Halloween

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A day for witches and sorcerers , ghosts and goblins, skeletons and monsters, all creatures alike are free to roam the Earth on this cursed night, among the humans that so crafty try to imitate them.
This has been my first full incursion in the traditional Halloween, as celebrated in the North America.
For those who have missed the occasion, I must say that it is quite funny, to enter a bar, and be greeted by a cave-woman, who welcomes anyone who respects the dress code – one Halloween costume. I assumed the identity of a underworld creature that waited patiently for this time of the year to mingle with any Earthlings.
For my surprise in a room filled with extraordinary characters, there was already a representative of the underworld, fortunately he was representing the working force, whereas I was a true representative from the cult sect of the darkness overlords on the East End of Hell.
Still, this was a day of truce among all creatures, as such you could witches talking with mermaids, and clowns dancing with bumble bees or even demons and angels greeting each other.
The music was superbly chosen by the devil, even though the 4 Kiss band members that would go utterly mad every time one of their songs was heard from the loud speakers.
The health department was left to the care of a most unique female nurse, and Dr. Phantomas, whose grayish head was quite distinct. Talking about heads, it was interesting to see the Wolfman, with an amazing set of hair covering is face, even though this nice wolf did not bite no one. Neither did the vampires for that matter.
All and all it was a most endearing party where evil and good set their differences aside and had one blast of a evening.
Thanks to the wonderful make up works of M, I managed to get a prize. Not bad for a debutant.
To finish the strange night, I must quote the words of my dear friend Jack Skellington.
“… and I just can’t wait to next Halloween, cause I’ve got some new ideas that will really make them scream, and by god I am ready to give them all my might…”

cocasman@zmail.pt

Thanksgiving

These weary eyes regard the monitor screen with the anxiety of words not yet spoken or written. Still, as a good alien friend would have said it, all works are mere statements of plagiarism among men. As proof of this, I present you the dictionary, and see if all words are not there, ready to convey the ideas that all of you share but only some of you speak of.

Before arriving to this place, I was lying on my borrowed bed, surrounded by hundreds of little colourful eyes in a dual colour bedroom, thinking about the Christian God, and the possibility of being blessed with some sort of explanation, a view of things to come. Perhaps a type of faith that would make realize that indeed I have some sort of fate to accomplish, other than waiting for the next ship to carry me to a pleasant shore.
The times of hurrahs have passed, no more glitter left to show. The theatre screen has long forgotten the shadows of the projection that once spelled my name. The memories of those who might have thought of me as a success, have been quickly replaced by some other allure, something more recent has surely tracked down their interest. No wonder a bill to pay, a new scandal shown on TV or a blood-full newspaper, good for those who like to stare at the accidents on the highway on a cold day, where death left some scars in some families life. These are the memories that we keep, these days, for the voyeur in us speaks loudly than the humanitarian. To see is so much more simple than to help, unless help means, hey get my picture, I am on my current minute of fame.
But enough about this, psycho negativity, that only serve to divert the attention for the moment at hand, my next move.
If A was around, we would certainly take the opportunity to check-mate. It is not easy to show my face to the family and friends that expect higher achievements from me. The grim reality has brought me to this stop-motion style of life, where my animators left the room in search for any plausible sequences that would enrich my character. I am no longer an interesting character, as I stay on pause. It is only the fur that daily grows in me that reminds me there’s a world out there that revolves around a clock and that there is something else worth doing.
The time that I spent within B’s workshop and is fine crew of oompa-loompas that I was a part of, still echoes in my days, making me wonder if there is my place in the motion picture industry where I would be adequate to play a part, or if all my previous work was all but a mere madman’s gift in exchange for some sort of miracle that would help his vision come forth. This good man as many visions and they do come to life, I grant him the true magic of moving people to his cause. Myself, I hold no power over the common mortal. I assumed that I could not motivate even the most common cephalopod to hug a fellow sea creature, using only 2 of its many tentacles. I think I lost half the world with this last remark, as I try to illustrate that I could no more be a leader than I could make the dreams of any mortal come true.
In good defence of positive achievements, I am on my way to becoming a level 8 warrior of the French language, just a few more months and the daily routine of exercises and interactive games within the work group will allow me to surpass my current level.
Will I wake up from this dream someday? Will I be able to smile to the fact that I am not a normal part of society? Will I have realize that this small token of freedom is sponsored by a commitment with a prison of the soul?
I ask of you. Where do you find your motivation to go on fighting for what you believe in? How sure are you of the things you believe? Do you even believe that you are real? Will any existentialist call my hot-line now (1-ANYONEXIST) and prove me that I exist for some sort of reason other than being a lamb for the self-proclaimed social accepted human slaughter?
Where did all my beliefs went this evening?
Today was thanksgiving day. I am thankful that my family, for the most part is ok , somewhere in this world. I am thankful that my friends are enjoying their lives in the way that they see fit. How I envy their enchantment of living for a purpose like a lemming? I am thankful that I do not starve, and I do not endure cold, except on some rather windy mornings, while pedaling my away through Ave. Victoria to reach the French school! I am thankful, that I can hug M everyday and feel alive with this love! I am thankful for the fact that I still think I know what love is! I am thankful that being alive is not over yet, there is so much I have to recover yet, and ahead there are so many possibilities left to explore!I am thankful for …

cocasman@zmail.pt

These times

Introduction - ode to pretentious writing

At times, I wonder why do I write?
Is it to satisfy a plain vanity in me and call for some sort of attention? Perhaps I do it to share a bit of what goes on the maze-brain of Mr. Sousa with all those who care about it.
This time, I write just because the air is good enough to. If you prefer, you can assume I just want to be a bit pretentious, and if this offends you, you might skip these lines.

This morning, I woke up with a calling. Apparently a group of twenty something letters from the alphabet, asked for my undivided attention into the creative process of a blog entry. And so, I play my part...

Act I - What have I been up to?

For the past few months, I have been a helping hand in the wondrous world of wild and strange productions of a certain megalomaniac director/producer/writer/actor/cook/painter and heaven knows what else... even though, I doubt that he would share this information with any sort of divinity that might be lying around with a curiosity twitch.
The experience itself, has been quite hectic and at times, also rewarding as life it self ... Through all this time I had the chance to meet over 100 people from different backgrounds. All of us, worked as a team, trying to find a way of making the visions, that are constantly being created by the imperious leader, become real.
From mindless drone, to hectic screamer and collaborator, I have been given the chance to dream for a while. This is to say, I disconnected myself from the ordinary world and was hoisted to a roller coaster in film making.

Act II - What have I learned?

Although I always gather a strange feeling of nothingness in my life, I have to yield to the fact, that the strange events that I have been exposed for all this time, allowed me to see the world with an improved set of eyes, those of a dreamer. I have discovered that with will, determination and stamina, you can make your dreams come to be.
Alas, this can only come from within, and it is constantly renewed by the desire of improving the quality of the work I want to finish.
In technical terms, I have created a new mind dictionary to express myself about different processes of film making, which are too numerous to account here.
The most meaningful fact I choose to keep as a souvenir, is that we are all but humans, striving to do our best, while holding an invisible shell of pride around us trying to convince others of our greatness, when in fact we are constantly reminding ourselves that we are capable of anything.
This is universally true to anyone within the hierarchy of life, from the third assistant to the Director himself.
We all need to create a sort of illusion that we are in control of everything, at a specific moment in time.

Act III - What does the future hold?

Time to think. Time to envision next projects. Time to build a new shell of belief, that will ultimately assist me in taking any dreams from my brain to a wide screen or a small stage in my room. Whatever will be will be and nothing can be taken for granted! Not as long as the wind blows and changes the fates of great and small.

I will rest for now, knowing that most of you grow weary of my writings and might be pressed to read another email, go to a bathroom, call a friend, argue with a colleague, scream at someone passing by, enjoy a sunset, make love with a beautiful partner… or just be wondering at the enormous potential that the next 5 minutes might bring, if only we learn how to listen what we really want to say.


Epilogue
This second is over, what will you do with the next one?


cocasman@zmail.pt

What to make of it..

