quarta-feira, novembro 28, 2007


Pesquisando pelos Blogs, descobri uma fantastica palavra: "Procrastination" esta pequena palavra parece encerrar os meus segredos mais intimos... mais do que preguiça.. chama-se inquietação... agonia... Ansiedade... sei lá... mas faz sentido!!

From Wikipedia
is a type of
avoidance behaviour which is characterised by deferment of actions or tasks to a later time. Psychologists often cite procrastination as a mechanism for coping with the anxiety associated with starting or completing any task or decision.
For the person procrastinating this may result in
stress, a sense of guilt, the loss of personal productivity, the creation of crisis and the chagrin of others for not fulfilling one's responsibilities or commitments. While it is normal for individuals to procrastinate to some degree, it becomes a problem when it impedes normal functioning. Chronic procrastination may be a sign of an underlying psychological or physiological disorder. The word itself comes from the Latin word procrastinatus: pro- (forward) and crastinus (of tomorrow). The term's first known appearance was in Edward Hall's Chronicle (The union of the two noble and illustre famelies of Lancestre and Yorke), first published sometime before 1548."

Fantastico não concordam? um termo que define muitas das nossas actitudes... e que pelos vistos existe desde 1548 e nunca tinha ouvido falar...
Para alguns piratas de água doce a definição refina-se..

"Genius procrastinator"
is a type of "relaxed" procrastinator. Unlike the typical "relaxed type" procrastinator, who usually does not care about the task they are delaying, geniuses do care but do not need to put a great deal of effort into that task to do well, and therefore can wait until the last minute, put in minimal effort, and still produce a good result. "Genius" procrastinators often work well under pressure; often when they do not have a set deadline for a project, their work lags. Other "genius" procrastinators are just lazy with their time in general, and when they're procrastinating in a subject that they are not as skilled at, they usually fall under the "tense-afraid" type.
A common example of the "genius" procrastinator is the precocious student who is working in a class where the expectations are set far below their ability level in that subject. For example, a gifted writer in a standard-level English class often waits until the last minute to write their papers because they know that they will get an A even by putting in the lowest amount of effort possible, and that to expend any more effort than that on such an assignment would be wasteful.

Esqueçam radiohead... a resposta está na wikipédia!!!


Surgiu-me um contraponto ao meu último post.


Don't get any big ideas
they're not gonna happen
You paint yourself white
and feel up with noise
but there'll be something missing

Now that you've found it, it's gone
Now that you feel it, you don't
You've gone off the rails

So don't get any big ideas
they're not going to happen
You'll go to hell for what your dirty mind is thinking

terça-feira, novembro 27, 2007


Para mim, este século será definido por um lema comum que assenta na esperança. Porquê?

Porque só a tem quem nada mais tem (perguntem a qualquer sportinguista), porque haverá objectivos claros e comuns pela primeira vez em décadas.

Porque haverá um desígnio comum a todos, mais forte do que qualquer outra coisa.

O desígnio da sobrevivência.

Consciência Tranquila

Deviam limpar o sebo a quem inventou a expressão.

É a coisa mais estúpida de se dizer. Ou se tem consciência, ou se é tranquilo.

Nunca os dois.

Evidentemente, quem a escreveu, nem era consciente, nem tranquilo.

sábado, novembro 24, 2007

Historia de uma vida...

