Julho

     Mas de que serve um diário se você não faz nada todos os dias?!

     Essa é minha resposta a mim mesmo quando me pego com vontade de escrever durante a quarentena. É claro que poderia escrever sobre minha experiência da quarentena, minhas reflexões, ansiedades, perspectivas, numa tentativa (vã) de manter-se sóbrio perante a absurdez destes tempos. Mas entendo que é um vício moderno essa introspectividade egocêntrica na qual o autor se acha único e distante das massas que ele próprio faz parte. Não, minha percepção pessoal desta pandemia não tem valor específico algum sem antes alguém perguntar por ela. Ao invés disso, tenho escrito pequenos ensaios para mim mesmo à mão, nos meus caderninhos, quando não consigo deixar de escrever alguma coisa.

     Acho que o que mais venho sentindo falta é de produzir, de criar. Mas por preguiça, falta de vontade ou solidão não me entusiasmo para a produção acadêmica, nem tampouco para uma produção profissional autônoma (e por que diabos precisamos todos ser autônomos agora?!). Aliás, não quero produzir sozinho; quero fazer-junto, quero estar em comunidade. Uma comunidade de verdade, real, carne-e-osso, não essas mentiras virtuais que contamos a nós mesmos para fingir estarmos um pouco menos distantes um do outro. Essa tela maldita só serve para me lembrar que a distância dos meus companheiros é total e é real, jogando minha solidão contra minha cara com um tom de ironia toda vez que termino uma 'chamada' e a desligo (sim, black mirror).

     Ah, leitore, nem te conto sobre minha progressiva desilusão e crescente ódio à internet contemporânea, redes sociais e tecnologias afins. Este é um verdadeiro mal do nosso século. Também não preciso dizer que, desde a última postagem, mudei. Muitas das minhas publicações antigas me causam constrangimento só de ler, mas mantenho-nas aqui no ar porque não acho que devamos apagar nossas memórias, quanto menos o nosso passado, ou então esquecemos de nós mesmos e tornamo-nos um ser sem história.

     ... e de que serviria a viagem, se se tem medo da aventura?

"Someday", por Aenami

Brief moments

"Abstract in Shards" by Charles Litka

...and suddenly, before anyone could even catch a glimpse of this awing shadowed light, with which was already happening; just like that, and it was back from the ashes, not as the burning, flaring bird; but as something else entirely.

The quote above is not actually a quote, but I thought it would be cool if I had some kind of an epic narrating to my comeback. I tried to use as few latin-derived words as I could, and as you will see if you look at them again, all of them are of germanic origin with the exception of, perhaps, "entirely".

But enough of the jib-jabbering...

I decided I would write today because I just had a full cup of coffee and, as I think most everyone knows, coffee takes your anxiety all the way up to hell. There were a couple of events which happened today that made your old bloggy-buddy here feel not all that well.

So do you ever just feel left out? Like when everybody is enjoying something you're also supposed to enjoy, when everyone around you has enjoyed that something and you're still missing out? Like the lives of everyone you know keep going forward, following those very similar middle-class patterns of life with the same stories, but in slightly different narratives? And I am by no means criticizing them; I think they're predominant in our culture for good reason -- they lead to generally happy, fulfilled lives -- and I admittedly aspire to live them someday. But it is, ultimately, the feeling of not belonging; of being too different, or too distant from the usual, when it comes to a set of particularly important matters.

If I'm being too abstract, I want to mean our social life, our professional life, our academic life, our sex life, and our domestic life. Or, in shorter terms: friends, job, study, sex and family. You do see very evident patterns for these five aspects of life in most cultures, don't you? They differ a bit from each other, but they share some very fundamental features that make them predominant. I won't go about to display or discuss all of them here, since that is beyond my knowledge, but I do feel there are some basic and specific accomplishments, behaviors and goals all cultures expect you to have for these five segments of life, which are generally deemed integral to the human living.

Today I found out a person whom with I am very close have finally met someone. I've always sort of internally had a mild rivalry with this person to see who'll first go forward in that regard, and I thought I was some yards ahead... but seemingly, I've been wrong. And I know I'm an asshole. I know I should be happy for them and, for once, not such of a self-centered bastard. That person lived through some pretty bad stuff, and it's beautiful to see that at least some things are turning around for them. But it is in relation to the other that we're able to put ourselves in perspective, and I can't help but feel unhopeful for myself.