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The green mile is on my mind. Tears roll down.
Is it possible that somewhere around the bend there are God’s miracles walking around dressed as people? I do not know what to make of Mr. John Coffey’s character but I tend to agree that people are able of using love to hurt.
How confusing is that to me? Shouldn’t love be used to heal, to help the ones we care to overcome the barriers of their own suffering. How can we be so evil as to pervert such a good gift as love is and convert it into something putrid as hatred…
It is quite simple. I think it all goes back to the ability of turning things around. If in a conscientious fashion we are able to turn a bad moment into a good moment by applying reason into it, then I guess that a good moment can be easily turned into a bad moment by using emotion.
If only reality was only a figure of our imagination and all these bad things that occur repeatedly in our lives mere echoes of hidden shadows of our dreams, then the world would be safe to be as it should be without our intelligent interference or our emotional interference to make it so shallow and empty as every second that we are in it passes by.
Yet, in our behalf I can say this, our presence here is as necessary as the colours in the world, the sounds of the universe, the life in the day. We can be better than worse, if only we would commit ourselves to letting our emotions being used for expression of good rather than the suffocation of bad.
I look at myself in any given mirror and I feel ashamed for the person that I have become.
I read the time that others dedicated to me in the shape of words and I feel proud of me.
In many moments of my life, I wished that I was a John Coffey, with the ability to touch people and let my love be a healing strength to them. I guess that in my heart I can indulge myself with wishful thinking, while in my daily life I resign myself to my common self.
Nevertheless, I prefer to dream of better moments in time, where the spirit of such a miracle can exist in each and every one of us, where the power of a moment of inspiration can be enough to provide man with the ability to achieve greatness or more important, in one split second each of us has the choice to reach for the person next to us, a stranger, a friend, a lover, a parent, another, and just let the wave of love spin the person into his or her track of love.
In me and in you, lies some sort of love that will make mends in the hearts of true friends (old ones and those that are yet to be).

cocasman@zmail.pt

I’ve got the World on a String…

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What would you do, if you were given the chance to construct your own world?
What wonders would you dare to create and what horrors would you keep away from your newest reality?

A new age as come for me, a time of awakening, where I realize that this gift was always there, waiting in the sun's zenith, waiting to be used.
My world, my life... they are what I make of it, no matter what lies further ahead or what passed just a few seconds or eons ago. I am living with what I choose. Granted, that my choices are not always the most smart, still, I do get a stroke of luck every now and then, when the moon is just right, winking at me with a grin.
Last December, I was taken by surprise by a chain of events. I had a need. A need to be busy, to have myself committed to some work. A work that needed me.
I found a man, who led me to his group of builders. I believe that they are in the business of constructing dreams. They do not know it yet, because they do it in their own pace and do it for themselves. Others like me are caught in the tide of creation and are swept away towards the whirlpool of the moment.
I was taken to their creative lair, just there, in the border of twilight, where my phone tells me that two countries exist at the same time. A phone is unable to lie on it's own and so he conveys by the roaming symbol flashing on and off the existence of another place.
Still the creation of dreams happens anywhere, as long as somebody is there to create them.
It is good to follow dreams every now and then, and it is good to have people who support me in my quest for them.
I have M.
M is my dream within a dream, a selfless being whose objectives lie in the satisfaction of others. I am the other whose satisfaction she sees fit.
It is good to have the leverage of destiny forcing our desires, forging them in a reality.
10 years ago I ambitioned working in the film industry. However my wish was quite disputed by the lack of proof of my judgment. And so, my insecurity guide me in my choices, these led to my actions that now in this time complete the cycle of wanting (without believing. I am now faced with the option of succeeding in what I once believed but had no will to fulfill.
So today I begin the cycle of wanting and belief, and so I can sing:
I've got the world in a string, and I can move it with a touch of my ring.
Translation to the feeble minds that are too occupied with their everyday worries.

