I spent most of the week at the farm, revisting old sights. Most everything is exactly the same as I remember it, save for a new fence, some new dogs, and a big new house thing. The little town nearby, aracariguama, has grown a lot, but I don't think anyone but the mayor cares. I'm basically falling into the same routine as every visit: See the same things, note changes, and pass time with my family, none of which have changed. It's almost scary. They've built these roles for themselves, these roles that they're comfortable with, and fitted themselves into them. I know exactly how they will react to everything, pretty much. It forms such a closed microcosm that it almost suffocates me; Don't these people learn and grow and change? I look back on who I was four years ago-the last time I was here-and compare him to me, and we are not the same person. I feel that High school changed me radically. But here, here nothing's really new. I wonder if it's adolescence that causes it or isolation...kinda goes back to Joyce's view on an artist's develpment from Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man. Can we really grow and learn and create, when restricted to these goddamn little niches we create for ourselves? I see it, but in seeing it, I continually form myself into my own preferred stereotype, the cynical onlooker, but the fact still remains that I'm fitting myself into a mold that anyone else could jump into. I see my family here, I see cliques back home, and I think to myself: This is what keeps conservatism going. It's so comfortable to show up and jump into the smart, funny, awkward oldest grandson, and go about life like I've been here for the past 4 years. And easy on everyone else. But goddamn, I gotta think about this. Change it somehow; it doesn't feel right...
On another note, I'm back in Sao Paulo. Today was the gay pride parade, the biggest one in the world. 3 million people came to participate, and driving around at night I could see the aftermath of it....looks kinda like Austin. Crazy longhorns. Also, I watched a play today, called "The day the pope was kidnapped," in the theater that's right in the mall. It was pretty damn good: the script was a tad lacking, but the acting was top-notch, especially considering the venue. They showed some commercials before the show, on this shitty projector, and I thought, damn, this is the grindhouse experience. I recommend the play to anyone who cares, it's pretty funny.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Monday, June 4, 2007
My first day in Brazil
I haven't been to the Houston airport in 4 years. Avoided the place like the plague. Never been there before without getting a huge headache and wanting to kill puppies, especially since 9/11 and them wanting to build the brand-new terminal E, which I had never seen. So, imagine my surprise when, after a good 15 minutes of driving in suspicious circles following signs some idiots had put on roads that crossed over themselves two, three, four times, the driver pulled up to a very modern looking building and stopped, saying in half-english that this was the famous new terminal E. There wasn't a single line inside: a very good first impression on the part of the George Bush Intercontinental Airport staff. So, after paying three regretable dollars to get one of them push-carts I got all the luggage on it and wheeled it to the continental desk whereat a very nice asian girl helped my neurotic mother get it all checked in. Wonderful. But that wast the easy part: I hadn't gotten through security yet. Again, there wasn´t a line there, but I still had to go through all the shenanegans. I took all the contents out of my pockets, put them in a basket and stepped through.
"Shoes, sir."
Everything froze. I looked up and saw this security guard glaring at me. It was as if the rest of the airport had faded into the background and left onstage were this Gorrila of a man and I. I didn't understand: shoes? This man wanted my shoes ? Why? They're not particularly nice, it must be said. He kept glaring at me, exerting the full authority of his dredlocks and plastic badge. I froze like a deer in headlights.
"Put your shoes through the x-ray, sir."
Well, with that cleared up, the now infamous shoes were indeed x-rayed and put back onto my eager feet, and my mother and I, now clearly marked not-terrorists, were on our way to gate E-4. On the way I stopped by a Borders, looking again for that damn book no one seems to carry, found the had joined the aforementioned club, and left; I stopped by the restrooms and for the first time heard what it sounds like for a grown man to actually use a stall for a number 2; and I had dinner at the panda express, but instantly regretted doing so after seeing how dissappointing the food looked when on the other side of that screen that separates customers from it when ordering it. When finally the gate was reached, it was packed of smug-looking Brazilians, all waiting for the same damn flight. Standing became a necessity due to lack of seats. Normally you tell yourself, standing is not so bad, you're going to be sitting for the next 9 and a half hours. Whatever optimist part of your brain that thinks these thoughts ought to be found by MRI and promptly lobotomised; standing for an hour and half is not fun regardless your disposition. But eventually I did get on the plane and sat down-Window seat!- and the plane took off.
