Around an unpublished post about the Capital Christmas (Natal Capital), I have been "keeping to myself" many "Shut the FUCK up"s. I can't just say it to everyone. Poor you (and me) if I did so.
So, I told it to myself: shut the fuck up, man. Enough of this Portuguese neurosis.
(have I ever told you that living in Porto for me, is exactly as what I believe a common Portuguese believes it is to live in Bucharest? let's use an euphemism: not as good as it could be)
Anyway, so much nonsense going around... we need silence people! SILENCE. Forget it, it's me and I that need silence, not you.
By the way, I bought new books... new schizotypalities coming soon (I am finally changing this fucking background color back to white):
Telemaco, filho de Ulises, representa para mim a solução positiva do édipo. O seu irmão Telégono é um segundo Édipo que mata acidentalmente o pai (Ulises) e casa posteriormente com a mãe (Penelope).
Telemaco é, tal como o pai Ulises, um viajante. Mas, ao contrário do pai que tem como objectivo o retorno a Ítaca, um objectivo que eu diria negativo, o da volta ao início, o da recuperação, Telemaco, muito jovem, parte em busca do pai e descobre o mundo, a descoberta positiva da saída, do abandono do início.
E escrevo isto porque reparo que esta interpretação é minha. Não conheço nenhuma interpretação (psicanalítica ou não) deste personagem clássico: Telemaco.
A genialidade de Freud tem vários resultados, o mais conhecido é a utilização do clássico de Sofocles, o Rei Édipo, para falar, do sentimento de culpa pelos dois crimes que comete: homicídio e incesto. Édipo é um suicida, ele não sobrevive ao seu sentimento de culpa. É neste sentido que a viagem de Telemaco se torna positiva, Telemaco sobrevive à culpa, desviando-a: a culpa é de Telegono e não dele.
No texto de Sofocles esta interpretação não é explícita, Freud inventou esta interpretação. Freud, depois de Marx, é o grande interprete, o grande inventor de significados. Ele é o pai de todos os relativistas do significado. Freud interpretou tanto que seus filhos (os grandes filósofos do séc XX) não puderam deixar de o matar: a interpretação não está no texto. Será que não sobreviveram à culpa eles também?
O filme de Pasolini (Oedipus Rex 1967) é, neste sentido, uma visão muito mais psicanalítica do Édipo. Neste filme, Édipo é vítima do destino e depois do seu sentimento de culpa. O filme é um dos melhores de Pasolini e tal como muitos dos outros, uma história de encantar belíssima.
Falta-me agora ver o Édipo no teatro. Ou talvez procurar leituras de Telemaco, o Édipo positivo.
Deleuze no seu anti édipo (1972) descontrói o Édipo de uma forma semelhante ao que eu tento colar a Telemaco. O Édipo é posto de lado, o édipo é desvalorizado. Édipo é uma novela, mas há outras igualmente importantes, muitas outras. E é isto que tento colocar em Telemaco: há um mundo a descobrir para além do Édipo. Isto não está longe do anti-Édipo. A schizoanalysis de Deleuze e Guattari é um desdobrar do Édipo mas principalmente um fazer surgir outras novelas, outras esquizofrenias: o Édipo é só uma das esquizofrenias.
E aqui vejo eu a minha cada vez mais recorrente necessidade de me tornar académico do ponto de vista intelectual. Cada vez mais as ideias são referenciadas. É melhor repetir e misturar ideias de grandes pensadores do que progredir sozinho em círculos. Fazer isto é mais perigoso, mais neurótico, mas mais evolutivo: como o sobrehomem de Nietzsche que se apoia nos outros para se superar? A definição das referências para nelas construir os meus planaltos: o planalto Telemaco.
These are simple words. Words used to build meaning, as a play.
Meaning itself does not exist. There is no such thing as the meaning of the word "reality".
There is the word. There is no word inside us. There is no word, maybe on the screen.
There are sound waves between my lips and your ears. And maybe some neurons representing the word "reality" to some other neurons. An open connection to the void. There is no meaning of the word "reality". There is no such thing as "the meaning of the word". There is the word. There are no words.
We may call CONCEPTS to those neurons open to the void of our brain. BUT "concept" is a word. And there are no words.
"Reality is a concept" are four words. And the easier ones are "reality" and "concept". Concept is a concept. What is a concept?
It is amazing how we are in sync, you and I. We must be in prison, for sure, it is too diverse to meet you and your concepts. There are concepts, neurons, in groups, with a structure? Is the concept the structure of the neuron network?
My concepts flying to your concepts!
As long as it remains inexhaustible, I will be.
As long as I can see it as inexhaustible, I will be.
"Faiblaisse ou force: te voilà, c'est la force.Tu ne sais ni où tu vas, ni pourquoi tu vas; entre partout, réponds à tout. On ne te tuera pas plus que si tu étais cadavre."
"L'ennui n'est plus mon amour. Les rages, les débauches, la folie, - dont je sais tous les élans et les désastres, - tout mon fardeau est déposé. Apprécions sans vertige l'étendu de mon innocence."
Once I seariously considered becoming a professional musician. Two reasons that made me change my mind:
- I was so far from being naturally gifted, all my musical virtues were and will allways be "engineered"
- being a non gifted musician (and, most probably, even if I was gifted) would be to live with a constant frustration. To be a musician is to grasp perfection, without ever possessing it. To be a musician is to grasp but never reach.
I remember the moments I could listen to myself playing and think: this sounds good (my cello was amazing). At that moment, I was starting to grasp. I stopped playing.
