The morning light in their eyes


Bajarmaland, Viktor Vastnestov.


Another old text.

* * *

Deep in the gray forest, fall the most dark shadows of ancient trees, remains of one past time … The natural journey of the Elves; everyday they walk to the Sanctuary, with their luminous steps. The fear is their only temptation; the black cloud is approaching so quick, than nobody look back. They are a great and brave community, but the swords of the enemy are very longs too … and very much perfidious.

When the night appear over their thin bodys and their beautiful faces, their enchanted dresses paint the path of moonlight. And their ritual song exploit in choruses of ancient wisdom, and all their voices break like the waves against the rocks and the silence. The fear must be defeated, before the final battle for the Lineage of the Gods … Only the pure, will survive.

They sing:

Go! Heroes! Go, for the race and the eternal love of the Emerald Maiden!

* * *

The morning light hurts his eyes, but, he found a cure in her deep caress, the last hour of darkness in the white flow of her body, and her redden skin.

The strong solitude of two is a sweet vacuum and his soul, rest of the daily universe. They see the birds in the sky, they call them, they know their names. The warrior kiss her neck and she cry like a beast in the wood; the flowers sing and the pride bee, twirl and twist against the wind.

A girl of yesterday, an old friend of insects; bodies, in harmonic movements, tongues entwine and desire. Sun of fury and ice that breaking in the eyes.



neanderthal frank frazetta

Neanderthal. Frank Frazetta, 1966.


I dream with the Neanderthal. They live in the caverns and their eyes shine, with green and red. They surrounded us and we wanted to not be there.

* * *

In the art of Frank Frazetta, for the cover of Creepy and the comic The Terror Beyond Time, we see these creatures, that seem not quite real, not quite dream. They come from a red mist, almost flying. We do not see anymore outside the creatures and the mist. Their faces, are the faces of some brutes; but something else are there. Their seem strong and their skin seem pale and tanned and their hair seem blonde. They are menacing, in the same way that a noble creature of the jungle can be. They raise heavy clubs and wear furs.

They seem to come from the past, from our own past; and they do not like what they see. They see the modern world, and run, without vacilation, to destroy it.

The light of the past

El hielo. Illustrated London News, 1875.

Iceberg. Illustrated London News, 1875.


True art allows us to understand (or try to understand the world) from the outside; the only way we can do it. Inside, we see nothing. We are only aware of our own shadows. Being outside is imperative to understand.

* * *

Democracy is the game of the mediocre. Only the mediocre seek to please the majority.

* * *

It is morbid, the distance between what is written, what is thought and what is said.

* * *

The sublime dialogue between the great men, great intellects and artists, should never be limited by the conventions of the lower minds.

* * *

Intelligence; the cry of the nature expecting to end with itself.

* * *

I had the thought, that the past was more real than the present.

* * *

The most perfect art: that which causes a potential suicide in the viewer.

* * *

It would seem that at this hour and in this place, the people who make the world turn, are going, hurried, to give the first turn to the day.

* * *

A fortuitous encounter: after the silence, to know that it had happened before, but only then.

* * *

People are never doing what they seem to be doing and it takes an eternity to understand it: they always act.

* * *

Maybe, we are only the way that the universe has to see itself.

The Eyes of My Mother (2016)

The eyes of my mother francisca

The Eyes of my Mother (2016).


Sometimes, the road to the most absolute desolation, passes through murder, torture and confinement. And at other times, when you start to see a movie, there are no great expectations, and suddenly, almost immediately, you find a lost jewel.

In The Eyes of My Mother (2016), Nicolas Pesce’s first film, violence does not impress by the use of blood but by its coldness, in the camera, in the actors, in the landscape: an icy nature that, however, in itself does not exclude the recognition in the other. The horror and the disturbance, in black and white (the most suitable media to express the light and the darkness of time) crosses the eyes of the spectators and the characters; and this horror tinged with the sadness of fado, the Portuguese songs that seem even more desolate in the immensities of the North American prairies (almost as in those typical Russian songs, where there is always a husband, a son or a mother, lost in the war, or winter, and that never returns), in the end, recreates an appearance of pain, the illusion of a self-contained picture that closes on itself and from which the viewer can not easily escape. Not every spectator, it is true; for as in some mysticisms, not all human beings will gain access to the soul, nor to the necessary state of mind, which requires the contemplation.

Francisca, the orphan, like her parents, seems to have chosen isolation, not because she prefers it, but because it is the only thing she knows. What she has learned from her mother, in this kind of universe of American Gothic, German expressionism and Portuguese melodrama, are not only the skills of a butcher or a surgeon on the battlefield; but also the compassion of all who must work with the flesh. For Francisca’s eyes there is no evil; there are only accidents and chances, and there is also no joy in revenge, not even in crime. Just as you have to sew an open wound, they are only things that sometimes, sometimes a lifetime, must be done. And in this fatalism (fado or destiny in Portuguese), which is within the same beings and not outside, it is not the insensitivity towards hurt and pain, neither its frozen glance, but its intense desire not to be alone, which in the end will condemn Francisca to an implacable solitude, and to a new exile: not from the land on the other side of the ocean, like that of her mother, but of all humanity.

5/5 Stars

Star666 Star666 Star666 Star666 Star666 Ten Years Stats Visualization Project


I recently completed ten years of scrobbles in Last.Fm. In my personal interest, I have decided wasted my time in the design of one more enjoyable visualization style for my data. I have added too, extras like country of origin and genre (do not included in the original Last.Fm stats), based in the info of Metal Archives. And this is all.

Personal top 100 charts:

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Spaceships Countdown: The Lego Galaxy Explorer (1979)

Galaxy explorer 1979

Galaxy Explorer. Lego, 1979.


1979 was a great year for the science fiction fans. We do not had only the Alien movie, but also the more classic lego spaceship of the history, and that was, the 928 (or 497 in the US) Space System model. That set contents 325 pieces and four spacemans, two reds and two whites, and of course two massive plates, the lunar landscape one, and the spaceport. But, outside its soberb design, in classic grey and blue, the pieces were extraordinaries. Combined with other sets you could make a lot of different ships. You had radars, computers, engines, rockets. One of the most incredible features I remember was the compartment with a loading ramp, where the rover could be stored. Even, the cockpit had enough room to two minifigures.

That was so genial for the kids, than today these pieces are an exercise of nostalgia; the great Lego spaceship of history, and the best memory of childhood for many of us.

The worst that could happen

Fall down some stairs, for example. One usually forgets the formidable enemy in which a few concrete steps can become.

A tropical disease, that would be a real bad thing.

In Yahoo Answers the worst thing that could happen to you, is being away from Jesus or losing a loved one, or having someone fucking your girlfriend. People who think that way, do not know the meaning of the word worse. Losing your hands, another writes, at least there is someone with some idea.

If it were to lose a part of the body, what would be the last one limb you would want to lose? Well, this would be a worse thing, be kidnapped by a psychokiller, and have to choose the mutilation that one would prefer. Take an eye with a spoon boiling or lose the genitals with a drill. But then it would not only be the loss, but also the torture. The loss of the member would not matter now, who has ever left alive from the hands of a sadistic murderer. It would have to be something more exquisite, an evil surgeon who would be pleased to perform clean mutilations without pain, and that then released in perfect state of health to its victims. Before the operation he only would ask: left hand or right foot? Eyes or tongue? Finger or ear? It could be even worse, he could operate the opposite choose of the victim, or patient, as they prefer to call it. Being in such a situation, even if the doctor was not a psychopath, could already be bad enough. But I suspect that this situation, a mutilation, would not yet be the worst, as long as there is life, one clings to it, even in the most miserable conditions.

If it is about elections: torture or mutilation? Or worse: today what? and tomorrow? Or; what would be worse, being tortured being innocent, being guilty or being unjustly guilty? If the torture is the same, would it make any difference? Can the one who torture be morally superior to his victim? This is an important digression.

It may be quite relative, I suppose all the victims of some act of this kind felt at that moment that it was the worst thing that could have happened to them in the life. But no one really knows. It may even not be so atrocious. It can be something so casual that passes quickly, then dies or survives. The worst must be something that you have to endure for the rest of your life. It can not be born with deformities or with the face of the Elephant Man, or be the Man without Face. That would have happened, it could not happen again. If something is the worst, is just because before, something was better. But it is also true that the worst can always get worse.

It is difficult to think of the worst without thinking about hospitals, torture, mutilations and disease. Subject as the humans are to physical laws, it can not be different. The worst is not what can happen, but maybe the easy way in the worst things can happen. All those people who suffered horrible accidents and now go around the world in a bloody video that is broadcast by email, with his faces and bodies split in two, while the medical students filming their indescribable agony by cell phone, they do not knew that was going to happen, not even a few milliseconds before. That may be the worst. But is not.

The movies have greatly exaggerated the concept of the worst. Is underestimated too much. You do not have to go too far to find bad things for real.

It is actually a sterile thought. Everyone knows it. Everyone knows the worst that could happen.

Bytes in my intestines




I have already killed so many demons and I have seen so much blood that my head spins, when I return for the umpteenth time to enter the underground warehouse … Then, it is as if the virtual spaces had been introduced in some parallel way to my body, as atomic fractions, viruses, nanobots that will infect my digestive tract. An immense desire to vomit, as if I suddenly stopped after a hundred roller coasters. My mind revolves around virtual coordinates and wars on the computer screen, and then I turn a thousand times in the bed harassed by the viruses, which have invaded my flesh and merge into it, mutating it, a new state of evolution in which the lizard skin mutates into something else, into a fractal, mental, crystalline, final container of toxins, of memes. Pale and rattled, like the effluvia of an underwater volcano that keeps alive, primitive and grotesque forms.

Take some of the global super-highways of byte streams, while our bodies continue their daily routine of movements, and we reprogram ourselves into a new automatic elegy.



Enter the Void.


Everything hurts. The silence, the furniture that squeaks on the top floor, hurt. I drown in a watery light. I feel nothing more than that sting. Something tells me not to write. Do not give shape to what should only disappear. Flow to a stream, melt. Salt. I am absolutely aware that any act will be followed by nothing. There will be no thread, just random stumblings on an infinite carpet, full of folds.

A few hours later, despite the darkness, there seems to be nowhere to run. There is no place free of human beings, nor of their canine slaves, nor outside the reach of their electromagnetic emissions. There is a void out there, but it is unreachable.

This vacuum, is almost comparable to that which exists inside a bag of meat.

Nothing shines

campesina-Konstantin Vasilyev

The Reaper. Konstantin Vasilyev, 1966.


The abandoned moon,
A lighthouse of little interest
Suspended from a network of fibers
Dark and convoluted.

A star beyond
It lights a place so folded
In its own depth,
Whose blue does not yet wake up.

Gray clouds stained red
Threaten to cut
The helpless print
Of, without grace, intergalactic travelers.

Corpuscles, light waves
Crash into the ivory surface
Of an enchanted marsh
Muddy, funereal.

But nothing shines
In the way the flowered crack
Of the basin of her eyes,
Embrace the cold of darkness.