So, here's the thing, dear reader; I'm lonely.

I'm lonely but no longer suffer as I used to some years ago. I've grown accustomed to it, and I deal with it. I accept it for the time being and try not to think too hard into the future. But there are some brief moments when all of my inner structures holding this raging sadness goes to shambles; when I have these little giant moments of extreme despair, when I feel like my world is decomposing and exploding into a million little pieces flying everywhere, and screaming is all I can think of.

I try to canalize all of that playing the guitar or the piano, but it's 2:29 am and this is currently not an option. That's why I write. And here I am. Still alone. I'll probably be meeting my friend's more-than-a-friend tomorrow, and I'll probably be more uneasy and uncomfortable and anxious than I usually am around them. I guess it's still kind of a shock. It's greatly changing the way I see my friend. Deep down, I'm thinking "how could this have happened to them already???" Like what the fuck is wrong with me?? Why can't I fucking be with someone?

It's two-fifty a.m. and I'm not angry. I'm lost.
That's how I usually feel during these brief-long moments.
Lost.

Anxiety

Morning coffe, by snatti89

     At times I'm so socially anxious I can't even properly engage in internet conversations with strangers. Though I never normally seek to talk with unknown random people on the internet, when I'm feeling lonely and particularly needy of human contact (even if solely virtual) I search for chat rooms on google and see what I can find. Often it's just full of perverts and weirdos or just plain awful people; but again, what place in the internet isn't? Anyway, back to my inability to have normal and interesting chats with strangers online. Okay, maybe normal is too high of a goal to expect on the web, but I do think that for a conversation to be considered successful it has got to at least be interesting. That's the hard part. I can usually not think about anything other than ask how the weather is on their side of the screen. Because I often am interested in knowing that. Because I am that boring.

     Though if you're lucky enough you might still end up finding a cool person to talk to. I remember once bumping into a russian girl on Omegle (in good ol' text-chat, not video-chat). I was maybe 13 at the time but I lied and said I was 18. She was 19. It was a very nice and amicable talk, and I cherish little spontaneous encounters with strangers like this very dearly. It's kind of weird and a little despairing when someone diagnoses you with social anxiety. "Oh! So that's why I've been avoiding going out with my friends [or with anyone, really] ever since before high school! Interesting." Although I'd admit my anxiety has improved a lot, I still get uneasy and very self-aware when in a group of more than 3 people, and if I have to interact informally (that is, socially) with somebody new or whom I don't yet know very well, then it's particularly unnerving. But most of the time I wouldn't say social anxiety is a disease. It's definitely unpleasant, and it definitely has damaged my social life and overall happiness, but it's not like a disease in any conventional or traditional sense of the word. It's more like a pattern. A pattern of both covert and overt behavior. Something that truly feels like part of who you are – for now, at least.

     It's getting very late and I need some sleep. And I've been learning Japanese now! How cool is that?!

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　おやすみ！

Perspective

"Above the lights", by Yuumei

     Hi.

