#1
Each cigarette costs me 30 cents. Only if each word just costed me that much. Only if I was paid 30 cents for every word I have ever written. But, tomorrow, I’m pretty sure I will have forgotten every word and every cigarette. And I will need more words and more cigarettes.

#2
Cigarettes are on fire. But, most of the time, they only cause internal damage.

#3
The end? Nah, too much unfinished business. Too much stuff would have to be undone.
#4
What if home is not home anymore? Then…what would I call this twilight zone, if I can’t call it “ homesickness” anymore?
#5
The first one was all about Cuba Libres, cold meds, and Dive Bars. And, going home together by the end of the night.
#6
The second and third ones… well, one was too much like me. Too dangerously, crazily and passionately like me.
#7
The other one was the change I though I wanted. It was playing at growing up. Just in the completely wrong direction.
#8
The fourth? Well, I’m just a 13 year old boy, really.
#9
Let me tell you about the Greeks. They were right- life is all about love and death.
#10
What’s the price of meat? What’s your “ mate value” , mate?
#11
I really just want to play with my food. Have it at my mercy (with a safe word, of course). Badly. Now. Slam-bang-thank you…sir. The Greeks were right, you know.
#12
I want to go to Patagonia(or Zimbabuwe). Raise sheep, and be friends with the King. Have whoever I want, wherever I chose. Be whoever I want, whenever I chose. And then die of an illness contracted in Mesopotamia.
#13
Sometimes I miss those days where I just didn’t feel anything. When I was just this tiny blob of thoughts floating in a surreal mix of reality.
#14.
But now, I have a body. And connections to people- and I often wonder if those other people aren’t just blobs of thoughts trapped into flesh too.
#15
Oh, people.
#16
I know going back is not the solution. And It’s probably not even an option. Just because I don’t want it to be one.
#17s
But it would have been easier. Two years ago. Go repression!
#18
And I listen to Bossa. And I want to throw bombs and rob banks, and make the Revolution happen.
#19
My revolution. My gender/anti-oppression/whatever-have-you revolution. Don’t worry, we would have green coconuts and clap to the sunset…when it was all said and done.
#20
And we all would live happily...wait, did I mention the Greeks?


(Walking home from TDOR. After hearing Brazil being mentioned a lot- transphobic crimes, of course. And, hearing an amazing speech about refugees claimants who are trans. That sort of speeches are totally not fair!)

Tags: creative writing

I actually "fringed" this year! And by that I mean I saw more than 1 or 2 plays (Yey for volunteering and its perks- like a volunteer pass). Here are my humble reviews.

DISCLAIMER: If you came across this entry from google/facebook- and were involved in one of these productions...remember: I'm just a picky drama geek who sees way too many plays for my own good. No, I probably can't do better than you did(and , really, congratulations for having a play on the Fringe)



Buffy shadow cast (Once more with feeling episode): I just love the ‘decadence’ of the bloor cinema- which generally go well with shadow casts. No, I’m not saying that shadow casts are inherently decadent…it is just one of those unconscious (and strong) associations. Perfect timing/tuning/pace(and transitions). Plus jokes/humour. C’mon, anyone who has dabbled into drag knows that mixing lip-synching with acting…and throwing in a bit of humour/jokes…is no small feat. Should I say the 12 years old Spike (Nathan Wilson) stole the show- or would that make me lose a few friends and do irreparable damage to the kid’s ego? But, really, the whole cast was FANTASTIC!

Address to the jury: Monologue. A man convicted of murdering his wife and little daughter tells(and convinces) audience that he is innocent. Great text, good actor, not-so-good pace.

Charles Manson and Timothy Leary at Folsom Prison: Based on real events. One of the “fathers” of the hippie “movement” (Leary) has a conversation with the man who, in a way, shattered a whole generation dream of peace, Love and…drugs(Manson). Their cells are separated by a wall- the conversation happens through the ventilation tubes. Therefore, the actors have no real eye or body contact (great acting, by the way). The characterization of Manson reminded me of Vicious(a trickster character I played). Amazing play.

Fucking Stephen Harper: Fictional story of how a newbie (gay) journalist tried to interview Harper. Quiet comedy (not the LOL type, not for me anyway). The pace was a bit off. But quite good...