I am working on my life toward my wishes. I meet psychics, arrogant directors, wonderers of some sort, ordinary people, dreamers, common mirror reflexions, I even meet you.
Alas, I meet myself and I realize, that I can tap into my shoulder and lend a piece of advice. With it, I dare to go there, where the dreams lie and wait. Where the pencil is placed convientely to write this story; or where the brush awaits to paint the colorful scenary of my days, or to gather friends (old and new) in the most unusual places.

I've got the world in a string, my world, my dream, my string.


cocasman@zmail.pt

Going Back

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The signals for departure had been given, despite the light drizzle that was falling on the plane at the evening. John was grabbing the printed email, with all the emotion that the words written allowed him to have. The news came totally unexpectedly for him, just the morning before. A few lines from his sister telling him, that their father was terminally ill, and that he was calling for him.
It had been almost two years since the last time he had talked to his father. A discussion about the decision to move abroad looking for some sort of meaning, seemed careless in the eyes of his father. However John had a strong feeling in him, a calling of some sort, that impelled him to move away from all his friends, family, loved ones. The need to know himself, to find his place was paramount at that stage.
After he left, the contacts frequency occurred daily during the first weeks, then after some adjustment the news started to come only twice a week, and after that he would just call every fortnight. Eventually one day, communication ceased from both sides, naturally as the routine’s events took place of the thought of who was far. In John’s mind it would be easier to evolve without attachments, worries of some sort, he knew that his path had to lead him away from the family we always knew.
The stewardess came by to ask John to tight is seat belt, however the thoughts were louder in his head than any other colourful action happening around him. Finally, the stewardess touched him to remind him to buckle up is safety belt. In silence, he complied will staring at the words “terminally ill”.
Is mind wondered off to a moment of his childhood.
He was 10, and it was night, as it happened so often, John was watching with his father a late night movie. However, this one was reaching out to the emotions related to death, like no other had done up to then. The story was about an island that had a volcano, that had start it’s activity, killing many people that lived in villages scattered through the island. In the last moments of the movie, the few people that remained were desperately trying to reach the coast of the island, where the last ship would take them to refuge. The main character of the movie, sacrificed himself, so that the group could pass over a fragile bridge, it was necessary for someone to stay behind to insure that the resistance of the bridge. Everybody passed, except that brave person, who eventually was burned by the lava that approached the bridge just at the moment where the last member of the group made it safely across it.
John’s heart was tight, he could not understand the disappearance of the brave man. What was to be of him? Why was he suffering?. A powerful tear eventually came out, followed by a few others, that translated the uneasiness of his feelings.
John? – is father asked, as he looked at him – Are you crying?
Yes. I am sad.
But it is only a movie, the actors do not die. It is only a fictitious story based on events, that did not took place like this.
Dad. What happens to people when they die? – John’s tearful emotion made his voice sound even more sweet.
Well, their bodies are buried, and their soul goes to meet the Maker.
The Maker? – John’s interest stopped the tears, and he cleaned the few that remained in his cheek using the sleeve of his pyjama.
God. Who is everywhere, with all the other souls of people long gone.
How do you know?
Well, I was taught to believe so by my mother, and I would like to think that despite were body stayed here on Earth, buried in a nice old cemetery, were soul is somewhere up there keeping the good Creator company.
Does everybody have to be buried to go see the Maker?
No, some cultures prefer to have their dead people burned, and scatter the ashes through the fields. They believe that they would give back to the Earth a bit of what the person was, what he or she meant.
Are you afraid to die, one day?
His father stopped for a moment, looked to the TV, meanwhile the movie was over, and he started flipping through the channels. Still 10 year old John had is curiosity going for him and insisted:
Dad?
Yes, John! – looking back at him
Are you afraid to die?
Well, ever since I am here, I have never seen anybody lived over 120, so I think that eventually, I will have to die. But, I am not afraid to die, because I believe one the day that I die, I will see my Mother again.
But, do you want to be buried or burned?
Neither – his father replied with a giggle. – Instead, you can just get a big broom and just put me remains somewhere under the carpet… eheh