Even today, when I listen to some graduate students with 20 years of practice, I think: shit, is he satisfied!? And the problem is that I am a beginner.
Bottom line, in music, not as in engineering, success (inner and outter) is very far from granted and failure is very common.
All this applies to "why I am not a poet", although in poetry I haven't even grasped: VIII - Quasi (1913) Um pouco mais de sol — eu era brasa.
Um pouco mais de azul — eu era além.
Para atingir, faltou-me um golpe de asa...
Se ao menos eu permanecesse aquém...
Among my literary idols, Mário de Sá-Carneiro is a favourite.
But tonight I have read "The Marquise of O -" by Kleist and I realized how our letters build on top of each other, how we are built on top of each other, on top of our history, on top of repetition, on top of difference.
Kleist (1811) is an 100 years ahead of Sá-Carneiro (1916), and after this short story I can only point a few things in Sá Carneiro that are not already in Kleist. While Sá Carneiro is always wandering and crazy. Kleist makes us go from complete stability to complete madness in a few lines. Impressive.
Goa, India (March 2008)
In Panaji (Goa, India) I stayed the first night in a very nice hotel. The hosts were Portuguese Goan. I had a long conversation with the couple about Goa and Portugal. After the first night, I spent a complete day lying in bed with strong headaches... but I got better quickly. The hotel was good but a bit off the town center, so the next morning I decided to look for an hotel in the center.
Mid-morning, I walked for a long time around town looking at every hotel that I could find (or that was listed in Lonely Planet). I ended up haggling the price of a very cheap room (less than 3 eur per night I believe) with this other Portuguese Goan. His family was interesting, the wife and a 10 year old kid learning portuguese. He was very nice to me before closing the deal. After the check-in, and probably because I took the cheapest room, he became incredible monosilabic with me. I ended up sleeping in a horrible room in a wooden bed making a lot of noise and with a 5cm mattress over it.
Why I am telling this story? Well, during the night a leg of the bed broke completely and I almost fell on the floor. I had to sleep on the floor. The next morning I woke up, payed the bill, "but you were staying 3 nights!", and got a bus to Anjuna, the famous goan beach.
Bali, Indonesia (Jun 2007)
I barely remember the day I became a surfer, lol
I was on the beach renting a surf board. I remember I was surfing with these two guys (or was just one?) I had just met on the beach. They were also learning. I remember we caught the same wave (1m) and, on top of the board, I shouted "HEY!". In a not so synchronized movement, he extended his arm and I could touch his hand for a few seconds, then we almost fell one over the other. After the crash, we both gave the hang loose sign and shouted "yeah!!!!". I was now a surfer, lol
I don't remember my surf mate's face, name or nationality!
Uspallata, Argentina (Dez 2007)
The scenery here are the most incredible mountains I have ever seen. Uspallata is a small town in the Andes between Argentina and Chile. The story is short, a cozy hotel where I could relax and enjoy the mountains after a very active stay in Mendonza (I have a post about the Intriga Mendocina).
This is not really a story, but rather an insight description. Well, I could tell you about the large group of very young nouns (like 17 years old) that were praying out loud while the bus was going down an amazing cliff through a road with dozens of hair pin turns...
Back in Uspallata, I was walking up the road with the unbelievable scenario on my eyes, I started singing Mano Chao... the mountains, the wonderfull meal in a simple road restaurant I just had, the empty road, the hot asphalt, the frontier between Argentina and Chile just there, 4000m altitude or so, a backpack, three months of continuous lonely travelling, me absolutely alone in the carretera, my fate and the fate of the emigrants manu chao sings about, el viento... por la carretera...
Gilles Deleuze on his "Abécédaire"
W comme Wittgenstein, Deleuze a dit: "Pour moi c’est une catastrophe philosophique […] c’est une régression massive de toute la philosophie […] S’ils l’emportent, alors là il y aura un assassinat de la philosophie s’ils l’emportent. C’est des assassins de la philosophie. Il faut une grande vigilance."
Bertrand Russell on his autobiography
Wittgenstein is "the most perfect example I have ever known of genius as traditionally conceived, passionate, profound, intense, and dominating".
La Musique... Où est-elle aujourd'hui?
La Musique se meurt Madame!
Penses-tu! La Musique?
Tu la trouves à Polytechnique
Entre deux équations, ma chère!
Avec Boulez dans sa boutique
Un ministre à la boutonnière
Dans la rue la Musique!
Music in the street! La Musica nelle strade!
Beethoven strasse! MUSS ES SEIN? ES MUSS SEIN!
Reich and Adorno are something like a "Nietzsche for the common man". Both should have read the Foucault from the 70s, if they were alive. Derrida started the deconstruction work. But it's Deleuze that explains it all. Deleuze is our saviour.
These are all Nietzsche's descendents. But while Nietzsche was bipolar (dangerous), we close the XXs century with a proudly consistent schizophrenic Deleuze (saviour).
* Wilhelm Reich; Listen, Little Man!
* Theodor W. Adorno; Minima Moralia
* Michel Foucault; Security, Territory, Population
* Jaques Derrida, Of Grammatology
* Gilles Deleuze; Pourparlers
Nietzsche said: "We are dead, you should play!" and all the others (decendents) said: "no, let's take a look again!"
Foucault said: "We are in jail!"
Reich said: "You are in jail!"
Adorno said: "Jail sucks!"
Derrida said: "This is all a meaning-play!"
and Deleuze closes it saying: "Let's play then!"
