Goodbye Winamp !

AOL have just announced the end of one of the best mp3 players in the world: Winamp. This is most probably the beginning of the end of our radio, nRP, cause our broadcasting is supported by that mp3 player and its plugins.

Winamp was a creation of Nullsoft in 1997 which sold Winamp to AOL (the parent company of TechCrunch) for $80 million in June 1999. Winamp has been an excellent mp3 player totally free of charge.

Winamp

The website and all of Winamp’s web services will shut down on December 20, this year, and the desktop player will no longer be available for download.

Winamp will always be remembered…

Keep Talking

Who said that all problems can be solved through discussion? They just can’t. As a matter of fact, many problems start exactly during discussion. Let’s say, because I am a basic and simple things lover, that we better keep our mouth shut if we’re not sure about what to say or, even better, if we really have no idea about what to say. Yes, we talk because we’re intelligent but we’re even more intelligent if we know exactly when, where and whom to talk.

Living with somebody who doesn’t know when to stop talking is kind of a torture. People with a high flow of conversation or an endless talk streaming may destroy our good will for living and even take us to commit suicide. It’s even worse when what they talk about is everything we really don’t want, in any case, to talk about. And those are exactly the ones not equipped with a stop button or any other cut-off device. Living with those creatures can be turned to be the hell in earth, less bearable than having a terminal cancer or an advanced state of AIDS. Those are the ones who don’t keep talking as per our request, they simple start talking much before we even notice they’re near by…

Resolving (always) the many problems in life through discussion can only be a wish, never a hope. Yes, we may wish the impossible but we should avoid hoping what is already proved not to be possible. Talking has facilitated mankind existence since it exists. But talking is also a source of troubles, mainly if you’re not an owner of a conversation gift. It’s so easy to start a war with just a couple of words said to the wrong person, in the wrong time, at the wrong place, under the wrong environment and about the wrong subject. Keep talking is dangerous, though…

“Keep talking” might be a wish sent to politicians in order to request them more talking before they use weapons as an argument. But let’s not be white angels playing harp in a white and sky blue place: talking is sometimes, in certain situations, one step too more for resolving things efficiently. Not every people in this world was born good people. Or, if they were, then they have been victims of a degenerative reformat of mind and body, in some chapter of their life, which made of them simple creatures of a horror movie. Yes, I am being frivolous, light-minded, flimsy, shallow, nugatory and trifling… Poor me !

I love people with the power of word. Even if the word is less valuable than a piece of dog excrement in the middle of a main road in a great European or US city. I do love it. Being able of talking fluently about something, using the right words in the right place in such a way that everything sounds great and irrefutable, is an amazing gift. I do appreciate also good talkers. The ones with who you will never be caught in a boring monologue sourced by you[1]. For those, I just have to say: keep talking !

Keep Talking, from Pulse (Pink Floyd album), is one of the many themes (almost all) I do like very much and one of those I never get tired of hearing. Well, Pink Floyd is my super favorite band since ever. The very number one. The irreplaceable. The uppermost. The topmost. Nevertheless, in the case of Keep Talking, music is the strong point while lyrics are almost just a piece of decoration. For those wishing to read lyrics of this song in Portuguese, subtitles were included in the video placed here below.

by Pink Floyd
Keep Talking, in “PULSE”, © 1995
Subtitles in Portuguese by Zé Barbosa.
  1. Exactly what happens with people not able to feed a simple conversation.

Clichés, Sex and Other Trivialities

Still away from my smashing routine, going fast down to “déjà vues”, this is not what a wise man should be dealing with! “Just passing by” is no more, no less, than “just passing by”. I feel I should not be dealing with trivialities at this point of my life but, passing now to the clichés world, life it is what it is, everybody is how it is…

I hate when people is very tolerant when pepper goes in the other’s ass[1]. Those are the ones not deserving my respect or, I should say, the ones deserving my worst hard feelings. Yet, for some reason I have not found, I am a man not able to hate. Yes, hate like grudge, spite, abhorrence, abomination, gall bladder, gall, hate, hatred, odium, rancor, heartburn…

I don’t know how many phrases using the word God suffer of a total lack of sense. Are they as many as the ones using the word Sex and suffering from the same disease? Trivial sex things are more than mothers as much as trivial God things. The world is mad, crazy and nuts and it seems nobody cares about that. Or I am just entering the Hall Of Death…

It could be anywhere...

Yes, I am kind of fed up with all this. I see no way out for a tremendous lack of interest for this and that. Moving forward and back, to left and right, up and down, hasn’t brought me the chance to see what I want to see. I see no planes in the sky. No ships on the sea. No trains on railways. No cars on the road. Instead, I see dust and mud, no clean water to kill my thirst, lots of uncontrollable sweat, kilometers of vague thoughts, walking towards no where…

By the way, the photo up here was taken while I was walking on the beach thinking about clichés, sex and other trivialities…

  1. A free translation of Portuguese expression “Pimenta no cu dos outros, não arde!”.

Thoughts in Black & White

Thoughts in black and white
Yes, sometimes I am totally convinced that almost every human activity sucks. We were born barbarians. Nowadays, many of us are self-convinced of things we never thought before we would be convinced of…

I know a couple of members of my own circle of friends very much for “there is an age for every single step in our life”. I no longer waste time discussing that. Things like “there is an age for sex”, “there is an age for marriage”, “there is an age for dating”, “there is an age for deciding”, there is an age for voting”, “there is an age for farting without a previous license”, “there is an age for being aged”, “there is an age to do this”, “there is an age to do that”, are already out of my daily concerns. Yes, I agree, age brings us this attitude of no longer giving a damn for this social trash created by those self-named human behavior makers. I’m fed up, yes I am, indeed. No longer patient enough with those pieces of shit painted in gold.

Patterns of behavior do exist to control animal instincts of human beings. We were born with those instincts. To be possible the coexistence in a human society we need to erase some of them, work out other and give the remaining the benefit of doubt. I could place here some doubts about efficiency of erasing some instincts in a human mind but that is not currently the goal of this post. I prefer to keep going around those to which we give the benefit of doubt. This singular feeling of being a sinner! Or maybe a revolutionary. Or maybe just the single, simple and mischievous thought of proving ourselves what we are capable of.

Anyhow, for all effects, the known and unknown, the approved and reproved, the accepted and rejected, this is the right time to leave here a small thought I have seen on a sugar pack when I was having a Portuguese style coffee, somewhere between United States and China: “lovers have no age”[1]. Cute, poetic but not true…

May gods drive me happy…

  1. In Portuguese “Os apaixonados não têm idade”, this is one of the many phrases about “Love” printed on sugar packs by Nutricafés, SA, (http://www.nutricafes.pt/).

Of low costs, the History prays not !

Low cost shoes. Low cost leather. Dusty. Not shining. Down there. Very much down there. Where mud rules. Where cockroaches crawl. Greased once in a while. Firmly brushed as well. Classic style or, perhaps, outmoded. Shoe laces. Traveling along endless miles till holes let the rain waters wet the flesh or freeze the bones. Or heels bleed… Black? Always! Bought, most probably, in a big commercial area. One of those belonging to any of the adamastors of capital. Most surely…

Low cost trousers. Low cost cotton. Proletarians. Frayed. Vouchers of a gone age which never wanted to be seen as gone. Jeans styled. Classic style or, perhaps, outmoded. Washed and rewashed countless times. All-season. All-weather. Freely falling down from the curve of happiness to the chest of even lower low-costs till holes cause you embarrassment. Black? Most probably! Bought, perhaps, in a gypsy fair. One of those born and ceased like mushrooms in any village, town or city where the adamastors of capital rule. Most surely…

Shoes and trousers

Of low costs? The History prays not![1]

  1. Based on the Portuguese saying “Dos fracos não reza a História”, for what after some research I have not found a real similar expression in the English language, the title of this post is quite metaphoric. Furthermore, on one hand, ‘low cost’ is pretty much actual, on the other, I love the idea of History being praying…

Art For Non Artists

This is it: a superb painting! What can I see on it? Or maybe through it? Or, who knows, over it? Or behind it? Maybe beyond it? Well, where does it drive me to?

Art for non artists

I cannot tell. Art is not what the artist sees is rather what the art watcher thinks about it. Yes, I have learned it empirically. This paint of mine, here by, can tell the World what the World does not want to be told. Can also not tell the World what the World wants to be told. The more I watch it, the more I feel to know what is my mission on mother Earth. By the way, what is my mission on mother Earth?

What would I see if I would permit myself to watch my paint as a simple watcher, while visiting a painting gallery? I would see racism. Colonialism. I would see tolerance hidden by the power of capital. Crushing capital. Colorless. I would see worthlessness. Rather, valuelessness. Black capital. White capital. Flowing for flowing in remoteness latitudes and longitudes. Dust. Mud. Dusters. A ball of gods stared by little creatures made sheeps to worship. Grays. Crossed lives. Requiems. Lots of requiems. Dance. With the ceased. Side by side. Gone to glory. Glory to a new day. New cycle. Racism. Colonialism. Tolerance hidden by the power of capital…

Art is art. Nothing more than art. I am not an artist. I have no intentions, at all, to become one. As a matter of fact, I feel good under my skin of a vulgar man holding this convenient inability of understanding artists. Can a man understand the creation of a creator if he is unable to understand the latter? Can a man understand the creator but not his creation? I wonder…

From times to times it happens to find myself inside a gallery where art is king (or queen). It does not happen often but it always happen, when it happens, by accident. What I like most in an art gallery? Staring at the watchers. Those very same, all of sudden, conveniently transformed in art appreciators. Men, women and children. I do love it. Their posture. Their attitude. The expression of sapience and transcendency on their faces. That is art for me, the real one.

May the gods be with the non-artists…

Far, far, far away lands

Cannons and other stories
Arms and the Heroes, who from Lisbon’s shore,
Thro’ seas where sail was never spread before,
Beyond where Ceylon lifts her spicy breast,
And waves her woods above the wat’ry waste,
With prowess more than human forc’d their way
To the fair kingdoms of the rising day:
What wars they wag’d, what seas, what dangers pass’d,
What glorious empire crown’d their toils at last,
Vent’rous I sing, on soaring pinions borne,
And all my country’s wars the song adorn;
What kings, what heroes of my native land
Thunder’d on Asia’s and on Afric’s strand:
Illustrious shades, who levell’d in the dust
The idol-temples and the shrines of lust
And where, erewhile, foul demons were rever’d,
To Holy Faith unnumber’d altars rear’d
Illustrious names, with deathless laurels crown’d,
While time rolls on in every clime renown’d.[1]
  1. Translated by Richard Francis Burton from the book Os Lusíadas, Luís de Camões in 1572. Photography by Zé Barbosa.

No Space For Time

I found my old age on the wrinkles of a smiling woman who always smiles…

I decided to be as old as old is the smile on her innocence that would be a little girl’s one if she was a little girl. I have finally accepted to play the role it has always been mine but has not ever before been understood by me.

I assume increasingly to be an old man the more I understand how old lady she is and how vain creatures are those that have not really occupied, ever, my existence.

In fact, I’m an old man with no space for time…