Another slight touch, brought John back to the present, it was the person next to John, calling his attention to the same stewardess, who now was carrying a cart with a variety of newspapers and magazines.
Would you like a magazine or a newspaper, sir?
No, thank you – replied John, then closing his eyes and turning his head to the window. The plane had already taken off and the rain had stopped, after the plane had crossed the first clouds.
His conscience was heavy on him, the feeling of guilt, isolated him from the world, for a split moment John was alone, gazing upon the despair of his soul. The tears followed each other’s trails spaced, each carrying the guilt of the memories that he had lost from the last years. The pride carried him for the pit of his worse thoughts. Keeping his eyes closed he wondered, upon the reaction of his family, who had not heard from him for months and had not seen him from years.
John’s imagination was running wild, carrying a mix of images that were too strange for the standards of modern society. Still, John felt that the judgment of his brothers, would be similar to that of those in practice in the days of the Spanish Inquisition.
- Would the defendant state is name for the Noble representative of our beloved Church? – a dried voice spoke at him.
John imagined opening his eyes and stared at a member of the Holy inquisition. The place was truly awful in appearance, however all the faces were familiar. He was standing on a wooden pulpit at lower height, while a panel of judges, whose face resembled that of his own brothers were staring at him. The voice that spoke to him, belonged to a man who had been his Math teacher in the University. All the people attending the judgment were people that John had met during the past 30 years, all wearing the proper clothing of the Dark Ages, dirty rags and scratched pieces of colourless clothes.
Are you deaf? – the man shouted back at him
Pardon? – John was baffled
Your name, state your name, sinner!
Sinner, me?
Silence. – the man slapped him and added – sinners will engage no conversation of any sort, it will only speak to answer the questions of our honour the members of the Holy Inquisition. So I ask again, What is your name?
John Phillip.
John Phillip you are here by notified that you are under judgment under the eyes of God, for your sin, of coldness disregard to your community, hence limiting your time to the actions of the devil – the man had a tedious voice, just as John remembered from his old Math teacher.
The devil? – John inquired.
Silence – shouted the man again, slapping him two times – if you keep ignoring the rules of this court, your hearing will be summary with a guilty verdict to be sure.
Meaning? – John challenged the man again
Meaning that you will be burned in the stake to purge you from your evil actions, and allow your soul to sail back to the heavens.
Burn him – the crowd shouted.
The court house was dark and smelly place, lighted by a few candles scattered through the brownish walls. This enhanced the weariness of the folks assisting the Inquisition’s trial. Despite the familiarity of the people’s faces, their appearance with wear out clothes and filthy skins, John was feeling worse by the minute.
- The prosecution may begin – said the main judge, oddly represented by a child. John knew him, but he could not quite identify him.
- You are Jonathan Phillip Livingston? – the prosecutor started, looking like is own brother.
Yes, I am.
Son of Gabriel Livingston and Susannah Walker.
Yes.
Do you know why you are we?
No, I do not!
You are guilty of killing your father by neglect of care.
WHAT? – John screamed – My father is not dead!
Your father died when he needed your assistance, but your pride, your feeling of superiority led you to ignore all that was going around you. You Jonathan Livingston are cold man with a cold heart, whose true interests lie in the dark forces of evil, that take through paths of sloth. You will pay for these crimes
Wait, I can explain – John replied
A sudden bell, brought John back to reality, the plane was approaching the airport, the stewardess was calling John’s attention for the position of his seat and to the belt that was not tied.
The strange nature of the dream left John with a heavier conscience than ever before. All his feelings were telling him that this return home, was going to be even worth than whatever he anticipated.
Upon arrival, John proceed to baggage claims and passed through customs without any worries, his passport was still valid for a few more weeks.
John decided to tell no one about the exact time of his arrival, so that he could choose the right time to face the judging family. A friend of him had told him good things about an hotel called Orion, where he had stayed just a few months before, while visiting John’s home country.
After waiting for his turn for a cab, John talked for the first time in his mother language to the cab driver, asking him to take him to Hotel Orion close to the downtown.
The cab driver engaged John in some casual conversation that helped John take his mind away from worries:
You know that the Hotel Orion is no longer called Orion?
Really? – John inquired
No, they changed the name to Eden Hotel, apparently the management changed a few months ago. I know this because my wife works there as a cook, you know.
Indeed?
Yes. The rich getting richer by buying more and more, and selling it more expensive for anyone that wants to have a crack at a business. This country is a shame, it’s all the government’s fault. They are all the same.
I have heard that there is going to be elections soon.
Yeah! Apparently, the President did not like the discomfort that was happening in the Prime-minister cabinet, with so many members asking to resign. I think the last drop came when the latest minister appointed for office, ask for resignation 4 days after he took the job. The newspapers say it was a stab in the back for the Prime-minister, but I think they are all corrupt anyways, so screw them.
I guess, it is the sign of the times on us.
The conversation continued over some general topics, while the cab passed through streets that are very familiar, though slightly altered, with new advertising. Some trees had been completely remove from some streets, to give place to make park to even more cars to park in the already overcrowded avenues of his home city. Some buildings looked younger, do to some restyling and some work put into them, while others seem older exhibiting the passage of time in its walls, windows and balconies.