É bom não saber que futuro teremos. Nada de mal vai acontecer, não tenhas medo.
É bom podermos vir a ser tudo, é bom podermos vir a ser nada. E ter os sonhos todos.
Ah, um axioma para esta teoria: futuro, não preciso de ti!
Gosto de ti, cheio de virtudes e defeitos. Aproveito e partilho contigo as coisas que temos em comum e nos ligam. Evito (aceito) os teus defeitos. Faço o mesmo com todos os outros amigos. Tenho amigos com quem tenho laços mais fortes, outros menos. E nenhuns são os laços perfeitos e todos encerram em si algo de perfeito, por serem únicos.
Ah, um axioma para esta teoria: amigo, não preciso de ti!
I almost died, and since then, since now, I am constantly almost dying. In theory.
I can cease to exist in a fraction of a second AND this makes my life, my second, this one, a gift. This is an easy one, hey? But this is an ever recurrent gift.
Can you keep in mind, every second, that you can cease to exist the next moment?
What would your ethics be? This constant awareness of the fragility of life takes me to new ethical perspectives, particularly about avoiding all types of conflict and all types of waste. I am reading the Tao Te Ching... that's probably the reason why I am writing this... and it's funny because, no tomorrow, typically means, for an healthy catholic mind, no morals... but now it's rather obvious to me, no tomorrow, means, no conflict, no waste...
Not so far as the Tao Te Ching, once, I don't really remember when, I applied for a job in Ulaanbaatar. I was probably dreaming.
Just as tonight...Paris, Paris, Paris... Scotland? Stockholm and Copenhagen Berlin Poland? and Estonia, Latvia? Probably not... Turkey, Georgia, and some...istan, oh yeah! and then the train (not the country!), south africa, then madagascar and moçambique will be missing.
I will have to do it even faster this time. And then Ulaanbaatar. Or am i just dreaming...
I think I am finally starting to understand what is Wagner.
We can use either drawings or Rattles. Two ways of visualizing this musical beauty.
I met Simon Rattle in Nice, Opera House playing the Tchaikovsky's Pathetic (I think I wrote about this before). It's amazing how he "draws" this music (minute 2:30 of the video).
Sejamos francos, a maioria das vidas são uma merda, embrenhadas de conflitos, privações e frustrações. Para quê ter uma vida?
Havia o dia em que eu acreditava no estabelecido, "naquilo que está", e dizia, estamos a melhorar, estamos bem. Vamos lá!
Mas que interessa estarmos a evoluir?
Mas que interessa estarmos na merda?
Para quê ter uma vida?
Para quê a merda e o conflito?
Well, easy peasy! Dependence. We need, we want, thus, we take, "we greed" BUT The BUT and we fall. Oh Henry!
And what a wonder, and power, and full, feelings ... being able to disconnect. Oh Henry!
Divine ascestism, divine nihilism.
(this is me playing with "My Answer to the Question", making fun of the Tao, of myself, of suicide, and finally, of Miller... I have to explain why this blog is called Pobre Coitado before I forget).
Or maybe I should just go back to Miller...
"I am a free man - and I need my freedom. I need to be alone. I need to ponder my shame and my despair in seclusion; I need the sunshine and the paving stones of the streets without companions, without conversation, face to face with myself, with only the music of my heart for company. What do you want of me? (...) I owe nothing to any one. I would be responsible to God alone — if He existed!", Henry Miller
As long as it remains inexhaustible, I will be. As long as I find books and vinyls as I found today, I will be.
Paris 1934 - Tropic of Cancer, Henry Miller Miller makes me laugh out loud with his cunt international. Tropic of cancer is an amazing positive line of flight, out of our conceptual-moral reality. Long live his drunken whores and filthy gutters, and his laughter and mine. He is like one of those drunken characters you meet on the street at night: the Chilean cocaine addict singing in Puno or even Paulo or the Beat generation 20 years before. But this drunkard managed to write a book so that sober people can meet him... things the intellectual culture does not keep or grasp. Or does it? With Miller's friends. May we find such a consistent and vibrant line of flight! The two deterritorialization dimensions here are the extreme deterritorialization of the hedonist present and the respective reterritorialization on the cunt. Reterritorialization on the cunt, ahahahah!
São Paulo 1984 - Happy Parrot, Hermeto Pascoal Hermeto is just like Miller, a laugh, a 5+3 laugh.
Um dia encontrei-o num concerto e daí conversamos de música em música. Mostrou-me depois um concerto no CD do carro. Havia Geza Anda e um dos concertos de Mozart. Foi isto já há muito tempo. Foi ele que me indicou o movimento do dedo sobre a tecla, o jogo de velocidades do dedo, o bater da tecla no dedo, o limite do movimento do dedo, e nos dedos de Anda, mostrou-me uma nova dimensão: Mozart e o clássico.
Dizem-me hoje que pôs fim à vida, "a way out that turns the line of flight into a line of death". Quanto mais recto é o angulo da perfeição clássica mais a necessária curvatura explode e menos resta ao clássico, senão a morte.
From Galileo, Copernicus and Bruno to Sartre. From 1500 to 1966.
Examples of noteworthy figures on the Index include Sartre, Voltaire, Rousseau, Hume, Descartes, Bacon, Milton, Locke, Pascal, La Fontaine, Stendhal, Hugo, Flaubert, Beauvoir, Hobbes, Hume, Locke, Mill...
