words as photographs

    It was before students and teachers began their work. Rico saw a jaded reflection at the window of one empty classroom. It was framed by steaming breath. Frosty silence wrapped him atop the courtyard stairs at Rewley House. In his image he saw how aged he became. The tanned skin was his since he remembered, but the hairs, grey, were not. The harried creases in his face had been grafted in prison.     He turned to bricks making up the buildings. Similar stones made up the courtyard wall where he and “Petty Theft” Tomas used to whittle away time. Tom “Petty” had a big laugh. It bounced off the walls.     Putting out his cigarette, he picked up his tool bag and started down the steps to resume serving the community. As he passed the tree with red leaves - he wasn’t good with names, not real ones anyway - he remembered Rodrigo toiling away at his own garden, lean brown muscles flexing. Dutiful gardener that one. Calm voice he had. Rosita...

Optimism is gladly swimming up the shit creek, I reckon. I need a grandson. Not a son, but a son of a son, so I can start imparting these pearls of wisdom. Maybe I'll adopt a boy and wait for him to reach adulthood and his loins to bear fruit. Then neglect and disown him, thus bringing into this world another tortured artist at odds with his father. Then reconcile through my grandson, who will still be innocent and of a different temper, sheltered but mindful of the damages done by the arrogance of older men.

Such bullshit. I'm standing alone at the Wheatsheaf. Friends went away because life happens and due to some fucking high standards I've managed to drive acquaintances far into the void of indifference. I am a man alone, complaining he is alone, when a little bit more acceptance of my part would have made all the difference. A woman without her right arm stands in front of me, smoking a cigarette. She's here to meet friends. That's how it is. A girl who's not whole manages to get ahead of a dipshit that either through conscious or unconscious will has managed to live up to the notion that one man is an island. And all the while, there's this ominous smell of sewer.

I've made some bad decisions. Mostly decided to let things pass that are important to my happiness. The biggest one has to do with work. Sick and tired of the tasks I have been doing, instead of facing the issue head-on with my line-manager, I instead opted to sit still, let things roll and plan my way out. This started early July 2016. After a lot of planning and looking for alternatives, one year later I finally opted to inform management that I had enough of my role and was planning on getting out, to fully stop for three months and pursue a couple of personal projects. Management countered, inviting me to spear-head a new initiative that involves me being more technically creative, as well as moving me towards a new and unknown way of doing things. This piked my interest. And created a big internal conflict. For I won't be able to completely let go of the work that bores and demotivates me. There's also the fact that I have been suffering from bouts of loneliness...

O meu pai morreu. Uma discussão instalou-se e linhas de batalha foram naturalmente desenhadas. E nas batalhas de tiranos e de pessoas criou-se uma dor. Uma dor tão grande que desfez a tribo e separou todas as crianças. Há uma verdade escondida nos destroços de uma família. E elas precisaram de se reencontrar. Ou se não precisaram, pelos menos a memória de um homem necessitou de uma oportunidade de ser celebrada e relembrada. Que não de modo explícito, mas diluída nos olás e nas afetividades comuns às pessoas que se querem bem. "Dar uma oportunidade ao sangue de falar." E mais uma vez o filho do homem tomou as rédeas dum cavalo chamado Situação e esperou que o fundamental fosse suficiente para abafar o corriqueiro e o mesquinho e o ressentido.

to reminisce of milkshakes and straws

According to Myers-Briggs, INFPs focus much of their energy on an inner world dominated by intense feeling and deeply held ethics. They seek an external life that is in keeping with these values. Loyal to the people and causes important to them, INFPs can quickly spot opportunities to implement their ideals. They are curious to understand those around them, and so are accepting and flexible except when their values are threatened. According to Keirsey, based on observations of behavior, notable INFPs may include Princess Diana, George Orwell, Aldous Huxley, Audrey Hepburn, Richard Gere, Albert Schweitzer and Isabel Myers. The polite, reserved exterior of INFPs can at first make them difficult to get to know. They enjoy conversation, however, taking particular delight in the unusual. When INFPs are in a sociable mood, their humor and charm shine through. Disposed to like people and to avoid conflict, INFPs tend to make pleasant company. Devoted to those in...

"Rain poured in a neon lit night. Sloppy footsteps echo as a scrawny kid runs up a slum with a crackling, bleeding ear. Corporate enforcers stand at the entrance of the slum, check their guns. "Ready to raid" and "Copy" are being whispered. The kid can't telecast to the slum-boss and warn her, his comlink being bashed against his skull minutes before the ascent began. If he doesn't make it to the boss, they won't be able to move the hypodermics in time. No hypodermics, no sale, no money, no food for Pops. The kid heaves and puts all that he has got and hasn't got onto his legs. They flare pins and needles."

Stricken by the unseen hand of Morpheus My lids go heavy with boredom. I look outside and wonder Is there more to this cycle of volume Is there  a way to cause actual impact? Is there an action that is both significant and permanent? Or are we all just filling the space between breaths? Behind screens, mannequins Dutiful, complacent all But in 'er minds, Nests a colourful squall Perhaps an argument Or last night's nightmare? A shopping list Or a son's broken wrist? Is this how we fill the space In between breaths?

I'm about to witness the birth of the band Tool, in a cool restaurant in Oxford. This shit is momentous.

To managing. To always managing. To always managing getting along. To always managing getting along ever Without getting anywhere.

Smiling, silence holding Stunning, reason folding My third eye which sees not What it is but what Desire has wrought Out of time and out of space. Outwards answers my vacant face Inwards I am turned A shaking of the hips And a snarling of the lips Thy flesh is pounded We rip and suck Then we tear and fuck The call has sounded A meat machine sears Deeper, deeper Rushing in our ears We explode roaring By base bliss in bed This great furnace is fed And now smirking The Devil stands to wed Quiet, quiet. Silence, silence. So I can be back again To my rain drops and bus stops

"Things may not be immediately discernible in what a man writes, and in this sometimes he is fortunate; but eventually they are quite clear and by these and the degree of alchemy that he possesses he will endure or be forgotten. Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer's loneliness but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day. For a true writer each book should be a new beginning where he tries again for something that is beyond attainment. He should always try for something that has never been done or that others have tried and failed. Then sometimes, with good luck, he will succeed. How simple the writing of literature would be if it were only necessary to write in another way what has been well written. It is because we have had such gr...

What happens to those who oppose manifest determination. It will start with a simple warning much like a fog horn in the mist of night, blaring and flaring. If resistance or ignorance is met, then force starts being applied, gentle and inevitable, twisting, turning, pushing, pulling and rending until bones break as the obstacle separates itself from itself to the sound of wet gurgles and raspy gasps. This is how a machine for pigs operates.

Just watched the final 3 fights of each Blade, and the second one still holds up, hands down, even with the dated CGI. Probably because Novak kept his clothes on, it feels less homoerotic than the other two. On a more serious note, between Frost, Novak and Drake, Novak is the more developed villain. The little twist at the end (hurts/hurts no more) really sets it apart. Del Toro's Blade is the superior Blade.

Tenho nódoas negras por todo o lado, galos na cabeça, as cordas vocais foram com os porcos, não vejo uma cama há quase 48 horas. Dos cerca 30 concertos que assisti, talvez tenha desfrutado 5 fora do mosh pit. Fiz e ajudei fazer crowd surfing. Abri o sobrolho a um gajo. Dei uma cabeçada na barreira. Poucas foram as alturas em que estava completamente seco: ou era da piscina, ou era do suor. Permanecer bêbado era difícil dado o andamento. Cruachan foram uma supresa filha da puta. Manegarm partiram tanto a loiça (Odin does own us all). Em TrollfesT fizemos um comboio do tamanho do recinto. Overkill, Mors Principium Est, Unleashed e Anthrax demoliram na piscina. Achava que Testament e Cattle Decapitation eram foda, mas em Allegaeon deu até para alguém arrancar um painel do tecto. Em Revocation pediram para acalmar o crowd surfing (e ainda assim mandaram-me por cima da barreira duas vezes depois do aviso). A lista continua. Revimos velhas caras. Conhecemos um montão de ge...

Fuck plot for now. Stick to mundane. Challenge yourself to make the mundane interesting. And write two thousand words every day. You will need your ten million words before the world is over for you.

Sketching out the year ahead, because apparently there's a lot of cool stuff coming in the pipeline. Bullet point bonanza follows. January Dropkick Murphys in London (27.01) After London, straight to the airport. Destination, Miami. Land, enjoy the city. Move on over to Fort Lauderdale. Enjoy the beach, the gigs, the booze, the weather, the music, the pretty women and interesting stories. February Back to Miami for the beach party? Back to Fort Lauderdale. Board the boat. Navigate the seas! Enjoy an apex of fun. Non-stop metal for three whole days and three whole nights. What can happen? Return to Fort Lauderdale, straight to Miami airport, off to London via Lisbon. Back to Oxford. Consider putting in place a system so that I can practice guitar more consistently and efficiently. Get tutoring? Start looking towards moving out of my house into a bigger place with Francisco and Felipe? Consider seriously my work situation. Look into something else, or going back t...

Could it be a problem of mine the fact I feel pressured by other people's attention and affection? After pushing back, blatantly manipulating while hoping to get caught and chastised (got caught, got chastised, no difference in affection), neglecting, I still went out of my way to ensure no lingering attraction would remain. Why? The idea of being liked sits on me as a responsibility to like back. Which I didn't, but the feeling of obligation stayed. A burden. Being liked felt like a burden, if I didn't like back. Am I a people pleaser? Quick look online brought up this set of questions: