Une Recette Pour Une Belle Vie

   

     Sometimes, the memories of my grandmother overwhelms me and I have to go searching for pieces of my history online; the history that formed me as a human being was written in Afonso Arinos, a small village located on the borderline of the states of Rio de Janeiro and Minas Gerais. Minas Gerais, undoubtedly, one of the most beautiful places in the world. 

     Just type the name of a few of its cities in your image search box and you can begin to plan your next vacation: Diamantina, Tiradentes,  Congonhas, Sao Joäo del Rey, Mariana, and the second most beautiful city in the world for me: Ouro Preto. New York City being forever my favorite city, followed by Paris, which lost the second place in my heart when I visited Ouro Preto em 2015.

     Tonight, for whatever reason, I typed Rio das Flores into my search box and discovered the beautiful Fazenda do Paraizo, owned by the beautiful couple, Paulo Roberto Botelho and his wife, Simone Botelho. There's so much I could say about the property but my words will fall short to describe the beauty of this place. You can see it for yourself.

     The second Fazenda was a nice surprise since I know the family who owns it; we all grew up in Afonso Arinos; merely 10 minutes away from where  Fazenda Santa Justa is located. An added layer of nostalgia is the fact that Vanessa Cardäo, the young woman describing the place is related to the girl I loved when I was 9 years old. 

     Then it came to me why I had a hard time talking about the beauty of both places; certain experiences have to be lived, not described. And in living it, day to day, a human being can begin to form a receipt pour une belle vie. 

     Here's how the exquisite Vanessa Cardäo describes Fazenda Santa Justa::

 "Essa fazenda pra mim tem gosto de memória, de lembrança, de felicidade, de valores, de família e de Deus também." Clarissa Cardäo. 

 "For me this farm "tastes" like memory, remembrance, happiness, values, family, and God too." Clarissa Cardäo. 

     Words to live by. What else is there to say? 

                                                    

One Spoon a Day Will Not Keep the Doctor Away

A comment inspired by a video from the Institute "of whatever" on how "health freaks" are demonizing sugar.

Here are two documentaries on this sweet poison.

The Secrets of Sugar - The Fifth Estate

A New Cottage Industry

     

     There's a new evil brewing in the greatest country in the world; don't pretend ignorance, for you know exactly the country I am referring to: the country that sends its boys to war around the world and call them heroes, offer them parades and a whole day out of the year to celebrate them. 

     A special day where the citizens of this magnificent country can enjoy a day of leisure and drive to the beach, to the mall; on the way there, at the traffic lights and sidewalks they can see the parade of veterans: missing limbs, hunted by ghosts and demons,  begging for scraps and living in tents. 

     A few romantic souls, still linger to the story they were sold and beg for money dressed in the uniform they used to fight the wars that provided us the freedom to walk the street as  free people.

     The country I am referring to has created agencies to protect its citizens and assure their safety; agencies such as the DIABETES FOUNDATION that links diabetes to fat consumption and advise the public that sugar in moderation is healthy; and the American Society for Nutrition and National Institute of Health that advises the public that there are no links between obesity, high calorie consumption and lack of exercise. It is all genetic and therefore only managed by prescribed drug use. For life.

     Coincidentally, this particular country gain billions of its revenues in two primary sources of income: the military and its pharmaceutical/health industry. And now, they have invented a new evil way to profit from its citizens: compassion.

     Politicians, known worldwide for their empathy and devoting service to the people, have began a campaign to "house" mentally ill people for up to an entire year while they are tested and treated for their illness. 

     We have to hand it to the pharmaceuticals companies creative way to acquire new customers. 

    The new evil, as it turns out, it's nothing new: the executives of pharmaceuticals companies and their lobbyists have aimed their sights at the homeless, as they finally see a new way to profit from them. Politicians have began singing their song of empathy, while other politicians appeal to the self centered selfish among us and talk about "cleaning the streets." 

