DDT - Deambulações DeMentes Teóricas 19

The Serial Killer - Part IX
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Where do you think legends of vampires and werewolves come from?

In the Middle Ages the concept of serial killing didn't exist at all. When people were kidnapped or raped or even killed misteriously, the common belief was immediately linked to religious issues, pagan myths or witchcraft. If the body of a beautiful woman was found lying in some forest ground naked and vandalized, everyone would blame the devil, never her neighbour, unless the neighbour was suspected of having a pact with Lucifer, of course.

In those dark, ignorant ages who could imagine that there could be clever, resourseful but plain human beings who could do such things? Tearing off the flesh of another human being, ripping someone's throat, taking someone's viscera could only be practiced by monsters, supernatural beings, who could not be of this world.

Of course there was one thing, in my opinion, in which the people of the Middle Ages were quite right - serial killers are not of this world. We don't think like other people, we don't act like them, we pretend to, we certainly don't feel like them. Like I said, I am convinced I float in another dimension, above common daily life, where feelings, emotions and thoughts, where goals and drives are very different from the rest of mankind beneath.

In a way we are supernatural beings, because we don't act like the rest of the natural beings. Maybe we are ahead of our time. In a world where only the strongest survive, where can you find anyone stronger than a man or a woman who has no feelings, no compassion, no remorse, no conscience? It's the perfect combination for survival. Feelings weaken, compassion is dangerous. We are, perhaps, the next step in human evolution.

MAGIC MOMENTS 197

Tunes for Travelers 3
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No carro, no comboio, no autocarro, no avião, no barco. Façamo-nos às estradas deste mundo, mas que seja com estilo e energia.
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Take a ride in my machine

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Macro Secrets 148

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Embrace your qualities

OS PERSONAGENS DE ANDRÓMEDA

SPIDERMAN
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Curriculum Vitae
Filiação: Stan Lee e Steve Ditko

Corpo e Alma: Personagem da banda desenhada

Nacionalidade: Americana

Profissão: Estudante e Super herói

Naturalidade: Nova Iorque

Habilitações: Ágil. Rápido. Atlético. Voador. Alpinista. Discreto. Secreto. Tímido. Nova-iorquino de gema. Spiderman esconde um estudante tímido, imberbe, cheio de complexos de inferioridade e sem nenhuma propensão para o atletismo aracnídeo. É, sem dúvida, o mais elegante e leve de todos os super-heróis. O seu alter-ego vive sob a máxima "Com grandes poderes vêm grandes responsabilidades". É este o seu dom e ao mesmo tempo a sua maldição. Spiderman sabe bem que ninguém, nem mesmo um super-herói, está livre de ter de enfrentar o seu lado mais negro.

Filosofia de Vida: Whatever life holds in store for me, I will never forget these words: "With great power comes great responsibility." This is my gift, my curse. Who am I? I'm Spider-man. ºlkçlkl

DDT - Deambulações DeMentes Teóricas 18

The Serial Killer - Part VIII
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lfºfladsfOne of the pioneers was Liu Pengli. Actually, he is considered the first ever, at least on record.

He was the third son of the chinese King of Liang, grandson to emperor Wen of Han, of the Han Dinasty, who ruled China successfully for a period of 4 centuries. He was made Prince of Jidong and at twenty nine years of age he was described in history books as being arrogant and cruel, going out on marauding expeditions with tens of slaves or young men who were in hiding from the law, murdering people and seizing their belongings for sheer sport. The number of confirmed victims exceeded 100, and these murders were known across the kingdom, making people afraid of going out of their houses at night.

Eventually the son of one of his victims accused him to the Emperor, and the officials of the court requested that Liu Pengli be executed. However, the emperor could not bear to have his own cousin killed, and Liu Pengli was made a commoner and banished to the county of Shangyong. His sovereignty was abolished, and his land was reclaimed by Emperor Jing.

Of course, this could hardly be considered serial killing as in actual terms. In those days, before Christ had even been born, when civilization had a whole different meaning than it has today, it is much more honest to call the doings of Liu Pengli whims of a spoiled prince who had the power and the money and the lack of scruples to do whatever he felt like.

I would not call this serial killing, although what he did was kill several dozens of innocent people just because he could. But if you want to go solely on the technicality, then he was a serial killer. The name serial killer is a fairly recent adoption from the seventies. Before that, serial killers were called mass murderers. But if you look at history, the world is filled with such murderers who went about their business without ever being condemned of anything. Politicians, military men, rulers of every kind killed large amounts of people in every imaginable way. Liu was just another one of the kind. Compared to him, I am nothing but an apprentice.

MAGIC MOMENTS 196

Tunes for Travelers 2
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No carro, no comboio, no autocarro, no avião, no barco. Façamo-nos às estradas deste mundo, mas que seja com estilo e energia.
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Get your kicks on Route 66

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Macro Secrets 147

,mm

Accept Your Flaws

OS PERSONAGENS DE ANDRÓMEDA

SMEAGOL
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Curriculum Vitae
Filiação: J. R. R. Tolkien

Corpo e Alma: Boneco criado a partir do corpo e da voz do actor Andy Serkis

Nacionalidade: Terra Média

Profissão: Hobbit

Naturalidade: Shire

Habilitações: Guloso. Ávido. Ganancioso. Fraco. Invejoso. Ciumento. Possessivo. Ingénuo. Doce. Infantil. Dissimulado. Irresistível. Smeagol quer aquele anel. QUER. Não olha a meios para atingir os seus fins. Mata, rouba, esconde, mente, engana, é capaz de qualquer coisa para ter o seu precioso anel. Se existe alguém sobre quem esse anel exerça um poder absolutamente dominador, é sobre Smeagol. Que se torna Gollum. Gollum tem todas as características de Smeagol, mas não tem remorsos como Smeagol poderia ter. Smeagol morrerá com o seu anel. Ele cairá juntamente com ele e afundar-se-á no fogo, onde apenas podemos imaginar que o seu corpo, a sua mente e os seus sonhos se diluirão, enfim, para sempre, com o ouro brilhante, irresistível, tentador e possessivo do anel que tanto cobiçou.

Filosofia de Vida: "My precious!"

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DDT - Deambulações DeMentes Teóricas 17

The Serial Killer - Part VII
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You see, there was a method to my madness, after all. I didn't kill because I wanted to say something, I killed because I wanted to show something. I wanted to show them they weren't perfect. That they weren't sacred. That they could be used, abused, torn apart, deconstructed to make something else, something that would be worth something more valuable. That they were mere instruments, raw materials, the same as plastic, thread, wood or metal. Flesh. Pieces of meat, portions of blood, samples of chemical elements glued together to draw and portray symbols.

For me they had no souls, no minds, no reason to exist. They were objects. I didn't want to be god, although I have to admit that the feeling was overwhelming sometimes. I didn't want to create a new world, or to recreate any kind of fantasies, or even less to send any message through the paintings I chose. I wanted to play. I was like a kid thrown inside a playground filled with his most precious and appetizing materials. I didn't choose my paintings because they had any special meaning to me, I chose them on a whimp, because they looked good, or interesting to me. It was a pure aesthetic choice. Sometimes the only thing that attracted me was the color combination.

Of course, with time, the themes became important. Not because they were in any way related to me, the way I thought or felt, but because I felt the need at least to understand what I was using. If I chose Goya's "Saturn devouring his son", I thought I had at least to know why Saturn had chosen to do that. But it had nothing to do with the possible political, social, pshychological or other interpretations of the work itself. It certainly had nothing to do with the relationship I had with my mother, for instance.

Of course, to them there had to be a reason. I suppose it's natural and instinctive to every human being to find a reason in everything that happens, even in a serial killer's apparent random madness. That is why religion exists. People have a hard time admiting that they could be just the product of chance. Even when they are looking at the clouds in the sky, their instinct drives them to find familiar faces, objects. Everything has to have a reason. I knew better than that. My reason was pure fun. My mind was not a human mind, at least not the mind most humans have.

Maybe they were right in one thing - maybe the randomness of the violence my parents used on me was intricately related to the detachment I learned from a very early age. Maybe if I had been born in another family, I would have been different. I don't know. And I certainly can't imagine being different from what I am. I can't imagine what it's like to have feelings, because I don't have them and I can't recall the short period of my life when I did have them. I have no remorse. I have no conscience. They don't torment me. I like being what I am. I feel like I am floating above the world, in another dimension, somewhere few other humans have surfaced.

There are others like me. And I was aware of that very early. I studied them. In fact, they haunted me sometimes. I wanted to be as good as they were. Ultimately they were responsible for the changes I introduced in my method. The more I studied their work, the more I felt like a kind of fraud. After all, I was just copying things other people had created. I had to start creating my own art.

MAGIC MOMENTS 195

Tunes for Travelers 1
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Aqui se inaugura um espaço dedicado às melhores canções para viajar. No carro, no comboio, no autocarro, no avião, no barco. Façamo-nos às estradas deste mundo, mas que seja com estilo e energia.

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I Ride Like The Wind

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Macro Secrets 146

,mm

Forgive yourself

DDT - Deambulações DeMentes Teóricas 16

The Serial Killer - Part VI
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They had all sorts of theories about my work and myself.

There was a method to my madness, they insisted. Sometimes they would not agree upon it.

I was a frustrated painter, or

I had a domineering mother, or

I had been sexually abused by several people, or

I wanted to send a message to the world, not in a bottle, but in my victims' flesh, or

I was meticulous, obssessive and compulsive, or

I was paranoid, schizophrenic and suffered from hallucinations.

The FBI wrote an extensive possible profile on me, which was frequentely quoted by everybody who had no idea what to make of me. The report said, quote: "White male, most probably in his twenties, with some kind of physical incapacitation or left alone for long periods of time in his childhood. The individual seeks out to dominate others through the enactment of his most profound fantasies, since it is the only area in his life where he was ever able to master some kind of control."

I will not bore you with the rest of the hilarities on the report. Suffice to say that it went on with increasingly more unbelievable nonsense. Bottom line was they had no idea who they were looking for and I was having fun sending them confusing signals with each murder I commited.

This went on for about five years, until at last someone made a breakthrough on the other side. A young enthusiastic investigator noticed a detail that had escaped everybody else's sharp eye - the thread used in the enacted picture of the last victim was the same as the one used in two other victims. The thread was sold by a local company only in that particular state, the one I had lived for a few months prior to the four last crimes. Of course this helped reduce the field of search and restrict a possible opperational area. They got closer and I had to stop. I wasn't paranoid, I was just cautious. They weren't that close, but I wasn't going to risk everything by being greedy. I did nothing for the next three years. But then something happened that made it virtually impossible for me not to kill.

OS PERSONAGENS DE ANDRÓMEDA

SARAH CONNOR
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Curriculum Vitae
Filiação: James Cameron e William Wisher Jr.

Corpo e Alma: Linda Hamilton (the one and only)
Nacionalidade: Americana

Profissão: Empregada de mesa

Naturalidade: Los Angeles

Habilitações: Forte. Resistente. Lutadora. Persistente. Sobrevivente. Inteligente. Protectora. De ideias fixas. Sarah arregaça as mangas e troca literalmente as voltas ao destino que lhe calhou em sorte. Perseguida pelo futuro. Atormentada pelo passado. Amada no presente pelo homem que veio do futuro e que lhe dará o filho que ela tem de proteger para que esse futuro possa acontecer. Mãe. Mãe-coragem. Fugitiva. Mulher de armas, metafóricas e literais. Preparada. Física, se não psicologicamente. Desconfiada. Atenta. Perdida no presente. Achada no futuro.

Filosofia de Vida: "The hardest thing is deciding what I should tell you and what not to. Well, anyway, I've got a while yet before you're old enough to understand the tapes. They're more for me at this point... to help get it all straight. Should I tell you about your father? That's a tough one. Will it change your decision to send him here... knowing? But if you don't send Kyle, you could never be. God, you can go crazy thinking about all this... I suppose I'll tell you... I owe him that. And maybe it'll be enough if you know that in the few hours we had together we loved a lifetime's worth."

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Macro Secrets 145

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Accept yourself

MAGIC MOMENTS 194

CC36 - Cool Covers

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Há músicas intemporais e camaleónicas ou músicos que dão a volta a qualquer coisa?

Ora vejamos:
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Walking in Memphis by Marc Cohn

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Walking in Memphis by Cher

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FIM

OS PERSONAGENS DE ANDRÓMEDA

SANTIAGO
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Curriculum Vitae
Filiação: Ernest Hemingway

Corpo e Alma: A do livro
Nacionalidade: Espanhola

Profissão: Pescador

Naturalidade: Ilhas Canárias, imigrante em Cuba

Habilitações: Santiago está velho. Velho e cansado. Mas não derrotado. Apenas amaldiçoado, como dizem os seus companheiros. Salao. Santiago não se deixa abater. Como o mar, os seus olhos são azuis profundos, vivos e indestrutíveis. Se o mar fosse uma pessoa, seria Santiago. Corajoso. Orgulhoso. É o seu orgulho que o empurra para a frente, sempre mais para diante, para águas que mais nenhum pescador ousou navegar. Lá encontrará o maior adversário de toda a sua vida. Persistente. Santiago não desiste, nem mesmo quando o seu cansaço o conduz quase ao delírio e o fio que segura o poderoso espadarte lhe arranca pele e carne das mãos. Lutador. Poético. Santiago respeita o seu adversário e desabafa preferir matar o seu irmão às estrelas ou à lua. Os tubarões destroem-lhe o espadarte, mas não a glória. Santiago nunca mais será olhado pelos seus companheiros como salao ou imigrante. Imortal. Manolin crê e será o receptáculo de todos os seus ensinamentos. O mar e ele são um só.

Filosofia de Vida: "A man is never lost at sea."

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DDT - Deambulações DeMentes Teóricas 15

The Serial Killer - Part V
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Before I go on to explain my glorious days as one of the 10 most wanted men alive, let me go back a few years in my life. I was in the prime of my twenties. I was starting to develop a quite unique method of killing and displaying my victims. If you ask me for a reason to do this, I can only answer you that it was all part of the bigger plan. My work was art. Do you ask Picasso why he painted his blue period? Or Rodin why he had such an obssession for hands? Try asking Michelangelo why on earth he wanted to spend two years tearing his back apart to paint a ceiling few men in his time would have the privilege to see. You do not ask an artist why he does what he does or why he does it in that specific way. He may try to specify certain details of his technique, but he will never be able to explain the full measure of his craft or his purposes. Pollock put it this way: "When I'm painting, I'm not aware of what I'm doing. It's only after a get acquainted period that I see what I've been about. I've no fears about making changes for the painting has a life of its own." He also said that you always paint who you are.

My killings are me. And I am my killings. Everything about them, every single detail has a reason, an origin, a goal, but if you ask me what it is I won't be able to explain it. That's why the so called forensic experts and phsycologists amuse me imensely. Everything they say is pure crap. They build up these theoretical cathedrals of embelished mumbo-jumbo filled with difficult technical terms to say nothing but rubbish. They have no idea what they're talking about. And the worst thing is that they are convinced they reached some kind of understanding of how someone like me functions and feels.

I started by recreating works of art. That is what I did with my victims. I killed them in the exact same way the real subject of that particular work of art died, and then I presented them to the world as they were most famously portrayed. I shall illustrate with an example. Caravaggio's "Salome with the Head of John the Baptist". As you know, Salome asked her stepfather, the king Herod Antipas, to behead John and present it, the head, in a charger. And that is precisely what I did with the bum I found. With time I added complexity to the operation. The victim had to be somehow related with the character depicted. Bums would not do anymore. I also ventured from figurative into the slippery but exciting field of abstract art. This would challenge my invention skills. How do you portray a "Rythm of Autumn" with a human body?

Of course this attracted attention. Lots of it. Newspapers started calling me the Michelangelo of Death. The police and the experts generated hundreds of pages of quite interesting literature on the whys and the hows and the whos of my crimes. There was a method but at the same time there was no possibility of anticipating my moves, since no one knew what work of art I would be depicting next, and hence no one could predict the kind of victims I would choose. And then suddenly I made it all a little bit more complicated. When they were coming closer, I stopped and changed my M.O. I had planned it a long time ago, but now I was finally prepared to fly alone. I started creating my own works of art. The depiction period ended. And things got considerably more complicated for my persecutors.

Macro Secrets 144

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To brand new beginnings

PALAVRAS ESTÚPIDAS 157

In Another Life
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You were a man in a travelling show
Who sold potions, or maybe no
I made you the potions
Cause I had some substance notions
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You were a poet, tormented
Maybe even a little demented
I was there to write things down
Sometimes to be your literary clown
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You were a magician with top hat
Maybe even a little fat
I was the girl you cut in two
And I did that just for you
çdkjgsçdgYou piloted a baloon
Quite close to both sun and moon
I was your navigator

Always sick, but never the quiter

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You searched for lost manuscripts

And strange, ancient artifacts

I helped you read the maps

And set all sorts of traps

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In another life, maybe

We were all these things and plenty more

In another life, could very well be

We were together, for sure

MAGIC MOMENTS 193

CC35 - Cool Covers

fkl

Há músicas intemporais e camaleónicas ou músicos que dão a volta a qualquer coisa?

Ora vejamos:
ºldças

Love is Like Oxygen by Sweet

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Love is a Many Splendored Thing by The Four Aces
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Love Lift us up Where we Belong by Joe Cocker & Jennifer Warnes

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All You Need is Love by The Beatles

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Love is Just a Game by The Magic Numbers

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I Was Made For Loving You by Kiss
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One More Night by Phill Collins

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Pride (In The Name of Love) by U2

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Don't Leave Me This Way by Thelma Houston

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Silly Love Songs by Paul McCartney

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Heroes by David Bowie

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I Will Always Love You by Whitney Houston

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Your Song by Elton John

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Elephant Medley by Nicole Kidman & Ewan McGregor (Moulin Rouge)

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Macro Secrets 143

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December is fattening month, anyway

OS PERSONAGENS DE ANDRÓMEDA

RODION ROMÂNOVITCH RASKÓLNIKOV
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Curriculum Vitae
Filiação: Fyodor Dostoevsky

Corpo e Alma: A do livro
Nacionalidade: Russa

Profissão: Estudante

Naturalidade: Algures na Rússia, vive em S. Petersburgo

Habilitações: Inteligente. Profundo. Radical. Político. Triste. Niilista. Só. Demente? Doente? Crê-se intelectualmente superior. Raskólnikov acredita que existem homens comuns e homens extraordinários e que estes últimos, por serem extraordinários, podem cometer determinados actos que os outros não podem, como matar. Até estaria tudo bem, caso Raskólnikov tivesse apenas pensado ou teorizado sobre esta questão, escrevendo um tomo de filosofia. O problema, para ele, é que Raskólnikov decide colocar estes seus pensamentos em prática. Mata uma velha agiota e aguarda. Ninguém desconfia de nada. Raskólnikov chega até a divertir-se às custas da polícia, que anda a patinar literalmente à sua volta. Mas Raskólnikov não contou com um pequeno pormenor - a sua consciência. Que começa a atormentá-lo com tal intensidade e requintes de sadismo, que Raskólnikov não aguenta mais e decide confessar o seu crime. Descobre que, afinal, ao contrário do que teorizava, não é um homem extraordinário. Ou será, precisamente por ter consciência?

Filosofia de Vida: "Se ele tiver uma consciência, sofrerá pelo seu erro. Isso será o seu castigo, tanto como a prisão."

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DDT - Deambulações DeMentes Teóricas 14

The Serial Killer - Part IV
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I was also meticulous in covering my tracks. I was careful not to kill consecutively in the same place and in a short period of time. This country is perfect for serial killers and that is probably why we are so many here compared to other countries. It's vast, geographically varied and, most of all, desorganized. Looking from the outside one might be tempted to think of us as a united nation. Naturally, we are not. But we have to be, in order to maintain so many states together. It's something that is forced upon us. The founders of our country were extremely smart in that particular detail. How can you keep such a vast amount of land and such a heterogenous amount of people together as a nation? You brain wash them into a sense of patriotism pushed to the limit. That is one of the fundamental pilars of our power over other nations. If the people of this country were left to tend for themselves, without any rulling fathers, we would long have ceassed to be anything remotely resembling United.

However, this impression of patriotism is a very superficial one, easy to tear apart if you look at us carefully. One of the spots where you don't need to scratch the gloss much in order to see the dirt underneath, is precisely authority. There are over 40.000 different police forces opperating in this country. As you can imagine, they can't be all very well organized. In fact, they hardly communicate with eachother. Each state has its own laws and law enforcement policies. And more important, each state functions independently. For a serial killer that is heaven. It means I can kill someone on the Pacific side, travel all the way to the Atlantic coast and kill there and be sure that it will take a long time for either sides to link those two killings together. In the meantime, I will have killed some more in other states and improved my method, maybe even changed it a little bit, thus rendering the task even more intricate for the investigators.

Another thing that helps is our way of thinking. We are loners. We don't mingle too much and when we do, we choose carefully who we mingle with. We don't get much out of our comfort zone. We are not nosy. We keep to ourselves. We don't want to know. The less we know about our neighbour, the less probability of getting into trouble. This, of course, is also a bliss for any serial killer. It means we have a very wide margin to operate until anyone starts sniffing around for any reason. If and when they finally do reach the point where they smell something fishy, we're long gone.

In the decade that followed my teenage years, I must have moved about fourty times. I gained a sense of freedom that prevented me from naturally needing to stay anywhere. My victims were the only thing that would keep me in a certain place during a certain amount of time. After the killing nothing more would tigh me and I would disappear. I enjoyed this loose existence. I didn't need any attachments for I had been born without any cravings for human contact. The only contact I seeked was the one I could create during my killings. It was a sketched contact, studied, acessed, controled as in a laboratory experiment. It was an integral part of my method and nothing more. A stylistic feature, if you will.

By the time I reached 28, I had become an expert. I had killed more than 30 people, an average of 2 a year, sometimes 3. It was tough, to have to wait so long sometimes, to kill again. As I said, it was the same as asking an alcoholic to abstain for months before he could taste another glass of wine. But I was far from being stupid. And I wasn't going to risk everything I had built so far. The same way I exercised my body, so did I train my mind. I became interested in zen philosophy. The here and now. Acceptance. Be in the moment always. It also helped my killings. During the sometimes most anxious moments of the hunting, when the hunted knew it had been hunted, I was able to drown myself in that world of quietness and function at my own rythm, even if everything around me was complete chaos.

I became notorious, finally. With fame came the long last recognition I had seeked for my work. But that was also the beginning of the end of my glorious freedom. It didn't end it, but it slowed my work even more.

FELIZ NATAL

Macro Secrets 142

lkçl

Have yourself a Merry little Xmas

MAGIC MOMENTS 192

CC34 - Cool Covers

fkld

Há músicas intemporais e camaleónicas ou músicos que dão a volta a qualquer coisa?

Ora vejamos:
ºldças

War by Edwin Starr

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War by Bruce Springsteen

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OS PERSONAGENS DE ANDRÓMEDA

ROCKY BALBOA
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Curriculum Vitae
Filiação: Sylvester Stallone

Corpo e Alma: Sylvester Stallone
Nacionalidade: Americana

Profissão: Jogador de boxe

Naturalidade: Philadelphia

Habilitações: Humilde. Jamais looser. Simples. Jamais simplório. Pobre. Jamais de espírito. Persistente. Corajoso. Rocky tem um coração de manteiga para músculos tão rijos e derrete-se em todo o lado, inclusivé no ringue. Mas ... ele é teimoso. Acha que consegue, apesar de ter sempre todas as possibilidades contra si. Rocky não quer ganhar, ele quer apenas mostrar que merece lutar para ganhar. Ah ... e quando ele sobe aqueles degraus ... quando ele sobe aqueles degraus ... o mundo inteiro sobe com ele. Como o próprio Sylvester disse, as pessoas não podem ter o sabre de luz dos jedis ou a capa do super-homem, mas podem subir aqueles degraus e ter um pedaço da "Rocky pie".

Filosofia de Vida: "Cause I was thinkin', it really don't matter if I lose this fight. It really don't matter if this guy opens my head, either. 'Cause all I wanna do is go the distance. Nobody's ever gone the distance with Creed, and if I can go that distance, you see, and that bell rings and I'm still standin', I'm gonna know for the first time in my life, see, that I weren't just another bum from the neighborhood."

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DDT - Deambulações DeMentes Teóricas 13

The Serial Killer - Part IIIlkdfadsçlf

By the time I reached 18, I had already killed 4 people - the schoolgirl, the guy in the bar, some anonymous bum I used to experiment and the nosy forest patrol guard who came snooping around while I was disposing of the bum.

But they were nothing, compared to what I would do later. Almost all were random killings, except for the bum. And even with the bum I was too nervous to do anything resembling a good job. Looking back now, those first killings embarass me, they even upset me, they are stains in what would later become masterpieces of death.

I was looking for perfection. But it took me about a decade to master the tools of the trade and start doing what I would call a good job. What drove me was no longer hate or anger, but the sheer drive and passion of an artist. I wanted to excell, to reach places others had seldom treaded, to meticulously carve the details of murder upon my victims. My killings became my life's work, my art. I became obsessed to the point of not being able or allow myself to think about anything else. Or, rather, everything fed the killings. Every book I read, every movie I saw, every picture I admired, every single piece of nature that was able to rapture me would remind me of killing, would inspire my method.

My victims were not even thought of as victims, but as instruments, raw materials for my craft. I would prey on them like a wolf, silently, sometimes for months before I came closer, watching, learning, documenting their habits as a biologist would some irrational life form. The chase felt almost as good as the catch itself, for it built up anticipation, functioning as the preliminaries in a sexual mating. Knowing that I had control over their lives and that they would be mine when I decided was a powerful elixir. Sometimes I would delay the catch on purpose, so that I could relish on those intimate, private, lonely moments of my hunting.

I developed a number of abilities which I had not been blessed with upon birth. Patience. Resistance. A kind of poetic melancholy as I would consider the possibilities before me, how I would do it, when. Everything became important, crucial. The time of day, the place, the instruments, the means of transportation, even how I would eventually come into physical contact for the first time with the object of my desire. The world, the entire world, not just my own world, started revolving around the killings. The most insignificant detail had to have some kind of special meaning. The way the leaves rustled on the trees in a particular afternoon could make me decide a particular way of killing.

Over the course of the years I experimented a lot. I tried all kinds of weapons and tools. Knives, ropes, glass, bows, torturing devices, my own hands. All except guns. I considered them coarse objects to be used for such exquisite purposes. They were also loud and fast, which was something by no means related to the way I liked things done. My killings were slow and steady, almost as if the world would drown itself completely around me and I would find myself sorrounded by the rythm of water instead of air. My prey would die as if in a dream, in slow motion.

PALAVRAS ESTÚPIDAS 156

Prometheus
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Vem aí. Está a chegar. Ridley Scott não se conteve e vai mesmo fazer a prequel de Alien, que sairá em 2012.

Sem Sigourney Weaver, mas com Michael Fassbender, espero um filme e pêras, de um dos criadores de mundos mais entusiasmantes do cinema. Estou pronta para trepar pelas paredes ... agora que há tão poucos filmes que me consigam encher as medidas.

Em 1979, o cartaz de Alien avisava "In space no one can hear you scream."

Em 2012, o cartaz de Prometheus promete "In space something can hear you scream."

I can hardly wait ... to scream!!!

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MAGIC MOMENTS 191

CC33 - Cool Covers

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Há músicas intemporais e camaleónicas ou músicos que dão a volta a qualquer coisa?

Ora vejamos:
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Roxanne by The Police

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Roxanne by George Michael

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Roxanne by José Feliciano, Ewan McGregor e Jacek Koman (Moulin Rouge)

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Macro Secrets 141

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I don't give a shit

OS PERSONAGENS DE ANDRÓMEDA

RANDLE PATRICK MCMURPHY
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Curriculum Vitae
Filiação: Ken Kesey

Corpo e Alma: Jack Nicholson
Nacionalidade: Americana

Profissão: Pequeno patife

Naturalidade: Oregon

Habilitações: Vivaço. Vivido. Com vontade própria. Valente. Vigoroso. Com volts a mais. Com gás. Gasoso. Gozando a vida. Não aprecia que gozem com a sua cara. Caricato. Carente. Carinhoso. Ardiloso. Jogador. Vamos lá a ver quem é que ganha isto. Esmagado pelo sistema. A única coisa de que Randle é culpado é de ser ele próprio. O único erro que cometeu foi jamais fingir que era, fazia ou queria outra coisa que não o que lhe era instintivo. Lixou-se. Foi lobotomizado. Deixa, no entanto, uma herança valiosa - o índio foge por ele.

Filosofia de Vida: "I must be crazy to be in a loony bin like this."

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DDT - Deambulações DeMentes Teóricas 12

The Serial Killer - Part II

It all happened too fast for me to really enjoy most of it, that first time. So I had to do it again. I waited a good six months before I tried again. In the mean time I practiced with stray cats and dogs. I didn't want it to be so fast. I wanted the next victim to know what was going to happen to her. I had to see recognition in her eyes. I craved for that look of utter despair, when someone knows exactly what's going to happen but also knows there is not a single thing she can do to stop it from happening.

At home my strategy changed. By now I was a teenager and had been biulding up my body for quite some time. Father stopped beating me up because he got scared with the possibility that I might answer back. Mother kept screaming, but that was all she ever did these days. As for the kids at my street, they stopped peckering me altogether, when one day I decided to run inside the house and get one of those curtain hangers from the living room. What I did with it to one of the kids wised up all the others. That one never showed up again in the surrounding area.

The hate was replaced with a kind of satisfaction that became addictive. It was fun to inflict pain on others. Particularly because when that happened the smirk on their stupid faces would disappear completely and they would regard me with respect. I told myself it was all an experiment. But I knew better. It was more like a drug, and I needed it in increasing dosages as time went on. There was a buzz, a thrilling feeling of excitement, that would almost resemble a sexual discharge, every time that stick would come into contact with somebody's skin. When the cheerleader went down on her knees, blood trickling from her head as her legs wobbled, unable to sustain the weight of her unconscious body, I almost had an orgasm just looking at her.

People became like lab rats that I would study carefuly. I was never much of a talker and I had always kept to myself. I was a great observer and so I started using that for my experiments. There's a hell lot of good information you can pick from others just by keeping your mouth shut and your ears wide open. The fact that most people never even noticed I was around, helped me to become utterly invisible. If you didn't step on my toes, it was as if I didn't exist for you. If you did, I would make sure you noticed me and depending on the degree of your intrusion, there would be consequences you would never forget.

The second time I killed was after a bar fight. I hadn't planned it. Some drunk idiot started teasing me and so I waited for him outside the bar. He was alone, which was even better. I grabbed his throat while he was pissing and cut his dick off while he struggled beneath my arms, my hand covering his mouth. He looked me in bewilderment, while I stuck the knife in his stomach and let him bleed to death before I vanished. Death is a messy business when you don't have much experience. Watching the white in his eyes take over was one of the most powerful feelings I had ever experienced in my entire life.

I would soon learn to make a clean kill. It takes time and patience and a lot of practice, but I had all the time in the world and a will to learn every single trick. For me it was as if I had discovered some new territory which no man had ever stepped on. I was a scientist, an explorer, excited with the prospect of excelling in my trade. School was boring and there was nothing in it that would tease my brain. But this, this was something else. This was a sort of shangri-la, a mystical, exciting, dark, eery new dimension only I knew about. In it I was a king, a prince of darkness, a powerfull being who acted like a god, deciding the fate of others, choosing life or death. This was my world.

PALAVRAS ESTÚPIDAS 155

Ai Putin, filho, tás feito ... É pena, vou ter saudades tuas. Essa gente mal agradecida, pá, sempre a querer deitar abaixo um homem que dá o que tem e o que não tem pelo seu povo ...

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Por outro lado, posso sempre tirar a barriga de misérias com o insubstituível Yevgeni Mouravitch, cuja fuçanha não consegui encontrar, mas também o que interessa é o seu sotaque e não a fuçanha.

MAGIC MOMENTS 190

CC32 - Cool Covers

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Há músicas intemporais e camaleónicas ou músicos que dão a volta a qualquer coisa?

Ora vejamos:

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Me and Bobby McGee by Kris Kristopherson

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Me and Bobby McGee by Janis Joplin

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Macro Secrets 140

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It takes two to tango

OS PERSONAGENS DE ANDRÓMEDA

PRINCIPEZINHO
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Curriculum Vitae
Filiação: Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Corpo e Alma: Steven Warner
Nacionalidade: Francesa

Profissão: Pequeno príncipe

Naturalidade: Asteroide B-612

Habilitações: Solitário. Sonhador. Apaixonado por uma rosa demasiado vaidosa e mentirosa. Explorador. Curioso. Sábio. Gosta de desenho mas não consegue que alguém entenda que uma cobra a comer um elefante não pode ser jamais a mesma coisa que um chapéu! Incompreendido pelos adultos. Não consegue, por sua vez, compreendê-los. Capaz de domar uma bela raposa desconfiada que lhe ensina que as coisas mais importantes não são visíveis aos olhos, mas apenas ao coração. E também que sempre que domamos alguma coisa ficamos para sempre responsáveis por ela. Intrigante. Adorável.

Filosofia de Vida: "Les grandes personnes ne comprennent jamais rien toutes seules, et c'est fatigant, pour les enfants, de toujours et toujours leur donner des explications."

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DDT - Deambulações DeMentes Teóricas 11

The Serial Killer - Part I

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I am a serial killer. The authorities reached that conclusion after they discovered I had killed 3 prostitutes that resembled very much one another, in a space of a few months, all in the same area. Three is the magic number. Less than that, you're just another random little common criminal and your victims just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. More than that and you become a certified monster. The reason being that someone, anyone, might randomly kill 2 people that got in his way when he was about to get something else, but no one, no average human being kills more than 3 times, unless he is being payed a lot of money or has a very good reason to do it. I'm not being payed a lot of money. I don't care about money.

Why? You might ask yourselves that question sometimes, when you tune in the news report and some anchorman is talking about me or some other monster like me. Why does he kill? What kind of being would commit such a horrifying act several times in the course of his life?

You can either listen to all the babble wabble that some hired shrink or criminal expert is saying about me, or you can listen to me. Make your choice, but don't say I didn't warn you.
Why do I kill? Because I like it. It's fun. The psychiatrists would have you believe that I kill to live, that I need to kill, like any one of you needs to breath or piss. Bullshit. I never once heard any one of those so called experts say anything that could even resemble a meager understanding of what I do or why I do it. The only thing they usually get right is the how, but hey! the how is really easy when you practically have a blueprint of the whole thing spread out right in front of your noses. The crime scene. That's the only thing they manage to get an idea about. The rest remains "terra incognita".

Sure, I had my problems when I was a kid. My father was an asswhole and my mother a bitch. He would beat me up with his belt and she would punish me for being a naughty boy by sending me to the basement in the dark for several hours, hanging from the ceiling upside down by a rope tied to my feet. I would cry. I cried a lot. I would have myself cry until I could no longer feel the tears running through my dried salty cheeks. Then I would faint, because the blood dropping for hours and swelling on my head would knock me out of consciousness. I would wake up when they came to fetch me back upstairs.

They, the experts, say that the mother is the key. That one expects brutality from the male element of the couple, but never from the female side. That it's ok if your father drinks a couple more than he should and gets a little too much physical, but it's not ok when the mother, supposedly the natural caretaker, is actually a sphinx of ice. Where do you run to? Nowhere. Where did I run? Inside my swallowed head. And they are wrong. It's the same to me, who did it. They both did what they weren't supposed to.

It didn't happen right away. At first I actually thought I was the one to blame. I must have been a demon for them to punish me that way. The other kids didn't mention anything of the sort, and I would wonder if they were all lying. So why do they do it?, I would ask myself. I must be really bad. Once, I was stupid enough to ask my mother why. Needless to say the answer I got ended up in another episode of fainting down in the basement.

Eventually I got wised up. The tears stopped. They were replaced by a growing, utterly unbearable feeling of hate. Not just for them. For everyone. Why did it have to be me? Why would the other kids not suffer like I did? What was it that I had done to deserve such a fate? An idea started growing inside my head. I had to make others hurt too. Or I would go insane. So I started with the cats. I would burn their tails like living torches and watch them skid around the garden screaming in terrifying shrieks of despair. But they weren't enough. I found out I couldn't feel anything. When the tears dried for good on my face so did something inside me that prevented me from feeling any more pain. The problem was it also ended any other emotion. Joy, sadness, nostalgia, excitement. Nothing. The only way I could make myself feel anything was to pump up the volume, so to speak. One cat wouldn't do, so it had to be two cats. Two cats weren't enough, so the victim must be larger, a dog. Soon, animals were no good anymore. They only screamed. I had to hear begging. And there's only one animal on the face of the earth that is capable of groveling for mercy. You guessed.
The first one was a girl I knew from school, one of those annoying cheerleaders who wouldn't give me so much as a side look. I ambushed her on the way home from school and killed her with a couple of stones. She didn't even scream, such was the surprise when she saw me waving those rocks. I tied her and dumped her in the river. Her body was discovered a week later all swallon up near some rocks. They never even came close to me. I was just a kid.

MAGIC MOMENTS 189

CC31 - Cool Covers

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Há músicas intemporais e camaleónicas ou músicos que dão a volta a qualquer coisa?

Ora vejamos:

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So In Love by Ella Fitgzerald

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So In Love by K.d. Lang

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Macro Secrets 139

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I am in love with you