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After 11 years, I noticed something different about my pillow cover. Amazing life lesson or need for glasses? Here is the story.

As I narrated here, I have made peace with my bed and recovered my sleep cycle. Since then, I am again BBF with my bed. Taken by this mood, I decided that my BFF needed new clothes. After all, it has been a really long time since she got a new set of sheets.

No, I am not sloppy, quite the opposite. Precisely because I am very careful, my things last forevere, but the end of my barely-sleeping phase deserved a celebration, in this case, a very fancy set of sheets.

What an upgrade! My bed looks like as it came from an photo session for an interior design magazine. However, when my new sheets needed to be washed, I resorted to an old set, but I feared the bed had already become used to a high standard. The solution was giving the old bed linen a special treatment by ironing it carefully.

And so I did to one of the pillowcases, but when I picked up the second one, something that had gone completely unnoticed to me all these years. It was just a small sewing defect, a silly detail, but the fact that it remained so long unseen, kind of surprised me, and the last thing you expect from a set of sheets you have for over ten years is a surprise.

Sometimes we are so used to the various objects around us, that many of its aspects become invisible. It is very easy to act on “automatic mode” and stop noticing things we always see, which is the equivalent of not seeing them anymore.

What colour are your dishes? And what about the bathroom towel?

In addition to this epiphany about “invisible” things sorrounding us, I had another surprise whie ironing (and you say chores are lame?). After being well ironed and arranged on the bed, along with new pillows (I told you the bed looks like part of a movie set), the old set looked basically as good as the new one, even with that newly discovered tiny sewing defect.

Yes, I still think I made a great purchase, but it was good to see the difference that a little extra care can make in the life of an object. Of course, ironing means extra work and it takes time, as well. And maybe, despite all your good intentions, some wrinkles will not come out, but despite all that, the result is worth it.

The same applies to people. How many personal and professional relationships could have been (and maybe can still be) saved, how many frictions and communication noises could be fixed with a little ironing?

Be seeing you!

G.F.

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I am not very good at putting things together, but I am great at finding the information I need. This is the reason why, no matter what I do, there will somehow be research involved in it.

Recently (or rather “finally”), I have acquired a microphone stand and a portable recording booth. The purchase happened after a lot of research on models, features and, of course, prices. After a long while, I believed to find a suitable model for my needs. Purchase made and received, it seemed like the end of the story. Big mistake.

Why? What could go wrong?, you may ask yourself. And the answer is quite simple: the assembly. Apparently, the producers think that everyone knows exactly what to do, when it comes to puting the pieces of their products together, and the precise place my unskilled fingers should place each so-tiny-you-can-barely-hold-it piece of metal.

Only a solid belief in the abilities of others can explain the lack of an instruction manual. I looked for information on the box. Nothing. Then I tried the official page of the manufacturers. A lot of bad pictures, but no information about the assembly. At these times I feel terribly embarrased, you know? I mean, I have a PhD, for crying out loud! It should mean something! Okay, my thesis is not about assembling and disassembling sound accessories, but still.

I thought about calling for professional help, but first there was one last thing I wanted to try. The ultimate way to go. After all, I was ready and willing to go to the last consequences to assemble my new appliances! The approaching end of the trying period also counted a little, I might add.

So I decided to go there, rock bottom: I looked for tutorials on Youtube. Nothing against tutorials, in principle, but the fact is that in order to save time, a lot of time is wasted.

This happens because the number of videos whose content does not match the title is huge. Sometimes, it is even worse: the title and description are ok, but the video does not add anything new to your precarious knowledge about the subject. Let us face it: this is a lot of useless content out there.

But bravely I waded through all the click baits and pubs, until I clicked on the one video that actually helped me. In gratitude, I subscribed to the channel and left a sincerely grateful comment. Later, I felt tremendously smart after seeing my stand and recording booth all set up.

This little adventurous got me thinking a lot about the dynamics of the relationship between fans and artists.

Just as I never would have landed on the right tutorial if it were not for a series of more less random search results (a video suggesting another etc), in the same way many people may come to my work (and to yours) through indirect ways.

Will they jump my content or become regular listeners and (ultimate blessing) true fans? There are lots of reasons involved in such a decision, but it also partially depends on my ability to solve a problem they have at that very moment.

An eastern proverb says that a friend is a person who knows how to play the strings of our heart. I think this comparison is beautiful and quite true. Did my song strike the right chord in your heart? Then, a bond emerged between us.

Despite of all the algorithms and paid tricks to get more likes on socials, I still believe there is a kind of fan-artist relationship that is purely instinctive. The kind that, luckly, does not need any intructions to be assembled.

Be seeing you!

G.F.

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Recently, I heard from an friend that in-person events are back with full force. My friend L. is an editor and lives in São Paulo, but I see the same phenomenon happening here in Rio. Among the various cultural activities that are currently (re-)flourishing, poetry reading soirées seem to be multiplying with particular rapidity.

It is amazing how the written word attracts people of all types and backgrounds! At a literary gathering with audience participation you will inevitably encounter at least of of the following: a student in a top hat who would put the rabbit in the story of Alice to shame, a handful of shy poets who refuse to succumb to the current rule of full exposure in socials, but are comfortable behind the open mic, as well as people who have experienced hard times and managed to repurpose their pain through words.

I write poems since… well, I have the impression that since I was literate and such meetings are not unfamiliar to me, either as a watcher or an active participant, singing or reciting. It is always a nice experience, but… There is something about poetry readings that make me feel, well, uncomfortable. I do not quite know how to explain it, but it is as if some very intimate sphere has been crossed.