     What do you think of perspectives? Maybe perspectives isn't the right word. Or maybe it is. Have you ever stopped to think about how there's always someone whom you've never met in another continent, thousands of miles alway from you, but living at the same time as you? This may be a hard thing to picture if you've already been to places very far away from your homeland. But if you're like me and have never been to another country, you'll probably understand.
     There's this society, in which you live in, with things happening in your life, your problems, your pleasures, and so many things which are so special and unique to you. But think of it like this: you're relaxing in a nice couch, maybe watching something mundane on TV, maybe using your tablet or phone, or maybe just relaxing. Now imagine, not an entire society or a group of people, but just a person, a single individual. Imagine him/her. He, or she, lives in a different society, but not so different that you can't relate with it; if you're outside the US, imagine this person lives in New York. If you're in the US, imagine this person lives in Tokyo.
     Okay. Now, I want you to forget wherever the place is that you are. You're not there anymore. You're... floating. Floating in downtown New York/Tokyo! It's night-time, and there are so many buildings and skyscrapers on your sight, you lose count of how many shining bright windows you see on your horizon. You find yourself lost just above the city lights. Everything's so colourful. One could almost forget about the stars in the sky. You can feel that chilly breeze blowing on your arms, touching your skin. But you don't mind. you're awed, overwhelmed with how many glowing lights there are on your sight.
     Suddenly, for no reason at all, you focus on one of these bright lights, a tiny glowing dot in a building you can barely see. You zoom in. There's a young person by the vertical, narrow window, dinning alone. Her/his kitchen looks modern, and the loft itself seems tiny, but very comfy. This person exists. They're not in your imagination. They are living, right now, only in another side of the globe. As they eat, you try to imagine what is going on in his/her head. What is their life like? What are their dreams and aspirations? What is the connection you might have with this person? For now, you don't really care. Time doesn't seem to pass. You hear some relaxing music (maybe this one) as you watch him/her. They seem nice. Out of all the other people living in the nearby apartments, the people on the streets, the people on the terraces watching the city like you - you're just looking at one of them. She or he seems special, unique. And this is a real person. Everything is happening right now.

I don't know. There's just something very comforting about knowing that there are not so different people, living at the same time as you, existing somewhere else, getting on with their lives, in a place far far away, looking at the same sky as you are. It just puts everything into perspective. Even if just for a little moment.

See you some other time.

Goodbye for now.

"There is always sunshine after the storm", by Pascal Campion

Contar histórias como um hobbie

Biblioteca de Direito da Universidade de Zurique, foto de herbstkind

     Olá.

     Não quero perder o meu tempo (ou o seu) me explicando mais uma vez o porquê de eu não ter escrito nada nos últimos quatro ou cinco meses. Desculpa.

     Indo direto ao assunto, talvez percebam que a minha escrita, principalmente em português, varia muito dependendo de quando eu escrevo. Eu certamente percebo. Meus primeiros posts neste blog foram escritos pós-conclusão do Ensino Médio, quando eu ainda seguia muito a estrutura das redações que me eram ensinadas nas aulas de Português. Depois que entra na faculdade, você passa a tomar um pouco mais de liberdade... a menos que você estude Letras, é claro.

     Enfim, meu último texto em português, se não me engano, sobre ignorância e arrogância, foi escrito logo após uma série de leituras de Sigmund Freud que tive que fazer para uma prova de psicanálise. Caso não saibam, Freud era um cara extremamente culto e erudito, e isso é refletido de maneira muito explícita em sua escrita. Sua leitura pode até, num primeiro momento, parecer difícil, mas depois que você se acostuma com o jeito de lê-lo, a experiência se equipara com a leitura de uma prosa poética, tão majestosa e fluida, que você se sente estar boiando num rio de águas claras e calmas onde tudo o que se precisa fazer é deixar-se levar pela corrente natural do rio. E por isso escrevi esse texto da maneira que escrevi.

     Obviamente, minha escrita já não está mais assim. Fiquei praticamente cinco meses sem ler um bom texto em português, e mais ainda sem redigir. Pois bem, estou falando disso porque estive pensando sobre autores de romances, sobretudo dos brasileiros, e de quantas histórias ainda não foram contadas simplesmente por falta de interesse, criatividade, inspiração, habilidade, e etc., etc. — até quantas desculpas lhe forem possíveis de dar. Quantos leitores de romances existem? Quantos amantes de ficção e não-ficção não estão por aí absorvendo dezenas, se não centenas, das mais diferentes histórias e técnicas de escrita? Amigos, vamos tentar superar as histórias (os chamados textões) de Facebook, as detestáveis confissões de WhatsApp, as fan-fictions, e os demais textos de rede sociais supérfluos que não buscam nada mais do que audiência e a aprovação dos outros?

     Claro que generalizar é um erro, e não deixo de reconhecer o valor que certos desabafos carregam ao serem compartilhados (casos de assédio às mulheres, por exemplo). Não estou dizendo que tais textos devam parar de ser escritos. O que quero propor — se é que estou na posição de propor alguma coisa — é ir além. Vejo tantas histórias interessantes sendo contadas, algumas de teor cômico ou satírico, outras que evocam sentimentos tão translúcidos e sinceros ao leitor, que imagino o quão incríveis tais histórias seriam se fossem escritas de maneira a conter maior valor literário.

