Updates On Daily Life 03 – Censorship Problems

Trying not to panic at how many comic reviews I have to write this week, I realized “Inglourious Basterds” has finally been released in Brazilian cinemas. Yeah, this has happened just yesterday. Welcome to third-world country. I called a friend of mine and we agreed to meet at 20:00 for the 20:40 session. As I usually do, I went to buy the tickets way before that.

At the queue, I notice a potential problem: the poster for “Inglourious Basterds” has a sticker on it that reads “Not Recommended For People Below The Age Of 18″. My friend is 17, but his birthday is tomorrow. Also, it said “Not RECOMMENDED” instead of “Forbidden”. Still, a potential problem. I did not remember having ever watched a 18+ film on the movie theather with someone younger than me, so I couldn’t be sure how things stood now.

Next to it, a potential solution: “District 9″ — which is still on pre-release here, seriously — was for people above 14. There was a session at 21:10, only thirty minutes after “Inglourious Basterds”.

My turn arrived. In the process of buying the tickets for “Inglourious”, the woman made the kind of face you make when you’re about to ask a potentially awkward question and I braced myself. She said:

“Is your friend above 18?”

“No, but his birthday’s tomorrow and I’m above 18.”

“I’m afraid this doesn’t matter, sir. He cannot go in with you,” roughly translated to English, it might sound like she was rude, but she wasn’t.

I said I’d be right back. She kindly told me I could go straight back to her instead of going in the queue again, but I politely refused because I didn’t want to risk causing trouble, plus I’m a patient person (seriously). I tried calling my friend, but some times, it’s easier to get a hold of someone in the International Space Station, so after several tries I gave up, thought for a while, and went back to the queue.

There was no point in arguing, obviously. I wasn’t talking to the rulemakers here. They were just doing their job. But I wanted some doubts cleared up (as quickly as possible to prevent people behind me from waiting longer in queue).

My turn arrives again:

“Hi, I was just here and was told my friend, who is under 18, cannot watch ‘Inglourious Basterds’ with me. I am 19 — that really doesn’t help?”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

“But here’s what I don’t get — the sticker says it is not recommended, not that it is forbidden.”

Their supervisor heard that and looked at the sticker like he was seeing it for the first time. He joined the discussion, a bit confused.

“Well, er, he can’t go in regardless, sir.”

“So it IS forbidden, correct?”

“Theoretically, you’re right. But we get the stickers straight from the Ministry Of Justice, they’re already like that.”

This baffled me. The people we pay our taxes to either do not have the necessary brainpower or don’t give enough of a shit to do their job properly. Not that this is anything new, but I had hoped it wouldn’t stretch to something as casual as watching a fucking film. Especially because when it’s available in DVD and blu-ray, no-one gives a flying fuck what your age is when you rent it.

But as I said, as far as I knew, I wasn’t talking to the rulemakers, plus I had spent enough of everyone’s time.

“I couldn’t get hold of my friend, so if I buy two tickets for ‘District 9′ and he decides not to watch it, can I give one ticket back and have my money returned?”

They said yes, as long as I did it twenty minutes before the session. Fair enough. I bought the tickets and left the movie theather, thinking about the sheer stupidity of all this all the way home.

I still couldn’t get a hold of my friend, by the way.

UPDATE: He told me he watched “District 9″ YESTERDAY.

Taiko (8th Japan Festival In Rio De Janeiro)

A friend of mine begged with glowing eyes (at least the emoticon she used did) for me to go with her to a Japan Festival in Aterro Do Flamengo. I hesitated before I agreed, because the Japanese are all insane and in a species of their own, judging by their sexual taste (something brilliantly covered here and here — NSFW warning) and art output. However, they are great in their insanity. So I couldn’t refuse, plus I hadn’t seen this friend in months.

A quarter to midday and I found myself on the entrance, puzzled at the lack of Japanese people in Japan Festival. Of course, they were there, but much like a light condiment on a huge soup made out of curious Brazilians, to put it very stupidly. I found my friend (and her friends) and we talked while they waited on the ridiculously gigantic queue to get a yakisoba. After talking a bit and watching two of them play a very boring game of GO (which seems like a nice game, provided you’re not just watching), a performance on the stage caught my attention. I got there just in time to see the last bit of a Taiko performance — Japanese drums. The coreography and the sound were simply hypnotic. Visual music. There would be a second performance in two hours. I hurried home to get my camera and returned in one.