The cab eventually arrived to the Eden Hotel as stated by the new signs on the front of the building. The cab driver, helped John with his luggage, and was rewarded with an extra tip for his help, grateful saying farewell to him while adding.
I am going to give you my card, if you need any special services, call this number, I might take anywhere, even back to the airport if you need to. My wife is called Anita, I will talk to her about you Mr.?
Livingston.
You can be assured, that you will be in good hands. I hope your enjoy is stay. I hope you are not too late for today!
Excuse me – John was intrigued by the Man’s speech.
I’m sorry, I must leave, I’m double parked you see. Take care now. You hear! – The cab driver left in quite some strange worry.
John did not knew exactly what to make about all that conversation about lateness. After all John did not mention to any one the exact day of his arrival. No one was counting on him for today.
Those thoughts dissipated while John was checking in at the hotel.
The lounge of the hotel was quite pleasing, having a great width and length, it gave a sense of importance to anyone that was staying there. The number of people moving from on place to the next, gave John a sense of dynamic to the place, feeling that among all those people, guests and workers he would be as incognito as incognito could be.
The concierge asked for John to sign the hotel register sheet, this one looked at him and ask:
Excuse me, are you Mr. John Livingston?
Yes.
Well, I have a package for you. It was delivered not so long ago. Unfortunately, the gentleman who left the package for you left no contact.
John was intrigued. A package for him! How could that be? No one knew that he was staying there, actually no one knew that he was arriving on that specific day.
After completing all the formalities of checking in and being guided through the network of hallways and corridors of the hotel to his room, John took a bottle of fresh water from the mini-bar and drunk it completely.
With his thirst relieved, John turned back his attention to the mysterious package that has left by a stranger.
The package was wrapped with a yellow paper that had bubbles. It was shaped as an envelope baring only John’s name in the front. John open the package, inside was some pictures of John as a very young child, in a kindergarten, playing outside close to some slides and swings. He had never seen this pictures before, they were probably taken when he was 3 or 4. Behind one of them John read in a unfamiliar hand writing James at 4 years old.
Attached to one of the pictures was a small card with a message written into it:
It is important that we talk today, your past is not what you think. Meet me at 9 pm, Café Republika. I will recognize you, signed F.
John sits on the ledge of the bed and looks to back of the pictures. They were reminiscent of a vision that had been taunting him for many years. Something that he never quite understand what it was. Jonh always assumed it as a dream of some sort. However the recollections were so vivid of it, that when he remembers this vision, this dream, he has the feeling that it was an awake dream that he had. John focus on one of the pictures, while stretching on the bed. The picture brings back the memories of that awaken dream.
In that dream he was young, quite young, probably as old as the boy in those pictures. The first image that he remembers was the heavens above. The soft clouds, shaped in many forms under a big blue sky, sometime close to noon. He was lying down in some park. The park was surrounded by buildings, having a street around it. He was not alone in the park. The first sounds that accompanied the imagery are those of children laughing and playing in the park.
Jonh raises himself, but remains sited while noticing that he is also in the playground area of the park. All seems quite peaceful with the gentle breeze in that spring day vision. Suddenly, something change, a certain noise comes, and all the children start to run. John follows the children, having no other reason than his instinct to back him up as an excuse.
They all run from the playground area towards the limits of the park that only have some fences, that the kids easily jump, one by one. Leaving the park behind they begin a frenetic run through the streets, crossing to the left and right of several streets indiscriminately. In his vision, John sees all this in a kind of slow motion flash, while repeating the same movements of the children, following them wherever they might all be going.
Eventually, they reach another park, with no playground, just benches and grass, with a small hill in the middle of it. On the top of it there was a open door, shinning. In the doorstep there was a figure, impossible to recognize due to the strength of the glow that was coming from the door just behind.
The figure seemed to be a middle age male with a bear. The figure was still looking at the children that were running toward him.
John saw the children run one by one towards the door and the man in front of it, as himself was following them to a similar fate.
The children kept on running towards the door, passing the man and eventually disappearing inside of it. John was the last one that approach the silhouette standing, still, unlike all the others that run directly inside the door ignoring the quiet-man in front of it, John stopped in front of him, raising his head to look at his face, still the light was still too bright blinding him. The man stretched his arm to John, and took John’s hand, then both, willingly, enter.
A white noise was heard, and all became dark. John was on the ledge of a roof on a neighbouring building close to his childhood house. John jumped from the building straight to the floor, and just before he reached it, another noise, and this time John woke up from his sleep, realizing that someone was knocking on the door.
It was a woman, a member from the staff.
I am sorry to bother you, my husband just call, I am Anita, the wife of the cab driver who just brought you. I am just warning you that there are no coincidences.
Excuse me!!! – John was not understanding what she wanted to say.
Meanwhile, some guests were passing behind her and she added:
I am just telling you that if you need anything it at all from the kitchen, you can call me at room services, ask for Anita. I must go now. – and she walked fast away from his room and disappeared over the corner of the corridor.