The importance of being Ernest: I just went to see this because I have read the play quite a few times but never saw it on stage/film. I was not impressed. At least the British accents were not fake like the terrible mustaches the all-female cast used. Also, it disappointed me that it seemed to be no 'analysis", comments or 'processing' of the fact that all the male characters were played by female actors(or am I just too deep into gender theory here?)

The Laramie project: Good. Touching. The actors were good/ok- but had a tendency to over-act at some points. Very simple staging. If you haven’t seen The Laramie project on stage, please do, it’s a totally different experience from the movie (duh!). One thing that struck me was that every actor probably played sympathetic/non-homophobic and homophobic characters with not a lot of transition time - which is somewhat impressive.

The Particulars: Amazing! Fantastic realism meets "as good as it gets". The story(monologue) of a young yuppie man trapped into a meticulous(and ridiculous) routine. Until he hears scratching behind the walls of his apartment- something is trapped (and, of course) he is a vegan). The actor narrates it in 3rd person, which reminded me of (Russian?)short stories- and made my brain hurt from all the possibilities this (monologues that sound like short stories) opened up for me as a writer(how pretentious of me!). The movement is not quite naturalistic, but it is very well tuned, and fits perfectly in the atmosphere of the play.

Politically correct bedtime stories: F* amazing. I always loved kids’ theater-but at some point the plays just became too dumb. This was like going back to my first theater experiences...just with part of my adult(and cynical/jaded) brain intact. Basically, the retelling of a few fairytales...from a politically correct point of view. Even though that's a cliché in itself, the play worked all the commonplace (theater/circus gags, kids theater and the fairytales) in its favor.

Wearville Waltz: "Old" man recounts his high school love experiences as a poor (trailer "trash"), tiny teenager in small town America. Obviously, I was not the targeted audience. But the actor (Randy Rutherford) is an amazing storyteller. This show made me crave a bloody steak, a bonfire, trains and country music oldies.

Tags: media responses
Current Mood: artistic

1- The definitions of: binnacle, barnacle, Chimera, Leviathan and steam punk. And the social/political implications of the word “Pirate”. “ Living challenged”, “ Living impaired” and “ the person who was formerly known as alive” are the P.C ways of referring to a ghost.

2- How to be a better luscious (or a damned leech), irritating, vicious person.

3- How to make something that resembled a mix of codpiece, leather harness, and chastity/I can’t pee belt. Made of safety pins, an “honest ed’s garden” chain, and a leather…never mind!

4- Other cast members probably learned: (a bit of) stage fight with the fakest plastic swords ever, synchronized swimming on a very dry stage, the “right” way of carrying a person over your shoulders, and (a bit of) contact dance.

5- Back stories, complicated family/relationship trees and slash fiction are a great distraction for idle moments(or for when you just don’t want to learn your lines).

6- A night in Jail and Hate/love relationships (can) make repressed sexual tensions sky-rocket. Not to mention a funny scene.

7- Maps can be highly customizable items. There is something between the land and the air.

8- English accents can be hot. And contagious. And lead to a double personality.

9- Back stage is (still) a very interesting place: Topless haircuts, people sleeping, people lypsynching, cuddling, crying and hugs, a complex prop table, hat and ghostly poncho that moved by themselves( I swear!), overhearing conversations that turned out to be scenes from the play. Etc etc etc

10- We should get a prize for being the most accident and sickness prone crew:
- My “beloved” ghostly poncho wanted to kill me! (slippery material, I almost feel/tripped/was dropped a few times)
- 1 serious fall
- 2 surgeries in the last three before weeks of the play.
- One bad ankle acting out
- One pulled groin
- At least two serious colds.
- One burned finger
- One swollen hand
- Various wardrobe malfunctions
- Plastic and certain spray paints simply don't go together.

Favourite Lines of wisdom: “We must accept change- it’s in the job description” , “ Families are not always made of blood”, “may you find your own adventures, your own way through: , “No one returns to what they have already left behind” , “To come together and come undone”, “the grime that comes from being young”, “Many ppl believe there is only one soul for each living body. I believe there are two”, “ Queer kid needs to go home eventually”.

Favourite funny lines (not in the play): To sails! , Do I send electric shocks down your pants?, No inappropriate touching! , Time is funny that way.

And a very special mention to the "Time dance".

Tags: things i learned from....

Chris sneezed.
“Damn Mold! I really need to look for a proper place to live” , he thought before getting up. It was close to four o’clock when he chained the doors of the mausoleum shut.