I use this Index Librorum Prohibitorum as an example of an obvious absurdity BUT the absurdities are all but obvious. Our own absurdity is ultimately difficult to recognize, because that recognition moment would have to be... absurd... that's why we will always be surrounded by very large hardcovers covering enormous absurdities...
Quand on voyage, il y a des choses qu'on voit mais que se noient dans notre ame et que ne restent pas disponible! Deux ans aprés le voyage: un souvenir!!! Ecoutez.
Il y a 2 ans que je suis arrivé en Bolivie et que j'ai achetté ma guitare: 150 bolivianos (usd$20), elle joue encore! Lá-bas j'ai connu en couple Français qui venait de l'ile de la Reunion: Monsieur e Mme Guilly (?) Après avoir joué un Prelude de Villa Lobos avec ma nouvelle guitare, il m'a chanté cette chanson. Quelle merveille!!!
Quand le ciel bas et lourd pèse comme un couvercle Sur l'esprit gémissant en proie aux longs ennuis, Et que de l'horizon embrassant tout le cercle II nous verse un jour noir plus triste que les nuits;
Quand la terre est changée en un cachot humide, Où l'Espérance, comme une chauve-souris, S'en va battant les murs de son aile timide Et se cognant la tête à des plafonds pourris;
Quand la pluie étalant ses immenses traînées D'une vaste prison imite les barreaux, Et qu'un peuple muet d'infâmes araignées Vient tendre ses filets au fond de nos cerveaux,
Des cloches tout à coup sautent avec furie Et lancent vers le ciel un affreux hurlement, Ainsi que des esprits errants et sans patrie Qui se mettent à geindre opiniâtrement.
— Et de longs corbillards, sans tambours ni musique, Défilent lentement dans mon âme; l'Espoir, Vaincu, pleure, et l'Angoisse atroce, despotique, Sur mon crâne incliné plante son drapeau noir.
"The 'knowledge' of the philosopher places him among the dreamers,
for knowledge is a dream.
But the philosopher 'knowingly' agrees to dream, to dream of knowledge, agress to 'forget' the lesson of philosophy, only so as to 'prove' that lesson...
it is a vertiginous movement that can go on indefinitely"
"How wonderful and new and yet how gruesome and ironic I find my position vis-à-vis the whole of existence in the light of my insight! ...
I suddenly woke up in the midst of this dream, but only to the consciousness that I am dreaming and that I must go on dreaming lest I perish... (*) ...that among all these dreamers, I, too, the "knower," am dancing my dance,
that the knower is a means for prolonging the earthly dance and thus belongs to
the masters of ceremony of existence,
and that the
sublime consistency and interrelatedness of all knowledge
perhaps is and will be the highest means to preserve the universality of dreaming and the mutual comprehension of all dreamers and thus also the continuation of the dream."
"This philosophical agreement is the reader/writer's contract with the text... The abyss appears when Nietzsche, Freud, Heidegger, Derrida lift the lid of the
most familiar and comforting notions about the possibility of knowledge"
"In L'individuation psychique et collective, Gilbert Simondon developed a theory of individual and collective individuation, in which the individual subject is considered as an effect of individuation, rather than a cause. Thus the individual atom is replaced by the neverending ontological process of individuation. Simondon also conceived of "pre-individual fields" as the funds making individuation itself possible. Individuation is an always incomplete process, always leaving a "pre-individual" left-over, itself making possible future individuations. Furthermore, individuation always creates both an individual and a collective subject, which individuate themselves together."
This work impressed me so much! I've seen it this summer in Bienal de Cerveira. Inside the dark room, the wires were completely invisible (in the movie you can see the wires). The lighting is done with a simple group of moving light bars pointing to the wire structure.
Inside the room, the light and the movement of the light got into Existence. I saw the light as an object moving. It was moving exactly the same way everytime but in a different way, either in a different color, or direction, or speed. But the pattern was always there. But that's not all. I said phenomenology because WE could be THAT light crossing the wires. We are not the wires, we are not the light, we are the "light on the wires", we are that repetition, we are each of those moments were the light gets to the wire. We are not the wires! Our structure is not the structure of the wires! We are those explosions of light on the wires. The angles of our structure are the directions of that light on the wires. Our structure is the equation of the speed of that light on the wires. Humans are the need of the "light on the wires" to escape the wires.
My favourite director was Pasolini, but then I met Paradjanov. In this long interview, Paradjanov cites dozens of Russian directors and only one non Russian name appears: Pasolini. He was a fan of Pasolini. I was very suprised to see that, although uninformed, my film criticism is not just nonsense.
My favorite Russian composer was Shostakovich, and his bottle bottom glasses, but then I changed to Prokofiev, and my obsession for these 2 or 3 minutes of pure inconsistotragicism (and as disconcerting as Shostakovich).
Sometimes I forget the origins of my sweet Swiss memories, and also the origins of my general disbelief in science. It looks good, it sounds great, it is great but it is human, all too human. I have been there.
"Heidegger has said it: 'it is not we who speak language, it is language who speaks us'. It structures our world, it structures our sense of time, of identity, of human relations, of love, of violence, and so on. And so, when Foucault, very, very radically... and brilliantly says: 'there is no more man, there is no more author, etc, etc', when deconstruction speaks of language as an autonomous inward turning game as a dance around an infinity of possible meanings, these are ... footnotes to Heidegger.", George Steiner
Footnote: "In language there are only differences, and no positive terms", Saussure
It's a century long puzzle... Saussure, Husserl, Heidegger, Levi-Strauss, Sartre, Barthes, Foucault, Deleuze, Derrida...