     Pretty soon, to our joy and delight, our streets will be cleaned and safe once again. A few voices will rise in the defense of the unhoused but it will be muffled by our silence , as we drive to the beach and the mall and the clubs and restaurants and the tourist destinations. 

   As we go on with our lives, ignoring the sufferers as we do now.

   On the sidewalk of this great country there will be signs that read: " This clean sidewalk was brought to you by GSK, Pfizer, Johnson & Johnson, etc.."

     And this will be the great experiment of our lifetime as they open hospitals around this great country and harness their skills on the homeless until they have perfected the art of imprisoning people to test their new drugs. And make a profit for their investors.

     Once they are done with the homeless, they will come for our families, as they did in the 40's and 50's and 60's. Our children, fathers and mothers. A full circle indeed.

A clown's perspective: " When the business people and politicians find a way to profit from the homeless you will see the streets of America clean up real goddamn fast. I guarantee you that." George Carlin

Gliders and Sufferers

     

     Only God can make a tree, but I can make trouble. I can hurt my fellow men and be content within myself; for getting my way, above his, hers and they be denied; because it is in my nature to do so. Am I created in His image? Has God bestowed his disdain to His creatures as we disdain ourselves daily.?

     In the cities of this world there are only two kind: sufferers and gliders; gliders being the ones that take to the city in enjoyment as his fellow men perish. And with the help of the ones and the zeros, display to the world to see. And envy. 

     A sure sign of a malady within is the pleasure to display as others suffer; but here I am also at fault, because the gliders suffer too: an existence is long enough for creatures to understand how weak, perishable and transient we all are. Every social media display is a desperate cry for help.

" Am I alone." "Do you feel my pain?" Can you for the time being enjoy my material things and make me feel happy and complete? Can you see me? But not in the way I see myself. Can you see me with envy, with desire, for it is through your eyes and likes that I can briefly feel enough; that I can feel that my existence is not in vain. 

     In a world where many profess the existence and the love of God Almighty for us, it begs the questions: why is that love not enough? Why must we search for likes and recognition in social sites?

     Surrounded by my family; while others have none. Surrounded by my beautiful friends; while others are alone. Surrounded by the fabric and materials of this Tesla; while besides me, at this traffic light in West Hollywood tents line up one after another on the sidewalk. Tents, trash and flies is all there is now. For the humans that surround it go unnoticed; unless they make themselves noticeable; to our despair. 

     Nothing, not even the pain I feel when I think of my mother, can hurt as much as the sight of another mother, or a father - I've seen them both - on a street corner, by a traffic light, begging for money; with signs that read: 

" Need money for food." " Need money for rent." 

     While CHILDREN as young as 4 years old sit by their side with an expression I have yet to understand. Or perhaps I chose not to as I try daily to forget all the memories I have of my mother spending her only existence inside a mental hospital so that well educated men could afford their vacation homes, automobiles and their social status. Prescribing electric shock treatments to the depressed until they are no longer there. Branding their children like cattle; for life.

     And that it is; the hypocrisy of it all. As my beloved grandmother would say: " when you point your finger at someone, three other fingers are pointing at you." We all display what we have for the world to see; in communion. It is the only way we have not to feel so alone. 

You display your things: families, friends and beautiful possessions. The rest of us display our pain. We are all beggars in this world, trading for love, understanding, acceptance. For pity. 

And so, as in Your Lord's Prayer,  we too beg. Not to be forgotten. Not to die.

Homebound

 

     He stepped this way, that way, the other way; his fingers inside a peanut butter jar; half-empty; eating and pacing. Where does one go when there's no place to go to? His hair, Jamaican style, lending a vitality to his ambiguous steps, or perhaps, it was his firefighter suit jacket that implanted the thought on my mind, causing the judgment, pre-judgement, misjudgment. 

     He began crossing the street, stopped, turned around, stepped backwards: that way, this way, again. He looked inside his jar and got his fingers dirty again; stuck in his mouth and sucked it clean. How long has it been?

