, 2011 01:23 pm
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If you are a writer or enjoy creative writing, and you are on Twitter, I've discovered a great little way of sparking things off through HerLindsayness's blog. She writes:

Created by Monica-Marie, the idea (behind #wordmongering) is that at the top of every hour, participants write as much as they can for thirty minutes. Then they take a 30-minute break to stretch, snack, and generally refresh for the next round. You can participate in as few or as many rounds per day as you have time and energy for, and the encouragement shared between writers is invigorating. There is no contest and every word count, no matter how small, is congratulated.

I'm going to do my first one in 45 minutes. See you there?

Meanwhile on LJ, [ profile] millionreasons has started a random postcard project which I also find interesting. I'm following her example and thinking of using Igor for my postcards.

Yesterday, an idiot carrying a cappuccino machine into the train dropped part of it on my elbow.  It's hurtin'.  I then got soaked wandering around London dropping off brochures for my arts festival in July.  At midnight, a brasilian friend arrived from Germany to stay with us for the weekend and we spent a few hours talking while I heated for him chicken and mushroom soup. I'm fighting annoying manflu so I can be well enough for drinks with him and his friends tonight.

38 minutes until my first #wordmongering...
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The past couple of days have been wonderfully long and enjoyable. It started on Friday with a talk on time travel at the British Museum as part of their current exhibition on Science Fiction, Out of this World. Audrey Niffenegger, who wrote The Time Traveller's Wife, was part of the panel as well as sci-fi novelist Stephen Baxter, some guy who writes for Dr Who, some other guy who writes on the science of time travel and a woman who works in publishing (and who chaired the talk.) Audrey was a cross between Margaret Atwood and Tori Amos, all deep husky voice and very funny down-to-earth comments. The audience had a few nutters who shot theirs arms straight up when it was question time. I spotted a few friends of [ profile] hester 's in the audience but I couldn't remember their names or LJ handles.

Yesterday, I went to the garden's Summer Fair then met friends in the evening at Rich Mix for the documentary Senna. It's a wonderful film which is hard for me to be objective about. Because I'm brasilian, I grew up watching Senna race every Sunday, my family and friends filing my home with cheer for his victories or despair for his losses. Seeing his life played out on the big screen brought back nostalgic memories for me as well as some good laughs at how naff Brasil was in the 80s. Well, wasn't the whole planet?

Senna was to Brasil what Lady Diana was to Britain in their deaths: this outpouring of emotion that showed the true extent they had affected people's lives while alive. He was different from her though in how there was nothing contrived about him: he was pure talent, hard work and charisma. There was something about his eyes that was very beautiful, his smile too - that gave away how idealistic he was about Formula 1 and making a mark in the lives of the less fortunate in Brasil (I suppose similar in that sense to Diana).

Everyone in Brasil knows where they were when they heard he died (i.e. most were in front of the telly) just like everyone in Britain still remembers hearing of Di's accident in Paris.

Today, I woke up early to meet [ profile] kirsten at Columbia Road market for breakfast. It was rainy, cold, grey and horrible. We had a look around the shops and found a table in Restaurant Espagnol, which has lovely coffee and breakfasts (chorizo on top of fried eggs and toast; why did I never think of this?!)

We then drove to Camden so she could get a piercing at Cold Steel. On the drive back home we blasted 2 Many DJs and talked about Salt-and-Peppa and what the hell happened to them. Weirdly enough, a few hours later I watched a documentary by Chris Rock called Good Hair, which featured interviews with them. It's a bit of a surreal documentary that falls under that subgenre "we all live on a crazy planet". It looks at the multi-billion dollar industry surrounding hair in America in the black community, and its consequences to themselves and other parts of the planet. Funny at parts, weird in others. Made me wonder what will happen to all those people who spend thousands of dollars on their hair if the American economy continues to slide into the hole. It's completely unsustainable, like a lot of other things in America...

Tonight, we are watching Soprano episodes while eating our dinner, reading old newspapers in bed and listening to classical music. Global warming feels like a dream when the typical grim British summer returns to chill our apartment and cover the city with rain.

P.S. More Gingerganza this way! (thank you [ profile] kirsten for the link.)


Jun. 1st, 2011 07:17 am
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Primeira ovada by MariBiasutti
Primeira ovada, a photo by MariBiasutti on Flickr.
In Brasil, we celebrate our friends' birthdays with eggs and flour. Secrecy is of the utmost importance. Those with the know-how prick holes in the eggs a few days before and bury them so that they rot in time for the celebration. The flour is hidden behind a bush or wall near the place the birthday celebrant will unsuspectingly walk by. By some invisible sign, everyone pounces on them at the same time. Tough boys sometimes fight back and get some of the goo on their assailants. If there's a swimming pool in the vicinity, the egging ends in there - regardless of new shoes or clothes.

This was a ritual in my pre-pubescent and teen years. Maybe some continued to celebrate in this fashion in their 20s, but not my gang. It's all just a memory now, alongside everything else from the 80s.

Beijo Gay

May. 15th, 2011 09:04 pm
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The first gay kiss on brasilian television finally happened! It was in a soap opera made by the second most popular channel, SBT. The most popular, Globo, is run by cunts who often use gay characters in their soaps but vehemently refuse to include even an innocent kiss.

Better late than never. I hope the first kiss between two men is not too far away.

Something is bothering me though: why the fuck do YouTube viewers have to prove they are 18 or older to see a gay kiss? Fuck you YouTube!

April 2017



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