The Birth of Post-Post-Post-Modernism

There was once an Author who was so Post-Modern (during his lifetime this Author was commonly placed within the European Post-Post-Modernists, nowadays he is well known for having been the sole founder of the Post-Post-Post-Modernist Movement) that apart from creating confoundingly beautiful moments of prose charged with the uncertainty of overlapping identities of different Subjects (the characters, the reader, the writer, and the writer as a character) he went so far as to create uncertainty between Subject and Object - a truly disruptive breakthrough. For instance, he would create highly unsettling domestic scenes in which the reader would be uncertain whether the first-person narrator telling the story was the man eating the piece of bread, or the piece of bread being eaten by the man. Later on in his career (some say out of boredom) apart from content-related labyrinths of complex subject-objects, uncertain meta-characters and apocryphal meta-objects acting on subjects, the author started experimenting with the same labyrinths but purely applied to form: in other words, swapping entire words. Some say this complicated's sentences were so author that a single sentence might take an hour to decipher. By the final stages of career the Author, his reading became unwritable, consisted mumbo-jumbo but nothing but of. Some say disgrace had he not gone so far even greater author. One, in of, the fact greats. Notwithstanding, he founder was considered main the Post-Post-Post-Modernism Movement of went and went down in history forever.

Writer and writer.

Story of a Writer (with capital 'W') who has many ideas to write great novels but difficulty in filling in the details, in making the book honest and believable. This leads the Writer to have an idea: to write a novel about a writer (with small 'w') who has many ideas for the skeleton of stories but lots of difficulty regarding filling in the details. The story is then the quest that this writer (the one in the novel) goes on to find himself the perfect co-writer, the man or woman who will be able to harmoniously fill in the details of his story in a way he would have done so himself and in outstanding beauty. Ideally the Writer would decide to make the writer meet a woman who would complete not only the details of his book, but also the details of his life. This would add love to the dimensions of his main character's story and result in a far more fulfilling book to read; one that would intersect with a wider spectrum of the human experience. Unfortunately the book never comes into existence because the Writer himself never finds such a person, neither man nor woman, and the story about the writer remains another scrap of an idea that nobody will ever hear about.

The Story of Two Gentlemen

**Part One**

The first man to speak was from New York, the second was from London, the place was the latter and the time was the start.

"Won't your ex-wife be furious? They even have the same name, man…"

"Her? She'll be ecstatic the dear thing! The only thing she'll notice is that my new wife is not as beautiful as her and this will be a huge victory for many years to come! That's how her mind works you see… no, no, there's absolutely nothing to worry about there. What I am concerned about is Peter - the one I mentioned in my last letter. We drifted apart you see… haven't spoken in years actually so I'm not quite sure what the social norm is. I think I'll just call the chap."

(He paused and stared at the ground beneath his feet. After a beat or two he looked back up with a smile at our gentleman from New York. His eyes betrayed some excitement.)

"That's how it works, you see. The merry-go-round takes another spin, the pool of bacteria gets splashed, the 16 beats come to an end and everyone gets a new pair! And so they keep spinning and splashing and changing mate until one day they reach an age in which they fear they might be too ugly to keep going. The whole thing is quite intriguing… almost like watching a nature show, except with more social rules, more Valium, and far more deceit."


It was still quite dark when I sat on the chair.

Then combustion.

Carbon-rich matter made by the sun inside a chloroplast 20 million years ago, compressed until last Winter, sucked out of the Earth by a man with red hair, refined by a man with two beautiful daughters and sold by a man with a white beard exploded and made the blades spin.

Some speed, some lift, some drag, some torque, and like magic the chair was in the air and I was on the chair.
Flying through the air on a chair. 

The Earth's surface kept spinning at a speed of 1600 kilometres per hour and moving through space at a speed of 30 kilometres per second.

On the Sun an unfathomable amount of Hydrogens fused and became Heliums, sending an endless ocean of photons across the universe in every direction. Some of these photons started a journey of 150 billion metres towards the coordinates of space that would soon be occupied by our planet. Exactly 8 minutes and 22 seconds into their existence, and almost missing Earth, the photon stream travelled through the atmosphere, bounced of Uluru and went straight into the pupil of my eye. I flew through the air on a chair.

My eye's lenses focused the photons onto my retina, my retina sent an impossibly complex and highly specific set of electrical impulses through my brain, and finally, through an incomprehensible achievement of evolution, I felt beauty.

The mind observing the one feeling beauty was grateful.

And in this mind there was no science.