He heard the screeching of the tires of a car. “ She is at it again”, he thought, “ I’ll have to talk to her”.

He walked through the old part of the cemetery. Gravestones were supposed to last- the ultimate (and maybe) only palpable proof of someone’s existence. However, some of the markers were illegible and a lot of them had just disintegrated. Nothing and no one lasts forever.

The young woman had taken her shoes off, and was sitting on a tombstone. She was wearing a pale blue dress that reached her ankles. Blond hair, with a rose on it. She was quite a beauty, Chris had to admit.

“Anne, we need to talk.”, said Chris.
“ Oh, Christopher. I’m so sorry. I just couldn’t miss tonight’s barn dance”, said the woman.
“They are called ‘raves’ nowadays”
“I love dancing. Even though, I can never figure out where the music comes from.”
“Anne, you can’t keep doing this. ”
“Then, this gentleman offered me a ride home”
“And, you just vanished when he passed the cemetery. He almost hit his car, for god’s sake! I heard the screeching tires all the way up in the mausoleum. “
“I’m terribly sorry , Chris. He is all right, I saw him driving away.”
“You do know that if one of your gentlemen dies, I will have to get you to move on, right?”
“My gentlemen? Oh Chris, what do you think I am?”
“Or that. If you finally decide to pop your ghostly cherry, I’ll have to exorcise you as well. “
“I thought a girl was allowed to go dancing and have some fun nowadays.“
“ Yes, Anne. Just don’t kill anyone, or turn into a succubus, ok? And, why are you still hanging around anyway?”
“I just really like dancing. Good night, Mr. Cruz. “

Anne disappeared. She was hot- Christopher Cruz wouldn’t mind popping her ghostly cherry himself. And, that wouldn’t make her a succubus either, since neither of them was technically human anymore.


“Triple Grande Sugar Free Vanilla Latte” – said Christopher, trying not to sneeze.

Why people paid almost 6 bucks for an impossibly large cup of “ sugar free” rotting stuff was beyond Chris. But, being a barista was what paid his rent- well, when he got a decent place to live and had to pay rent, that’s how he would be expending his salary…not on insanely huge amounts of f* posh coffee. His shift was over, thanks god.

The late afternoon fresh air brought some sanity back to Chris. No, they didn’t really use rotting milk in the coffee shop. It just smelled like that to him.

Chris had to hurry, unless he wanted to be late for his appointment in the hospital. He put his purple volunteer vest on, and got inside. An old lady asked him for directions to the cardiology ward, and he took her there. Then, he made his way to the basement of the old wing.

The place was a maze. It used to be a research lab, that means a lot of really small rooms and long corridors. He opened a few locked doors (with a key). Also, there were old equipment, paper and even samples in formaldehyde everywhere. He knocked on a door.

Lazar opened the door, saw Chris, closed it, unbolted the five chains, and invited Chris in. Lazar was tall and very pale. Shoulder length dark brown hair lazily tied back. Permanent five o’clock shadow and dark bags under his (brown) eyes. His smock, which had acquired a yellow hue, had suspiciously (fresher) red stains.

“Good, you ate already. “ – said Chris.
“ Not really. I was just working on the experiment” – replied Lazar
“ Do you know how hard it is to catch all these squirrels? And then, you go and use them in your experiments, instead of feeding on them. “
“I got caught up in the excitement, and…”
“Forgot to eat. Great- I have an anorexic vampire as my mentor!”
“Don’t be upset. I’ll eat.”

Chris watched Lazar feed on the squirrels- making sure he sucked all the little pests dry. He thought that Lazar really was a great mentor. A passionate scientist too. And, an incredible man.

“So, we haven’t gone out in a while.” – said Chris, realizing immediately how whinny it sounded.
“ I miss it.” – said Chris, trying to backtrack and blushing furiously.
“ I mean, are we doing stuff tonight?”- said Chris, almost kicking himself as soon as he said it.
“Let’s go out and kill something” – said Chris with relief.
“Because that’s the manly thing to do, I suppose? - said Lazar, with a triumphant snicker.
“Really. It’s very hot…The night, I mean. I can’t stand another night inside. “ – replied Chris.
“Young grasshopper could memorize his lessons in the park. But no killing.” – agreed Lazar.

