Nutness

I'm nuts. Plain like that, I am, and that’s all.
I don’t expect you to believe a word of what I am writing here (even if you are also nuts like me, which I have no reason to believe), despite the fact that I'm talking so shamelessly about myself (not at any rate my favorite subject, however much I resort to it while blogging).
In fact, I suspect my very wording here discourages belief in my nutness, but this won't make me any less nuts, though.
Then my hard-to-believe nutness.
If I want to explain it, it is highly advisable to do so understandably, otherwise in the end I won’t have explained a thing to any possible reader. I suppose I can do this, but the better I explain my own nutness, the harder to believe it naturally gets.
So, whether you believe me or not, I'm stating my nutness here. What the hell am I doing that for? This is something I don’t know myself, which makes good sense if you bear in mind that I'm really nuts.
The strangest fact about my nutness is its intriguing implausibility. Things I say do sound sound, and things I write usually sound still more so. There seems to be no way out.

Blood and Thirst

A person badly wounded and bleeding to death is not a scene I'd ever choose to witness. I know it happens everywhere, of course. However, I'd rather be spared all details. I'm convinced that life has far better scenes to catch the eye of any observer anytime, anywhere, too. That certainly includes internet and the so-called virtual world. Producing this kind of scene virtually, for fun, is an experience I’m not inclined to ever want to try. And I feel really sorry for those who are. I just can't help thinking they could easily do something much better, and funnier, too, if they chose.
When I was young, my father used to read popular newspapers. They were utterly disgusting for me. On account of the overemphasis they gave to crime-related news, people used to say literal blood would come out if you wrung one of them. I never tried to check that for myself, but I hated those successful newspapers which thrived and fared ever better by turning the public attention to violent crime. I also hated all the appreciation that kind of news used to meet.
Things don’t seem to have changed much, since. That kind of press still thrives on the very same stuff. Today’s media has only made that thriving get ever stronger. Radio, television, internet, you name it, still supply too much of it. Add to that the fact that millions of people the world over have nowadays lots of options for having their thrill by actively doing abominable things like fighting, slaughtering, stealing, all of that virtually. This way, they keep shedding and losing virtual blood, thus feeding this side of their natures.
Again, my feelings about that aren’t good at all. I'm already in my mid-fifties now. There is no trace of my early revolt and hatred left any longer. But I still can’t stand those virtual games especially developed to please such a growing bloodthirsty demand.
All this is in flat disagreement with an excellent twenty-century old text which reads:
"Finally, brethren, whatever things are true, whatever things are noble, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there is any virtue and if there is anything praiseworthy, meditate on these things".
Philippians 4:8.

A New Acquaintance

Last Saturday I knew Renan. He is a friend of my sons. I think he is in his late teens or early 20s.

I was with them to help with their English, which is unfortunately as poor as that of all those who, like them, don't like to read.

In fact, reading is something my sons scarcely ever do, and not at any rate in English or any foreign language. We had already spent a whole afternoon just talking and finally I got them to get started on a multilingual website I had already recommended many times before and as expected they forgot to read. The text I chose for them was about reading habits of young people the world over.

Then a friend of them came. He talked to me in fluent English, which was a very positive surprise for me. He is on the whole self-taught. What a fine example! An absolutely normal youngster who is also interested in studying, in reading, in learning things. He can also play the guitar. Again, a skill acquired just with personal effort. No classes, no teacher. With all this, he earned my unqualified admiration.

I got his e-mail and sent him the link for this blog. I guess he will eventually read. My sons never read spontaneously anything I write, even the stuff I write in Portuguese, let alone this blog, which I write in English. I love my sons as much as a father can, but I can't help feeling very sorry for their intellectual laziness.

During the session we had in order to strengthen their English, two other friends of them appeared. They tried to drive my kids attention away from the reading, and almost managed to spoil it. I was about to tell them off with all the necessary energy, but luckily they gave up their stupid behavior before I did. Thank God!

It is with this kind of friends that my sons spend much of their time. What a waste! This explains, in part, why they can't get better results in their capacity of students. Their grades are not something they can be proud of. They simply don’t care for being outstanding students, and no reward, no example, nothing seems to motivate them to make necessary effort. Most of those with whom they interact on a daily basis choose the same action avoidance. Reading is a habit which obviously has no room in their lives.

By contrast, the inconvenient 'contribution' from the two other boys during the reading my sons were doing half-heartedly only led me to think even better of Renan, whose respectful participation did help a lot and gave me a feeling that everything is not lost.

Weird Mails

This week I got a weird virtual message from someone who initially said something about having a translation job for me.

As always, I forwarded an e-mail for details.

Then the whole thing proved a ridiculous, obvious bait. Someone claimed to be entitled to a substatial fortune in dollars from a deceased Asian big wig and tried to get my consent to have it all deposited in my bank account.