The in-flight entertainment is worse than I remembered it. They had one movie that was watchable, that Shooter, starring Mark Whalberg. I saw that, with those painful, biting ear-bud things they give you that literally attempt to cut your ears off. The movie was decent. I was expecting passable drama about a hunter, I got far-fetched action-thriller about presidential assassination. Woo. I watched One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest on my iPod, and listened to Dark Side of the Moon. I couldn't sleep. I busied myself for the rest of the trip opening and closing the window, with the full light of the sunrise flashing at other sleeping passengers, over and over again.
Finally, the plane made its descent. Once we broke the cloud layer-and it was damn cloudy yesterday-I saw the full scope of the city. Those who have never been to Tokyo or Mexico City wouldn't understand the scope of Sao Paulo. The city stretches, from a kilometer in the air, as far as the eye can see. You see hundreds, thousands of buildings crawling over the hills, with no apparent sense to their layout. The skyscrapers form more than a dozen skylines all over. To my knowledge, the city has no "downtown" simply because there is no center: The city is infinite. And, as the plane descends farther, and the building gain in resolution you begin to see the living conditions of the 19 million people here. Something like 80% of the city is slums, I think, and you don't know what these slums are like. Favelas, they are called. Jesus, it hurts to look at them: Five slabs of concrete make walls and roof, for those that are lucky. Some are mere erections of cardboard, and millions of people live there. Makes the crime rate almost make sense.
At last, I got off the damn plane, got our luggage, and went out to meet the family. Except for my cousins' physical appearance, these people have not changed one bit in 4 years. It scared me, to be honest. I expected to feel a bit left out, not having seen them in so long, but I fit right in to the designated place I somewhat regretably left. I quickly readjusted to their various quirks-and to having FIVE of my moms around now-four aunts and my grandma- but my uncles are all pretty cool, my cousins are very friendly, and my grandfather is probably the epidemy of awesome. I drove back in his supposedly new pickup, though it looked at least two years old and was completly scratched on every surface. Driving to my grandma's house I saw the various trademarks of companies that had been repressed into inaccessible memory: TAM, Habib's, Bob's. I still need to readjust to the modern culture here. My aunt Marcia and uncle Pedro are living at my grandma's now. They got a dog, an adorable little beagle. Napoleon, they call him. I had the usual breakfast: french bread with baloney. Then came the sitting around and listening to my mother give her side to various anecdotes of the past two years, making my dad and brother out to be neanderthals and skiping over what I did probably for the same reason.
All in all, I think it's alright being back. I did miss these people. But I can seldom wait to get to my grandpa's farm. I'll write more later. Ciao.
"Shoes, sir."
Everything froze. I looked up and saw this security guard glaring at me. It was as if the rest of the airport had faded into the background and left onstage were this Gorrila of a man and I. I didn't understand: shoes? This man wanted my shoes ? Why? They're not particularly nice, it must be said. He kept glaring at me, exerting the full authority of his dredlocks and plastic badge. I froze like a deer in headlights.
"Put your shoes through the x-ray, sir."
Well, with that cleared up, the now infamous shoes were indeed x-rayed and put back onto my eager feet, and my mother and I, now clearly marked not-terrorists, were on our way to gate E-4. On the way I stopped by a Borders, looking again for that damn book no one seems to carry, found the had joined the aforementioned club, and left; I stopped by the restrooms and for the first time heard what it sounds like for a grown man to actually use a stall for a number 2; and I had dinner at the panda express, but instantly regretted doing so after seeing how dissappointing the food looked when on the other side of that screen that separates customers from it when ordering it. When finally the gate was reached, it was packed of smug-looking Brazilians, all waiting for the same damn flight. Standing became a necessity due to lack of seats. Normally you tell yourself, standing is not so bad, you're going to be sitting for the next 9 and a half hours. Whatever optimist part of your brain that thinks these thoughts ought to be found by MRI and promptly lobotomised; standing for an hour and half is not fun regardless your disposition. But eventually I did get on the plane and sat down-Window seat!- and the plane took off.
The in-flight entertainment is worse than I remembered it. They had one movie that was watchable, that Shooter, starring Mark Whalberg. I saw that, with those painful, biting ear-bud things they give you that literally attempt to cut your ears off. The movie was decent. I was expecting passable drama about a hunter, I got far-fetched action-thriller about presidential assassination. Woo. I watched One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest on my iPod, and listened to Dark Side of the Moon. I couldn't sleep. I busied myself for the rest of the trip opening and closing the window, with the full light of the sunrise flashing at other sleeping passengers, over and over again.
