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Lucy’s Complex

Weeks ago a friend of mine invited me to see Lucy (2014) a film starred by Scarlett Johansson and Morgan Freeman, and Directed and Produced by Luc Besson. Even I am fan of early filmography of Besson like Le Dernier Combat (1983), Leon (1994) and Le Grand Bleu (1988), I was skeptical to attend, because of the recent disappointing work of Besson and the awful critics that were spinning around the net. Anyway, we went to the cinema.

The film is an action-packed movie in the style of the latest works of the director that exploits the unsubstantiated premise of the “hidden capability of the brain,” From my point of view, the movie was plagued with lousy synedoches, of the actual action interacting with footage of wildlife that instead of proposing a new understanding of the scene, only acted as pleonasm interrupting the continuity of the movie. Anyway I know Luc will not read (or care) about my cinematic perception, so let’s skip the cinematographic analysis.

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The Devil made his habitual visit last night, and in the blink of an eye I was holding my poker cards again—awful hand as usual.

“Why is the reason we always play the same game?” He stared at me with inquisitive look while moved his fingertips gently over his cards facing down on the board. “The same game you can’t win,” he added.

“You know that most of the times love means suffering and sacrifice,” I answered evading his eyes.

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Amor Fati

Taking decisions is not simple task. Taking important, crucial decisions can make people to lose their minds. We all know the distressing struggle of choice, and as we grow, we realize it’s a lose-win game in most of the cases. We need to give up onto something in order to gain something else. Even if we are not able to see at firsthand what we are relinquishing, in a distant future, we will.

If we are to lose something anyway, then why not to stop worrying and we surrender ourselves to the inevitable pull of fate?

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Abortion, an unnatural trend?

Today was removed from the crowd-funding site GoFundMe a plea of a woman known as Bailey, asking for $2,500 US for paying her abortion, arguing a “rough, unplanned and unexpected pregnancy.” The page was removed because of the complaints of a group of detractors, but at that moment more than a hundred people had donated $1,654 US.

In May this year, a woman posted the video of her abortion in social media, causing indignation among the defenders of human rights, throwing slurs and condemning her as murder in confrontation against supporters that advocated for the free will over her body.

These cases may be considered as a dehumanization of society, but then I ask, how human or inhuman, or natural or unnatural abortion is?

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Heads or Tails?

A coin spins fast, fast enough to endow the flat metal with the illusion of a sphere that travels along the mahogany counter like a planet orbiting the sun.

Richard taps the coin. “Heads or tails?” His eyes sit on Augustus standing across the bar’s counter. Augustus beholds him with the amount of skepticism that his beard—wither than the flowers in his Hawaiian shirt—allows him.

Augustus dangles a toothpick around his mouth a couple of times. “I see no difference.” He crosses his arms. “You have to pay that beer anyway.”

Richard releases a sigh wonkier than his white-and-blue stripped tie. “Don’t you even try?”

“Heads,” Augustus growls.

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Can suicide set us free?

I rang the bell and waited, but my friend didn’t open. It was weird, since his car was parked outside his house. I knocked the door three times and called him. After couple of minutes, he opened the door and invited me in.

The curtains were shut and the place had a pungent odor of alcohol and ashtray. He sat and lit a cigarette. He looked pale. It was no wonder since he was dealing with the split of his longtime girlfriend. I avoided the subject and talked about the usual stuff. We took a couple of beers that relaxed the moment and later we went for lunch. After that, I dropped him back home.

Years later, having a drink with him, my friend confessed me that the day I visited him, he was about to commit suicide. The rope was around his neck, and he was waiting for take the leap. But my stubbornness calling at the door prevented him of doing it.

I saved him… without knowing.

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Hush Little Baby

He woke up sweat soaked. With the bone-chilling sensation of little fingers tighten around his throat. Mary, his girlfriend, slept placidly beside him. He cleared his throat and came out of bed straight to the bathroom.

The man in the mirror was haggard and not even the cold stream of water could refresh it. He rolled a towel and stuck it in the gap between the door and floor. He reached a pack of cigarettes taped below the sink, lighted one with his quivering hands and stood on tip toes to blow the smoke through the high window.

He felt guilty.

He was ashamed of himself.

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It was during the world cup fever that I read the first news of Médicins Sans Frontiéres (MSF) calling for international attention to content the new Ebola’s sprout. But media thought that news about soccer competition had priority. After all, world cup means money, and Ebola translates to money until becomes pandemic—when suddenly everyone becomes concerned by health and asking for a vaccine.

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And if your God causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away

A few years ago, I returned home from the gym around 1 pm. It was Saturday, I remember. And after the good training session I had, I was tired and hungry—I want to point out that being hungry is one of the things that make me ill-tempered. The fridge was empty, and the idea of going to buy groceries and cook something myself was discarded even before opening the fridge. So my options reduced to buy a pizza.

I went out and walked to the pizza restaurant two blocks away because I could not wait the thirty minutes of the delivery.

When I was half the way a guy sweeping the street called me: “Have you heard of Muhammad?”

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The damned house.

After years of separation, two brothers met forced by an inconvenient event. Their father’s funeral.

“When was the last time?” Both said at unison shocked by the signs of time. It felt like was since childhood—in late 70’s when one of the two was wearing a Star Wars T-shirt that day, doesn’t matter who, back then they exchanged clothes—that both haven’t seen each other.  The older brother, now a successful financier that wore an impeccable hand-embroidery wool suit, a heavy Swiss watch and a smartphone that appeared glued to his hand. The younger brother, a renowned acupuncturist and alternative healer, environmentalist and social network activist that wore a flannel attire, Buddhist prayer beads, slovenly long hair and worn leather sandals.

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