Tags: creative writing

When I was a teenager, I used to go to these dive bar(s) in São Paulo. You had to know what you were looking for and what you were getting into. Nothing fancy- just a door on dark side streets, no signs; just big smoky rooms, really.

Good music blasting. Dancing as I like it- sweaty with a lot of head banging. People smoking (the taste of tobacco reminds me of my first kisses). Getting quite drunk/high: Cuba Livres that would evolve into straight vodka as the night progressed (that was before I discovered vodka coolers). Trying (and learning) to pee standing up.

Adrenaline rush from flirting. Being taken as a guy by gay boys- and being introduced to their dyke friends if the “mistake” needed “correcting”. Making out with a few people. Voyeuristic excursions to the back/dark room. Unissex dirty washrooms.

The subway started running again at 4:40 am. The drag queen make up was melting by then. More lights were on. The floor was so sticky I could barely move my feet. And, the air outside smelled so healthy it made me sick. Those were my clues to pay my bill, which usually involved fishing for money inside my combat boots.

Once I got used to the sickly fresh air and my ears stopped going “tunts!tunts!tuns!”, then I would look to my side…and see her. She: my friend who was a girl, and who I was (surprisingly) fucking. She, who also just had an awesome night. She who was choosing to come with me- despite of my despicable state. She who I was choosing to leave with- despite whatever and whoever happened at the bar. And, looking at her was just like seeing her for the first time again.

The sun would be coming up. The smell of freshly baked bread. And I still think this is one of my definitions of happiness.

Tags: snipets of life

I just watched “Blindness”, after months of postponing(as I do with most movies).

I loved the book (by José Saramago). It’s the sort of story that I want to write. It is pure magical realism goodness. People start to inexplicably go blind (the magical part); and the social order begin to crumble (the realism part). By “realism” (actually “naturalism”) I mean the XIX century literary style- where people and life are depicted as “they are”, often in “man- eat- man” hopeless scenarios. Basically, naturalism preaches that we are all the product of our environment and circumstances (and that it’s very hard to break free from them).

The movie is a pretty good adaptation of the book. I can’t vouch for the English translation, but the book is still better than the movie (of course). Some of it was filmed in São Paulo( my hometown), and it’s always fun to see my city.

I read the IMDB page (and forums) on the movie. Big mistake.

See, “Blindness” is definitely not a sci-fic north-american movie. There are no big heroes. The “good/normal” people are just trying to survive with a bit of humanity, and that means keeping your head down. The “bad people” are just taking advantage of the situation, and were probably used to violence before they went blind. The “good” characters do react, but not in a “Hollywood style”- it’s more the calm/quiet heroic acts we probably see in “real life”

It’s awesome to think that YOU would do things differently- like characters do in every other Hollywood movie. But let’s face it…if you are not a violent person (or never used violence), you probably wouldn’t rock the boat if you had any other option- not at the first moment anyway. You would take a while to realize that everything you learned don’t apply anymore, and let other fears go. And yes, like it happened in this movie, after a while the “man-eat- man” scenario would take its toll…and you probably would snap. But even then, it wouldn’t be a big dramatic heroic action.

Reading the IMDB boards also made me realize that a lot of things that people perceive as plot holes, are actually not. Viewers are just used to “neat” movies, where everything is explained to them(somehow post apocalypse scenarios are totally understandable, but people turning blind overnight is not). We know what happens to each character by the end of the movie. And, the story begins and ends when the movie begins and ends- and everything happens on camera.

It also amazed me how many people still believe that people would keep their humanity in no matter what situation. Or would just go on a rampage, even if that has never been their nature. And that the government will always be there to intervene and protect its citizens.

God, now I remember exactly why I had such problems with Hollywood movies back in high-school.

Tags: media responses
Current Location: My room
Current Mood: enraged

“Is everything all right, sir? Are you coming in?”- The constable asked gently. Cops still made him shiver. He turned down the guided tour of the museum. The first floor had been turned in an art gallery.

Basement. The smell of burned flesh, vomit and disinfectant lingered. He ignored his old cell- he knew his own story. He knew her story too well- but she deserved this one last song.

“Sir, you all right? Did you hear a woman singing? This place is spooky. Can communist ghosts be exorcized?” – asked the young constable.

He hoped not. And besides, they were anarchists.