1 - forma de escape - forma de distração (férias) - forma de preguiça - forma de evitamento (da realidade) 2 - forma de confronto consigo mesmo - forma de solidão profunda - forma de desenquadramento absoluto - forma de encontro com o desconhecido
Todos os dias me vens leitor com vontades de viajar 1 e falas comigo como o viajado. O meu viajar é o 2, não me venhas com evitamentos.
"Nous ne pouvons pas, nous allons tomber." "Venez jusqu'au bord!" "Nous ne pouvons pas, nous avons peur." "Venez jusqu'au bord!" Et ils y vinrent. Et il les poussa. Et ils volèrent...
I found this pocket spinozism in an old note book (I read Spinoza 3 years after writing this): happiness is freedom and freedom is the absence of internal ghosts and external domination.
A massificabilidade é uma propriedade dos elementos de cultura ligeiramente diferente da viralidade. A massificabilidade refere-se à expansibilidade e à não distante durabilidade. A viralidade refere-se à necessária reprodutibilidade dos elementos massificáveis.
A frase do dia foi ouvida fora do contexto: "as pessoas têm de começar a entender X"
Primeiro é necessário imaginar que esta pessoa algures no passado não tinha conhecimento de X, no entanto, neste momento, não só detinha esse conhecimento, como o reproduzia. Ora, é assim que funcionam os virus.
Esta frase em si denota a existência de um mecanismo de transmissão, como a maquinaria de uma célula utilizada pelo virus para se reproduzir. A célula neste caso é um pobre aparelho linguístico que, em determinado momento, não tinha conhecimento de X, mas que, pobre, foi infectado e passa, não só a deter o conhecimento (X, o virus) mas a reproduzi-lo, alegre.
"as pessoas têm de começar a entender a viralidade": um pobre coitado, alegre.
Entre os muitos draft posts não publicados deste blog há um sobre as razões da não massificação das culturas locais e a importação de algo mais massificável e consequente cópia local. Deixo aqui o que julgo ser um exemplo de algo profundamente incompatível com uma cultura de massas capitalista e seus grandes bastiões: o positivismo, a individualização (unicidade individual) e a mono-personalidade.
Cansaço Amália Rodrigues
Por trás do espelho quem está De olhos fixados nos meus? Alguém que passou por cá E seguiu ao deus-dará Deixando os olhos nos meus. Quem dorme na minha cama, E tenta sonhar meus sonhos? Alguém morreu nesta cama, E lá de longe me chama Misturada nos meus sonhos. Tudo o que faço ou não faço, Outros fizeram assim Daí este meu cansaço De sentir que quanto faço Não é feito só por mim.
I do keep strong memories of the moment I meet a master...
I remember the starting frames of Fellini, I remember the first chapter of Oppenheim. I remember the first glance into Goya, I remember the first page of Belo, I remember the first hour of Fassbinder. It was yesterday.
(250 jours aprés avoir acheté Les Milles Plateaux, este post draft, errado, inconsistente, existente, explicativo, pouco exploratório saiu com alguns traços Deleuzianos. Deleuze que, de tão difícil, nem consigo repetir, como se fosse um poema impossível de decorar, este post é um "oh mar e mar, quantos choros são lágrimas de par em par" de um detalhe do Mil Plateaux)
A teoria de sistemas, por principio holista, prefere os organismos aos mecanismos. Eu não. O ser organismo é tão negativo como o ser sujeito ou o ser significado: os três grandes inimigos do corpo-sem-orgãos do Artaud que o Deleuze usa. Mecanosfera.
Esta é uma das lições mais importantes da filosofia secXX que tenho lido: a visão mecanicista que retira o atributo "vontade" do sistema, isto é, que analisa o sistema como um mecanismo sem vontade. Alguns exemplos fáceis disto são as afirmações que sempre fazemos sobre "os ricos" ou "os professores" ou "o estado" e a facilidade com que atribuímos vontade a essas entidades. A ideia é simples: estas entidades não têm vontade, apenas existe uma miríade de micro mecanismos que levam a que a entidade como um todo se comporte de determinada forma. Micropolitics. Aqui, sobrevalorizar o mecanismo é simplesmente afirmar o reducionismo: a velha soma das partes que dá o todo. Aqui, dizemos que não é a soma das partes que forma o todo mas que são as partes e os seus mecanismos que formam o todo. Partes estas que são formadas por outras partes e outros mecanismos. Sub-mecanismos estes que interagem com outros mecanismos, de outros níveis. Nunca organismos (todos que são mais do que somas das partes). A negação da entidade Luís ou entidade estado. E a afirmação dos mecanismos que os compõem. A afirmação de mecanismos sinápticos, ou mecanismos sociais, ou mecanismos burocráticos, ou mecanismos electro-quimicos, ou mecanismos de circulação de fluidos. A afirmação do mecanismo marcha, ou do mecanismo fronteira mim/mundo.
Uma mecanosfera ou simplesmente mecanismos sem vontade. Mecanismos sem vontade porque não são organismos. É que dizer que os mecanismos não têm vontade, não organismos, equivale também a dizer que, por exemplo, não há organismo/entidade Luís e que os mecanismos que compõem a entidade Luís não têm vontade. Neste caso haveria apenas uma simples ilusão de que os mecanismos de subjectivação (que formam o sujeito Luís) têm vontade, ou objectivo. Não, são apenas mecanismos. Esses mecanismos são essa função. Os mecanismos não têm vontade, os mecanismos SÃO essa vontade. É algo que os compõe.