By Daniil Kharms

Now I will describe how I was born, how I grew up and how the firstsigns of genius were discovered in me. I was born twice. This is how ithappened. My Dad got married to my Mum in 1902, but my parents brought me intothe world only at the end of 1905, because Dad was adamant that his childshould be born at New Year. Dad calculated that conception had to take placeon the first of April and only on that day did he get round my Mum with theproposition of conceiving a child. My Dad got round my Mum on the first of April 1903. Mum had long beenawaiting this moment and was terribly thrilled. But Dad, as it seems, was ina very playful mood and could not restrain himself, saying to Mum: 'AprilFool!'. Mum was absolutely furious and didn't allow Dad anywhere near her thatday. There was nothing for it but to wait until the following year. On the first of April 1904, Dad again started getting round Mum withthe same proposition. But Mum, remembering what had happened the yearbefore, said that she had no further desire to be left in that stupidposition and again would not allow Dad near her. It didn't matter how muchnoise Dad created, it got him nowhere. And only a year later did my Dad manage to have his way with my Mum andbeget me. And so my conception took place on the first of April 1905. However, all Dad's calculations broke down because I turned out to bepremature and was born four months before my time. Dad created such a fuss that the midwife who had delivered me lost herhead and started to shove me back in, from where I had only just emerged. An acquaintance of ours who was in attendance, a student from themilitary medical academy, declared that shoving me back in would not work.However, the student's words notwithstanding, they still shoved me andshoved me back, for all they were worth. At this point a fearful commotion broke out. The progenetrix yells: -- Give me my baby! And the response comes: -- Your baby -- they tell her -- is inside you. -- What! -- yells the progenetrix. -- How can my baby be inside me whenI have just given birth to him! -- But -- they say to the progenetrix -- mightn't you be mistaken? -- What! -- yells the progenetrix -- mistaken? How can I be mistaken! Isaw the baby myself, he was lying here on a sheet only just now! -- That is true -- they tell the progenetrix -- but perhaps he'scrawled off somewhere. -- In a word, they themselves don't know what to tellthe progenetrix. And the progenetrix is still making a noise and demanding her baby. There was nothing for it, but to call an experienced doctor. Theexperienced doctor examined the progenetrix and threw up his hands; however,he thought it all out and gave the progenetrix a good dose of English salts,and by this means I saw the light of day for the second time. At this juncture, Dad again started creating a fuss, saying that,surely, this couldn't be called a birth, that this, surely, couldn't yet becalled a human being, but rather a semifoetus, and that it ought to eitherbe shoved back again or put into a incubator. And so they put me into an incubator.


The Incubating Period

I sat in the incubator for four months. I remember only that theincubator was made of glass, was transparent and had a thermometer. I satinside the incubator on cotton wool. I don't remember anything else aboutit. After four months they took me out of the incubator. They did this, asit happens, on the first of January 1906. By this means, I was to all intents and purposes born for a third time. But it was the first of January that was counted as my birthday.


* Note: Daniil Kharms was in fact born on 17 December (Old Style) / 25December (New Style), 1905.

quarta-feira, novembro 14, 2007


Gostaria de esclarecer vários pontos sobre o meu crude interesse.

Tem-me sido dito que estou a colocar tempestades em copos de água. Não é apenas uma ou duas pessoas, mas uma plêiade de gente. E racional como tento sempre ser, evito a sete pés à paranóia. Penso sempre, Estou certamente enganado, é que é impossível ser o único a preocupar-me com este assunto e ser são ao mesmo tempo, isto pode ser de facto um não acontecimento. Tipo daqueles como foi o Y2k, lembram-se? Pois eu quase também não, meu ponto precisamente.

O meu ponto começa aqui: isto é de facto um acontecimento importante, que a meu ver, irá mudar radicalmente o mundo, e com a palavra "mudar" estou a ser simpático ao meu caro leitor, pois não passa pela cabeça de nenhum histórico referir-se de passados colapsos económicos como "mudanças". Estudem o assunto, acho que vale a pena pelo menos folhear alguns jornais internautas sobre a questão.

O meu ponto, impossível para um infinitesilmal cartesiano ("neard" alert!, ed) , continua. O aquecimento global está sério e rápido. Configura-se um desejo enorme de acabar com o consumo de carbonatos. Excelente, pode pensar o distraído, Com menos petróleo, menos carbono para a atmosfera, certo? Errado, pois se há algo que ao Homem é particular fazer, é saber substituir coisas. E embora seja quase impossível substituir o petróleo na transportação, até é fácil fazê-lo na electricidade. Ah! Problema resolvido! Ou talvez não, se pensarmos que a óbvia solução é construir centrais eléctricas de carvão (a China constrói-as ao ritmo de uma por semana). Gulp. Alguém fica com a sensação de que se está a chamar o Padrinho para "repôr" a justiça?

E continua. Está a haver um "meltdown" de um país minimamente importante. Chama-se Estados Unidos da América, já ouviram falar? É um país com um governo com uma conta de 50 triliões de dólares a caminho para pagar. É o único país do mundo que cresce o PIB apesar de importar muito mais do que exporta. É um império. E está a entrar num lento colapso. Interessante de olhar. Vejam o dólar. Desce quase tão rápido como o crude sobe (if only!) porque o euro é uma alternativa decente, existe um mercado de "derivativos" na ordem de uns semelhantes "triliões" de dólares que ninguém sabe onde pararam devido à crise imobiliária (que todos dizem ter acabado, excepto quem sabe minimamente do que fala. O pior só vai ser visível em março do ano que vem, e espero muitos estragos no terceiro e quarto trimestre de 2008, quem sabe, quiçá, um crash? Tudo é possível), e é um país que importa 8 milhões de barris de petrol por dia. Antecipo toda a gente e faço uma previsão. Podem, com o tempo passado, gozar-me na cara, assim o espero: os EUA vão colapsar no seu todo (tipo rússia) até no máximo 2015 (são oito anos).