     Um dos maiores erros que um escritor em potencial pode cometer é ficar em aguardo de uma "inspiração", tratando-a como se fosse algo quase mágico, espiritual, para que possa então escrever o melhor texto já escrito em sua curta vida, e ficar horas e mais horas sem dormir porque possui a mais inacreditável obra-prima em sua mente lhe tirando o sono, já pensando no extraordinário best-seller que ela será sem sequer ter terminado de escrever o primeiro capítulo. Talvez involuntariamente, romantizarmos o caminho para o sucesso profissional, tornando-o algo quase que inalcançável, imaginativo, um sonho que nunca deixará de ser apenas sonho. Mas muitos dos maiores autores que já existiram já possuíam um número considerável de histórias escritas antes de terem o seu "big break".
      Pensemos, no entanto, em fazer algo diferente. Não sei de onde tiramos a ideia de que para escrever um livro é preciso fazê-lo com o intuito de publicá-lo ou vendê-lo, ou mesmo de conseguir alguma fama e dinheiro. Esse tipo de mentalidade leva à predominância dos "autores pop" que, assim como na música e no cinema pop, raramente produzem algo com qualquer real valor artístico. Talvez, o que esteja querendo incentivar é uma "escrita indie", ou melhor, uma escrita de histórias indie, mas que vão além dos textos de facebook e demais redes sociais (o que talvez seja irônico). Histórias não necessariamente fictícias, mas textos que simplesmente possuam algo a contar para o leitor, sem qualquer outro objetivo para este. Todavia, quando digo indie, estou querendo dizer (como explicitei logo acima) uma escrita verdadeiramente indie. Não de escritores de segunda que publicam romances eróticos à la "50 tons de Cinza" ou romances juvenis visando audiências bem específicas, como estes aqui. Ir além significa também desprender-se dos tradicionais gêneros e escolas literários e escrever algo que é originalmente seu, sem ter que necessariamente encaixar-se num gênero ou outro. Significa criar algo realmente novo.
     Lembram-se de quando os nossos professores de português nos pediam para escrever um conto, uma crônica, um poema, enfim, uma história qualquer como redação ou lição de casa? Ora, agora temos a vantagem de não ter a pressão de ter que escrever algo bom ou de seguir um tema e estrutura específicos, então o que nos impede de escrever histórias simplesmente pelo prazer de escrevê-las? Deixemos de lado nosso narcisismo e tratemos o ato de redigir textos como algo tão natural quanto malhar na academia. Já pensou? Se todo nós escrevêssemos histórias com a mesma frequência e cotidianidade com a qual nos exercitamos, imagine o quão (mais) rico seria o nosso acervo literário e bibliográfico — "às segundas e quartas de manhã corro no parque, aos domingos escrevo mais alguns parágrafos da história que estou contando".
     Obviamente, há a preocupação de distanciar-se um pouco das histórias já existentes, afinal, de nada serviria que fossem escritos centenas de outros Harry Potteres, Percy Jacksons, e afins. Mas se quantidade não é o mesmo que qualidade, ao menos aumentariam-se as chances de que algumas das novas centenas de histórias que seriam escritas revelariam o nosso novo Machado, ou Clarice, ou Veríssimo, ou Lygia. E voltaríamos, talvez, para uma época em que as pessoas eram, pelo menos aparentemente, menos pretensiosas; à qual, dentre aquelas que podiam escrever, faziam-no com a mesma naturalidade e mundaneidade de qualquer outro hobbie.