Se eu Luís te pedir muito para não leres este post, não é o organismo Luís a ter vontade, são os mecanismos que me compõem a agir naturalmente. Eu sou esse pedido. Que se liga ao estruturalismo do "Eu sou o meu discurso" e do "eu não sou a minha voz, sou a voz do sistema" que liga ao "eu não sou, o sistema é" que se trocarmos sistema por mecanismo (trocar estrutura por função, organismo por mecanismo) liga ao "eu não sou, os mecanismos que me compõe são". Por exemplo, eu (organismo inexistente) sou um subproduto do mecanismo de reprodução dos meus genes OU, invertendo, o mecanismo da fala de um jornalista tem como subproduto a comunicação social (organismo inexistente).
Isto tudo para preludiar esta ideia simples do Bourdieu (primeiros dois minutos):
"And indeed, it cannot be denied that the most successful practitioners of the art of life, often unknown people by the way, somehow contrive to synchronize the sixty or seventy different times which beat simultaneously in every normal human system so that when eleven strikes, all the rest chime in unison, and the present is neither a violent disruption nor completely forgotten in the past. Of them we can justly say that they live precisely the sixty-eight or seventy-two years allotted them on the tombstone. Of the rest some we know to be dead though they walk among us; some are not yet born though they go through the forms of life; others are hundreds of years old though they call themselves thirty-six. The true length of a person's life, whatever the "Dictionary of National Biography" may say, is always a matter of dispute. For it is a difficult business--this time-keeping; nothing more quickly disorders it than contact with any of the arts; and it may have been her love of poetry that was to blame for making Orlando lose her shopping list and start home without the sardines, the bath salts, or the boots. Now as she stood with her hand on the door of her motor-car, the present again struck her on the head. Eleven times she was violently assaulted."
"When this happened, Orlando heaved a sigh of relief, lit a cigarette, and puffed for a minute or two in silence. Then she called hesitatingly, as if the person she wanted might not be there, 'Orlando? For if there are (at a venture) seventy-six different times all ticking in the mind at once, how many different people are there not--Heaven help us--all having lodgment at one time or another in the human spirit? Some say two thousand and fifty-two. So that it is the most usual thing in the world for a person to call, directly they are alone, Orlando? (if that is one's name) meaning by that, Come, come! I'm sick to death of this particular self. I want another. Hence, the astonishing changes we see in our friends. But it is not altogether plain sailing, either, for though one may say, as Orlando said (being out in the country and needing another self presumably) Orlando? still the Orlando she needs may not come; these selves of which we are built up, one on top of another, as plates are piled on a waiter's hand, have attachments elsewhere, sympathies, little constitutions and rights of their own, call them what you will (and for many of these things there is no name) so that one will only come if it is raining, another in a room with green curtains, another when Mrs Jones is not there, another if you can promise it a glass of wine--and so on; for everybody can multiply from his own experience the different terms which his different selves have made with him--and some are too wildly ridiculous to be mentioned in print at all.
So Orlando, at the turn by the barn, called 'Orlando?' with a note of interrogation in her voice and waited. Orlando did not come.
'All right then,' Orlando said, with the good humour people practise on these occasions; and tried another. For she had a great variety of selves to call upon, far more than we have been able to find room for, since a biography is considered complete if it merely accounts for six or seven selves, whereas a person may well have as many thousand. Choosing then, only those selves we have found room for, Orlando may now have called on the boy who cut the nigger's head down; the boy who strung it up again; the boy who sat on the hill; the boy who saw the poet; the boy who handed the Queen the bowl of rose water; or she may have called upon the young man who fell in love with Sasha; or upon the Courtier; or upon the Ambassador; or upon the Soldier; or upon the Traveller; or she may have wanted the woman to come to her; the Gipsy; the Fine Lady; the Hermit; the girl in love with life; the Patroness of Letters; the woman who called Mar (meaning hot baths and evening fires) or Shelmerdine (meaning crocuses in autumn woods) or Bonthrop (meaning the death we die daily) or all three together--which meant more things than we have space to write out--all were different and she may have called upon any one of them."
C'est un livre sur la liberté. C'est un livre sur la question "qu'est que c'est la liberté individuel?". C'est un livre qui parle des jeunes qui se sentent vieillir. Le vieillissement et des gents qui se sentent vieillir depuis ces 20 ans et des autres gents qui decouvre, un peu plus tard, que ça vie est lancé.
Mathieu est un type comme moi. 35 ans, quelques voyages, quelques livres, et une jeunesse qu'il sent comme "passé" ou fugitive. Et maintenant? Ses amis sont jeune (20 ans), mais ils sentent l'angoise de la jeunesse que se coule entre les doigts de ses mains.
En plus, il y a des soucis d'argent et... sa petit amie est enceinte par accident. Un avortment? Et plus des aventures, comme le vieux ami comuniste qui veux Mathieu dans le parti. La vie qui passe toujour surprenant et pleine des problemés et passions.
Mathieu (et moi?) est quelqun qui a dejá vu et essayé la vie et maintenant se demande: et alors? On se repete pendant quelques annés et meurt? Il cherche, dans sont existentialisme, une solution, ou peut-être seulement une réponse pour toutes les options qu'il doit prendre: un abortment ou un marriage? Mais il y a une maîtresse Russe avec 20 ans, elle est inviable...