Thanks to having been quick, I had to endure two godawful presentations (I had chosen a decent spot to film from and I may have lost it if I left it) — one of them was a fashion show with Brazilian girls wearing Japanese “lolita” outfits. The girl hosting the show was reading her lines from a piece of paper, and when she improvised she was so slow and stammered so much I wished she’d go back to reading the paper. All the outfits, in my opinion, looked ridiculous, so it was still fun to witness the girls parading around in them, one of them wearing long socks with a chess pattern. Even better, there were about eight girls and exactly ONE guy, who was instantly giggled at by the audience — and ironically, he was very into it, probably the most professional of the group, which, judging by what the audience muttered around me, they instantly read as “total faggot”. I, for one, admired how he kept a straight face while looking like he was ambushed by a mean-spirited wardrobe.

The second presentation had no redeeming factors whatsoever. It was an Aikido performance. The performers didn’t even bring a bloody mat. Their teacher — who is one of those people who upon climbing on a stage insists on giving a five-minute long, boring introduction and is unable to shut up for the rest of the show as well — said the students would avoid getting hurt and would be careful when performing the moves. Obviously, this meant the moves were very slow and the falls were simulated, which made Aikido seem like a very, very bad way of defending oneself. The teacher also talked about the “chi” and referred to the area right above the pubis as, if I remember correctly, a “center of energy”. He proceeded to grab this area and show it proudly, in a way that made it look like he was cock-slapping an invisible girl. I have no idea how the entire audience, me included, managed to hold back the laughter. Maybe because the guy was too into it and it would be like taking a toy from a child. Or maybe because only I and my dirty mind found this to be very funny.

(Okay, so I’ll admit that is ONE redeeming factor.)

Finally, the second Taiko presentation, which I filmed and edited in three parts with the five main performances (two intermission performances were cut). Apologies for the inevitably shaky camera (handheld) and for my hand passing past it on the second part — I was distractedly trying to shield the top of it from the rain. Enjoy.

Vacation

It was my birthday on September 11 and I’m taking the opportunity for a few days off. Normal activity will return to this blog very soon.

As for comic reviews this week: both Punisher #74 and Kickass #07 are excellent. From the former, Victor Gischler seems to understand The Punisher well enough and has crafted an entertaining, well-written arc with exceptional artwork from Goran Parlov — and from the latter, Mark Millar and John Romita Jr. prove once again they’re a good team-up. Two very good reads.

Now excuse me as I try to forget anything even remotely related to work of any kind for a few days.

Updates On Daily Life #02

I have slept relatively well for two days now. That is because I went without sleep for twenty-four hours before that. And the second day’s sleep was fragmented and light. So logically tonight’s sleep will probably be shit. And no, I do not consider going an entire day without sleep every now and again to be an attractive routine. So bollocks to that. However, my sleep’s been so bad I wonder if I can knock myself out by punching my own jaw. I am not insane enough to have tried that yet.

So, in between trying to sleep, being angry at life and blah blah blah, I’ve been trying to work on my projects. The recovery of my novel “Ares” (which I lost at sixteen thousand words because I was stupid enough not to have any backup of it) is going slowly but steadily — oh, who am I kidding, not steadily at all. Steady would be writing the thing every day. So no, it’s going slowly — but it’s fucking going, dammit. I’m writing a comic script for practice, another one for real — I’ve made concept art for the latter:

That is a key scene in the graphic novel, which will be called, probably, “Morris”. The title might change because the title is the same kind of title as “Ares” (someone or something’s name). I have written a number of pages already, and the overall story is complete in my mind.

This is how I look today:

I will not lie: I have been miserable lately. But I am a bloody writer, what the hell did I expect?

Updates On Daily Life 01

Well, this IS a blog, and honestly, I’m fucking tired of Tumblr. I leave that thing for two days and I go back to find my Tumblarity has gone from forty to three. THREE. I figure those with Tumblarity higher than a hundred need to spend all day on the internet finding stuff to link or compulsively writing whatever comes to their heads as the Tumblarity gigglingly threatens to drop, the smug cunt. So, I’ll keep things nice and neat by labeling the posts where I talk about myself or my thoughts “Updates On Daily Life”, and try to make them as amusing as possible.

Which won’t be easy considering I have been suffering from insomnia for a week, had a fever, my body feels twice as heavy, my head hurts, my joints ache, a lot of old psychological symptons are back since I –

– well, I guess it will be easy, judging by your uproarious laughter. Okay, then.

