"Do you indulge in any form of worship?
David Bowie - ahm... Life. I love life, very much indeed."
St. Bowie. Amen.
quarta-feira, 31 de março de 2010
The highest form of worship
"Do you indulge in any form of worship?
David Bowie - ahm... Life. I love life, very much indeed."
St. Bowie. Amen.
segunda-feira, 15 de março de 2010
If there is one thing I love, it's gotta be the octopus
"I'm not sure where Portugal is, (somewhere behind Spain, right?). I don't know what the Portuguese people dress like, or look like. They went from being one of the world's superpowers to being famous for... Nothing, really. When was the last time you watched a Portuguese movie? Portuguese musicians? Writers? Is there really anyone in Portugal? As far as I'm concerned, Portugal was expressly designed to create Brazil, which is an actual COOL vibrant country. The food in Old Lisbon felt the same way. Very meh. Meh-diteranean. The fish and soups we had was just ok and the prices seemed a little steep for the familiar taste. I hear good things about their lamb chops, though! Maybe next time?"
"This was my first foray into non-Japanese octopus. The amount of Mediterranean seafood on the menu was a testament to the authenticity of this restaurant. The octopus was stewed in a tomato broth with potatoes, peppers and a few other items. It was very interesting to find the tentacles ranging from a millimeter in diameter to 1.5 inches in diameter. I was more surprised about the flavor and texture. As far as the flavor goes, the octopus had a very strong distinct flavor that I cannot compare to anything else. It was not so strong as to be unpleasant and the stewed vegetables and tubers that came along only helped. I had somewhat expected the texture to be rubbery and was pleasantly surprised that the flesh was quite supple and tender. "
NEVER, EVER read an America'n review of a Portuguese restaurant.
It makes you feel.... superior?
One thing is for sure: Portuguese food is to be enjoyed by those of educated taste and subtle minds, not by the curious and arrogant in some pseudo-retaurant in Miami.
If there is one thing I love about my country, it's gotta be the octopus.
"This was my first foray into non-Japanese octopus. The amount of Mediterranean seafood on the menu was a testament to the authenticity of this restaurant. The octopus was stewed in a tomato broth with potatoes, peppers and a few other items. It was very interesting to find the tentacles ranging from a millimeter in diameter to 1.5 inches in diameter. I was more surprised about the flavor and texture. As far as the flavor goes, the octopus had a very strong distinct flavor that I cannot compare to anything else. It was not so strong as to be unpleasant and the stewed vegetables and tubers that came along only helped. I had somewhat expected the texture to be rubbery and was pleasantly surprised that the flesh was quite supple and tender. "
NEVER, EVER read an America'n review of a Portuguese restaurant.
It makes you feel.... superior?
One thing is for sure: Portuguese food is to be enjoyed by those of educated taste and subtle minds, not by the curious and arrogant in some pseudo-retaurant in Miami.
If there is one thing I love about my country, it's gotta be the octopus.
terça-feira, 9 de março de 2010
The Portuguese s(h)elf
It feels funny.
I came into the library to do research on Basque Nationalism. As Portugal and Spain are neighbours, so are their book collections in the library. There it was: Portugal, a big set of shelves filled with books about it.
I looked at the books for a while. They are all old, nothing new has entered the dusty metalic shelves for a while, I presume. The spines are embelished with intricate patterns, decorative forms, some with touches of gold, some with fancy letters, floral printed titles. Faded aristocracy.
They are all big, strong, beautiful books, or once were, at least. They are all dusty, falling apart, their pages are yellow, some brown. There is an ambiance of decay about the shelves, a medieval air. They are out of place, those books should be in an old castle, in a convent. Not in the SFU library. They are all classics, basic important texts. And yet, they all look like rarities.
I feel funny. Like I miss that country far a way because of the books. Like the books were the fellow countrymen that I never found, like we have some common source, purpose. We all come from dusty Portuguese castles, pherhaps. But I also feel disgusted, ashamed of having something to do with these books, all rusty without any metal. Books that seemed to have neglected themselves, unimportant, uninteresting, lackign ambition. Books that rely on their embelished spines and do not even make an effort in their pages.
I pity and admire the books.
I came into the library to do research on Basque Nationalism. As Portugal and Spain are neighbours, so are their book collections in the library. There it was: Portugal, a big set of shelves filled with books about it.
I looked at the books for a while. They are all old, nothing new has entered the dusty metalic shelves for a while, I presume. The spines are embelished with intricate patterns, decorative forms, some with touches of gold, some with fancy letters, floral printed titles. Faded aristocracy.
They are all big, strong, beautiful books, or once were, at least. They are all dusty, falling apart, their pages are yellow, some brown. There is an ambiance of decay about the shelves, a medieval air. They are out of place, those books should be in an old castle, in a convent. Not in the SFU library. They are all classics, basic important texts. And yet, they all look like rarities.
I feel funny. Like I miss that country far a way because of the books. Like the books were the fellow countrymen that I never found, like we have some common source, purpose. We all come from dusty Portuguese castles, pherhaps. But I also feel disgusted, ashamed of having something to do with these books, all rusty without any metal. Books that seemed to have neglected themselves, unimportant, uninteresting, lackign ambition. Books that rely on their embelished spines and do not even make an effort in their pages.
I pity and admire the books.
quinta-feira, 4 de março de 2010
Tonight it is 1973 and I'm on a tourbus looking out the window with you
It is the first time I have felt capable of writing for a long time now. It has been a sequence of long journeys, trips, days looking at the windowpane sitting next to the bed, mornings tripping on the asphalt next to the bus stop.
What changed? Not much. Not that much. A movie, maybe... It is cinema, once again. It frees, it moves, it makes me part of something that I never could have been part of otherwise. And there is so much to be part of, so much! We must catch up, so much happened already before we were born. There is so much to see, learn, hear and feel. So much more coming up! It is like the world just cannot be comprehended and yet, we cannot help but trying. The merit, beauty and satisfaction must be in the attempt.
And tonight I feel like anything can happen. Like I can put on a really large hat and listen to rock'n roll, belong somewhere else, go back to a time outside of time.
Someone asked me today about love, about wanting someone to be with you forever. I do not know, I do not care. Sometimes we really need to stop thinking about this megalomania on personal relationships. We all, as a society, need to tune out of this greed, greed for people. We want more and more love, attention, care! As if that was an infinite resource. Accept it is not, be angry, have your world shattered. And then fall back into your empty bed, slide down to the floor. See the beam of light illuminating the dust in front of you. Close your eyes and stay there, covered in gentle silk and faded cotton. You'll find your balance, your strenght, yourself. In that dusty room.
I will say no more. There is little point, actually. It has been one of those perfect summer days. In my mind.
What changed? Not much. Not that much. A movie, maybe... It is cinema, once again. It frees, it moves, it makes me part of something that I never could have been part of otherwise. And there is so much to be part of, so much! We must catch up, so much happened already before we were born. There is so much to see, learn, hear and feel. So much more coming up! It is like the world just cannot be comprehended and yet, we cannot help but trying. The merit, beauty and satisfaction must be in the attempt.
And tonight I feel like anything can happen. Like I can put on a really large hat and listen to rock'n roll, belong somewhere else, go back to a time outside of time.
Someone asked me today about love, about wanting someone to be with you forever. I do not know, I do not care. Sometimes we really need to stop thinking about this megalomania on personal relationships. We all, as a society, need to tune out of this greed, greed for people. We want more and more love, attention, care! As if that was an infinite resource. Accept it is not, be angry, have your world shattered. And then fall back into your empty bed, slide down to the floor. See the beam of light illuminating the dust in front of you. Close your eyes and stay there, covered in gentle silk and faded cotton. You'll find your balance, your strenght, yourself. In that dusty room.
I will say no more. There is little point, actually. It has been one of those perfect summer days. In my mind.
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