--------------------------------------------------

“The bloody brat just bit me!”
“Well, you bit him first. “
“Don’t you see what it means?”
“Throw it out then. And, just ignore your maternal instincts next time”

The baby was discovered on the side of the road, its clothes stained by blood. The sheriff took it to the orphanage, where it slept all day long in the windowless nursery.

The older nun was used to infants with a nasty biting habit, and quickly put it back on its crib. The novice was its first victim. And then, other babies. The orphanage was closed the following month.

----------------------

The eternal war dance between Water and Sun made the air heavy with Death- cattle, harvests and children. But, he survived, left and survived in the capital too.
Now he was back.
He went to the Xaman’s house. Drums. He saw his son and his spirit guide, and his guide entering his son’s body. He took off his protective necklace- let it be.

His body was discovered in the morning- stabbed. No witnesses, no weapon, and his son’s alibi was impeccable. Anyway, the son was a rich man now.

“You must reconnect to your roots”- suggested his therapist, a month before.

Tags: creative writing

São Paulo- May 27, 2005

Chi,
Your bright sea green nail polish just waved me goodbye. I bought this Japantown postcard from a stand in the airport. Another fake item for your Japanese memorabilia collection, another memento of our 4 (perfect) days together. You are my double (Not my twin soul. I don’t have a soul). So much energy- to create and to destroy, to love and to forget. I saw the chaos I always dreamed and dreaded. I’m going back to japantown to watch the sunset, and think about your proposal.
Love (no matter what),
L.
---------------------------------------------------

Brasilia- August 25, 2005

L,
You probably just caught your flight back to Toronto- back to your future. You didn’t come, you never saw the sunset in Brasilia- here you have it. So many plans, so much left unsaid, so much repressed desire. And, too much Clonazepan, too many joints, razors and sleepless nights- I’m chaos. But, I had my movie moment. Four days in a post-modern fragmented fairy tale. You showed me it’s possible to fell alive. We both know it’s not over yet- it can’t be. Come whenever you want- the sunset will be waiting for you.
Love,
Clara

Tags: creative writing

Tissue paper and bamboo sticks. Flour, water and heat. The kite is ready. The line is carefully coated in a paste made of glue and smashed glass.
Noon.
The boys and their kites meet at the dirty bar at the end of the street. Murderous looks are exchanged, and they leave silently.
The kite fighting starts.
The objective is to cut the adversary’s line. The prize is the new blonde neighbor- the exclusive right to tease, talk, and spy on her.
Ambulance sirens. The duel stops- their curiosity is stronger.
A glass coated line slashed the blonde girl’s throat.

----------------------------------------------

João was in love with Teresa.
Well, more lust than love. She looked a lot like Zeta Jones.
Teresa, however, was in love with Ray.
More in love with the idea of being in love. Blame all those Harlequim romances.
And, Ray was crazy about Lili.
So crazy that he wouldn’t leave her alone.
And, Lili – a sensible girl- didn’t believe in love.

João decided to stalk the actual Zeta Jones.
Teresa became a Nun, after reading the Song of Songs.
Joaquim ODed, after he received a restraining order.
And, Lily married Joana, who despised drama.

(based on a Brazilian poem)

Tags: creative writing

Being bitter and sarcastic is almost a way of life for me. Some people believe in “ Carpe Diem” or “ Be prepared” . No, not me.
Humour- dark humour- is a very effective defense mechanism, especially when you are the butt of your own jokes. It’s the perfect way of acknowledging yourself (and your rotten parts) while not taking yourself too seriously.

And, that’s why I often say that I am NOT an artist.
It is the perfect example of sarcastic and self-deprecating humour.
When I say that… well, I am still talking about being an artist - still acknowledging a problem - while not taking myself too seriously.

I am lifting an enormous weight off my shoulders. Because the instant someone labels something as a “serious work of art”- then, it can be compared to all the other “serious works of art” in the world. When that “something” becomes “art”, it ceases to be just a free expression of a human being imagination.

Let’s not kid ourselves- art also has its rules and hierarchies. Any “not an artist” person who has tried to work (or even just talk) to an “that kind of art school kid” knows exactly what I am talking about.

So, to make things easy for everyone involved…I’m NOT an artist. I don’t make “art”. I write shitty poems and stories, dance with strange objects, perform nonsensical pieces, sing along to old music while “pretending” to be my chosen gender,pretend to be someone I am not, glue pictures together, and doodle. That’s not art.

Tags: creative writing