E o que isto tudo significa para nós? Básico. Voltamos a ser pobres de novo. Com uma diferença: agora vamos estar pobres e endividados, a não ser que haja praí uma hiper-inflação do tipo "fodam-se os bancos todos (e mais os pobres)". Nunca se sabe. Seja como for: Benvidos à escravidão do séc. XXI. (Tu não Ricardo, que os médicos sempre se safaram na História. Sempre.)

E finaliza: tou-me a cagar. Isto para mim é igual a ver uma novela imparável como a do Mourinho, a do Porto, da Apple até, de fundo de tudo o que se esteja a mexer rápido. Excelente entertainment. Deixo-me fascinar pelo mundo altamente polarizado do Bola na Rede B (de baixaria) e pelo ultrajante caso da Maddie enquanto canto José Cid.

Não porque o assunto não é importante.
Não porque não é definitivo e decisivo.
Mas porque não posso fazer nada por isso,

além, claro, de vos avisar (e de, provavelmente com isso perder o meu tempo e o do vosso saco roto...)

quarta-feira, novembro 07, 2007


Benvindos à era oficial do triplo dígito. O preço do petróleo atingiu os 100 dólares hoje, e apesar de baixar um pouco no final do dia, a tendência é clara e para continuar.

E para evitar que pensem que isto não interessa assim tanto, pensem que por cada dólar que o barril custa, Portugal gasta sensivelmente 100 milhões de euros por ano. Sim. Enquanto que em 2003, o nosso bairro nacional gastou cerca de 3 mil milhões de euros pela coisa, no próximo ano se o preço se mantiver nos 100 (não aposto nisso, e tenho razões técnicas para entender assim) iremos gastar 10 mil milhões.

São dois aeroportos a menos que iremos construir. O melhor é que teremos cada vez menos razões para o fazer, já que se adivinha um crescendo de preços brutal no serviço em causa...


Num tom mais cómico, um blog inglês que encontrei que se faz passar pelo CEO da Apple, Steve Jobs. Não vale pelo cargo fictício, mas pela literatura. Por vezes é genial.

sexta-feira, novembro 02, 2007

The Godfather - Mario Puzo

Amerigo Bonasera sat in New York Criminal Court Number 3 and waited for justice; vengeance on the men who had so cruelly hurt his daughter, who had tried to dishonor her. The judge, a formidably heavy-featured man, rolled up the sleeves of his black robe as if to physically chastise the two young men standing before the bench. His face was cold with majestic contempt. But there was something false in all this that Amerigo Bonasera sensed but did not yet understand. “You acted like the worst kind of degenerates,” the judge said harshly. Yes, yes, thought Amerigo Bonasera. Animals. Animals. The two young men, glossy hair crew cut, scrubbed clean-cut faces composed into humble contrition, bowed their heads in submission. The judge went on. “You acted like wild beasts in a jungle and you are fortunate you did not sexually molest that poor girl or I’d put you behind bars for twenty years.” The judge paused, his eyes beneath impressively thick brows flickered slyly toward the sallow-faced Amerigo Bonasera, then lowered to a stack of probation reports before him. He frowned and shrugged as if convinced against his own natural desire. He spoke again. “But because of your youth, your clean records, because of your fine families, and because the law in its majesty does not seek vengeance, I hereby sentence you to three years’ confinement to the penitentiary. Sentence to be suspended.” Only forty years of professional mourning kept the overwhelming frustration and hatred from showing on Amerigo Bonasera’s face. His beautiful young daughter was still in the hospital with her broken jaw wired together; and now these two animales went free? It had all been a farce. He watched the happy parents cluster around their darling sons. Oh, they were all happy now, they were smiling now. The black bile, sourly bitter, rose in Bonasera’s throat, overflowed through tightly clenched teeth. He used his white linen pocket handkerchief and held it against his lips. He was standing so when the two young men strode freely up the aisle, confident and cool-eyed, smiling, not giving him so much as a glance. He let them pass without saying a word, pressing the fresh linen against his mouth. The parents of the animales were coming by now, two men and two women his age but more American in their dress. They glanced at him, shamefaced, yet in their eyes was an odd, triumphant defiance. Out of control, Bonasera leaned forward toward the aisle and shouted hoarsely, “You will weep as I have wept– I will make you weep as your children make me weep”– the linen at his eyes now. The defense attorneys bringing up the rear swept their clients forward in a tight little band, enveloping the two young men, who had started back down the aisle as if to protect their parents. A huge bailiff moved quickly to block the row in
which Bonasera stood. But it was not necessary. All his years in America, Amerigo Bonasera had trusted in law and order. And he had prospered thereby. Now, though his brain smoked with hatred, though wild visions of buying a gun and killing the two young men jangled the very bones of his skull, Bonasera turned to his still uncomprehending wife and explained to her, “They have made fools of us.” He paused and then made his decision, no longer fearing the cost. “For justice we must go on our knees to Don Corleone.”

* * *

Amerigo Bonasera followed Hagen into the corner room of the house and found Don Corleone sitting behind a huge desk. Sonny Corleone was standing by the window, looking out into the garden. For the first time that afternoon the Don behaved coolly. He did not embrace the visitor or shake hands. The sallow-faced undertaker owed his invitation to the fact that his wife and the wife of the Don were the closest of friends. Amerigo Bonasera himself was in severe disfavor with Don Corleone. Bonasera began his request obliquely and cleverly. “You must excuse my daughter, your wife’s goddaughter, for not doing your family the respect of coming today. She is in the hospital still.” He glanced at Sonny Corleone and Tom Hagen to indicate that he did not wish to speak before them. But the Don was merciless
“We all know of your daughter’s misfortune,” Don Corleone said. “If I can help her in any way, you have only to speak. My wife is her godmother after all. I have never forgotten that honor.” This was a rebuke. The undertaker never called Don Corleone, “Godfather” as custom dictated. Bonasera, ashen-faced, asked, directly now, “May I speak to you alone?” Don Corleone shook his head. “I trust these two men with my life. They are my two right arms. I cannot insult them by sending them away.” The undertaker closed his eyes for a moment and then began to speak. His voice was quiet, the voice he used to console the bereaved. “I raised my daughter in the American fashion. I believe in America. America has made my fortune. I gave my daughter her freedom and yet taught her never to dishonor her family. She found a ‘boy friend,’ not an Italian. She went to the movies with him. She stayed out late. But he never came to meet her parents. I accepted all this without a protest, the fault is mine. Two months ago he took her for a drive. He had a masculine friend with him. They made her drink whiskey and then they tried to take advantage of her. She resisted. She kept her honor. They beat her. Like an animal. When I went to the hospital she had two black eyes. Her nose was broken. Her jaw was shattered. They had to wire it together. She wept through her pain. ‘Father, Father, why did they do it? Why did they do this to me?’ And I wept.” Bonasera could not speak further, he was weeping now though his voice had not betrayed his emotion. Don Corleone, as if against his will, made a gesture of sympathy and Bonasera went on, his voice human with suffering. “Why did I weep? She was the light of my life, an affectionate daughter. A beautiful girl. She trusted people and now she will never trust them again. She will never be beautiful again.” He was trembling, his sallow face flushed an ugly dark red. “I went to the police like a good American. The two boys were arrested. They were brought to trial. The evidence was overwhelming and they pleaded guilty. The judge sentenced them to three years in prison and suspended the sentence. They went free that very day. I stood in the courtroom like a fool and those bastards smiled at me. And then I said to my wife: ‘We must go to Don Corleone for justice.’ ” The Don had bowed his head to show respect for the man’s grief. But when he spoke, the words were cold with offended dignity. “Why did you go to the police? Why didn’t you come to me at the beginning of this affair?” Bonasera muttered almost inaudibly, “What do you want of me? Tell me what you wish. But do what I beg you to do.” There was something almost insolent in his words. Don Corleone said gravely, “And what is that?” Bonasera glanced at Hagen and Sonny Corleone and shook his head. The Don, still sitting at Hagen’s desk, inclined his body toward the undertaker. Bonasera hesitated, then bent down and put his lips so close to the Don’s hairy ear that they touched. Don Corleone listened like a priest in the confessional, gazing away into the distance, impassive, remote. They stood so for a long moment until Bonasera finished whispering and straightened to his full height. The Don looked up gravely at Bonasera. Bonasera, his face flushed, returned the stare unflinchingly. Finally the Don spoke. “That I cannot do. You are being carried away.” Bonasera said loudly, clearly, “I will pay you anything you ask.” On hearing this, Hagen flinched, a nervous flick of his head. Sonny Corleone folded his arms, smiled
sardonically as he turned from the window to watch the scene in the room for the first time. Don Corleone rose from behind the desk. His face was still impassive but his voice rang like cold death. “We have known each other many years, you and I,” he said to the undertaker, “but until this day you never came to me for counsel or help. I can’t remember the last time you invited me to your house for coffee though my wife is godmother to your only child. Let us be frank. You spurned my friendship. You feared to be in my debt.” Bonasera murmured, “I didn’t want to get into trouble.” The Don held up his hand. “No. Don’t speak. You found America a paradise. You had a good trade, you made a good living, you thought the world a harmless place where you could take your pleasure as you willed. You never armed yourself with true friends. After all, the police guarded you, there were courts of law, you and yours could come to no harm. You did not need Don Corleone. Very well. My feelings were wounded but I am not that sort of person why thrusts his friendship on those who do not value it– on those who think me of little account.” The Don paused and gave the undertaker a polite, ironic smile. “Now you come to me and say, ‘Don Corleone give me justice.’ And you do not ask with respect. You do not offer me your friendship. You come into my home on the bridal day of my daughter and you ask me to do murder and you say”—here the Don’s voice became a scornful mimicry—” ‘I will pay you anything.’ No, no, I am not offended, but what have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully?” Bonasera cried out in his anguish and his fear, “America has been good to me. I wanted to be a good citizen. I wanted my child to be American.” The Don clapped his hands together with decisive approval. “Well spoken. Very fine. Then you have nothing to complain about. The judge has ruled. America has ruled. Bring your daughter flowers and a box of candy when you go visit her in the hospital. That will comfort her. Be content. After all, this is not a serious affair, the boys were young, high-spirited, and one of them is the son of a powerful politician. No, my dear Amerigo, you have always been honest. I must admit, though you spurned my friendship, that I would trust the given word of Amerigo Bonasera more than I would any other man’s. So give me your word that you will put aside this madness. It is not American. Forgive. Forget. Life is full of misfortunes.” The cruel and contemptuous irony with which all this was said, the controlled anger of the Don, reduced the poor undertaker to a quivering jelly but he spoke up bravely again. “I ask you for justice.” Don Corleone said curtly, “The court gave you justice.” Bonasera shook his head stubbornly. “No. They gave the youths justice. They did not give me justice.” The Don acknowledged this fine distinction with an approving nod, then asked, “What is your justice?” “An eye for an eye,” Bonasera said. “You asked for more,” the Don said. “Your daughter is alive.” Bonasera said reluctantly, “Let them suffer as she suffers.” The Don waited for him to speak further. Bonasera screwed up the last of his courage and said, “How much shall I pay you?” It was a despairing wail. Don Corleone turned his back. It was a dismissal. Bonasera did not budge. Finally, sighing, a good-hearted man who cannot remain angry with an erring friend, Don Corleone turned back to the undertaker, who was now as pale as one of his corpses. Don Corleone was gentle, patient. “Why do you fear to give your first allegiance to me?” he said. “You go to the law courts and wait for months. You spend money on lawyers who know full well you are to be made a fool of. You accept judgment from a judge who sells himself like the worst whore in the streets. Years gone by, when you needed money, you went to the banks and paid ruinous interest, waited hat in hand like a beggar while they sniffed around, poked their noses up your very asshole to make sure you could pay them back.” The Don paused, his voice became sterner. “But if you had come to me, my purse would have been yours. If you had come to me for justice those scum who ruined your daughter would be weeping bitter tears this day. If by some misfortune an honest man like yourself made enemies they would become my enemies”– the Don raised his arm, finger pointing at Bonasera– “and then, believe me, they would fear you.” Bonasera bowed his head and murmured in a strangled voice, “Be my friend. I accept.” Don Corleone put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Good,” he said, “you shall have your justice. Some day, and that day may never come, I will call upon you to do me a service in return. Until that day, consider this justice a gift from my wife, your daughter’s godmother.” When the door closed behind the grateful undertaker, Don Corleone turned to Hagen and said, “Give this affair to Clemenza and tell him to be sure to use reliable people, people who will not be carried away by the smell of blood. After all, we’re not murderers, no matter what that corpse valet dreams up in his foolish head.”