Goanese Letter

Dear Radika,

Firstly forgive me for writing without your permission, but there are moments in life filled with such feeling, such blessing, that not to write would be the greatest crime of all.

I know you will worry about this letter being opened by someone and a scandal breaking out. I beg you do not worry dear. I gave this sealed letter to Govinda, my most trusted servant, and gave instructions that it should only be delivered directly to you, in hand and in secret.

I do not know how to write like the great poets of Bengal, but I know what it is that I wish to say and perhaps that it is all there is worth writing about.

I believe I love you Radika. I felt this more than ever last night, when you so elegantly discomforted everyone present by saying that our social position was merely a consequence of luck at birth. You quickly glanced my way after doing so. Perhaps more than anything, I fell in love with the idea that you might have said such a thing to please me.

By now I am sure that both our families have noticed the manner in which I look at you when we meet. In all truth, looking at you has become the best part of my days, the best of my weeks. At times I have found myself noticing your father and sisters' awareness of this and have never felt any urge to look away or hide any of my feelings. There is no shame in my adoration of you because there is no shame nor indecency in your lure. You are unlike other beautiful young women I have been introduced to, there is no hint of vulgarity in your charm. I have thought (perhaps hoped) that at times your sisters admire my silent adoration and see within it some beauty of its own. Perhaps they enjoy it. Perhaps they see some form of a reflection of your own beauty.

Have you noticed how far such silent adoration can travel through a room? Last week during Rajesh's wedding I witnessed it like never before.
I saw a small boy of not more than six, smiling knowledgeably at his two year old brother who was hopelessly throwing a kite in the air. I surveyed the room and found the boy's sister, a girl of about twelve standing in a blur of colourful sarees, golden bracelets, and noisy cousins. She looked at both the boys with such tenderness and pride that her father, sitting sideways at a scattered table with other important men, secretly rejoiced at his daughter's sensitivity and admired how much she resembled his late wife. He had lost her to a strong disease that same year and had until very recently asked the Gods every night what he had done to anger them.

Across from this father sat his best friend, he whom had never married but was always a guest in their house before the mother had passed. After a period of so many shared tears he now gladly watched his friend, the father, sitting comfortably and admiring the similarities between daughter and mother; the exact same similarities that he too could now see in the young girl, the similarities that had been spoken of countless times during those dinners and evenings which he so missed. The best friend watched the father finally coming to peace with the tragedy, soothing his sadness through the observation that she lived on through their daughter.

And perhaps! Without my own knowing or noticing! Perhaps there was an old woman at another table nearby, the mother of this best friend, secretly admiring her son's loyalty and loving friendship... and she was filled with pride!

And perhaps! This old woman's aging husband, holding her dry hand under the table was left soft-hearted with the tender look that his wife gave their eldest son! He squeezed her hand and surprised her by strongly kissing her dry cheek, something he hadn't done in a long time. She turned her head in surprise, looked in his tired, humid eyes, and immediately saw everything that he had just felt.

All of this in seconds.
All of this in silence.
All this because a small boy threw a kite in the air!
All of this happening, all these colourful emotions of silent adoration happening every day in every corner of this world and nobody taking notice. Nobody writing about it.

I apologise for the long story my dear. Perhaps I too wish to gain your admiration.
Perhaps whilst I admired all this silent admiration I noticed nobody was admiring me; and I wish to be admired too.

Yours are the most beautiful hypnotic black eyes that I have ever seen.
When you smile you do so with your whole face, your whole being, and there is nothing strong about it.
Only all that is gentle.
With love,



Nietzsche Inspired

To judge so little, that one does not even judge those who judge.



Objects in rearview mirror may appear less traumatic than in reality.


Tagore Inspired

Chapter 1

It was the firm conviction of Mary that she was an ethical young lady, a good person. The advantage of harbouring such conviction was that it needed almost no proof in practice.
The selective memory of small periods or acts of kindness, along with the selective dismissal of suffering she had caused, sufficed to keep her conviction strong. There happens to be a very specific type of intelligence for fooling one's self and Mary possesed it to such a degree that she managed to truly believe she was a confidently happy young woman. Mary dodged memories of recent emotional tantrums with such cunning and prowess, that she felt there was not a single demon nor insecurity to her name.
She lived under this self-inflicted spell for 26 years.
This is the story of Mary's awakening.