En arrière-plan... l'existence précède l'essence! Dans la fabrique de stylos, il y a des stylos prêt: - l'essence de chaque stylo c'est la idée du designer du stylo, l'essence est le dessin de l'ingénieur. - quand le stylo est prêt, on peut dire que sa essence précède sa existence (une idée de quelqu'un qu'a été concrétisé) C'est le plus petit version de l'existentialisme: noutre existence, au contraire du stylo, précède notre essence. Nous ne sommes pas une idée de quelqu'un: nous sommes notre propre ingénieur. C'est l'existentialisme.
Moi, je ne suis pas un existentialiste, je risquerais qu'on na pas d'essence, mais vous n'aimerez pas cette idée... Je ne suis, j'existe, il n'y a pas d'essence, il n'y a pas des types, chacun de nous est un mutante existentiel, on n'a pas de dessin, de code.
J'utilize Deleuze pour laisser Sartre, qui ma raconté une belle histoire...
I once said viajar é viver but today I see that viver é viajar. Ver os outros de fora, como são, felizes, e assim sorrir. Esquecendo-nos de nós. A vida, ou a felicidade, não são a auto descoberta constante, tão insistida. A vida, ou a felicidade, são este constante e insistente olhar no espelho que são os outros. Espelho partido que tento colar. La joie comme une espèce de colle.
I wish I could go to a portuguese church, listen to someone's prayers, and feel this beauty, this ... exteriority:
"May that Goddess - Bhagavathi - the blessed Saraswathi presiding deity of learning and remover of our lethargy, laziness and ignorance, protect us. She is pure and white like the jasmine, the full moon and the garland like formation of dewdrops. She is dressed in a spotless robe. She has in her hand, the auspicious instrument veena. She is seated on a white lotus. She is the one who is always respected by Brahma the creator, Vishnu the preserver, Shankara the annihilator and other Gods."
Although Amazon tells me I should buy a Kindle, I keep buying paper books. Although I have a passion (the consumeristic me) for my paper books, I will soon try one of these toys. Although Amazon has an incredible website for book search, details, wish lists, and reviews, I buy used books at BetterWorldBooks.com and new books at BookDepository.co.uk (free delivery worldwide).
Have I told you that my next trip will be an overland trip to China? Well, I am not that original. It's just that I like to keep someone else's ideas. I'm not sure if I was responsible for his traveling dreams or if he was responsible for mine. One thing I'm sure, we both inspired each other. He quit his job, he sold all his stuff, and went EAST: Next Stop: Where?
WAIT FOR ME!!! This is Miguel (on the right) and I travelling together somewhere in Malaysia in 2007. The old guy is Mister Universe 1960, ahahaha:
Common Sense (CS) is just like a very limited guy that takes ages to understand and integrate in his body of knowledge what other people say. CS is our knowledge tail, it has an huge historical dimension.
We are still digesting the XXth century. Current CS is still back in the begining of the XXth century. Let's say it is in 1905 with Einstein or maybe in 1915 with Ghandi or Freud.
I wonder how will our current avantgarde become Common Sense. How will Common Sense integrate all this? How will I integrate all this?
Let's see, one page of music, entitled "piano piece for David Tudor":
Composer, Sylvano Bussotti, insisted that the name in the title was not a dedication to the famous avant-garde pianist, but rather an indication of the instrument!
Ao longo de dois anos online, o google (ou o povo) escolheu a melhor página do meu site com 4000 visitas.
É um resumo do capítulo III do GEB: Figura e Fundo
"Imagine you are going to die tomorow, what would you have done differently in your life?" The same basic answer should be ready everyday: "I would not change a single thing of what I have done"
Someone Else's exercise
"You never imagine yourself naked, smelling of formaldehyde, flat on your back in a marble tub, waiting for them to cut open your ribs with a huge pair of scissors?", Lobo Antunes in the New Yorker
"The judges of normality are present everywhere. We are in the society of the teacher-judge, the doctor-judge, the educator-judge, the 'social-worker'-judge; it is on them that the universal reign of the normative is based; and each individual, wherever he may find himself, subjects to it his body, his gestures, his behavior, his aptitudes, his achievements" Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish
It's been quite a while I've been "playing philosophy" with myself and a few bookish friends. Some years have passed without any political ideology revision. After such a long period away from real political life, options, decisions, or even study, the idea came quite naturally... Democracy is obviously not the answer. Democracy is obviously the obvious answer. There is no philosophical answer, so, why would there be a political answer? And democracy is not a non answer. It is not passive. Democracy is an active answer, as active as a despot.
If I'm feeling like a child, there might be an Anarchism that fits my needs. But again, that would be an answer. There is no answer.
I have put my voter card in the trash bin (cartão de eleitor). It's been more than 10 years I have it. I never used it anyway.
Not so out of topic as it may seem:
(free translation) In the court: Judge: Will the defendant please rise. Defendant: You rise, you son of a bitch, I'm innoncent...)
Ando um pouco acima do chão Nesse lugar onde costumam ser atingidos Os pássaros Um pouco acima dos pássaros No lugar onde costumam inclinar-se Para o voo
Estou ligeiramente acima do que morre Nessa encosta onde a palavra é como pão
(Daniel Faria, Explicação...)
E o procurado "Seguir-te não será morrer" sobre Aquiles e Pátroclo.
It's been years that this basic idea follows me. I never knew where I got it.
It's around the idea of Social Neurosis: neurotic behaviours that are not considered sick. Things that are obviously Neurotic but at the same time are part of our way of being "normal". All health professionals will say the same: the different between a Neurosis and what I'm talking about here is the suffering: a real Neurosis always involves suffering.