And what would that sphere be? There is something very personal about reading and listening to a poem. I am not referring here to a specific need. honestly, I do not think there is a “correct” setting for enjoying poems. There are words to be recited screaming, others more suited to whispering in the ear, in short, there is poetry for the most diverse situations.

My discomfort at poetry soirees is the same I feel at restaurants with live music performances. Someone performing while other people are distracted is not an image I like very much. I am aware that the fields of gastronomy and entertainment are intertwined: we want gigs and venue owners want to sell their products. And you know what? For the sake of our gigs, we wish them and their business well. We all need to live in harmony, for the sake of the scene.

Things kind of take car eof themselves when gigs take place in theaters or concert halls that really understand what they are doing and suspend services during the musical performances. However, this is not the reality in poetry soirées, which are characterized by a climate of, shall we say, healthy chaos, meaning that while some pour their souls into the open microphone in front, others pour out the news of the week in loud shouts at the side tables and counters in the back.

On the one hand, I find some comfort in knowing that my discomfort is not shared by many and that soirées will live long and propsper. On the other hand, I would like my confession to serve as a wake-up call to the fact that maybe, just maybe, we are just too loud. Everywhere, not just at concerts. And speaking loudly is a feature that is usually part of a package that includes, among other unpleasant things, the inability to hear.

My impression is that despite (or perhaps precisely because of ) the frenetic production of words and sounds, our capacity for assimilation has greatly diminished. I do not have the solution for what might be a twentty-first century sindrom, but I am sure that it does not lie in our ability to make eye-catching videos of up to three seconds.

We worship speed since the beginning of the nineteenth century and it is simply not working: we do not work less because of computers os smart phones, neither faster cars have solved traffic problems. Speed is definitely not the answer to our growing lack of attention. Are we really going to keep insisting?

We can do better than that.

Be seeing you,

G.F.

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The friendly couple who hosted me and my friends the first time I stayed at a bred and breakfast in London were as polite as only British couples can be. After showing us the facilities, the tall and elegant gentleman asked us what we would like to have for breakfast. He was quite surprised by our answer: “Darling, they are tea drinkers!”, he exclaimed to his equally elegant wife.

I have never forgotten the way he phrased it, not only because of the delicious “pompous ease” (totally British!) but also because it was the first time anyone had ever called me a “tea drinker”. Although I have inclination for tea, the coffee culture is so strong in Brazil that there is no such division between “tea drinkers” and “coffee drinkers” simply because the first, as a category, does not exist for the average Brazilian.

Yerba mate drinkers? Okay, we have a lot of them, mostly in the south of the country, but even they do not consider themselves “tea drinkers”. Brazilians and coffee are so strongly connected that the expression in Brazilian Portuguese for breakfast is “the coffee of the morning” (o café-da-manhã).

From production to consumption, coffe is a beverage strongly linked to the history of Brazil. Understanding who produces what type of coffee and for whom means understanding a lot about the Brazilian society.

Anyway, since the London event, I believe that a reasonably efficient way of cataloging humanity is to divide it into coffee drinkers and tea drinkers. Here is where I am in my reflections so far:

  1. tea people seem to be more attentive to details, while coffee people would go more for the big picture;
  2. coffee people speak louder, while tea people tend to speak longer;
  3. tea people are zen while coffee people are drama queens.

Okay, it is a pretty debatable short list, but it is what comes to mind when the playlist of the day ranks two classics: Tea for Two and Black Coffee. Compare the energy of these jazz standards, their lyrics and the images they evoke and you may no longer consider my list so crazy.

And do not forget to do your listening in the right company, escorted by a nice cup of tea. Or coffee. After all, what kind of person are you?

Be seeing you!

G.F.

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I already liked to buy in thrift stores before it was cool. And just like in the mentioned case of tea, we are dealing with territory that Brazilians in general are quite unfamiliar with. In fact, shopping at thrift stores was for a long time associated here with a situation of great poverty, and many people still think that only a situation of extreme need can justify wearing clothes previously used by strangers.

Perhaps because I was raised in a family in which it was a common practice for younger to wear clothes that no longer fit the older sinblings and cousins, inheriting clothes was never a problem for me. Incidentally, I believe that the practice, from an early age, of choosing the pieces that I liked among family donations is responsible for my “good eye”, that is, the ability to find good pieces, even in the messiest thrift stores.

The ability to establish some kind of order in a chaotic situation can be very useful when it comes to writing a song, because the idea is basically the same: being able to gather some sense in the midst of, according to the beautiful words of the genius Luis Melodia, everything there is “loose on the platform of the air”.

Some musicians take this ability to capture what is in the air and translate it into wonderful music to a spiritual level, like Coltrane and João Donato, who just left this planet to join the stars.

The Brazilian musician João Donato (1934-2023) had one of these blessed gifts. A seemingly effortless capacity not only to insert his signature (a “piano by Donato” can be recognized from afar) in his vast oeuvre, but also to keep transiting through different styles without ceasing to be, well, totally Donato.

Unlike many people think, and despite being strongly associated to the movement, Donato did not classify himself as a bossa nova musician, nor samba, nor jazz, nor rumba, nor forró: “Actually, I am all of these things at the same time”, he used to say.

As a fan of of the his phases have, but I would like to draw attention here to his 2016 album Donato Elétrico. It is a proof that great artists can surprise at any stage of their career (did anyone mention the jazz phase of Matisse?). The album has an enviable freshness and vigor. It refers to modern arrangements ans references, but also pays tribute to the roots, in a way that always reminds me of Fela Kuti. The irresistible energy of the album makes me want to dance, even if only in my mind.

João Donato is now jaming in heaven and we will miss him a lot (his live concerts during the pandemic years saved my day, more than once). Luckily, he will live forever.

Be seeing you!

G.F.