I had been on antidepressants for years. Not my idea. I hate drugs. I’m not against them (including the illicit ones), but personally I’m not interested on trying them or, especially, in using one regularly. My psychiatrists thought differently. As the latest one laid out to me how important it was that I swallowed that pill daily (in this case, a hundred and fucking fifty mg of Effexor/Venlafaxin), my eyes went to the diplomas on the wall behind him and I said to myself, “Well, Andre, don’t be arrogant, this guy clearly knows what’s best for you, with all his medical training and the like, you should listen to him.”

I’m a fucking idiot, yes.

Until one month ago, I was a mess. My mood was swinging violently, my thoughts weren’t clear, I was suffering from bursts of depression and/or anger, suicidal wishes and a huge array of psychological shit. And considering none of this had an actual, palpable REASON strong enough to cause it — my contempt regarding humans and life isn’t THAT bad (yet) – I figured it had to be some kind of chemical imbalance, or just an adverse effect. I told this to psychiatrist. He reassured me the meds were not to blame. “What is?” I asked. I don’t remember his reply because I don’t keep bullshit in my memory. And boy could he speak bullshit fluently.

So I had a nervous breakdown. Lasted two weeks, worst I ever had, easily. And I’ve had my share.

On the second week, my behaviour was bordering on “batshit insane” and “downright suicidal”. I suggested he committed me to an institution, to which he replied, “Being committed is not a walk in the park”.

My politeness prevented me from replying, “Well, NO SHIT, Mr. Smartycunts. I could swear they’d install a stripper pole in my room and have every girl I ever fancied do a personal show for me then form a queue to suck my cock. Thank you, THANK YOU for telling me it wouldn’t be so”. Instead, I just said something along the lines of “What do you suggest, then? I don’t know what to do.”

Clonazepam was his idea. To be taken mornings and evenings. And that’s how I was turned into a zombie for a week, not in an opressive, grim but SAFE institution but out in the cruel world with access to a lot of sharp objects. And finally the breakdown reached its peak and, fueled by the Clonazepam, I hurt myself. Not a suicide attempt, I just hurt myself out of pure, seething hatred at myself and everything.

Even at my weakened, fucked-up state, I couldn’t help noticing how quickly psychiatrist switched from Clonazepam to some anti-psychotic with a name I don’t remember. I barely registered whether it worked or not. Eventually, I got better, and made a decision. Ditching the meds.

The psychiatrist said my “old symptoms” could come back. WHAT old symptoms? I can barely remember them, I’ve been on meds for so long. And if one of that symptoms is “being depressed for an ACTUAL FUCKING REASON”, I’ll take that happily, thank you very much.

I knew it wouldn’t be easy to ditch the meds, and I suffered a bit laying off them for a week (which made me more disgusted of ever having taken them in the first place, making my organism depend so much on that shit despite me having nothing chemically wrong with my brain).

And now, I’ve been off them for about three weeks. Two old mates have returned, as I knew they would: insomnia and anxiety. The two symptoms the meds did help with to a degree (while bringing a whole new set of problems).

The insomnia is maddening. My notion of time is upside-down, and when I manage to sleep it’s uneasy and uncomfortable, probably courtesy of the anxiety. These two problems, combined, need to be dealt with as fast as possible, since they have a lot of potential to put me down again (and probably weakened me enough to cause the fever I’ve had yesterday). But I knew I’d have to face this, and in fact that’s what I wanted — as long as I could do it with my own brain unaltered by any of the quinzillion drugs I’ve taken over the years.

On the other hand, my mind has cleared to a scary degree, and dealing with frustrations is being EASIER. I lost the second draft of my novel, “Ares”, due to what was either my fuckup or the computer’s (being Windows Vista, probably the computer) — and my reaction? “Guess I’ll have to re-write it.”

I cannot imagine myself reacting to this so calmly and coldly two months ago, when I certainly would have made this a source of infinite drama and misery and probably mope about it for a week.

It’s not clear to myself how much I’ve changed since I ditched the meds — psychological problems notwithstanding — just that I’ve become calmer and colder. Which is what I wanted, which is what I need to deal with my problems.

So despite the (several) drawbacks, I believe I’m on the right path.

I’ve been wrong before. Quite a lot, in fact. But this is just my pessimist side filling his quota of “defeatist thoughts”.

What I have been doing, then:

- Trying to sleep.

- Failing.

- Trying to sleep again.

- Failing.

- Writing “Ares”, a story in Portuguese I’ve been working on, and perhaps, soon, a new flash fic or Pitch Black strip.

- Trying to sleep and managing to, at 8 in the morning.

- Waking up at night.

- Eating something, arsing around, writing.

- Repeat.

Not a very fun routine, but as long as I can still WRITE, I’m good.

Now, I go for sleep attempt number one. Wish me luck.