I could not care less for this whole business, but sent back the following reply, verbatim:

"In all earnest, I dont know who told you I was interested in getting so stinking rich overnight, but I'm really NOT.
Keep tempting me, if you like. In the long run you'll see what a waste of your time and best efforts on someone like me."

That's how I decided to keep worrying about how to make ends meet here, and remain as poor as the English in this person's mail. A choice I'm sure I'll never be sorry for.

Rights

What right had I to fly so high?
To hide behind see-through disguise?
To trust so far so many a lie?
To pay no heed to words of wise?

What right had I so deep to dive
Into my self for fun, on whim?
Disturb did I a quiet bee-hive
And still have stings all o’er my skin.

The time has come for me to know
How wrong I've been, how wrong, how wrong!
My stupid heart, so weak, so low
How can it love so much, so strong?

An Event

I attended last Saturday a very interesting meeting about Peace. The event took place downtown in Rio de Janeiro.
And I was there, in a booth, attentive to every single word heard. I still have the badge bearing my interpreter's accreditation as a trophy, a medal, anything of the sort. I was not told to give it back when I left so it turned my keepsake, my souvenir.
Before beggining, I thought I would have the butterflies. The main reason was that I'm not familiar with modern conference room booths and the technical paraphernalia connected thereto.
The equipment, however, was (to my utmost relief) really user-friendly. Better still, I had a fellow translator beside me all the time who kindly showed me how to switch channels, use the microphone, read the green LEDs and God knows what else a couple of minutes before what could otherwise have been a true ordeal.
I had been introduced to him on the way to the place, which was almost within walking reach.
Our arrangement on how to share the day's work was based on the first signs of tiredness each one of us would have, and we both stuck to that, so the whole thing really worked.
Another concern I had was about my spoken Spanish. I simply haven't been speaking any Spanish whatsoever these days. I kept wondering what would the speakers or someone in the audience come up with.
I just didn’t know what to expect and the best I could do was to calm down, watch what was going on in the opening round which conveniently enough for me was his, wait and see what would happen when he first got tired and signed me so, inviting me for a bit of action.
Lucky me, nothing I could not translate except for half a dozen really unimportant details not very well heard and a guy in the audience who was from Rio Grande do Sul (my state) who spoke too fast to me (and to everyone else, I guess), but he fortunately didn't speak too long and his overall stuff was easily understandable.
I went there thinking I would be requested to translate either from or into English alone, but in the last minute it was found out that there were enough translators for English but only one for Spanish. I volunteered to fill that sorry gap but was told to be ready to move between conference rooms upon request. I was really not needed in another room. Thank God. Translation where I was did run smooth, almost easy to do, with my inexperience and all.
Today I was told the dough for that pleasant workday would be available. No one told me even how much it was, but anyway whatever it is will be pretty welcome. End of month, you know. Like every common mortal, I'm flat broke.

A Book

In my life, it's needless to say, books have always been part and parcel.

I've already had a number of them. Not anylonger.

Some were lost with my own frequent moving, others were borrowed by people who never read them, but never returned them either, others were stolen, some were sold and many were given away.

I had for example a precious Nestle New Testament, Greek and German (Gothic characters), 18th century, one of the most regretted losses. Only someone who knew what it was about would covet such a relic, so I thought nobody ever would. It was just a very old book that seemingly nobody could even read. But I found out I was wrong... by losing it. I'll certainly never know who the hell stole it. And it will take me too long to fetch another copy, if ever. This kind of stuff is really rare.

A not so old Bible in Italian had suffered the attack of bookworms. I managed to stop it and then filled a great big hole in the hard back cover with epoxi resin. But the book went "crippled". The main text was left intact and can still be reread, though.

An old volume called The Limits of Art, given me (or transferred to me, in his own words) by Daniel Brilhante de Brito, my initiator in the art of translation, is an impressive sample with the best pages ever written by authors of all times and places, according to very competent critics of all times and places.

The book, printed in the early 50's, was already old when of said transference in the mid 80's. The volume also reminded me of its giver, who passed away about three years ago. He was a man whose impressive learning has earned my unqualified respect and admiration. Men of this rare kind also grow old and eventually die. I don't know how old he lived to be but saying he had at least fulfilled his alloted span must be a safe guess.

I used to flee to that volume during a long period of personal "darkness". Literal darkness even, since I had for example to live without electric energy for months on end.

To while away the tedium of that hopeless period of extreme poverty earlier in this century, I often could enjoy the company of Homer, Vergil, Dante, Shakespeare, Cervantes, Hugo, Voltaire, Yeats, Poe, Verlaine, Schiller, Goethe, just to mention some. Of course, no one around to share anything from such readings. By turning again and again to it I have even learned by heart some of my favorites.

Just imagine, every single line in my book was worth reading and rereading, just in a moment I scarcely ever could hear anything worth hearing, see anything worth seeing, let alone read anything worthy at all.

In the very "cave" I found these days again the volume I though lost. Apparently, it has been there all the time.

Now I can turn again to those extreme pages. I just love them.