We are all Neurotic, being neurotic is part of being normal. But some types of Neurosis, some ways of being neurotic are considered a disease. The normal mechanisms are the same as the sick mechanisms, neurotic mechanisms.
The neurotic mechanisms of normality are varied. I just wanted to post Deleuze talking about one of many varieties of this mechanism, the most important variety for him: "In truth, signifiance and interpretosis are the two diseases of the earth or the skin, in other words, humankind's fundamental neurosis.", Mille Plateaux, Deleuze
FOREWORD This post is a variation on Dawkins' Memes and Deleuze's War Machines. Regarding style, this is me trying to imitate Deleuze, without success...
INTRO We should not speak of Darwin's Evolution. We should speak of Darwin's Selection. Calling Evolution to the result of Natural Selection is a BIG mistake.
DEVELOPMENT The definition of "what is Evolution?" is a moral problem. Selection depends on what Criteria you use to make the Selection. In nature, survival of the fittest. In thought, survival of the fittest.
RESULTS IDEAS ARE JUST LIKE US: survivors. IDEAS ARE JUST LIKE US: children of survivors (their parents are older ideas). Rethink Common Sense based on this... In nature, Common Sense is a survival kit. In thought, Common Sense is a group of survivors.
DISCUSSION Do you want to survive? No! Why? In nature, why would I base my entire thinking machine in a survival kit? In thought, why would I care about a group of survivors? Why would I make the BIG mistake of calling Evolution to the Selection of the fittest?
CONCLUSIONS We should not think to survive, we should think to <insert_a_verb_here>. We should diversify the objective of our "thinking machine".
I've seen cathedrals in milan, in koln, in Delhi, in goa, in bangkok, in lima, in paris, in germany, in austria but only the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona makes me feel. The architectural link to my feelings is short. I have been in KL, in London, in Singapore, in Mumbay, in Frankfurt but only in Chicago I felt the architectural link to my feelings (I could probably go to Hong Kong or Tokyo to feel the same). Just as Sagrada Familia, this city's skyscrapers make me feel.
The older I get, the more I love "la Peinture". I could spend hours and hours wondering around the Chicago institute of art. I have to move to a big city to get into this kind of museums regularly. One hour and a half was not enough, but it was enough to discover Breton's Song of the Lark depicting the most beautiful girl I have ever seen ... on canvas.
Chicago means wild onion.
For car lovers, this country is heaven.
The Big Mac tastes exactly the same as in Portugal or France!
The first restaurant I got into, served me the best hamburger I have ever had.
Olho para trás. Olho para a frente. Não festejei o aniversário mas ontem ao adormecer ouvi a Mariana dizer o número 29. Horrível número. A contagem dos números não me interessa. A passagem de ano, o aniversário, contagens irrelevantes.
Eu faço anos quando o fado é cantado. Daqueles espaços de tempo que merecem ser contados.
1. Cheguei à maioridade, e lembro-me desta tomada de consciência como se fosse hoje, no dia em que fiz 17 anos. A 22 de Janeiro de 1997 fez-se luz e fiquei sozinho para sempre.
Antes disto não existe, antes dos 17 anos o agora não existe. Antes dos 17 anos é uma memória, é um passado em si. Aconteceu passado. Como se tivesse nascido aqui e tivesse nascido com memória. Depois deste ponto, há uma memória de um presente. Há um eu que recorda, consciente na medida em que recorda a consciência e recorda a própria recordação.
2. De 1997 a 2002, a Faculdade de Engenharia moldou a minha primeira personalidade dissidente (não minha). Tempos tristes que serviram apenas para agora me poder divertir com empregos fáceis e divertidos (um luxo muito raro para quase todos). Pago, com a quadratura da Engenharia, a facilidade de emprego. O meu eu foi vendido!
3. A idade adulta veio com a emigração em 2002: a descoberta da minha solidão de mãos dadas com a descoberta da minha felicidade. Aqui, eu só, sou eu feliz. O abandono da monotonia portuguesa da infância. A quadratura do sistema interno deixa de suportar uma realidade demasiado flexível. França 2002 e Suíça 2006 são a mesma coisa.
4. O escape viajante de 2007 fechou a minha vida de jovem adulto. Grito, diferença, esquizofrenia, tristeza: o confronto hipersensível com a realidade não significante (como que caído num filme do Paradjanov). Na Primavera de 21 de Março de 2008 (Londres) faço 30 anos.
5. A 30 de Março de 2008 encontro quem me concerta da explosão e me faz voltar à existência.
Há um post em português adiável. O amor É adiável! Sabiam? E o sangue então...
Há esse post em que explico que as lágrimas minhas em português se fazem verter e na casa a carne e na cuspidela e nas mãos vai o meu EU. I am my I, my ME, my MYSELF. Mas em português. Nem em português!
Aquela parte that you'll never understand on the other side of the browser, I mean, of the glass, I mean, on the other side of myself.
Daí o blog estar em inglês. AQUI NÃO SE SANGRA!!!
Sangrar é em português. Ah, maravilhosa esquizofrenia linguística!
Sangrar é sempre do outro lado. Ah, maravilhosa esquizofrenia, se fosse só linguística seria triste.
Sangrar? Só deste lado dos meus olhos e NENHUM POEMA (ah! tristes poetas) É VERMELHO SE A TINTA É PRETA!!!
Não me venham com realidades que eu não sou duas letras e muito menos um corpo!