Finally, the plane made its descent. Once we broke the cloud layer-and it was damn cloudy yesterday-I saw the full scope of the city. Those who have never been to Tokyo or Mexico City wouldn't understand the scope of Sao Paulo. The city stretches, from a kilometer in the air, as far as the eye can see. You see hundreds, thousands of buildings crawling over the hills, with no apparent sense to their layout. The skyscrapers form more than a dozen skylines all over. To my knowledge, the city has no "downtown" simply because there is no center: The city is infinite. And, as the plane descends farther, and the building gain in resolution you begin to see the living conditions of the 19 million people here. Something like 80% of the city is slums, I think, and you don't know what these slums are like. Favelas, they are called. Jesus, it hurts to look at them: Five slabs of concrete make walls and roof, for those that are lucky. Some are mere erections of cardboard, and millions of people live there. Makes the crime rate almost make sense.
At last, I got off the damn plane, got our luggage, and went out to meet the family. Except for my cousins' physical appearance, these people have not changed one bit in 4 years. It scared me, to be honest. I expected to feel a bit left out, not having seen them in so long, but I fit right in to the designated place I somewhat regretably left. I quickly readjusted to their various quirks-and to having FIVE of my moms around now-four aunts and my grandma- but my uncles are all pretty cool, my cousins are very friendly, and my grandfather is probably the epidemy of awesome. I drove back in his supposedly new pickup, though it looked at least two years old and was completly scratched on every surface. Driving to my grandma's house I saw the various trademarks of companies that had been repressed into inaccessible memory: TAM, Habib's, Bob's. I still need to readjust to the modern culture here. My aunt Marcia and uncle Pedro are living at my grandma's now. They got a dog, an adorable little beagle. Napoleon, they call him. I had the usual breakfast: french bread with baloney. Then came the sitting around and listening to my mother give her side to various anecdotes of the past two years, making my dad and brother out to be neanderthals and skiping over what I did probably for the same reason.
All in all, I think it's alright being back. I did miss these people. But I can seldom wait to get to my grandpa's farm. I'll write more later. Ciao.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Psychonauts
I just beat this game called "Psychonauts." You play as this kid in a psychic training camp, and you have all sorts of mind powers you get, like levitation, perkiness, and clairvoyance. It sounds kinda dumb, but it's actually a phenomenal idea, because most of the game you're dealing with people's minds, jumping into them. And when inside, you have a free roam of the place, seeing how the subject sees the world. In most cases, the levels themselves are just a fascinating new mode of story-telling. Much like Sigmund Freud,
Thursday, May 24, 2007
First post
Shit. We're in summer already? Hot damn-three months I wish would end now, kinda like trying to play Final Fantasy IX. So, I was considering, and wound up with a consideration that ran thusly: I didn't learn a thing about writing in McFatso's class last year, and I'm going into a super advanced English class next year, so practice might be a good idea. Attempts will be made, at least once a week, to update this thing. I earnestly hope. With that said, I guess I'll just start my first little pseudo-essay.
