David Arioch – Jornalismo Cultural

Minha bisavô Maria, meu tio-avô Lula, meu tio-avô João e a manilha (Fotos: David Arioch)

Em respeito à memória de parentes falecidos em 1962 e 1970, desde criança vou ao cemitério de Alto Paraná no Dia de Finados. É um costume sem conotação religiosa. Meus familiares, parte deles imigrantes, se mudaram para esta região na década de 1940, quando o Novo Norte do Paraná ainda estava em processo de colonização.

I just stayed in the hallway (Photo: Copy)

Some time ago, I was dating a girl who lived in a very small apartment. So, whenever I picked her up, when she was in the bath, we had the habit of talking through the door. I did not come in, just stood in the hallway. One day, an elderly woman, who lived in the apartment next door, opened the door and appeared wrapped in a towel, asking me to keep my voice down, because she felt vulnerable at the sound of my voice. I apologized and she replied:

“Don’t you realize that I’m naked? Only with this towel over my body? I don’t want to hear your voice, it brings me uncomfortable memories. I just don’t want to hear it! Don’t you understand?” I was confused, but I answered that I understood. She didn’t believe me, and told me that I should not speak in the hallway, because she felt uncomfortable. She claimed that I was interfering with her privacy of feeling naked and free. She said that my voice was invading her body.

I was scared and worried. I started knocking on the door and my girl said she would come out soon. The elderly woman continued watching me from afar, with a questioning look, very weird and challenging. Dissatisfied, she opened the door a little more and her eyes widened. Even faltering, I stated:

“Look, lady, I’m just waiting for my girl here. Please, I don’t want confusion. Perhaps, you are very sensitive. Forgive me if I did something wrong.” Startled, she frowned and shouted: “What? How dare you, motherfucker!” Then, she dropped the towel, opened the door, took two steps completely naked and stared at me fixedly.

Embarrassed, not knowing how to react, I observed the right wall and kept my eyes on a fixed point. Before closing the door, the lady scowled and shouted, “You pig!” several times. Seconds later, my girl came out and we got out of there as quickly as possible.

Como puxar um animal pelo rabo pode ser considerado esporte? (Foto: Foto: Prefeitura do Cantá)

Comissão do Senado aprova projeto que torna vaquejada manifestação cultural no Dia do Veganismo. Mais uma vez, o Brasil na contramão do que é certo. É triste reconhecer até que ponto chega a ganância e a maldade humana. Veremos agora o que vai acontecer daqui em diante. Ainda é possível reverter isso.

Levando em conta essa decisão, quando saí de casa, comecei a refletir sobre a forma como o ser humano se aproveita dos animais. Me recordei da maneira como muitos são explorados e executados, como vemos em vídeos amadores de denúncias de sofrimento e morte animal. Curiosamente, me veio à mente lembranças de figuras sinistras como Ed Gein, Ivan Milat, Ed Kemper, Jeffrey Dahmer, Charles Manson, Ted Bundy, Anders Breivik, Woo Bum-Kon, William Unek, Andrei Chikatilo, Os Maníacos de Dnepropetrovsk e outros tipos de serial killers, mass murderers e rampage killers.

Uma amiga me ligou para falar de seus problemas (Foto: David Arioch)

Uma amiga me ligou para falar de seus problemas. Como ouvinte que sou, fiquei em silêncio, assimilando seu descontentamento. De repente, ela pediu minha opinião. “Então, David, o que você acha que devo fazer?” Quando comecei: “Bom, eu penso que…”, ela me interrompeu e reclamou:

“Não, David! Não! Olha só! Deixa eu continuar!” Então me calei mais uma vez e ela prosseguiu: “Mas não sei também. É uma situação difícil e acho que minha mãe não vai aceitar. Você concorda?” Quando fui falar, ela me impediu novamente. Tudo bem! Preferi me abster, ciente de que qualquer resposta pudesse ser mal interpretada.

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Ontem à noite, minha mãe me ligou e pediu que eu fosse até a farmácia comprar um medicamento. Chegando lá, fiz o pedido a uma moça. Ela voltou com uma caixinha, checou o preço no computador e me disse bem sorridente, sem velar a empolgação:

“Nossa! Está com 70% de desconto! Por que você não leva umas quatro caixas? Vale muito a pena!” Agradeci e expliquei que não era necessário.

Logo me recordei das minhas idas ao bar quando criança, e a Dona Maria perguntando se eu não queria o troco em balas: “Olha, filho, hoje tem bala em promoção. Leve dez pelo preço de três!”

Noah came behind me, tapped my shoulder twice and gave me an invitation

I was in the Municipal Cemetery of Alto Paraná talking to a stranger named Noah (Photo: Copy)

On a normal day, still far from the Holiday of Finados (Day of the Dead), I was in the Municipal Cemetery of Alto Paraná talking to a stranger named Noah. A short distance from the entrance, we were talking about life and death, while few people came in and came out of the place.

The weather was still mild and the sun had not shown up that morning, making me see everything in front of me as if I were surrounded by a gothic painting, where the low light lauded the shadows and showed, an in unusual way, tombs, crosses, people and animals that composed those typically christian scene.

For a moment, I rubbed my eyes and realized that the fact that everything look bigger was not an illusion, but a temporary manifestation of nature, able to belittle or enhance humans in many different ways, simply by manipulating the weather, time and spatial sense.

I noticed that it had been raining for the past few days, and the trees that surrounded the cemetery exuded perfume of bark and roots, a blended fragrance, that confused even the best apothecaries. One of them, occasionally swayed the branches and dripped on my head, as if to warn me about something.

I just rubbed my hands on my damp hair, and occasionally I heard Noah reporting his adventures while he was traveling on horseback on dirt roads, and sleeping on graves of abandoned cemeteries. Once, he woke up with phalanges of a corpse on his chest. He never knew how those bones ended up over his body.

In a moment of silence, I heard the song of a trogon with a bronze chest. On a lofty cross, he seemed lost in thought, watching me as the mist veiled his feet. “Have you heard of Pragueira Verduga?”, asked Noah, diverting my attention from the bird. I said no and he told me that it’s a worm that gnaws bronze plates whenever the humidity is too high.

When I left and walked toward the parking lot, where there was no one, Noah came behind me, tapped my shoulder twice and gave me an invitation: “Man, let’s go there to pick up some bronze plaques. I believe there is some very good stuff. Let’s go?” Astonished, I did not believe what I heard. Then, he insisted on the offer and I promptly refused.

His countenance changed quickly. The serene and thoughtful mien was replaced by a withering look and a wicked laugh. Noah tilted his head toward his feet and said with a sardonic smile: “Alright! But I have a present for you. I call it the Philosophy of Gunpowder. It burns instantly, allowing a new kind of understanding of life.”

Inert, I watched Noah showing a caliber .38 revolver wrapped in a piece of orange flannel inside his backpack. Without hesitation, he ordered me to give two thousand dollars kept in my wallet. “I don’t have this money in my wallet. Where did you get that idea?, I asked. Noah said he had a vision of someone with my profile come to the cemetery in the morning, carrying $2,000. I opened my wallet and showed that I had only $200.

I put the money over a short wall and threw my wallet at his feet, so that he looked at the content. Angered, Noah took aim the gun at me. I did not run or threaten to attack him. I simply kept my eyes toward him as my legs seemed to dissolve, wanting to immerse into the moist dappled soil. “Maybe I’ll become something that springs from the earth, or I will disappear as a fuse of the gunpowder that will invade me”, I thought, before I lose myself in a vacuum where existence and nonexistence look also like insomniacs.

Noah pulled the trigger, but there were no bullets, and he did not know that. He ran to the side of the road, entered in a hearse, and disappeared. My $200 was still on the short wall where the breeze moved everything, with the exception of the notes. After, I took my wallet and my money, I went to the landfill near the cemetery. There, I handed the money to the children who were looking for something salvageable from the debris. In the same week, I read in the newspaper that Noah returned to the Our Home Psychiatric Hospital, of Loanda.

It all transpired truthful, as an antithesis of artificiality of the concrete world that surrounded us

Lada, the goddess of love and beauty that I met through Sonya (Art: Igor Ozhiganov)

I have always considered it intriguing to meet people at random, without planning or intent. It seems that everything flows more naturally, since there is no concern to surprise someone. You see yourself in one place and start talking without expecting anything from the other person, nor she you. No tension, no anxiety, there is only the moment that can be ephemeral or lasting – and may or may not turn into something else.

There is beauty in unpredictability, and maybe it subsists in the absence of expectations, the fact that sometimes you can be in a place simply by being, with no intention of getting lost or finding a way.  Clarifying the introduction, I will relate a story to be taken into account.

One day, as I finished my college assignment, I stayed away from my classroom. I went down the third block staircase and I passed a group of young people who were talking so loud that conversation echoed through the building. Then, I sat on a bench in front of the first block. I was quietly, paying attention to everything around me. There was little movement in the courtyard, which was quite predictable, since most of the students were in classrooms.

Occasionally some people passed by me, heading towards the other blocks. The conversations ranged from backbiting to academic concerns. I thought it was funny to see girls dressed in such fine form. I started to think about how long they took to dress themselves. Expensive clothes, haughty posture, pointed nose and shaped hair almost geometrically, everything endorsed in my ideas the existence of a fatuous world, who aspires the most tangible of the fragile perfections. It was beautiful and sad. But I was not there to evaluate or judge, it didn’t mean much to me.

“What interest I had in the way people get dressed?” I always went to college dressed the same way, often in jeans, a heavy metal band t-shirt and sneakers or combat boots. I saw the world through the jet-black hair that lay on my forehead and lined on my eyes, dark as night.

At the beginning of the second millennium, I was wearing a large labret spike, an elongated pointed piercing that blazed between my lips and my chin. Even in the dark, it sparkled and attracted curious and nosy looks. I lost the count of how many people approached me over six years to ask questions about it.

Even after so many approaches, I continued explaining that it did not hurt, it was not difficult to sanitize and it did not hurt to put it. “But how do you kiss someone with it? It is not uncomfortable?”, some people questioned. At the time, it was not common to find people with such adornment. And it was precisely because of this labret spike that I met an Italian girl with Russian descent.

That night, in front of Block 1, it was more than ten minutes that I was sitting on the same bench. I left the classroom because I did not feel well. So, I was out there aspirating a bit of algid breeze that night fortuitously sent to me. Together, she brought a handful of leaves gathered around my feet, forming a mixed carpet of green and brown. Time passed, and the greenish balm anticipating the rain intensified.

“Today it does not come”, I predicted, observing the partially clear sky that confounded the forecasters for several days. It was at that moment, when I decided to get up to go to the bathroom, when a young woman approached me. Her voice was sweet and gentle, full of a strong and unfamiliar accent: “That must hurt, doesn’t it?”, she joked smiling, showing the ball of her labret. I replied that it only hurts when I fall with my chin on the floor – and I smiled briefly. Then she asked if she could sit. “Sure, no problem …”, I said. Her name was Sonya, and to my surprise, she brought a sudden autumnal warmth which appeased the abysmal cold night.

Although she was a foreigner, she spoke Portuguese with astonishing fluency. We talked about music and cinema. Without delay, the conversation turned into a philosophical and existentialist flame – filled with satires, aphorisms and bifurcated and meaningless comments. Human behavior, the meaning of life and our role in the world appeared ironically between topics, as well as the essence of the non-existent. “Things can make sense, but do not always, right?” “Nothing does not necessarily have to be only nothing, neither more than nothing.”

“How can anyone know what the taste of the night is if it is not able to absorb its flavor with closed eyes, recognize her from her perfume?” “I don’t want to have a mechanical existence, which does not allow me to take time for thinking and questioning. If I completely surrender to work, I’m afraid I can cease to exist. Maybe in a few years I will not see anything in the mirror. I will have to embitter the disappearance of my own reflection. ” “Ni ni ni ni ni. ”

Looking around us, we were like two strangers, scattered between comedy and drama of a variegated universe, such as those that mix real people and cartoon characters. We were ourselves – unveiled without the need for simulation – and that fed our noisy humanity in abstraction. You have the same feeling when you are a kid and go out to play with your first little friend. Within minutes, your eyes no longer see strange, and you realize the lightness of a contact on the threshold of life is so essential and substantial as to hold the maternal hand, feel the sublime and domestic warmth.

After that day, we continued to see each other. My fascination and deference by Sonya evolved to the proportion of all that we did not say, though we understood. Talking, as necessary as silence. I saw her as one of those rare people who can make someone dive within yourself to rediscover bigger, livelier, lighter, more transparent, more free and so much more.

She radiated joy; not the fake kind, ravishing, effusive or ill-considered, but placid, unfeigned and melic as their kabbalistic brown-green eyes; itself lights illuminating more than any light in our surroundings. Her almond long hair sparkled as gold thread outlining her fine and graceful features, further enhancing her beauty.

Even without lipstick, her lips blushed as fresh and wild strawberries. When she smiled, displaying exquisite niveous teeth, her dimples sprouted sweetly, more beautiful than the most portentous illuminated manuscript. It all transpired truthful, as an antithesis of artificiality of the concrete world that surrounded us. We learned more about life and human nature between the lines of our eyes. It was not difficult, if we saw ourselves in each other, in the completeness of spontaneity.

One night, when I did not have class, we met in her apartment. We went to the kitchen, and I helped her to prepare piroshki, buns stuffed by her with fruits and vegetables. We ate and sat on the couch to watch “Ladri di Biciclette”, by masterly neorealist Vittorio de Sica. In the scene where they steal the bike of the miserable paper hanger Antonio Ricci, I noticed my right shoulder wet. When I looked to the side, I saw Sonya crying, with inflamed eyes and eburnean skin made red. I smiled, nudged her with innocence and made fun of her sensitivity. She buried her face in her fine hands, changed her mien and gave me two pinches.

At the end of the movie, she told me the story of Lada, the goddess of love and beauty in slavic mythology. “She had similar attributes with Freya, Isis and Aphrodite. She had long, golden hair. She prefered it in braids with a grain wreath, which symbolizes abundance. But she could also change something in her appearance if she did not want to be recognized. Lada was very popular among the ancient slavs, because she was able to replace the winter cold embrace for the delightful pleasant heat”, she narrated.

Later, with the arrival of a young woman with whom Sonya shared the apartment, we walked to the elevator entrance, where we said goodbye with a hug that lasted nearly five minutes. Residents passed us complaining about the cold that we did not feel. They were surprised to see me wearing a t-shirt. My jacket was resting on my right arm, unconcerned with what awaited me on the streets. I smiled and closed my eyes, absorbing the organic balm of her hair and the predicates that life emanated from her body.

Outside, the drizzle was falling and disappeared before touching my skin. Many people walked quickly holding a purse or a briefcase on their heads, fearing of suspended water droplets. I walked for a few blocks, and felt my body so heated that even the wind gusts, that twisted the finer branches of the trees, didn’t hit me. I felt the warm arms of Sonya around me, softer than satin sheets. Halfway, the serene dissipated and the cloudy sky cleared for a moment. Some passersby pointed to the sky, where a moving woman’s face was smiling while in primacy crumbles.

Abri a porta, ela entrou e continuei ali, trançando as pernas de vontade de urinar (Foto: Reprodução)

Eu e uma garota fomos até uma pizzaria, mas naquela pizzaria só havia um banheiro. Para não parecer grosseiro, sugeri que ela usasse primeiro e fiquei esperando a minha vez. Abri a porta, ela entrou e continuei ali, trançando as pernas de vontade de urinar. Nos primeiros minutos, chegou um rapaz e avisei que havia uma garota usando o banheiro. Ele me ignorou completamente e começou a gritar enquanto esmurrava a porta:

“Meu Deus! Quem tá aí dentro? Eu preciso entrar! Ande! Vamos! Eu quero usar! Saia logo daí, senão vou mijar na porta, cacete!” Incomodado com tamanha falta de educação, pedi ao sujeito que se retirasse e ameacei chamar o gerente. Surpreso, ele se afastou, levantou as mãos, fez um V com os dedos, em sinal de paz e amor, e foi embora.

Eu nem entrava, simplesmente ficava no corredor (Foto: Reprodução)

Há algum tempo, eu estava saindo com uma garota que morava em um apartamento bem pequeno. Então sempre que eu chegava quando ela estava no banho, a gente tinha o costume de conversar pela porta. Eu nem entrava, simplesmente ficava no corredor. Só que um dia uma senhora que morava no apartamento ao lado abriu a porta e apareceu só de toalha, me pedindo para falar baixo porque ela se sentia vulnerável com o som da minha voz. Me desculpei e ela replicou:

“Você não entende que eu estou pelada? Só com esta toalha por cima? Não quero ouvir a sua voz, ela me traz lembranças desconfortáveis. Simplesmente não quero ouvi-la! Você não entende?” Fiquei confuso, mas respondi que entendi sim. Ela retrucou que se eu entendia não deveria falar mais nada no corredor, já que ela se sentia incomodada. Alegou que eu estava interferindo em sua privacidade de sentir-se nua e livre. Ainda disse que minha voz afugentava seu corpo.

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Como violentar um animal pode ser considerado esporte? (Foto: Reprodução)

Do ponto de vista moral e ético, vaquejada nunca foi esporte. Em primeiro lugar, porque não há o consentimento do animal. Em segundo, porque o submete à situação vexatória análoga à tortura. Incompreensível também é defini-la como manifestação cultural, na tentativa de legitimar sua prática, endossar sua aceitação.

Cultura é uma palavra que no meu ideário sempre preferi relacionar, pelo menos instantaneamente, com coisas boas, embora infelizmente também seja atrelada a coisas ruins. Quando o assunto é cultura, logo penso em algo que ajude a elevar a alma humana e o desenvolvimento de nossas sensibilidades. É triste reconhecer que há manifestações culturais que envolvam privação e sofrimento a outros seres vivos. Como alguém pode se divertir ou ter prazer em algo assim? Não tenho dúvida alguma de que a vaquejada já não deveria mais ser vista em nossa sociedade como uma manifestação cultural, mesmo que endossada legalmente pelo desejo de uma minoria.

Tanto os filósofos da Grécia Antiga quanto os mais contemporâneos que não endossam a exploração animal convergem para um mesmo ponto quando falamos de ética. Eles argumentam que a ética não existe sem liberdade de escolha. Sendo assim, não há fundamento para a defesa da vaquejada quando alguém a qualifica como manifestação cultural. Ademais, nesse aspecto, penso que cultura e ética são indissociáveis. Nem poderia ser diferente, já que o animal não escolheu ter o seu rabo puxado violentamente para a efervescência da barbárie humana.

É uma pena que tanta gente continue se omitindo em relação às vaquejadas. São pessoas que poderiam contribuir para uma importante retomada de consciência em relação ao valor da vida animal. Falar em liberdade, igualdade e exploração quando se trata de outros assuntos, e ao mesmo tempo não se posicionar quanto a isso, me parece um paradoxo difícil de ignorar, porque grita conveniência, desinteresse por aquilo que não nos atinge diretamente. Há uma evidente ausência de empatia e respeito à vida; uma crença de que se a dor do outro não é a minha, ou se não a reconheço por sermos diferentes, pouco me importa.

Contribuição

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