     Someone, long ago, handed you a pacifier, apropos of that, immersed in something- what? What kind of parents did you have? Apple juice, milk, beer, wine? Did they imagine their baby would grow such a beautiful dreadlock? I bet they never once imagined he would end up by my window, homeless in Santa Monica, trying to decide where to go, which direction to head towards when all directions lead to nowhere.

     And just like he appeared, out of nowhere, out of nowhere he went. We shared but a fraction of a moment, but from this day forth, his destiny, his tribulations; he has made me an accomplice to it. I was busy watching him as one binge watch a series; as someone who has made to the forth season in one sitting; and is not quite there anymore. 

     In my stupor, it never occurred to me to open my window and yell to him: " Go home, man. Go home. Don't you know that parent's doors are built with spring hinges?"  

- AMENDMENT TO OUR SOCIAL CONTRACT -

From this day forth, no human being will be allowed to bear a child he's unwilling to provide for, forgive his/her/them transgressions and extend a hand in times of need.

***An exception will be extended to all religious  people who happen to bear un-traditional children. They should follow the guidance of their loving God.*** 

A Whooshing Sound.

 

     You look like your anger; face pressed against the windshield of your car, flying through the intersection in an utterly absurd state of motion; your body hugging the steering wheel, but it is your expression that will remain. 

     Things are not well in the city of angels, Los Angeles, California; now an overmarked third world country where the locals are rude, inexplicably arrogant and proud, strangely unaware of the poverty lining up the sidewalks. Perhaps it is the reason they demand that their movie stars show up on television perky and happy. Always.

     The postcard for the anger is you, and I ask myself if I would have felt different if you were a good looking girl but the memory of the speed in which you passed by me brings me back to the reality of you condition: you are as ugly inside as outside, lacking any empathy to your fellow bystanders as you hurled your 3 tons object a foot away from each and everyone of them. 

     Your face registers with me as the second ugliest face I've seen in my lifetime; the first being of a mother sadistically mocking her own daughter. Faces one can't forget but ought to try; so I search my memory bank for the face of my mother and find nothing but one scene that never fades: 

I'm sitting on a bench. You are tying my shoes. I, too young to understand the importance of that moment, didn't memorized your face; instead I look down at my shoes.

     One bunny ear. Two bunny ears. Cheeky to cheeky now. Embrace. Zig and zag. Pull it apart until I feel the pressure on my little feet and hear the sound of the leather coming together. A whooshing sound. 

A sound film editors know so well: : "Gimme a whooshing sound." ask producers worldwide. I know why. I know the feeling they are after. 

In each encounter with the sad, the angry, and the ugly, I crave it more and more.

Missing Freddy tonight...

 

| Love of My Life  |

"Volver a los Diecisiete" written by Violeta Parra | 1962 |

 

| sang by Milton Nascimento e Mercedes Sosa | | 1976 |

The "life coaching" Industry.

      Doesn't anyone have dreams anymore? Is it all about the paycheck? There are a few professions I could never do and coaching is one of them, for sure. Every single commercial on social media is about "making money coaching" which is a euphemism to cheerleading. Ironically, all the commercials are about becoming wealthy and none about being passionate about something with your body and soul.

     Strange society we are building; I am not a person prone to retrogressive ideas but there is something to be said about building something, striving to do something difficult that takes years to achieve. Something you do alone; because anything worthwhile you will do alone.

     It isn't until you reach a breaking point in your work and the clock on the wall marks 3am, 4am, and you make coffee, have a banana nut keto muffin  to eat and the last thing in your mind is sleeping; it isn't until then that you know: you are doing what you were meant to be doing. 

Hiroshi Shimizu

 

Im an addict!

      First step of recovering, says the literature on beating any addiction, is acknowledging it; "beating the dragon," " conquering your demons," all clichés one can think of, point to the core of any addiction: it is not about the drug you ingest, but human beings need to self medicate their psychological afflictions. 

     It's about pain; pain that you don't recognize you have; pain that lies so deep inside all of us that we engage together in destructive activities searching for a bit of happiness.  And we create a family of sorts to display our pain, Leo Tolstoy said it beautifully in Anna Karenina: " All happy families are alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its on way." 