SPOILER ALERT
Yesterday I witnessed the paramount achievement that is Vanishing Point. It's a movie about this guy, named Kowalski, who delivers cars, so he needs to deliver this white, 1970 Dodge Challenger to some guy in 'Frisco. Sounds simple. The plot itself was very minimalist: we see flashes to Kowalski's past, usually painful memories, but mostly the film leaves the characters at foundation level, opting that instead of building them, a slab of concrete showing where they would go suffices for development. Aside from Kowalski, none of the characters has any depth whatsoever, from the super-cool DJ "Super Soul" to "Naked chick on motorcycle in the middle of the desert." As such, we have little insights into the workings of the character outside of Kowalski himself, thought that much is understandable: I personally have little insight into the workings of humanity outside myself. So we have a cinematic limited third-person in the works here, though the protagonist himself yields the screen plenty to other characters. Ok, so you're probably thinking in that little mind of yours, "But Rafi, how can it be a paramount achievement if there's only one character who gets any secondary thought at all?" I'll tell you why. The filmakers decided it would be effective to show only Kowalski's life to put everything into perspective. They show all the heartbreak the poor guy dealt with: Losing his girlfriend in a surfing accident, 'Nam, getting kicked off the police for stopping a fellow officer from raping a teenage girl, and a slew of unpleasant wrecks from his professional driving career. These hazy memories, coupled with the bizarre experiences in the desert, wherein he meets the snake hunter with the heart of gold, the crazy Jehova's Witnesses that use said snakes in worship, and the hippie with his aforementioned naked-chick-on-a-motorcycle, all do a stand-up job at illustrating Kowalski's world-view. And it ain't pretty, so to speak. He's offered a few chances to opt out of his mission and join said hippie and other characters for a peaceful life, but as Super Soul continuously reminds him, "You're the only free soul in america." This, my friends, is where the 60's come rushing in and make a mess of everything. This film saw daylight first in 1971, right at the end of the 60's. All that hippie milieu pervades this thing like stink on a dead skunk. So this Kowalski guy, he's a sort of free spirit. He won't stop, not even to live with a naked chick on a motorcycle, not for money, not for the simple reason that he can't go on. So as the cops start closing in, as they prepare their last little trap for him, he does the unthinkable. He drives right into a couple of bulldozers, blowing up his Dodge Challenger and himself in it. And right as he does it, you can see the serene look on his face, and the brilliant light being reflected off the pavement between the two machines. The cops never stopped him, and he won't become like one of those rusty cars stuck out in the middle of some barren field he sees in the opening scenes of the movie. He dies a legend, and he brings his own life to peace.
On a side note, I only saw this movie because of the repeated references from Death Proof. I would like to thank Quentin Tarantino for the recommendation; I verily enjoyed this flick.
SPOILER ALERT
Yesterday I witnessed the paramount achievement that is Vanishing Point. It's a movie about this guy, named Kowalski, who delivers cars, so he needs to deliver this white, 1970 Dodge Challenger to some guy in 'Frisco. Sounds simple. The plot itself was very minimalist: we see flashes to Kowalski's past, usually painful memories, but mostly the film leaves the characters at foundation level, opting that instead of building them, a slab of concrete showing where they would go suffices for development. Aside from Kowalski, none of the characters has any depth whatsoever, from the super-cool DJ "Super Soul" to "Naked chick on motorcycle in the middle of the desert." As such, we have little insights into the workings of the character outside of Kowalski himself, thought that much is understandable: I personally have little insight into the workings of humanity outside myself. So we have a cinematic limited third-person in the works here, though the protagonist himself yields the screen plenty to other characters. Ok, so you're probably thinking in that little mind of yours, "But Rafi, how can it be a paramount achievement if there's only one character who gets any secondary thought at all?" I'll tell you why. The filmakers decided it would be effective to show only Kowalski's life to put everything into perspective. They show all the heartbreak the poor guy dealt with: Losing his girlfriend in a surfing accident, 'Nam, getting kicked off the police for stopping a fellow officer from raping a teenage girl, and a slew of unpleasant wrecks from his professional driving career. These hazy memories, coupled with the bizarre experiences in the desert, wherein he meets the snake hunter with the heart of gold, the crazy Jehova's Witnesses that use said snakes in worship, and the hippie with his aforementioned naked-chick-on-a-motorcycle, all do a stand-up job at illustrating Kowalski's world-view. And it ain't pretty, so to speak. He's offered a few chances to opt out of his mission and join said hippie and other characters for a peaceful life, but as Super Soul continuously reminds him, "You're the only free soul in america." This, my friends, is where the 60's come rushing in and make a mess of everything. This film saw daylight first in 1971, right at the end of the 60's. All that hippie milieu pervades this thing like stink on a dead skunk. So this Kowalski guy, he's a sort of free spirit. He won't stop, not even to live with a naked chick on a motorcycle, not for money, not for the simple reason that he can't go on. So as the cops start closing in, as they prepare their last little trap for him, he does the unthinkable. He drives right into a couple of bulldozers, blowing up his Dodge Challenger and himself in it. And right as he does it, you can see the serene look on his face, and the brilliant light being reflected off the pavement between the two machines. The cops never stopped him, and he won't become like one of those rusty cars stuck out in the middle of some barren field he sees in the opening scenes of the movie. He dies a legend, and he brings his own life to peace.
On a side note, I only saw this movie because of the repeated references from Death Proof. I would like to thank Quentin Tarantino for the recommendation; I verily enjoyed this flick.
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