Rabindranath Tagore & Tomás Magalhães


Excerpt from "Desire - An Essay on Film & Architecture"

Oh dear reader, how sure I am that you will forget us. For you have laughed out a million times in your life yet how many of these moments do you truly remember? You have made love and stared your love in the eyes in holy silence, a hundred times before! Yet only remember the last two times you made love. You have feasted in thousands of banquets and merry feasts that would envy most of the world yet know only what you had for your favourite birthday party, which you claim was your eighth, because you’ve seen pictures. You’ve met an endless colourful parade of shining men and women from all over the world, people who you thought could be your true friends, people who touched your heart, people with whom you celebrated life, that are now worse than dead to you, for we remember the names of the deceased. Oh my dear reader, how you’ve shivered with honest, pure, divine, inexplicable emotion with sweet music, landscapes, films, photographs and books. So many times! You have cried. Oh you have cried and you have forgotten why. You’ve cried because of all the love you’ve felt and forgotten. You’ve cried because there is nothing sadder, nothing more piteous, nothing more hopelessly anguishing, than imagining all the beautiful memories, holy moments and beautiful shining faces that you will forever fail to even remember that you’ve forgotten.

(also here.)


Sitting on the steps of the Latvian parliament, sun falling behind the church ahead, I imagined what it felt like to barely escape from a premature death by disease. I wondered if going through such an ordeal would help us build the most valuable tool for an ever-shifting life: Gratitude.
Gratitude for everything.

Perhaps it would be so, perhaps for awhile, but soon our mind would take life for granted once more.
Perhaps I should ask someone who's been through it.

Then I thought that a lot of musicians have died lately.
And I thought that Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen will die someday too.
So I listened to Suzanne and it was beautiful.
My thoughts led me to Suzanne, and she gave me peace.


New objects

Shelf made roses
Green tweed mint
Leather brown bag
Strawberry squint.

White leaf marble
Tall man glue
Moon top handle
Blue eyed shoe

Zipadee doo dah
Zipadee hey
My oh my
What a wonderful day.


As I walked into the café we had agreed upon, I assumed that Jesus, being the humble type, would be found at a small corner table with a piece of bread and a faint loving smile as he observed the people nearby. I was quite surprised to find him seated quite stylishly at a central table, drinking wine, laid back, legs crossed, Jesus clothes. He greeted me and we started. He spoke faster and with less time for thought than I had imagined, but still managed to speak with a great amount of peace and, above all, confidence.
Let’s start off with a classic, what’s it like to be famous?
It’s great. You get a chance to directly influence millions and millions of people every single day, it’s quite a responsibility though.

Is there an afterlife?

What’s the secret to happiness?
Creating. Loving. Helping others.

What if God was one of us?
Just a slob like one of us?
Just a stranger on the bus?

Hahahaha! Good one. Love that song!
Seriously though, are you really God made man?
I’m not sure. What does that mean? Do you want to know if I have omnipotence and can perform miracles?

Well, why do you want to know that?

How could I interview Jesus and not ask? It’s part of what you’re famous for. It’s exactly what people want to know so it’s my job as a journalist to ask that question in this fake interview! Thousands of prophets have come and gone. You were remembered because apart from your message of love for all, you performed miracles, namely resurrection.
So please, are you God?

Yes, I am God.
I thought you were going to say something slightly more evasive or philosophical like “God is in the heart of each and every one of us, so in that way, yes, we are all God.”

Yeah but he thought it could sound too cheesy and it might make my character in this interview too similar to the Jesus in the Bible and therefore not so interesting. He thought this would be more creative.

He? Who’s he?
Nothing, forget it.
Moving on a little, do you know where I put the CD where I had the photos of the snow trip I made with my friends in 2006?
You never wrote anything on the CD and that’s why you lost it. It’s in your car. It’s a blank 700MB Memorex CD in the middle of all the other CDs in the glove compartment. It doesn’t work though, it’s too scratched by now. You always were lazy son…

Has my ex-girlfriend found someone new? Is she in love again?
Are you sure you want to know this?
Yes, I think I’m ready.
She has, but she's not really in love.

Is she happy?
Don’t worry, she will be happy again soon. It’s kind of you to ask.

Can you give me a list of some stuff I lent to friends and forgot?
Sean Jackson – a Green toy car
João Silva Marques – Tomb Raider 2
Pedro Morais – A pair of white socks
Catarina Resende – Being John Malkovitch DVD
Tiago Guerra – Nokia 3210 phone charger

Let’s finally get this question off people’s minds, do you or God actually mind if people don’t go to church?
Well, I don’t mind at all, I never went to church… perhaps God minds though. For me it’s more about being a good person. Either way, whatever I answer regarding these topics will never be a real answer from Jesus, it’ll always be some kind of opinion from whoever is writing this.

Huh? So you don’t know where my CD is?

And you don’t know a thing about my ex-girlfriend?
She might be snogging as we speak!

And the list of stuff?
All words he put into my mouth I’m afraid…

That’s it, I’m leaving.
What a stupid waste of time, you shouldn’t make fun of people’s feelings like this, you know that right?

I stood up to leave and pointed Him in the face

Shame on you fake Jesus!
And shame you writer!
I hope at least someone enjoys this.

I’m off.
 I left.


Things Must End

Would we savour a meal if we’d feast forever?
Would we sleep with a smile if we’d never wake up?
Would music have meaning in an endless piece?
What of conversation, making love, reading a poem or a book?
Would we take pleasure in living, if forever our lives shook?

I think not.

We obsess with endings for it brings the unkown,
For we learn with each ending how might be our own.



After my frantic search
Left and right... no!
Right and left!

You walked by with roses,
roses for your tobacco shelf,
roses for your compress book.

I found you and I hugged you,
and brought you to the wall,
where you gently kissed my chin
and I gently kissed yours.


Erasmus Short Story

“You know? Like, I was really cynical with him…the guy from college. He was kinda ugly but he was like sooo funny and charming and all. But anyway he’d just gotten out of a six year relationship with his ex-girlfriend. Whenever he said like, really nice things I’d just say like ‘whatever’ and he didn’t really try to convince me… or like, try to fight and make me feel all special and all that bullshit. And at that time my other guy from before…”

“The guy that broke your heart?”

“…yeah, that one, the one before college, he’d just ended with me and at the same time my mother had breast cancer so I was like, really confused of what I was sad about.
But before college… remember I told you I’d gone to do an exchange program in Virginia? Well that was pretty much because of him, to like get away, and partly because my parents were always fighting and shit.”

“Wow, this is great stuff. Imagine a movie starting like this. A girl with her almost naked legs over my torso and her head leaning against my sofa, talking all about her ex-boyfriends and troubled teenage years, all with rock’n roll from the 50’s in the background. You have really expressive eyes and it’s as if they always move oppositely from your head when you talk.”

“Oh my God, are you like, using your own view… like from my conversation…”

“No, no, don’t worry, tell me more about the guy from Belgium”

“Yeah well I think I should start being more selfish cos I was kinda always thinking about when was the best time for him and all cos he was a virgin and… come on, who wouldn’t want that”

“Why? What is it about virgins that you’d want to take their virginity (you dirty fucking slut who’s been with 33 guys and is fucking counting, self centred girl full of bullshit) ?

“I dunno, you can be that girl like he’s never gonna forget and shit and you can do what you want with him.” (naughty but, most importantly, sincere smile)

(“You’re so full of shit. In a minute you’re gonna say that all guys are pretty much the same”…)

“And when we kissed for the first time he was like all weird and his heart was beating really fast and all but I thought ‘yeah, we’re in Belgium and people are like weird and fucked up’ but then he told me that it was his first kiss like all sensitive and I was like ‘Are you fucking kidding me!!?’ ”

“What?? You really said that?”


“Poor guy…”

“I dunno, whatever, anyway when we had sex he was like… I almost died, he put his whole weight on me and I almost died hahahahahahah!”

“hahahah! And why did you break up?”

“Yeah like we were breaking up and he was like acting all weird and said ‘yeah, this is my dark side’ and I was like ‘What the fuck? Dark side?’ ”

“Yeah you’re right, he was a nerd”

“Yeah right anyway, I was always like more worried if it was right for him, the timing and all, and I didn’t think if I was ready”

(“Yeah… right… you’re always ready for it honey. You’re starting to annoy me with your fucking fake cares about whether you’re ready for some sex or not. I think I’m gonna ask you something like) do you think guys like being with girls that have been with 33 guys?”

“What?! (angry and shocked) Come on!... we’re like... we’re here like.. we were here like talking honestly and all that… (anger shows a slight sadness) comeon… what are you saying about me having said that before?...”

“No, no, no, don’t get all defensive, I’m not judging you (oh yes I fucking am! not to judge is not a part of our nature) I’m just saying, do you think a guy likes to be with a girl who’s been with 33 guys?”

“Well….. no…. like… no”

Some time passes.

“Anyway I’ve gotta go, you’re still invited to the party on Friday.”

“Still?? Hahaha ok… see you Friday”