     Together we engage in our drug of choice, the demons inside each of us tormenting us into behavior we will regret just about the time we succumb to it: shame and low self worth seeping more and more into the fabric of us. Demons that make us take drugs, drink, take countless selfies, abusing others on social media is a new ceremony  we engage to destroy and be destroyed. All the while feeling a fleeting happiness that's so sweet that we want more of it. Immediately after the shame subside. 

     And my shame is somewhat justified since I'm not addicted to any cool drug that would make me edgy, cool; a paragon of artistic display that would make Jackson Pollock proud. No, I've never been drunk in my entire life, don't touch alcohol. Drugs, for some reason, very early on was the things losers do and so I escaped that too. There's nothing cool about my addiction, in fact is not even illegal. We sell to men, women, them, they, children and even pregnant women. We built shelves at supermarkets at a child's eye level so that they can get addicted too;  and we offer flavors such as heart attack, diabetes, diabetes type 2, diabetes type 3- formally known as Alzheimer's disease- obesity, amputations, strokes, pulmonary embolism and many many more.

I am addicted to sugar; and my drug dealer was my beloved grandmother.

     My grandmother would take an empty glass and place on the table; because I was so young, around four or five years old, my eyed level, directly across the surface of the table would give me a perfect view, and I watched her take two containers and place them next to the glass. She would take a spoon and fill half of the glass with the white powder; then she would shift her attention to the second container, and would fill the other half of the glass with a brown power. She would slide the glass to me and hand me the spoon; and I would take my time enjoying my chocolate powder and sugar cocktail. The most ironic memory of it; the countless times they told me to calm down. I had the strange habit of climbing every tree I encountered, tap on my chest, late at night, my favorite songs until the moment I collapsed into sleep or I would get hit with something to quiet me down. Whichever came first. 

     No movie star, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame musician would admit in public this sort of addiction; yet it causes more deaths than drunk drivers and  overdoses combined. At the end of World War II we counted around 15,000 amputations in the six years the war lasted. Diabetes causes roughly around 420,000 amputations in 6 years.

     I long lost my grandmother, so my supplier these days is Starbucks. And they are amazing at it. 24 hours a day. Everywhere I walk in United States I can find one within a few blocks of each other. 

2 butter croissants lightly toasted

1 lemon loaf

1 tall dark roast coffee with 1 raw sugar- in a grande cup.

$ 14.40  ( in Santa Monica, Hollywood, West Hollywood, Beverly Hills and Pacific Palisades )

$13.40  ( anywhere else in Los Angeles )

     Close every liquor store in the world and unless someone told me, I wouldn't notice. I wouldn't  know where to begin looking for drugs to buy if my live depended on it and yet, my life depends on giving up drugs. At least if I want to assure a better quality of life to my older self.  After many prolonged fasting and being sugar free for months and months only to succumb again and again to it, I decided to approach this addiction in a different way. . 

I went for a hike at Griffith park and while admiring the Hollywood sign had a serious conversation with myself. More a visualization than anything else. I imagined myself at sixty, seventy, eighty years old and honestly asked myself a simple question: 

what kind of debilitating disease are you willing to suffer from in you twilight years?

The answer was an emphatically: NONE. So I just gave up sugar again. For more times than I can recall.

     So I ask the same from you: what kind of disease are you willing to suffer from:? Because even thought we've never met I know that you are as addicted as I am. In conversations with people about my concerns, I always hear back that they eat sugar in moderation and that is the same as stating that you take poison in moderation. But the odds are not in my favor that you are even reading this now; you probably stopping reading at the second paragraph once you realized that my addiction was to sugar. How pathetic!

     To that, I challenge you to stop. Cold turkey. No more sugar. No more more refined carbs: bread, pasta, pizza. None of it. Fast for five days straight drinking only water with pink Himalayan salt for electrolytes and minerals. If you don't cheat, you will realize by the second day how seriously addicted you are and you will stop judging addicts for being so weak and unable to get their lives together. Your third day without sugar will make you wish you were dead.