(to be continued)



cocasman@zmail.pt

Shit in… shit out

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In each night I realise that, I slowly let my brain melt a little each day with somebody else’s message carried by the cathode ray tube, that shines behind the view screen in a borrowed living room.
Not a easy thing to live everyday exchanging some words in trade for some food and shelter, or kindness. Where is my kindness?
I think I left it on top of the refrigerator, on a house I once lived. It was quite cold close to that refrigerator.
Colder than the refrigerator itself!
One might think that the purpose of the refrigerator, in the former mentioned mansion was to keep the shadows of the walls from freezing to death, in such an inauspicious environment.
I am not going back there to get it. My self-esteem is also trapped there, somewhere, once some chapter of the past where all was an illusion in the hall of mirrors.
So, I wonder now, in the land of the mortals, who, like myself prey on the souls of those who seek for attention, whose thirst is relieved by sharing a shoulder, a smile and just a few hours of sincere comprehension.
The disease of attention spreads quickly, if one forgets that the road goes both ways, and that what comes in, must go out somewhere.
It is like that process I learn in audio school. You can only improve so much, even with all that machinery at your disposal, there is not a voice enhancer that will make any Joe be an ultimate superstar. Shit in… shit out… they say, the machine can only boost whatever crap you feed into.
And so is life. If for a life a person is fed crap in the form of sentences, we should not expect that the finest heir to Shakespeare thrown is right there, ready to be. We better expect him, not to be.
I have been eating the cathode ray matter for so long, that I can already be the shit spitter. My goodness, I should be careful, or I might be the living proof of such urban legend as the own of the shitty boy, whose head is full of shit. The two possibilities in the legend were, either a fly will enter, or shit will come out thru the hole that was once called mouth.
Disgusting, I hear your skulls shouting. Indeed, it is disgusting.
Do I have any potential than not to complain about life and write about it, sporadically, as if I was a worthy writer?
Who wants to read the words of someone who complains?
Hell, I sure do not. That is why I put them here, so that they live my brain alone, and that if I might see them again, I can feel relieved that the shit the was in, is now out.
I guess I have been enduring with lots of this.
Time to do something about it.
May be a stroll to the bathroom of the mind, where one can purify the thought channels from such revolt.
If only it was as simple as wishful thinking.

cocasman@zmail.pt