quotesandsayings

I stayed quiet, alone. My daughter has the gift of invisibility. Even within a kitchenette we are two exiles, respecting our spaces. Funny how every object that in the kitchenette makes me remember “the fall” that is what I call my history before the incident (for those who do not know, I took three shots in a storm and broke my left arm when I fell over and now I'm with a titanium plate in that arm and half a dozen screws, scary if I were a guy a little more impressionable).

I look at the cover of an LP and I remember hearing a particular song at a time that was particularly happy. Eye on the side of the penguin doll Mutley and I remember that I stole from a party where I was really drunk. When I woke up the next day, I saw that penguin looking at me in a friendly way and I thought, "I always wanted one of these penguin. Where did he come? "I see the flyer of the play" The Coldest night of the year "and I remember the day dawning on Copacabana Beach next to my friend Paulinha Cohen and her completely drunk asking for any athlete morning light your cigarette .

Almost mentally repeat the cliché that was happy and did not know. At that time, my fingers on the keyboard of my laptop thinking dizzying frenzy followed. Today my back hurts and I warn that it's another time. It's "After the Fall" and there is like stepping back in time. I'm stranded in my kitchenette and everything is too quiet, almost a coma, almost a tomb. But she turns on tv, unfortunately and fortunately this silence is deadly broken loud. Friends call and insist that the worst is over. Okay, so says this on to my back that will not stop hurting and do not leave me to concentrate to write this text. These days I returned to Roosevelt Square, the place of fall. I returned in the afternoon to take some publicity pictures of the new show ("Music for bedtime dinosaurs"). I spent beaten by the exact location of the fall and was not intentional. I just have other concerns. And it is comforting to have other concerns. They ask me if I'm not angry the guy who shot me.

Gee, it's obvious that I have. So me out of Merciful Jesus? Whenever I think of it, I get very angry and want the seven horsemen of the apocalypse and the entire Seventh Cavalry Colonel Custer on his foot. Because I'm not wasting my time thinking about that bastard. I'd rather take my time with something more constructive methods of torture such as the character in the TV series Dexter. I can be useful in the future. So I knocked at the crash site and was taking care of my work, that is, my life, since I could never separate from each other. And now I give myself to work, despite the pain and all the limitations.

Day 18 debuted at the Festival of Curitiba (SESC's Corner) My new show fully gestated at a time of rebirth and almost constant pain. Understand that I insist on it because when I'm writing this, my back begging for a massage with Nordic sanctified hands."Music for bedtime dinosaurs" is my card of welcome, a sort of preface to the rest of my work, that is, the work that almost was. Doctors say that it took me ten minutes to anchor my ship in the Holy Ghost House (in this case was a police putting me in the trunk and Fernanda Brum and sheltering me), today I would be drinking bourbon at some holy pub's the sky. Yes, because you can be sure I'll go there. I'm a nice guy. Half a dozen friends easily corruptible can attest to that. So looks like this: "Music for bedtime dinosaurs" is my epitaph that did not work. This means that despite the bad language that my characters tend to use without any kind of economy and irritate my more prudish critics, all the cruel poetry there is stamped on the monumental melancholy of my middle-aged characters who are a generation who were born a kind of limbo, and it took too long to put her head out of turtle shells and ask: "What the fuck's happening?" - Phrase the has since become one of my many famous quotes.

I invited two good friends of mine come to me in that bucket that must descend to the bottom and never come back: Lawrence and Paul Mutarelli of Tharsis. Hard to imagine the show without the two as partners in this "highway to hell." Also invited three great young actors who have the thankless task of representing our three characters 20 years before and six more beautiful and great actresses because nobody deserves to be one hour and 20 minutes looking at mug of six grown men shabby. What I mean is that despite all the pain, all limitations and all the cynicism that remains misunderstood, it is possible to have fun, to be moved and still feed our necessary daily quota of anger. I give welcome to my new life. I hope someone will come as a serene opening of a Sergio Leone movie with me and toast. They're falling by the foam, my cup's full of beer. And yours?

I see people start talking about new starts, etc... I think it’s beautiful, but I do not believe it. I always believe in continuing as long as possible. Of course we continue a little more connected, but still. Occasionally you can come home alone and spend hours looking out the window. It seems a forced pit stop, right? But you're actually going on, that's all. The whole trajectory of an incorrect operations of leaps in the dark and some successes. .
When I was young there with my 22 years, was a bit boastful type who thought he knew everything and that nothing could stop me. Today 47, no vestige of despotism has danced through. Of course from time to time, especially when I feel threatened, I load a breastplate and let emerge the same feeling of despotism it had when young and then I can turn loose cannon and even offend loved ones. Then I feel really bad, I want to apologize and say I'm even a shit and all kinds of stuff that comes with repentance. It would be almost a "let's start from scratch, my friends?"

But that does not exist. Not again. At least I do not believe it. We continue our mistakes and all are accounted for as if they were flashing alerts in your head. So if I walk in the morning sun and I'm waiting for a taxi in the street. A taxi that never comes in the middle of the city of Fresno. Can you believe it. How does a drunk can get fifteen minutes waiting for a taxi through?

One sleepless night after a bunch of bottles of wine and a daughter of a bitch will give in ... to do it and hope some kind of forgiveness as the cab crawls through the streets ... Well, if I do that, soon after when I get home and sit on the mattress completely knocked out, I realize that just keep. There is nothing beyond that. Well that makes you want to stop everything. But we are still; always. That’s what I'm doing now.

Here swedes, listen to good music: