David Arioch – Jornalismo Cultural

I liked the suggestion, and encouraged myself with the possibility of being cured

After my confirmation, he straightened his lab coat and told me to lay my face down (Art: Copy)

I’ve had a herniated disc since I was 20 years old. Despite this, I live normally. I do many exercises that require a lot of my lumbar spine. But, like any other person who has an intense weight training routine, occasionally, I make a mistake and I feel the consequences the next day.

Once, in 2014, I spoke with a friend about my misfortune, explaining that in situations like this, I must take it easy until I recover completely. Supportive, he suggested that I look for a specialist known as Torino Masseur, an excellent professional who lived a few years in Nanjing, China, where he studied millennial techniques for the treatment of herniated discs, osteoarthritis and scoliosis, among other spinal problems.

I liked the suggestion, and encouraged myself with the possibility of being cured, without having to worry so much about the lumbar, in case of soft injuries during the exercises. I called the massage therapist on Wednesday morning, and scheduled a session for 4:00 pm on Friday. At 3:40 pm, I press the intercom of the clinic located in a residential neighborhood of Paranavaí.

I was greeted by a smiling young man, with a dubious expression, who gestured more than he spoke, reminding me of a mime. “Welcome, sir”, he said behind a counter, holding a self-help book. Inside, I saw two middle-aged men sitting in very comfortable single chairs. There was a third vacant armchair, so I settled in and I began to watch the environment since I was not yet attended to.

The place was extraordinarily clean and exuded a lenient perfume that I could not identify; a supposed and pleasant combination of herbs. The clear arabesque granite floor glistened, drawing my eyes and allowing me to see my own reflection on the floor. On a coffee table, also granite, there were many health magazines, especially about alternative therapies. The most surprising thing is that it was not old like most that we found in offices.

During my distraction, I heard some strange short sounds, albeit low and indistinguishable, coming from two different directions of the clinic. Someone seemed to be in a lot of pain. Maybe the treatment will be beyond my expectations, minimizing my vile condition.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps coming from the corridor on the right. A man of medium height, about 40 years old, walked with satisfaction, displaying short teeth in a wide mouth. He approached the reception on my left, and, before he said anything, the receptionist asked if he would want to come back on the same day and at the same time the following week. “You bet I do!”, he replied, keeping his voice relatively low and looking at me suspiciously.

As soon as the man left the clinic, a comrade I’ve known for more than ten years, with whom I have dined in his house with his wife and children, left a room in the hallway on the right. When he saw me, the serene expression and laconic smile was replaced by a serious physiognomy – I even noticed a startled look. I did not understand his reaction and I kept silent. To my surprise, he ignored me, opened the door, and left.

Waiting for his turn, a bearded man greeted me and asked if I had been there before. I said no, and he told me that he started attending the clinic two years ago. “Young man, this place has changed my life. Today, I am another man, much more accomplished in every way”, he said, adding that he had always had the support of his wife.

The man kept praising the clinic, when the receptionist picked up the phone and called me, without saying my name. “He will attend to you now, sir. Shall we?” I got up and followed the guy. As soon as he opened the door, he asked me to take off my clothes, just wearing my underwear, and I lay down on a massage table, so comfortable it looked like a highest quality bed.

As I undressed, I realized that there was great instrumentation in the place, even hanging on the clear walls with practically pictorial inscriptions, and I had no idea what it was for. It seemed unusual to me, but I concluded that perhaps it was tools brought from far-off places in Asia. Until that moment, I interpreted everything that I saw, that was different in the room, as a result of a unique service.

A minute later, I lay down, and then, the recommended Torino Masseur approached me, introduced himself and questioned whether the reason for that session was a herniated disc. After my confirmation, he straightened his lab coat and told me to lay my face down. Although the position was uncomfortable, I did not want to sound impolite or foolish, and I agreed.

Across the room, he turned on a small stereo that played a transfigured moody song, a curious kind of lethargic pop. Then, I noticed that the ambient fluorescence dropped considerably. There was also an exotic, fruity scent in the air. I do not know how, but the place was no longer so clear. “Close your eyes and feel the energy flowing. Let it all happen”, he said.

Silently, I felt a foreign body, something damp, warm and grooved, leaning against my right arm. When I opened my eyes, the masseur was wiggling, wearing black synthetic leather briefs with a zipper, where his own phallus stood out and rested on his hand. “You are crazy, man! What is this? What’s wrong with you?”, I asked. Surprised and equally embarrassed, the man argued that this was not a real clinic.

Without wanting any further explanation, I jumped off the table, wiped my arm with a paper towel, I dressed into my clothes in seconds, and walked down the hall. In the waiting room, the man I talked to earlier stated with an indecorous smile, followed by a wink: “Didn’t I say the service is premium?” I did not answer. I simply opened the door and went home, aware that herniated disc is also a code for something else. I never wanted to know exactly what it is.

Não somos naturalmente mono, somos pluralistas desde o primeiro respiro (Arte: Reprodução)

Enquanto eu aguardava atendimento, Alberto sentou ao meu lado em uma das poltronas da Caixa Econômica Federal. Me falou que estava se aposentando depois de 40 anos de trabalho dedicados a mesma empresa. Parecia satisfeito, mas não tão seguro sobre isso. “Terminei a faculdade e passei a vida inteira fazendo praticamente a mesma coisa”, contou. Perguntei se ele se sentia realizado. Respondeu que não, mas que se adaptou a viver dessa forma.

O questionei também sobre seus sonhos de infância e adolescência, se tinha lembranças de algum deles. “Já não me lembro quais eram. Faz muito tempo”, disse. Todos os dias, encontro Alberto na figura de outras pessoas. Eles estão por todos os lados e me fazem pensar que não nascemos para nos dedicar somente a uma atividade. Não somos naturalmente mono, somos pluralistas desde o primeiro respiro, mas a vida, o mundo e aquilo que nos cerca muitas vezes nos limita. O tempo sempre parece curto, sem margem para a diversidade.

E assim corremos o risco de perder nossa pluralidade na infância ou adolescência, quando nos dizem o que devemos ou não fazer, para o que nascemos ou não nascemos; quando as pessoas agem como se conhecessem melhor nossas aptidões do que nós mesmos. A criança nunca quer ser somente uma coisa. Ela quer ser várias. As horas e os dias mostram isso. A vida demanda liberdade, e a nossa diminui quando crescemos por fora, mas nos reduzimos por dentro.

As inseguranças são amplificadas quando você não se vê como parte de um caminho, e ao mesmo tempo alguém te oferece prazos para “tornar-se alguém”. E esse alguém não raramente é outra pessoa que não você. Os conflitos aumentam na fase adulta porque você é obrigado a abandonar a multiplicidade da sua existência para se resumir a não mais do que uma atividade – o trabalho.

Nomes tornam-se metonímias da profissão, a identidade humana é suprimida pela profissional, e o ser perde cada vez mais espaço para o ter. Acredito que muitos dos males psicológicos e emocionais da atualidade têm relação com essa supressão existencial. Somos mais e nos julgamos menos. Nos vemos como incapazes de fazer mais do que fazemos, ou o que realmente queremos – porque é o que o mundo nos diz.

E o tempo nos leva à passividade, a aceitação de uma perspectiva lancinante de pragmatismo. O conformismo nos sufoca com um tipo de sutileza travestida de aceitável incerteza. Quantas pessoas que você conhece são hoje o que realmente gostariam de ser? Sentem-se verdadeiramente recompensadas pelo que fazem? Vive-se pelo não viver quando a vida se torna um simulacro do que poderia ser.

Não somos seres mecânicos, somos complexos. Quando nossas potencialidades, mesmo que ainda desconhecidas, são ignoradas, morremos um pouquinho a cada dia, sufocados pela rotina, pelas pressões externas e por nossas próprias descrenças. Acredito que somos como árvores que cedem diante da tempestade quando amargam na própria raiz o dissabor da incredulidade.

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A friend called to tell me about her problems

A friend called to tell me about her problems. As a good listener, I was silent, assimilating her discontent. Suddenly, she asked for my opinion. “So, David, what do you think I should do?” When I started, “Well, I think …”, she interrupted me and complained:

“No, David! No! Look at that! Let me go on! “Then I shut up again and she continued:” But I don’t know either. It’s a difficult situation and I don’t think my mother will accept it. Do you agree? “When I tried to speak, she stopped me again. It’s all right! I preferred to abstain, aware that any answer could be misinterpreted.

“So! Are you going to say it or not? ” Getting ready for the worst, I did two exercises with my jaw. When I tried to open my mouth to make a suggestion, I could not. My mustache of long strands simply entwined with my beard. I struggled to open my mouth in vain.

As I struggled to resolve the situation, my friend shouted, “Wow, David! How insensitive you are! You’re very selfish, you know that? How can you be like this? I bet you did not hear what I said! People should know who you really are. Oh, you know what? Goodbye!”

At the end of the call, I went to the bathroom to persuade my mustache to leave my beard alone. To my surprise, I received a message from Whatsapp: “Do not forget to send me your opinion. I am waiting. Kisses!”

“I really do!”, confirmed the boy, laughing and listening to my grandfather’s nephew (Photo: Copy)

When I was eight years old, we traveled to Batayporã, in Mato Grosso do Sul. There, I met other relatives of my grandfather. But on that trip, only one person caught my attention – a third cousin. He was seven years old and had reddish eyes.

On the farm, I saw him from afar, expelling some of the animals that circled the main house. They told me that he had killed pigs since he was five years old, and that he liked to eviscerate them with a dagger guarded for generations. “I really do!”, confirmed the boy, laughing and listening to my grandfather’s nephew.

Walking on the farm, I avoided being alone, and always looked around me, trying to find out if the red-eyed boy was around. I had never seen or heard of anyone who had killed a pig.

As the afternoon fell, and the sun rose low and reddish on the horizon, as well as the boy’s eyes, I learned that my parents intended to spend the night at the farm. I approached my mother and questioned her, trying to assure our departure:

“I don’t want to sleep here. If that boy kills pigs, animals that don’t do anything to him, who guarantees that he is not able to do the same with me at dawn?”

The Kid, American silent film comedy-drama, released in 1921 (Photo: Copy)

I have had a deep relationship with cinemas since my earliest years. When I was five years old, I was in front of the TV, next to my father. It was one of those TVs with a wooden box. I was mesmerized watching a child running and throwing stones at a windowpane, accompanied by a man with a mustache. “That was The Tramp”, my father said.

Then, I asked him: “Why is he throwing stones at the glass? The woman in the house is going to be sad. Will she have money to buy another glass? “My dad just kept laughing and told me to pay attention to the characters’ motivation and the scenario.

That’s when I understood why silent movies were silent, and why the aesthetics make so much difference, especially in art film. He was not mute only because of technological limitations, but because he instilled in the human being the ability to seek answers that could not be given in words. Children of my age loved kid movies and cartoons, me too. But not only that. I loved the films of Charles Chaplin, Harold Lloyd, Buster Keaton, and Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy.

In front of them, the absence of dialogues did not exist in my noisy child mind. The sounds swirled inside me. The movies had no color, perhaps, for others, not for me who always saw light in the sky, on the ground, and even in the darkness of the characters. “There’s no color there, let’s watch Dungeons and Dragons,” my friend Fabiano said one day. I answered: “Yes, it does! But it only exists if you want it to exist. “That day we slept after watching “City Lights”, twice.

It was a glinting golden as the first light as the sun was thrown on the Paraná River

One hour later, Orlando was startled to hear something crashing against the hull’s boat (Photo: Copy)

As he did every day, Orlando washed his face, brushed his teeth, prepared his stuff, said goodbye to his wife and granddaughter, and left the house in the silent darkness of the night. During the walk to the shore’s river, he listened to cicadas and crickets singing with such eagerness that seemed like they looked forward to the dawn.

When he touched a bamboo wall a few meters from the riverbank, Orlando lit the straw cigarette and watched the idle sun on the horizon appearing behind the water curtains – casting a glow that gilded the river as far as the eye could see. “What a beautiful thing! This view makes it worth waking up so early every day”, said Orlando downing and blowing a grizzly smoke coming out hot and then cold, leaving a wheezing and a bitter taste on his tongue. He remembered the exhaustive pleas of his wife asking him to stop smoking. Stubbornly, he still was smoking two or three cigarettes every morning.

Before the last smoke, Orlando’s Stern face gave way to a candid laugh, making his stomach hurt while he noticed eight frogs croaking and playing at the heart of a swamp. “It seems like a contest to see who sings louder. And there are those who say that the animals aren’t smart”, he commented when the smallest frog dodged a blow by the biggest toad.

Without distractions, Orlando walked to the river, knelt, revered sky, earth and water; rose on the boat, untied it, straightened his stuff and started the engine. He created wavelets and cut the water that became less turbid and more clear as it distanced from the shore.

When the fisherman was massaging his few gray hairs, the temperate and humid wind brought youthful memories about departed friends and deceased parents. Since he was 60 years old, he was tired, but not from the actions of the time on your body. The striated face did not bother him. Orlando simply didn’t know what was wrong with his life, so he continued doing what he always did. He was a fisherman since childhood and lived in five islands within the Paraná River. He fished a lot in 45 years, so he no longer took pleasure in plundering the treasure’s nature.

– Since they created the dam, many species of fish are gone. That’s what everyone says, including me. But do we also have no fault in it? All those years of fishing must have traumatized nature – reflected Orlando, scratching slightly his wrinkled chin – burned by frequent sun exposure.

For decades, he smiled in photographs, holding fish up to 180 pounds. He supplied many fishmongers in a distance of over 63 miles. But in the last five years, Orlando stopped seeing the animals taken from the water as if they were trophies.

In late afternoon, he chafed when his friend Larry, one of his clients, talked about disruptive business, claiming he was delivering few fish.

“Looks like you forgot how to fish. I know some kids out there who already are leaving you behind, my friend. You will say you’ve forgotten that you called Hook Eye? Let’s get smart here!”, complained Larry. During the crossing of the Alligator’s Lagoon, Orlando recalled the episode in the fish shop. He said nothing to Larry that day. He felt under pressure, but did not even understand the true reason.

Around 5 p.m., after visiting the Bahia River, he returned to shore. Discouraged, he saw the house itself highlighting on the hillside. He turned off the boat’s engine and kept silent, watching the water and the sky. The fisherman didn’t want to be there and delayed the inevitable, embittering the volatility of an existential crisis.

Saddened, he dozed, keeping his head propped up on the lifejacket. The night wanted to be born and he had not caught any fish. “What will they think of me?”, he asked. The sun was pious and covered his body with a warm light. One hour later, Orlando was startled to hear something crashing against the hull’s boat.

Faltering, he prepared the fishing rod and cast it into the water with dexterity, as if whipping the riverbed. In less than a minute, the fisherman felt the bending rod and something biting the hook. As he struggled to pull it, a fish moved violently under water. It was a glinting golden as the first light as the sun was thrown on the Paraná River.

Laying unwillingly in the boat, the 13 pound fish fought with vigor, struggling on a piece of canvas. Orlando scowled, clenched his teeth and avoided looking directly at the animal. His eyes ached. Still, he took the fish and wrapped it in canvas to not have to watch him and walked to the fish shop. There, he put the golden on a table with traces of viscera and dried blood and shouted:

– Hey, is anybody here? Where are you, Larry? I came to bring a golden fish. You always complain about the shortage of this one.

– I’m here, Orlando. In the back! Come and give me a hand. I need to change the freezer’s place.

Even reluctantly, Orlando helped Larry. Back at the reception, the golden was no longer there, only the piece of canvas that was rapped around him. The fisherman brought his hands to his head and his heart raced.

– I don’t believe this! It is not possible that someone took the fish here! What am I going to do now?

One hundred meters downhill, Orlando was shocked when he saw the golden fish jumping, trying to get close to the shore. Then he ran to him and before anyone else did, took him in his arms and went down without worrying about the slipper straps that undid on the way.

With dark eyes and a mouth that opened and closed all the time, the fish stopped struggling, and for the first time the fisherman saw his own reflection on the animal’s scales. More than anything, the golden longed for water. And the smell emanating from his body was not of flesh, but of life. In the light of the setting sun, as soon as the fish was thrown into the river, Orlando was reborn and the golden fish disappeared.

I never imagined that I would go through such an unpredictable and uncomfortable situation

He came home. Beside the bed was a comb and a series of products

I woke up and I kept lying in bed with a strange feeling. Even though I did not see him reflecting on the ceiling, I noticed my face had diminished. When I pressed my thumb and index finger of the right hand on my chin, I shuddered. It was plain. There was no thread of my full black beard. I jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom without feeling the beard touching my bare chest.

 In the mirror, my face looked so small. “No! That’s not me! It’s not right! What happened?” Even my head had shrunk. ”Dove head, pinhead!, I judged myself. And to make matters worse, I had rejuvenated at least ten years, which bothered me most of all.

Hairless, my face was so fulgid that I had to partially close my eyes and protect myself with my palms facing the mirror. I never imagined that I would go through such an unpredictable and uncomfortable situation. I left the room and slammed the door. I felt the breeze touching my skin unaccustomed to the absence of hairs.

My face was vulnerable, extremely sensitive and unprotected. Entangled, I went to the bathroom and poured some water over my face. “How strange to see the water touching my skin so easily.” I brushed my teeth and went back to the bedroom. I sat up in bed and I thought, without veiling melancholy.

 I definitely did not shave myself the night before. I did not even approach any kind of blade or razor. Where did the flat face come from? I was irritated, believing that some covetous man had stolen my beard in the dead of night.

I remembered the envious unbearded men, who were not few. There it was always one or another at each corner, looking at my beard at the level of my chest, fluttering with the breeze strokes. They showed their teeth pretending cordiality. Scoundrels! They must have banded together last night.

I leaned to the floor and began to look at it closely, trying to find at least one strand of my beard. There was nothing. Nothing! Nothing! The conspiracy was so well planned that there was no trace left. “How? How? How? What a terrible nightmare!”, I monologued, disconcerting my eyebrows.

I wore jeans, a t-shirt, a pair of sneakers, and I walked to the streets in an attempt to ease the agitation that consumed me. The sky remained clear, and the sun spread its light unreservedly. It was a beautiful day. To my surprise, friends and acquaintances did not recognize me. I got close to a comrade, and he frowned, spat on the ground and shouted that he had never seen me.

“Stand back, sir, stay away or I’ll call the police,” another man warned.

It’s all right. I crossed the Rondon Street and entered the Bank of Brazil. I went through the door and, as I always did, I approached the security guard to greet him. The man dodged and threatened to hit me.

“Do not come any closer to me like that!” Never again, sir! I could hurt you”, he declared.

Without saying a word, I stepped back, picked up a password for the bank tellers, and I sat in a blue armchair, watching the electronic panel. Worried about the time, I opened my wallet, but I could not find the bank card. “What am I going to do? More time wasted, frankly …” Anxious and cranky, I took a deep breath, and stared at a fixed point in a small transparent space in the partition separating the clientele from the cashiers.

I did not believe what I saw. I condemned myself to insanity. Something furry and slender in his smallness walked across the partition carrying an orange card. He had no human hands, but improvised fingers with his own hair. When he noticed, I was watching him. After, he stepped forward in a rush through the legs of the security guard. He was like a little king of the maneuvers.

Bastard! Ungrateful! Disgraceful! You little son of a bitch! How could you do this to me? I screamed into my own consciousness, itching in my mouth.

It was my beard! On the way out of the bank, he swung my card and ran off with his pelous feet, which kept hygienic distance from the floor, as if floating. For fear of drawing attention, or fearful of the embarrassment of being ignored, I walked in disguise. Outside, my beard ran lightly, almost disappearing around the corner.

In desperation, I put my hands to my head and shouted:

“Stop! Stop that beard around the corner! Look! Looks like a fluey little man! But it is not! He is faking it! It is a sneaky being! It’s a beard! Do not let that hairy crook run away! He stole my card! You damn bastard!”

Almost nobody heard me. The few who attended my cry, laughed and shouted: “Another drunk in this city! Get out of here, you crazy one! I’m sick of all this bullshit!” One of them called a police car as I ran down the sidewalk. Close to touching my hands on the fledgling beard, I felt someone pull me by my arm.

The scent of the beard faded like the most ephemeral of illusions. Rascal, he stopped running and began to walk slowly, shaking my card and making fun of my situation. Before entering the Hairdresser’s House, he stretched the ends of his long mustache, straightened his hairy ass, and rocked it before crossing the threshold.

I wanted to squeeze him and sharpen him with punches and kicks, but I could not do that with my beard. I needed it whole. Him? I do not know! How to define a beard? Male or female? Whatever! I was taken to the police station. They made the report, qualifying me as an offender, disturbing the peace. There, I met three co-workers and, once again, I was not recognized by anyone.

“No, I’ve never seen him. I know a person by that name, but it’s not him. It must be mere coincidence”, told one of the comrades.

I paid bail and I was released. With nothing to lose, I told the investigator everything that happened that morning. He recommended an appointment with his brother-in-law, a psychiatrist. Enraged, I returned to my home recognizing the defeat, and decided to write a story about the disappearance of my beard. The newspaper did not want to publish it, describing it as implausible. It’s all right. I was happy to publish a note on the online classifieds.

“Wanted – black bulky closed beard. It has independent profile, male shape, athletic posture, spacious walk, elongated mustache, handlebar type, and hides between the hair an orange bank card. Good reward will be paid for any information about his whereabouts.”

Only the most cunning opportunists responded to the announcement, bringing me other people’s beards, and with their varied colors and shapes. Most of them, probably collected from the barbers shop’s floor.

At the end of the afternoon, I gave up looking for him. The next morning, when I got up and scratched my chin, I ran to the bathroom mirror. I just smiled. He came home. Beside the bed was a comb and a series of products. Yeah. I should have taken better care of my beard.

I stopped walking for a few months, as soon as my body took control of my life

I still do not move and I can only think about the last time I stood up (Art: Mindcage, by Rodrigo Aviles)

I woke up one day and realized that my body was no longer mine. I tried to move myself on the bed, but it did not work. I belonged to him, but he did not belong to me. So, I kept lying there, watching the ceiling amid plaintive darkness. There were misshapen and oscillating traits. No! More than that! A dense and clear filth that reminded me of those awful bacteria that I saw in biology classes in my teen years.

I had never noticed how the liner could be so dirty. I think that concentrates the core of our rotting. Or, was it my imagination? Maybe, I was the bacterium itself, graced with a panoramic view of myself. Who knows! The truth is that my breath was still stinking and noisy. It was horrible! My nose simulated a landfill, spreading slurry every exhale. And what dripped from my nose, I didn’t feel or see. After all, I was relegated to a mere spectator of the repulsive spectacle that used my body as a stage.

How I struggled to silence my mind. Of course I could not! I closed my eyes for a few minutes, and the ambient temperature dropped to five or six degrees Celsius. I shivered more by hate than cold. I was covered with a white comforter, old and dingy, with some yellowish spots – circles of piss that damn neighbor’s cat gave me as a present when he invaded my wardrobe. What a bastard!

It’s alright! Soon I forgot the cat and wanted to get up to give a lesson in mother nature. How I wish to drag her by the hair. Maybe with each wad of hair pulled out, she would rise a degree of temperature. With 15 wads, I would leave her partially bald and we would have 20 or 21 degrees. And what a victory! And I could still use those hairs to make a duster or a little curtain for a puppet show.

Rhinitis, bronchitis and sinusitis, sinusitis, bronchitis and rhinitis, it was difficult to find out who wanted to screw me up. Dammit! Who am I trying to fool? I really smoked! And I smoked a lot! I’ve consumed four packs a day! I was a chimney more effective than any iron horse ever seen. I am the greatest collector of lung diseases that this world does not know. I should be in the Guinness Book! Holding my biggest trophy, the only lung I have left, so black it looks like a post-barbecue coal.

So what? My teeth were so blond, and my breath so grody that I could make cosplay of Beetlejuice. I loved to blow smoke on the people’s face, especially those who despised smokers. I came close, like someone who did not want anything. I concentrated on the smoke and I released it just when someone would open their mouth to say something. Then, I faked embarrassment – a pair of wide eyes, a deep breath and a nod of the head, I apologized and walk away. I had so much fun when there was a no smoke free environment. Oh! Never mind… I do not want to talk about this anymore!

Look! I had never noticed how the lining gets filled with dashed lines at dawn. They are like roundworms that dominate the backstage of the house. I think I am one because I no longer feel my vertebrae. I summarize myself to a dormant emaciated matter. It may be that all that I see and contempt is, in some proportion, a representation of myself.

I wondered how many creepy, hideous creatures inhabit this place night after night. I bet if I knocked it down, I’d find hundreds of nameless animals, never cataloged. They are beings that only exist for a few hours of the dawn, when we confuse reality, dream and nightmare. It may be that they feed of hopes, daydreams, and prolonged reflections.

Right! I still do not move and I can only think about the last time I stood up. It seemed so irrelevant, useless. “Watch your spine, correct your posture, one step after another,” How silly! I just wanted to sit and lie down, lie down and sit down. Maybe, I was born to be an armadillo. But rolling also takes so much effort that I feel shivers just imagining. And the abdominal pressure at the time of turning? Sad and painful! Being a slug is equally despicable because I’m impatient and want it all at the same time. Well, I do not feel represented by any animal, rational or not.

Dude, I love food! I fed my life so badly and it gave me the most unusual of pleasures. Where someone was feeding properly, I would approach and sit beside them. I wanted the person to be disturbed by my presence. I was a wake-up caller. I did everything I could to shock them, to see them astonished by my bad habits.

“That’s right! This is me! And I am against everything you believe in. I am here as the full proof that the world does not belong to you. The dictatorship of health will not prevail. We are still the majority and we will not be defeated. I will not allow it! Never! Never! Look! Look at his size, how much fat! I asked the clerk to put another 200 grams of bacon and 200 grams of cheddar cheese. The more industrialized the better! I demanded triple trans fat! Watch! Watch the oil trickling through the burrs of my snack. There is so much oil that we can fry a potato inside my mouth after I eat it. Do you accept it? “I suggested. Displaying my teeth caramelized by the churros that I ate before as an appetizer. Shocked, the girl next to me in the food court got up and left without a word.

Physical activities? I despised it from the first day I saw it! Wherever I passed, if someone invited me to exercise, I did not think twice before telling them to back off. What a shame! Fuck the damn thing! I will live and die as I wish! Why stand, walk or run? I hate all this with all my might! I do not even believe we were meant to walk! Whose idea was that? I hope the moron has died brutally!

Speaking of bipeds and quadrupeds, how I loved meat! I ate more than 15 pounds a week until I got atherosclerosis. Marvelous! What’s done is done. But there is no denying that it was one of the best phases of my life. When I walked through the downtown, people thought they were close to a butcher or slaughterhouse. No! There was nothing like that around us. It was the natural fragrance exhaled by my body. “What smells of raw meat, where does that come from?” “Wow! What a dead cow stink!”,”I think there’s a new butcher shop nearby”, I listened copiously.

My constant drinking also marked my life. Of course! I said it was just a social gathering. Funny! Fool of whoever believed. What I drank three times a week was what many did not consume in a month. I needed to be good at it. So I discovered an effective method to increase my tolerance for alcohol. Of course, I will not say what it is! Yes! I went so far, so far that my liver could not stay with me. Today we live in separate places.

Now, the memories of my transformation have come to my mind. I stopped walking for a few months, as soon as my body took control of my life. It was about where he wanted to go and when. So capricious, what a strong personality! If he did not like the idea, he turned off like a toy with a worn-out pile. Is he vindictive? Yeah! How can be so hateful? Last week, he allowed me to move my right leg and left arm for the last time.

I keep looking at the lining, aware of two lizards that feed on a beetle. Leaning on the open window, the neighbor’s demented cat, with its ears staring at the full moon, licks his own paws and watches them. I remember the Devil Scarab, so valuable and so useless, just as life is for so many people. I feel tired, oblivious to my body. My eyes close and I recognize that I am no longer human, only prey to who I was predator. “May your body not be the first grave of your skeleton”, wrote Jean Giraudoux in Notes et Maximes, Le Sport, 1928.

The truth is that no one cared about his presence until the glass began to vibrate

“Oh my God! What is that? A live pig! Disgusting! How awful! What a joke! Lord, have mercy!” (Photo: Copy)

One day, the butcher shop queue seemed endless, extending to the far white wall, where the exhibitors showed up with hundreds of cereal boxes. And more and more people were buying huge amounts of meat.

“Give me twenty kilos of lamb!”, “I want ten kilos of pork ribs!” “Oh! And seven kilos of tuscan sausage!” “No! I asked fifteen kilos of termites!” “Yes! That’s it! Eighteen kilos of palette!”

Ground beef, chicken wings and drumsticks, topside, rump steak, skirt steak and bacon. The demand was so big that one of the butchers had to see if there was enough meat to satisfy all those people. Some customers became despaired with the possibility of missing one or another cut. “For the love of God! If I don’t get a good piece of steak, I don’t know what to do. This will be the end of the holiday for my family”, complained a man pushing a cart full of frozen and chilled meat trays.

While some people gnashed their teeth and others gnawed on their nails, the most discreet individuals subtly kicked the wheels of the cart and waited for the butcher’s response, who was given the most important task of the day. “I want steak, mother! I want bacon, mother!”, shouted a crying kid under eight years old. The little meatlover opened his big mouth to complain, and it was not hard to see meat lint between his teeth.

The tension increased as the butcher did not return. I noticed shaking hands, people scratching their bodies, as if taken by itching. With uneasy glances, expressions of dismay, anger and disapproval, swelled the bulwark of unrest. When the butcher returned, he nodded and smiled, and the crowd of customers applauded.

Quickly the voices and applause were drowned out by the sound of butcher saws slicing colossal rib pieces. No one cared about the mist of bone sharps falling over their heads. Thus the algid and assorted smell of flesh, a piglet was kept in the showcase.

With an apple in his mouth, he was ignored. The truth is that no one cared about his presence until the glass began to vibrate. The customers looked at each other and saw no hand or human leg touching the showcase. And inside, the piglet was trying to break the glass with an apple in his mouth. He made an extraordinary effort to get rid of the fruit. Then he grunted more than ever. Frightened, adults screamed and children cried. But no one was more thrilled than the pig who slipped on his tears.

“Oh my God! What is that? A live pig! Disgusting! How awful! What a joke! Lord, have mercy! This is so evil! What is this world coming to?”, they said. The image of the live piglet made customers leave the butcher’s queue, and if not for horror, at least for embarrassment. The exception was the man who was in line to buy fillet steak:

– What do you want, sir?

– I want the pig.

– But, sir, he’s still alive!

– This is how I want it.

– I will see what I can do.

– Well?

– It’s all right! You can take the piglet. You can pay for it over there, with the cashier.

– Alright! Thank you, my friend.

On that day, the last store customer abandoned the cart which carried many chilled and frozen meat trays. With the piglet in his arms, he crossed the market and ignored dozens of looks. At the register, he paid for something that he didn’t consider as one more product and walked to the exit as if carrying a baby. Outside, the night did not seem dark and cold. Then, the piglet from the showcase put his nose on the man’s shoulder and did not cry, just dozed.

Importante pensador árabe condenava a exploração animal em todos os aspectos

“Ele alcançou a originalidade quando ainda respirava o reminiscente ar de liberdade dos poetas pré-islâmicos da Era da Ignorância” (Arte: Reprodução)

Um dos mais importantes poetas árabes de todos os tempos, o sírio Abul ʿAla Al-Maʿarri ficou conhecido no século XI por sua postura antirreligiosa e por condenar a exploração animal em todos os aspectos. Uma de suas obras mais famosas, e que aborda a sua adoção de uma filosofia de vida que hoje se enquadraria como veganismo, é o poema “Já Não Roubo da Natureza”.

Aos quatro anos, Al-Ma’arri ficou cego depois de contrair varíola. Mais tarde, deixou Ma’arrat al-Numan, sua cidade natal, para estudar. O sírio foi para Aleppo e depois para a Antióquia, onde a cultura predominante era helenista. Também viveu em outras cidades. Até os sete anos, um de seus grandes professores foi Ibn Kalawayth, um famoso erudito persa do século X, referência em gramática árabe e exegese corânica, falecido em 980. Em “Risālat al-Ghufrān”, seu trabalho mais conhecido, Al-Ma’arri lamenta profundamente a morte de seu mestre.

A obra poética que poderia ser traduzida como “A Epístola do Perdão”, assim como o sagrado Livro de Arda Viraf, é considerada uma das obras que possivelmente influenciou Dante Alighieri a escrever “A Divina Comédia”, publicada entre 1304 e 1321. Em “Risālat al-Ghufrān”, Al-Ma’arri narra a viagem de um poeta para o céu e para o inferno, onde ele encontra os maiores nomes da literatura árabe sendo punidos e recompensados por seus trabalhos. Para confrontar as crenças islâmicas, Al-Ma’arri apresenta um céu também ocupado por pessoas não-muçulmanas.

“Ele alcançou a originalidade quando ainda respirava o reminiscente ar de liberdade dos poetas pré-islâmicos da Era da Ignorância. Assim como o autor de Eclesiastes, al-Ma’arri descreveu o mundo a partir de um ponto de vista distanciado, aristocrático e ligeiramente desdenhoso”, analisam Cyril Glassé e Huston Smith na página 278 do livro “The New Encyclopedia of Islam”, de 2008.

Se por um lado, o sírio era visto como um racionalista controverso e pessimista que se dedicava a criticar o cristianismo, judaísmo, islamismo e zoroastrismo, por outro, ele advogada em nome da justiça social e dos direitos animais. As suas principais ferramentas de conscientização eram a sua produção literária e os seus discursos. Se sentia tão incomodado com os rumos da humanidade que chegou a dizer que talvez o melhor caminho fosse a anti-natalidade. No seu entendimento, era a forma mais eficaz de poupar as crianças das dores da vida.

Al-Qifti, renomado escritor egípcio da literatura islâmica medieval registrou que durante viagem para Trípoli, Al Ma’arri visitou um mosteiro perto da Lataquia, onde ouviu um debate sobre filosofia helênica. A discussão despertou nele um sentimento de ceticismo e irreligiosidade. O biógrafo e historiador sírio Ibn al-Adim rejeita essa versão, alegando que Al Ma’arri jamais teve contato com culturas não-islâmicas. Embora não haja consenso sobre esse aspecto de sua vida, ele jamais deixou de criticar a religião em seus versos. Em “As Duas Verdades Universais”, o poeta sírio escreveu:

Al Ma’arri advogada em nome da justiça social e dos direitos animais (Arte: Reprodução)

Erram todos – judeus, cristãos,

muçulmanos e masdeístas:

A humanidade segue duas seitas:

Uma: pensadores sem religião,

Outra: religiosos sem cabeça.

A sua maior rejeição em relação à religião subsistia no fato de que os discursos dos profetas sempre foram baseados em afirmações inquestionáveis. Por essa sua posição, Ma’Arri um dia foi arrastado pelos pés para fora da casa do erudito islâmico e poeta Sharif al-Radi, em Bagdá. O erudito islâmico Ibn al-Kawzi, descendente de Abu Bakr, companheiro do profeta Maomé, o acusou de ser um zindiq, ou seja, alguém contrário aos dogmas islâmicos.

“Em meio a suas meditações sobre a tragédia humana, explodiu o ódio feroz da injustiça, da hipocrisia e da superstição”, avalia o escritor Reynold Nicholson no livro “Studies in Islamic Poetry”, escrito durante a Primeira Guerra Mundial e publicado em 1921. Al-Ma’arri enfatizava que o ser humano buscava refúgio nas histórias religiosas como forma de amenizar a sua solidão espiritual despertada por sua má conduta.

Em síntese, o sírio declarava que a religião era uma instituição humana inventada para atuar como fonte de poder e renda para seus fundadores e sacerdotes. Para isso, em sua concepção, valem-se de documentos falsos atribuídos à inspiração divina.

 Abandona a mesquita e evita louvor,

Preces inúteis, sacrifício de ovelhas,

Pois o Destino trará cálice de sono

Ou cálice de insônia. O que vier, beba.

Selo comemorativo com a imagem do poeta sírio (Foto: Reprodução)

Foi justamente por condenar o sacrifício de animais que Al-Ma’arri se tornou vegetariano aos 30 anos. No entanto, somente décadas depois decidiu registrar o que o levou a se abster de carne e derivados de origem animal. Ele citou como referência um antigo médico grego e, mesmo avesso à religião, mencionou também o Alcorão. Para o filósofo sírio, é inconcebível gerar dor em outros seres para roubar leite e ovos. Al-Ma’arri dizia que ao fazer isso os homens agiam como ladrões.

Como Mahavira e os jainistas, ele acreditava na santidade da vida e definia como um ato de imoralidade causar qualquer prejuízo aos animais. Então se tornou um ferrenho opositor de todas as formas de exploração animal, inclusive de peles como vestuário. Vivendo com 20 dinares por ano, a sua alimentação era baseada em feijões e lentilhas.

Por causa de suas limitações em decorrência da deficiência visual, Al-Ma’arri contava com o serviço de um ajudante, e permitia que ele levasse a maior parte do seu ordenado, deixando apenas o suficiente para a sua comida. “Os homens de mente acurada me chamam de asceta, mas eles estão errados em sua classificação. Embora eu tenha disciplinado meus desejos, só abandonei os prazeres mundanos porque eles me privavam do melhor de mim”, garantiu.

Publicado há mais de mil anos, o poema “Já Não Roubo da Natureza” é a maior prova de sua “consciência vegana”. Em síntese, um manifesto à vida, já que ele via os animais como seres que não merecem padecer diante da injustiça humana:

Você foi subvertido pela compreensão e pela religião.

Venha a mim, para que você possa ouvir alguma verdade.

Não coma injustamente o peixe que a água sublevou,

E não deseje como alimento a carne de animais abatidos,

Ou o leite branco das mães que pretendiam alimentar seus bebês, não senhoras nobres.

Não aflija as inocentes aves tomando-lhes os ovos;

Pois a injustiça é o pior dos crimes.

E poupe o mel que as abelhas obtêm industriosamente das flores de plantas perfumadas;

Porque elas não o resguardaram para que pudesse pertencer a outros,

Nem o recolheram em troca de presentes ou recompensa.

Lavei minhas mãos de tudo isso; e gostaria de ter descoberto o meu caminho antes do meu cabelo ter ficado grisalho.

1944 – Fathi Muhammad, autor da escultura de Abul ʿAla Al-Maʿarri (Foto: Reprodução)

Ao longo de três anos vivendo em Bagdá, onde foi muito bem recebido nos mais importantes salões literários, Al-Ma’arri escreveu o livro “Luzumiyyat” ou “Obrigação do que não é obrigatório”, que reúne uma coleção de versos que diferem da tradicional poesia árabe, principalmente pela estrutura irregular.

Enquanto viveu no Iraque, ele ficou decepcionado ao testemunhar como os poetas se rebaixavam por causa de dinheiro. Muitos se dedicavam a escrever panegíricos, ou seja, ode aos seus ricos patronos. Quando reconheceu que aquele era o destino de um poeta em uma metrópole, o sírio decidiu retornar para casa. Sua decisão foi reforçada pela notícia de que sua mãe estava falecendo.

Em 1010, de volta a Ma’arrat al-Numan, ele decidiu não se ausentar mais. Em sua cidade natal, as pessoas gostavam de ouvi-lo ensinar sobre poesia e retórica. Sua popularidade era grande entre estudantes locais. Também se correspondia com estudantes estrangeiros. Niilista e com um humor assumidamente satírico, Al-Ma’arri afirmava não acreditar em alegria ou tristeza, classificando os dois estados emocionais como sendo um só. Mesmo assim, suas obras nunca deixaram de transmitir uma fé piedosa, espiritualidade, singular senso de humanidade e um contumaz anseio por liberdade de expressão.

Uma vez, ele escreveu um pedido de desculpas por qualquer ofensa que seu trabalho pudesse provocar:

“Não tentei enfeitar meus versos por meio da ficção, nem preencher minhas páginas com idílios de amor, cenas de batalhas, relatos de festas de vinho ou coisas do gênero. Meu objetivo é tão somente falar a verdade. Ora, o fim próprio da poesia não é verdade, mas sim falsidade, e na medida em que é desviada do seu próprio fim, sua perfeição é prejudicada. Portanto, devo desejar a indulgência de meus leitores por este livro de poesia moral.”

Escultura foi decapitada por membros da Al-Nusra, um dos braços da Al-Qaeda (Foto: BBC News)

Mesmo tendo uma vida repleta de controvérsias, Abul ʿAla Al-Maʿarri jamais foi preso ou perseguido, mesmo com uma postura pré-anarquista. De 1010 até 1057, ano em que faleceu, o poeta viveu longos períodos de reclusão, simplesmente escrevendo. Tudo leva a crer que a sua cegueira, aliada à sua bela construção poética, contribuíram para que os líderes muçulmanos fossem indulgentes.

Historiador e arquiteto do Instituto de Tecnologia de Massachusetts (MIT), Nasser Rabbat relata que Al-Ma’arri é um dos três principais ateus da história do islamismo. No século 20, o filósofo sírio passou a ser visto como um personagem da mesma estirpe dos grandes pensadores do iluminismo. Inclusive o Ocidente só conheceu o seu legado no Século das Luzes, ou seja, no século XVIII.

Escultura de Al-Ma’arri foi decapitada em 2013

Na década de 1940, o artista plástico Fathi Muhammad criou uma escultura em homenagem ao poeta e filósofo sírio Abul ʿAla Al-Maʿarri. A estátua foi colocada em exibição no Museu de Maarat al-Numan, para que ela pudesse inspirar estudantes, pensadores e poetas sírios. Em uma noite de fevereiro de 2013, a escultura, que tinha duas vezes o seu tamanho natural, foi decapitada por fundamentalistas islâmicos da Frente Al-Nusra, um dos braços da Al-Qaeda. Antes, ela já havia sido alvejada a tiros.

Embora também seja qualificado como um herege e seus trabalhos sejam proibidos em cidades dominadas por fundamentalistas, o legado de al-Ma’arri continua influenciando muitas pessoas, tanto no Oriente quanto no Ocidente. Maior exemplo disso é que ele ainda é considerado um dos maiores nomes da poesia e do pensamento árabe.

Saiba Mais

Abul ʿAla Al-Maʿarri era celibatário e deixou registrado um pedido de que seu corpo fosse cremado quando ele morresse.

O poeta sírio começou a escrever seus primeiros poemas com 11, 12 anos.

Ele era membro da Banu Sulayman, uma importante família de Ma’arrat al-Numan que pertencia à tribo tanūkh. Seu tataravô paterno foi o primeiro qadi da cidade. Alguns outros membros da família Sulayman também foram considerados bons poetas.

Referências

Nicholson, A. Reynold. Studies in Slamic Poetry. Cambridge University Press (1921).

Glassé, Cyril; Smith, Huston. The New Encyclopedia of Islam. Rowman & Littlefield Publishers (2008).

Nicholson, A. Reynold. A Literary History of the Arabs. Routdlege (1962).

Hastings, James. Encyclopedia of Religion and Ethics. Kessinger Publishing (2003).

Gelder, Geert Jan Van; Schoeler, Gregor. Al-Maari, Abu I-Ala. The Epistle of Forgiveness. Volume 2: Hypocrites, Heretics, and Other Sinners (2014).

Tharoor, Kanishk; Maruf, Maryam. Museum of Lost Objects: The unacceptable poet. BBC News (8 de março de 2016).

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