David Arioch – Jornalismo Cultural

Em 1999, a banda infelizmente não foi muito bem recebida no Brasil (Foto: Reprodução)

Curto muito a banda alemã Rammstein. Conheci em 1999 quando eu era molecote e estava em Cuiabá. Como eu já curtia metal industrial, contagiado pelo Ministry, de Al Jourgensen, foi alegria à primeira vista. Por outro lado, me recordo que naquela época era difícil encontrar quem não desprezasse a banda. Prova disso foi a primeira apresentação que eles fizeram no Brasil naquele ano, abrindo o show do Kiss. Jogaram inclusive objetos no palco e chamaram os caras de “palhaços”. Como se ser palhaço pudesse ser uma ofensa; além de uma baita contradição, já que o Kiss era a atração principal.

Muitas bandas que ouvi na adolescência e inclusive na fase adulta ficaram pelo caminho. Quero dizer, parei de ouvir muita coisa, mas Rammstein continua sendo uma banda que considero inesquecível, mesmo que haja períodos em que eu não a escute. Controversa, boas letras (consequência natural de músicos com bom nível cultural em geral – uma coisa que reconheço que não é tão comum na música) e bons clipes. Acho que tudo isso se soma para eu ter a banda em grande estima.

No pré-escolar, a professora um dia me perguntou se eu sabia o que era amor. Respondi que sim. Então ela pediu que eu explicasse. Eu disse que traria a resposta na semana seguinte. No dia esperado, me aproximei de sua mesa e despejei na palma de sua mão algumas frutinhas vermelhas. “O que é isso?”, perguntou a professora. Respondi: “Amor! Só que vem com um A a mais porque se o primeiro desaparecer o último só tem a agradecer.” Passei um mês levando amora para a sala de aula.

Contribuição

Este é um blog independente, caso queira contribuir com o meu trabalho, você pode fazer uma doação clicando no botão doar:

Há pessoas que passam pela vida e deixam marcas tão intensas que quando partem é inevitável se perguntar se elas realmente existiram. Com o tempo, sobrevivem como sonhos reavivados por lampejos de uma mente casmurra. A memória então começa a falhar diante de um coração que se recusa a se calar.

Contribuição

Este é um blog independente, caso queira contribuir com o meu trabalho, você pode fazer uma doação clicando no botão doar:

One day, when I was a child, I asked my mother what ephemeral means. She did not answer. Two days later, we went to a stream and in the middle of the grass was a dragonfly-like insect. He moved lightly, and he had the same edacity as the water hitting rocks. His body was yellow, brown, and black, but as he swung his wings, he looked like a gleam of gold.

As it was the weekend, my mother suggested that we spend all the day in that place, watching the routine of that singular insect. Late in the afternoon, after a nap, I woke up and saw him flying toward a small tree. There, he nestled and rested. My mother and I approached a little, and saw that the specimen did not move, it seemed fragile. I thought he was dead.

My mother warned me to be calm. An hour later, the insect deposited a large amount of eggs on one of the most hidden branches, and no longer moved. The flesh simply went away. So I asked what happened. “Why did he die like this, and right now when we came here?” My mother smiled and explained that the insect was actually a female that became an adult in the morning:

Her adult life began shortly before our arrival and ended now. She exists only for others to exist. She barely feeds because time is short, and her children need to be born. That is why her name is Ephemera, and that is what ephemeral means, everything that has a short duration. A word that should always be used in reference to the gifts of communion that we do not have the privilege of enjoying because it is time to go away.

Arte: Risachantag

Com não mais que sete anos, numa noite fui até a cozinha e encontrei meu pai sentado no chão, aparentemente falando sozinho. Quando me aproximei, vi que tinha um rato perto dele, desses que a maioria despreza e mata quando invadem a cozinha. Ele conversava com o animalzinho, e achei aquilo intrigante.

Por alguns meses, meu pai encontrou todas as noites aquele ratinho ruço, o alimentando com a mais singela malácia. Mazzaropi sempre retornava quase no mesmo horário, com diferença de minutos. Um dia, ele desapareceu. Então perguntei ao meu pai o que ele faria: “Nada, porque na hora certa ele seguiu o seu caminho, o que não deve ser traçado por nós só porque demos a ele um pouquinho daquilo que chamamos de carinho.”

Contribuição

Este é um blog independente, caso queira contribuir com o meu trabalho, você pode fazer uma doação clicando no botão doar:

Seu corpo era amarelo, marrom e preto, mas conforme balançava as asas, tudo se uniformizava num dourado lampejante (Foto: Reprodução)

Quando criança, um dia perguntei à minha mãe o que significa efêmero. Ela não respondeu. Dois dias depois, fomos até um riacho e em meio à relva havia um inseto parecido com uma libélula. Se movia com leveza e tinha a mesma sofreguidão da água se chocando contra as rochas. Seu corpo era amarelo, marrom e preto, mas conforme balançava as asas, tudo se uniformizava num dourado lampejante.

Como era fim de semana, minha mãe sugeriu que passássemos o dia naquele lugar, assistindo a rotina daquele inseto singular. No final da tarde, depois de um cochilo, acordei e o vi voando em direção a uma pequena árvore. Lá, se aninhou e repousou. Eu e minha mãe nos aproximamos um pouco e vimos que o espécime nem se movia, parecia fragilizado. Pensei até que tivesse morrido.

Minha mãe me advertiu para ter calma. Uma hora depois, o inseto depositou uma grande quantidade de ovos em um dos galhos mais ocultos e não mais se moveu, simplesmente faleceu. Então perguntei o que houve. “Por que ele morreu assim e logo hoje que viemos aqui?” Minha mãe sorriu e me explicou que aquele inseto na realidade era uma fêmea que se tornou adulta pela manhã:

“A vida adulta dela começou pouco antes da nossa chegada e terminou agora. Ela existe somente para que outros existam. Mal se alimenta porque o tempo é curto e seus filhos precisam nascer. Por isso o nome dela é efêmera, e é isto que significa efêmero, tudo que tem curta duração; uma palavra que deveria ser sempre usada em referência aos presentes da comunhão que não temos o privilégio de usufruir porque é chegada a hora de partir.”

Contribuição

Este é um blog independente, caso queira contribuir com o meu trabalho, você pode fazer uma doação clicando no botão doar:

Em uma época da minha infância, toda semana um senhor baixinho e barbudo passava em frente a nossa casa. Gritava sorrindo para a minha mãe: “Ô Dona Menina, como vai a senhora? Vai querer vassoura hoje?” O velhinho gostava de fazer barulho, de ser notado, de mostrar que estava na rua.

Quando faleceu, para a surpresa de sua pequena família, seu velório foi acompanhado por centenas de pessoas. Muitos não sabiam sua história e até mesmo seu nome, mas jamais esqueceram das muitas manhãs em que foram cumprimentados graciosamente pelo velhinho bonachão.

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.

Lembro da primeira vez que conheci uma criança cega. Foi em frente à igreja. Ela tinha a minha idade, não mais que seis anos. Ficamos os dois nos observando. Eu com meus olhos, ela com suas mãos cheirando à hortelã colhida na horta da paróquia.

From a distance, he looked like a suspicious character out of one of the Charles Dickens stories

The first edition of David Copperfield, the greatest treasure of the John Romani’s family (Foto: Reprodução)

At least once a month, the bookseller John Romani came to our house at Artur Bernard Street, when I was nine years old. Through the branches of tropical almond, I saw him crossing the Silvio Meira Street, carrying the same brown suitcase, adorned with names of dozens of writers.

From a distance, he looked like a suspicious character out of one of the Charles Dickens stories. He was no more than 35 years old, medium build, olive skin, a peculiar walk and dressed as a man of the 1920s, with his fedora hat carefully aligned, and a slim fit coat. Next to the suitcase, he always carried an umbrella, that could be taken apart and used as a walking stick.

When I met him, he was in the house gate talking to my mother, offering a collection of 16 volumes of Barsa Encyclopedia. As the bookseller spoke, in a growing paroxysm, everything came alive and became more important than it really was. He smiled, gestured and moved his feet from one side to the other, making the encyclopedia presentation a theatrically didactic performance.

That was how John Romani persuaded her to buy the collection, in negotiations more motivated by their selling methods than the quality of the product. His power of persuasion only did not surpass his most virtuous human qualities. And that day, he asked permission from my mother to rest for a few minutes on the balcony. She consented without flinching.

Invited in, he sat in a chair with nylon strings and my mother went to the kitchen to bring a cup of coffee while the drizzle shone serene on our garden. Before opening the suitcase, he took off his hat and kept it on the umbrella’s tip, anchored on the window grid. He adjusted his brown wavy hair, and asked my name. I answered and he shouted excitedly:

“Wow! Stupendous! David! Do you know if your parents chose your name because of the young David Copperfield? Do you know his story?” I smiled and enthusiastically with his charisma, I asked if he spoke about the magic or the boy. “That’s right! The boy!”, he said. With the simplicity inherent in children, I told him that he was an orphan, and suffered greatly because he lived alone in the world. Nevertheless, he believed in humans, in a better world.

Very good! You know, David? I’m Romani, I have gypsy origin, and we never believe that names are chosen at random. I’m sure it says a lot about who you are and who you will be. David Copperfield was extremely persevering, a dreamer, and though I have known you today, I believe that you will be like him. Our meeting has a special meaning that one day may make more sense in your life – told the bookseller with an enigmatic expression, which further highlighted his square face and his velvety big eyes like a fruit of the tropical almond.

My mother did not take long to return with the coffee. John Romani thanked her and drank in silence, watching Happy and Chemmy playing in the garden, rolling on the damp grass, with the jasmine scent, and stubbornly jumping on the plant bed. With a curious look, the bookseller smiled at the spectacle of everyday life. He scrutinized so strictly the trivial things that even the most ordinary of scenes seemed to convey something surreal.

When I threatened to take off Happy and Chemmy from the grass, preventing them from becoming even more dirty, I heard a double and synchronized sound. The bookseller was opening the suitcase. At the same moment, I pulled away from the two poodles and approached him, intrigued to know what he was carrying.

“Look, I’ll tell you a secret. I usually do not show anyone the treasure I carry with me, but as I believe you are a genuine David Copperfield, I know that there is no problem”, he said, then asked me to close my eyes and extend my arms. Soon, I felt something plastic between my little fingers.

On my hands was a neat copy of David Copperfield. The cover was green and had provocative illustrations of the adventures of the young orphan. Although I did not understand in depth the importance of that moment, I was very happy to hold the work in my hands. And the countenance of Romani made me realize that I was faced with an invaluable opportunity.

“It’s different from the book of St. Vincent School. It seems that this is older and less colorful. Remember an old magazine, a hornbook”, I commented without hiding innocence. The bookseller gave a short laugh, took the work from a protective packaging and asked me to read what was written on the cover. “You forgive me, I am not good in English”, I justified. Then, he said I did not need to read everything, and showed me the year of the book – 1849.

This was the first edition of David Copperfield, the greatest treasure of the John Romani’s family. His great-grandfather Vladimir received a copy of the hands of Charles Dickens shortly after the release. “He fled to England in 1846, and later he met the author at the corner of the publisher Bradbury and Evans in London. My great-grandfather worked as a shoeshine boy, and one day Charles Dickens talked to him. If it does not fail my memory, he said the following, before handing David Copperfield: “Here’s a seed. Maybe becomes a gift”, recounted the bookseller smiling.

The young gypsy met Dickens three more times. In the last rendezvous, the author made the 15-year-old boy cry when he stated that he might have written a better story if David Copperfield was based on Vladimir’s life. Born in Romania, the great-grandfather of John Romani was a serf, slave of a wallachian boyar – transylvanian aristocrat. He was an orphan, and he spent most of his childhood doing housework and working in mining in exchange for food, until one day Vladimir managed to escape.

Even as a child, I was awestruck with the narrative, and the resourcefulness of the bookseller guaranteed more realism to the story. The copy of David Copperfield, who I held with both my hands, had a dedication, and Vladimir’s name written by Charles Dickens appeared on the protagonist’s name, a simple gesture of affection.

There was a moment that I noticed him with teary eyes, trying hard not to weep. He made so much effort that the veins of his neck stood out, and revealed a discreet and vivid tattoo near his neck. It was based on a combination of colors that I could not identify. There was no design, only two words – Pacha Dron. I discovered a few years ago which means the way of life.

As soon as the mist disappeared, John Romani packed David Copperfield and tucked it inside the suitcase, with the same care that a mother dedicated to her son to put him to sleep in the crib. When the suitcase was closed, I felt a warm and fleeting air caressing my cheeckbones. The bookseller stood up, said goodbye to my mother and I accompanied him to the gate. Outside, he snapped his fingers, pointed at me and said: “Goodbye, David Copperfield!” He gave a wink and went to Arthur Bernard Street as a singular character. If in coming, and by far, he seemed to me a kind of Uriah Heep, in turn, he resembled more a hybrid of Ham Peggotty and Dr. Strong.

John Romani visited me over a year. Regardless of climate and weather, he always returned. One day, when it was raining a lot, the bookseller clapped his hands in front of my house – he was soaked, unprotected by the umbrella which was useless by the violence of the water. “Commitment is commitment!”, he claimed smiling. After hearing a good scolding from my mother, the kind that parents give their rioters children, he watched, hid his laughter and, crestfallen, accepted the reproach, until we started to laugh.

Attached to a profession that came into his family through his great-grandfather Vladimir, his greatest satisfaction was through the streets selling books. And for him, nothing was more important than the pleasure of telling stories and arouse feelings. On one occasion, when he was robbed, he gave all the money and bent over the suitcase in the middle of the asphalt, protecting the books; until the bandits disappeared as if they had never approached him.

At our last meeting, next to Christmas, John Romani left me as guardian of a Fountain pen that his great-grandfather gave to his grandfather hours before he died. “David Copperfield, this pen was used by Charles Dickens in the draft of Great Expectations. And what is the greater example of hope that put in your hands something that exists since 1860 or even earlier? Yeah…”, he said. That was the last time I saw the bookseller to whom I still keep the Fountain pen.

Hopefully, when the reality ceases to exist for me, as the vaporous shadows that my imagination separates voluntarily this time, I can find what is truly most important next to me, with my raised finger pointing to heaven! – wrote Dickens in David Copperfield, in an excerpt modified by me.