Red ballon, de Kaycee

Red ballon, de Kaycee

Update: July

From NASA

     Hey there.
     It's been ages, hasn't it? I'm very sorry about that. I was in the process of moving in May, and wasn't able to get a wi-fi in my new home until the very end of June. It's being an interesting experience, you know? To start living on your own in your late teens when you barely know how to cook anything at all is actually pretty tough, who'd have thought?
     That's not an excuse, though. I haven't been writing, mostly because I didn't feel like doing so. In fact, it didn't even pass through my mind to write. I'm still struggling with those feelings of ignorance I mentioned in earlier posts, and because of that, I usually don't think I have anything special or interesting to share... Which could indicate low self-esteem or negative self-image from my part (look at me, barely a psychologist and already analyzing myself), but I really don't want to get into all that fun stuff. Instead, I'm gonna talk about some of my plans for the near future.
     The alumni, teachers, and other employees in my college campus are currently on strike. That means I'll probably have a lot — like, a lot — of free time on my hands. Which probably means that I'll be writing more on this blog. Maybe. Sometimes... who knows? Anyway, I've been thinking of applying for a student exchange program in Scotland; pretty rad, huh? My TOEFL results will be coming out in mid-July, but even though I think I'll have a very decent score, I don't know if I'll actually be able to write an essay good enough (in english) to make them choose me over the other candidates. I guess part of me also don't really wanna do it...? I mean, it's scary, to live in a completely different country where you don't know anybody and nobody knows you. Case in point, I don't even know if I'm good enough of a student to be able to attend and understand their classes. I guess I'm just too afraid of taking risks and actually trying. I also don't know almost anything about Scotland, the Scottish people, whilst I'm kind-of familiar with american culture and the US in general.
     But I'll have to figure all of that out later, and in the meantime, I think I'll be posting some cool stuff in here. Stuff about adulthood, life... you know, stuff.

See ya later!

Personal view on Psychoanalysis

Melanie Lynskey

     I am somewhat skeptical about psychoanalysis. While I do agree with a lot of it, I'm not much of a fan of Freud's ideas and theories. I think psychoanalysts should outgrow (and many have!) this early and outdated part of its history. I'll explain why.
     Psychoanalytic interpretations of dreams (or any behaviour, really) are, in my opinion, extremely subjective. Sure, there is a set of rules and techniques to be followed, but overall, the psychoanalyst pretty much attributes his own feelings and personal experiences with the observed phenomenon on his interpretations of other people's behaviours. Because of this, it feels as if he doesn't care whatever motives and intentions a person could have had; the only plausible reason is the one that he believes in. Truth be told, one could actually give dozens of different and logical explanations to a specific behaviour, which aren't necessarily wrong unless proven to be  so. 
     It also ignores, almost completely, what the studied individual think or say about his own behaviour. If a child tells you she's afraid of witches, maybe it isn't because the "witch" is a symbol for the mother figure (or anything of that nature) but because she watched or listened to an horror story in the past — not only that, but witches are supposed to be scary!
Another example is about the tendency they have to fixate and exaggerate on simple, often meaningless behaviour. A boy once tells you that he doesn't like bananas. Now, a freudian interpretation of this would be: the banana represents a penis. Eating a banana makes it disappear; therefore, the boy is afraid of losing his penis, of castration. And it's almost impossible to invalidate this interpretation by itself, because to do so you'd need to refute the basic premise which this logic is based upon, the Oedipus Complex. It doesn't matter weather the child finds the taste, texture or appearance of a banana unpleasant or if it's associated with a previous bad experience in the past, only one kind of explanation is admissible! However, if this child didn't like apples instead — or any other kind of fruit that doesn't resemble the format of a penis — there wouldn't be much of an analysis to give.
     It's important to note that i'm not saying that psychoanalysis interpretation of behaviours as a whole aren't acceptable, but that analysts should consider (and, if that's the case, rule out) other possible explanations first instead of following the freudian method like a bible.
     Most of the time, psychoanalysts come off to me as a bit arrogant and pretentious. They seem to have an explanation for every behaviour and psychic phenomena. Everything is reduced to sex, sexuality, the Oedipus Complex. By reducing behaviour to very few issues, it gets incredibly easy to explain all of it. But the beauty of science is that it doesn't have an answer for everything, it's that it doesn't assume to be any closer to a definite explanation, and that's what I love about it. Even scientific schools, however, have gotten ahead of themselves and fell into the same hole many psychoanalysts have. Behaviorists, for instance, have tried to explain everything in terms of stimuli and response, of cause and effect. 
     Finally, I guess I have made my point. I have been getting very aggressive towards arrogance recently and I think people ought to find it unacceptable. To finalize, I'll leave you with a famous saying: "Wise is they who know the limits of their own ignorance".