We went yesterday to the Apollo Theater in New York City to attend the closing part of the Holiday Show, "Men, saints and deserters." It is the fifth or sixth part of the show that  I attend. All very good. "Men, saints and deserters" is a dense text and concise, with only two characters: a boy who must have fifteen years and a middle-aged recluse who lives in the midst of piles of books. The boy, and disturbed by the absent father and libertine mother, is beginning to discover that his feeling of inadequacy is something deeper and more dangerous than a mere teen angst.

Starts attending the man's house, an embittered ex-seminarian and worship whose relationship with Catholicism is intense and ambiguous. The play comes down to a series of conversations between two characters who will feel more comfortable with the presence of each other and revealing more and more painful aspects of their lives, up to a thrilling climax of the kind that makes you notice in a second, in a word, gesture or noise, everything was really going on so far.

These final moments, when everything fits, are chilling. Maturity, rebellion, redemption, surrender, forgiveness and a beautiful concept of holiness are themes that punctuate the text and all appear at once at the end. The text of Mario seems to suggest that however bitter it may be lonely and a life, always remains the possibility of redemption to pass on what we already know, to give experience to those who share the same feelings or at least point the way and give a Jerk. The end of a life is the beginning of another.

The assembly is stripped but precise and exciting. The details remain in the memory: the stove waiting for the lights to be lit in the dark, surprised the audience with a blue glow, before gradually illuminate the entire scene, the smell of coffee that spreads through the audience, the choice of soundtrack that plays the blackouts between scenes. Actually, that's a constant in parts of the cemetery: the choice of songs creates a magical atmosphere through which opens the senses and imagination. They're just pop songs perfectly chosen. Yesterday, even before the play begins, a song by Jeff Buckley (who I do not particularly like, actually) made the last moment of accommodating spectators in their seats seem more than real, almost touching, a prelude to the piece in itself. During the play, some reinterpretations of classic pop and a gospel version of Wish You Were Here climate gave the text, tightening or easing the tension at times more relaxed.

See "Men, saints and deserters" made me want to try writing theater.

After the play we went to the pub in front of the theater. Any class that surrounds the cemetery is an unparalleled warmth and good humor. After fifteen minutes talking to these guys, it seems that you know them for years. And it was funny to see again the Mirisola there, slim and ruddy, still hungover from vibrations emitted by the heavy part.

I was very disappointed to learn yesterday that the presentations of the junkyard scene in Porto Alegre this year were canceled. I have the announcement and I will convert it from pdf to excel. It seems that the organization decided to change the dates at the last minute, without a compelling reason, and the cast and crew were not able to change plans at this stage of the championship. Perhaps they think that the cemetery is not as important as other attractions, which would be a mistake. Anyway, it's a shame. The three parts would be adaptations of securities of the evil, and there would be a good public.

Good for whom? A Long ago I read a poem by Allen Ginsberg with that title. It was a literary magazine, I forgot which. But this poem has never left my mind. I do not know exactly its verses, but it always stuck in my head. But it was something like "be good with Thelonius Monk as he plays his piano" or something. The general idea of the poem disturbs me, always.

Maybe because by the time I found it impossible to "be good". My whole life was an attempt to "be good". And all my life was a big mistake in this vain hope of "being good". I'm a bad guy. I have a weird ethic. I am amoral, being a righteous motherfucker. I am a contradiction. My blood is bad. My father was bad. I mean, for me, it was good. His way. I have nothing against my father. Actually I have nothing against anyone. But I know he was bad, as I am. Bad means something close to hell as we try desperately to any one piece of paradise. I was never good. I could not be with my mother or my daughter, and none of my women. And they always forgive me.

Always overlooked. And stayed with me when I deserved it. Then there was a time I decided that I would be alone. There was a time I decided that would not cause any more harm. That's when I wrote the lyrics of "Our life is not worth a Chevrolet." "Long ago you walk with me / You know, I iron, I curse, I fight / I bleed, I'll call in the night / to say that evil / evil dwells in me / me evil jumps in the pool and not drown / evil plays chess in hot afternoons, do not panic / not ask for my life be as it is / the wrath of God / a jazz record / our life is not worth the love of a woman / our lives are not worth / not worth a Chevrolet. "

He had one year in my life that I hardly left the house. I was a year without me relate to people. I was a year without sex with any woman. I was in the basement of my house there near the Zerah roughly a guitar playing "King" and singing alone. I was writing a few sections through without rhyme or reason, and only after many years made real sense to me. Only after many years I flipped through that book again. I had a text there that I wrote completely drunk. And that text was a revelation. Literally it was a shit. But the content was a revelation. And I learned so much. Too bad I always screw up the methodology. I think I fucking know. But I cannot use what I know. I get confused. I have ethics.

I have ethics too. But it makes me sick in the sense that I would never cheat on my ethics. And I know people who cheat are lighter, happier. There is hope for guys like me. He said this in the play last night throwing up the text in the face of the boy. The character was talking about it for yourself. I was talking about it for me. At least the character has more courage than me. Much more. I get the character, "Emerson" from "Effect Urtigão" vomiting everything he knew about the other character. Always had everything there, right?Watching today's video "The cold front that brings the rain" I'm sure even more.Ironic as this show has been a check-up map of my life. As Pierre would say "a scribbled map / xis the wrong place without / without finding treasures for you." Be good for who?