     In the event you are able to complete the five days, you don't get to praise yourself and return to sugar. You are done. You will never touch a pipe again, snort, shoot or whatever other way people ingest drugs. You can't eat bread ever again; no more pasta, no more pizza no more sweets or deserts of any kind. You will cleanse your body and remain in ketosis until your final days. 

You are sugar free. Congratulations! Now we can sit together and wait to get a glimpse of Dante and Virgil when they walk by; or Godot. 

    

The Human Existence in SEVEN BOOKS...

 I began reading these books again in the order bellow,  I think it depicts the emotional arc of our very short existence..

1

| The Very First Bible |

2

| Ernest Beckers's THE DENIAL OF DEATH |

3

| Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's THE GULAG ARCHIPELAGO | ****

4

| Echhart Tolle's  A NEW EARTH |

5

| Miguel de  Cervantes' DON QUIXOTE |

6

| Dante Alighieri's DIVINE COMEDY |

7

| Antoine de Saint-Exupéry" THE LITTLE PRINCE |

**** For my fellow Brazilian artists that for whatever the fucking reason still enamored of communism. They call it something else but they are not fooling anyone. Especially when the president of Brazil loves Fidel Castro and choses China and Venezuela as partners against the "evil empire" United States. I hate politics and politicians but history is clear: wanna see people truest malignant inner being flourish? Give a selected few total power and make everyone else comrades. The irony is that, every place in the world that has tried, the artists are the first to get killed; along with the gays, the faithful and everyone else with an opinion. 

ART and WRITING

 

Tick Tack

      Be what you will; whatever life asks of you. Don't conform, don't try to blend, life favors the creatures that flow from one moment to another; it is art, don't for a second think that flowing means being unaware, or worse, uncaring about this moment, which is life itself. 

     When things come, watch them, feel them, experience them as if life, as if this moment is water in a bathtub: step in, lower yourself in, submerged to the bottom of it and stay there until gasping for air; air being the day to day of the same day, the things you do again and again and again without any form, without providence, without care, without soul.

     Be what you will, because whether you want, you see, or wishes, it is all that you have and at this precise moment, if you move your eyes from this screen and feel, you will notice that you are. You might not yet be what you wish you were but you are, and that is something; to be in this world is, in these days, unappreciated; preference given to what you want to be or think you ought to be. 

     But being is not a cul-de-sac, it's not a destination, it is a tick on the lifeline of every human; you never arrive at being. You live it day to day to day, and you tack here and there, make amends, cut yourself, cry, laugh, hurt, and die. And at that moment you cease to be, but you are not quite there to see.

     If you believe in life after life you will continue away from here: this plane, this place, this stage of being to something I don't quite ponder too much about. 

     I am busy being here, busy trying to be me; desperately trying to like whatever that turns out to be.

                                                                         

The Children in Each of Us.

      I recognize myself on the face of lost children; sad children, with eyes that beg an answer to unanswerable questions: why am I here? Where are you, mother? Why did you leave me here so alone? I am two years old, four, five, ten, twelve, fifty-seven. The questions are still there reverberating through the years but now I am certain there isn't an answer; or maybe there is, but it is not what I expected. 

     There is no rhyme or reason for anything that happens to us except for the magical explanations we created to try to make this life bearable. Desperate to feel nothing disturbing, others of my kind invented positive thinking, and they tell me sometimes: " I like to deal with people who are positive." I just smile. "I know" I think, but say nothing in response. 

     It hurts feeling life to its fullest so they need all the help they can get: alcohol, drugs, sugar, bread, coffee, positivity, visualization, God. 

     I hear and see and read in comments throughout the fabric of social medias. The "hurting ones" professing God's power and benevolence as the Los Angeles streets fill with tents and trash and homeless people. We have so much in common with the children of the documentary " A House Made of Splinters trying to make sense of their place in the world while every wall surrounding you reminds one of how immense life is. A child needs to be socialized into the common magical narrative of the community he/she/they lives; but orphan children learn only about reality.  

     I sit in my office in Santa Monica and watch people come and go, so full and certain of themselves, creating their Shangri-las. Some young, some old. 

     I watch them and I ponder if they believe it will hold for a lifetime;  the thin, brittle magic veil of delusion they wear to keep life at bay. 

the art of REYNOLD POERNOMO

(click on pictures to watch being made )

White Noise

The Robbit Hole Dessert

Apple Pie and Cinnamon Parfait

Chamomile Ice Cream with Popcorn

 

social contract @ the dark side of us

I was listening to one of the greatest songs ever recorder and thought of my absent father, who couldn't hear it without getting really annoyed; and once had the audacity to say: "this person is screaming."

Pink Floyd - The Great Gig In The Sky

I think I finally understand what getting old means; it's not when you can't enjoy a new art form or understand a new tech feature, it's when you don't give a damn about learning it. 

It's when you look at it for 2 seconds and think: "Nah, I think I'll go do just about anything else." 

How To Make Instagram Story Highlight Covers For Free: Instagram Tutorial For Story Folders

How to Use Instagram Hashtags for Maximum Exposure

How to Use TikTok - Complete Beginners Guide

How to Edit a TikTok

How to Clone yourself on TikTok  ---------------(really? 2 of me? why?)

Wipe It Down TikTok Tutorial 

Every writer in the world share a single secret, and that is the absurd searches we do when researching any subject. After watching these tutorials, I began pondering about all of these titles and a playful, rhetorical thought crossed my mind:  "Can I just die already?   

So I  typed my frustration into the magical search box because; well, why not? 

" Can I just die already?" And out came this...

This OLD MAN Will Not SURVIVE! - Just Die Already    

I watched almost 12 minutes of this video. I watched because I believe you ought to walk on someone else's shoes before commenting about anything. I didn't find a single amusing, endearing or funny moment in the entirety of this video game. Yet, the kid playing the game was having the time of his life. And the people commenting on it are as clueless as one can get.  

We are all connected in such a strange way.  I think that our social contract needs a serious revision. Or we simply accept that the world has become a very, very ugly place with some nasty, nasty people in it. 

( I debated whether or not to post this, since the whole research made me so depressed that I felt it would not be in anyone's best interest to share it. But I soon realized that the video above has a medical diagnostic function: to determine mental illness. If you watch it and find yourself laughing, having a good time, it is time to look for professional help. )

I am going back to my books,  and some coffee and croissants, while listening to some Zen music...and I will stare at this picture for awhile.

(click on the photo to join me...or don't. )

FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION...

 

Straw Hat

     

     From my window I can spot you, daily. You left your things behind; things you no longer need, things you outgrew, things you carried around and finally today, it became too much for you to carry.

    Your footsteps barely carry your weight; it seems from up here, where I watch you visit this café; an oasis for your kind: their kindness, their non-judgmental service of free ice water, as cold as the Los Angelinos came to be; with their supermodel stares, as they meet and greet each other right next to you ; praising each other dogs, while you sit listening, your presence not sensed. 

     Is there such a thing as hope inside of you? Any expectation for kindness, a "Hello" perhaps, a sense of normalcy, of belonging to this city, of making through the night.

     It's dark outside, as dark as the moment that parted you and yours. How long will your steps last when already burden by days and nights, by dragging yourself and your things across town looking for a place to rest.

     If the life of a homeless person is not a testament of how human beings are coded for survival, even in the most abhorrent of circumstances.

     At some point in your day, you seem to remember how they treat you here, behind the counter, the sense of normalcy and acceptance you must derive from this place to end up here nightly. Even if the reality is that we don't care; we don't acknowledge you, and perhaps it is the reason you come here. 

     There are so many homeless in Santa Monica now that our eyes have become accustomed to it; as irises adjusting to darkness. And if being around us, unnoticed, makes you feel less alone; well,  it is the least we can inadvertently do.

A Little Tulip