Tuesday, December 25, 2012

COMMENT: Piers Morgan Deportation

After the Connecticut Mass Shooting, and I'm sure such event is still quite vivid in each and every civilized thoughtful mind, there has been a growing discussion surrounding a dear American issue: Gun Control.
The latest ground breaking instalment regarding such, comes, to my knowledge, as sort of a "social downgrade".
For starters, meet Piers Morgan. He is a British journalist currently working in the United States. Before I go on with my argument, please listen to what Mr. Morgan has to say regarding this theme.

Piers Morgan - Gun Control Debate "You're An Unbelievably STUPID Man Aren't You!"

Now, despite agreeing with Mr. Morgan's point of view, it is not my place to judge which side from this heated debate is right or wrong. Truthfully, every human being's action is right by his own thoughts, meaning by a certain approach, no one is ever fully wrong, for their own opinion must count.
However, and this is what concerns me the most, a petition was created by the American people, in result of Mr. Morgan's debate, demanding for his deportation. Not only that, but such petition is indeed becoming quite sucessful, with over 64.000 signatures, as of this moment.

The petitions believes that Piers Morgan "engaged in a hostile attack against the U.S. Constitution by targeting the Second Amendment". Not only that, it is demanded that "Mr. Morgan be deported immediately for his effort to undermine the Bill of Rights and for exploiting his position as a national network television host to stage attacks against the rights of American citizens".

Here is my question: Isn't asking for Mr. Morgan to be deported an attack towards human rights and freedom of speech by itself?

Despite agreeing or not with his statement, the truth is that he's only broadcasting his oppinion. I understand why some americans would feel attacked by his words, it is inside the U.S. culture and mind set the use of weaponry as a mean of protection. Yet, I can't help but think that to ask for his deportation is more of a crime as the one he "commited".

As an end note, I believe respect and freedom shall be above everything else. By my comment I only which to spread communication and speech, as well as regarding that despite country, culture or religion, our words are as valid as the person next to you.

I truthfully would appreciate to read your oppinion towards such topic. Please feel free to use your word, and develop such discussion to others.

Friday, November 30, 2012

POETRY: Shiver by Pedro Pires


Your soft, gentile hands stimulate a capable
 trigger that anxiously shoots them down, one by
 one, as the bullet approaches the body, as it
 threatens me, they run, they shake out of fear!

With them, so do I. The concrete pavement burns
 beneath my feet, I can already see the years ahead
 of me, running at a pace faster than mine.

Tall bright buildings, they all crumble, one by
 one, becoming nothing more than a shadow, rotten,
 as a junkie pays his guardian pregnant angel, as
 the angel feeds the soul, heavenly fix.

Misguided frequencies running through their minds,
 feverishly amounting inside, there is no room,
 there is no reason. Reality becomes another vivid
 video game, in which they destroy all existence, as
 existence itself patiently bleeds, praying to a
 poisonous religion for this game to be over, as we
 all do.

I watch them fall, by my side, in front of me,
 every possible angle from the three hundred and
 sixty existent has someone falling, with their fat
 bodies, piercing through the concrete, to a free
 fall escorted by rain, and a symphony of lightning,
 as every single atom is absorbed by a black hole to
 a forgotten alley.

I am afraid of the fall! As I think, my hands
 shake! My body relies naked at your bright blue
 eyes, as you approach me, as I realize your beauty.

Mad angel, heavenly figure from every religion
 known to man, Muslim, Christian, walk on our flesh,
 burned, petrified by divine intervention, smoked by
 them as any other cigarette consumed after sex.

The poison, the alcohol, the holy water of our
 Saint Lawrence of Rome Holy Grail, it is provided
 by those whom consider our thoughts as sins, 

whom condemn our existence until the very last
 conscious breath is taken, 

whom knock on our door, five and six times a day,
 to preach what they believe to be the salvation!

Black flannel suit gods, nostalgia, they fill my
 ears with shapes of melody.

I hear them every day, as they sing, out loud, the
 crushing monotony that is my routine,

I hear them every day, as they sing, out loud, my
 sadness while looking at a picture of the great New
 York City skyline,

I hear them every day, as they sing, out loud, out
 of despair, watching me consume myself while
 resting in a couch soaked with sorrow and shame,

I hear them every day, as they sing, out loud, of
 what it is to lose a father, and of what may come
 from never seeing him again,

I hear them every day, as they sing, out loud,
 there is gold and lust in their sound, while we all
 shake out of fear!

I fear despair! As I once sat down in my bed,
 watching a white candle melt, down the addiction!
 These are the walls of my skull! Meltdown!

The bursting fire, hot, steamy, meltdown, melting
 me down! Not before corrupting my organs, alcohol
 for the liver, smoke for the lungs.

Until you finally touch me! Holy sexual angel,
 beneath the sheets we love, blasphemy.

Your delightful figure, so carefully put together.
 Silk made shoulders, in which your golden curly
 hair falls, only to rest, brushing them gently,
 with a jazz soul fulfilling scent. Your smile is
 cocaine clear, as the most beautiful pearl, widen
 from wine red spilled hands.

And your eyes. Your comprehensive thundering
 stylish eyes, they don't judge my thoughts, nor by
 whom or what they might be driven.

They simply carefully observe me, with such a
 carefree joy.

They wear makeup, despite their true beauty,
 ravishing black eye liner, light purple toned eye

They smile! Your eyes smile! A small wrinkle,
 timeless, defining each and every understanding of
 age. Creation at its most fervent state, how can
 such a foolish act be made! How can you appear to
 me, angelical much needed hallucination.

Behold mother! Behold father! This is the women of
 my life! This is truly divine intervention!

At such apprehension, my being gets lifted. I now
 sing my vows! And I love you, and I will hate you,
 and I desire you, and I will despise you, and I
 devour, and I will devour, you in bed,
 passionately, late passion ally, as you tipple my
 sweat, and I pierce your womb.

And them, the last ones standing, they keep
 running, dodging the slits, stepping on burned
 sacred ground.

And them, the last ones standing, hijackers of
 limousines, fade away into a premature fog of LSD
 and martini, never to be seen again by the visual
 spectrum laws. 

And them, the last ones standing, in a local bar at
 5 A.M., drinking from the same obnoxious fog in
 which they fade away, deliberately doing so to
 obliterate their bodies. 

And them, the last ones standing, daze, as they
 live with chivalry, four half naked scabrous drunk
 men walk on a desert in Nevada, United States of

And them, the last ones standing, whom drove those
 limousines across the unknown known universe, only
 to crash upon a stained mattress, madness, alley.

And them, the last ones standing, their carnal
 vessel putrefies quickly, only to be swallowed in
 boiling water, their fingertips stubbornly plead
 their case to stay at the surface.

As I finally watch the very last brilliant mind
 drown in ashes, as his nakedness disappears, with
 one last Rock n' Roll guitar solo, they rock, they
 roll, I can´t move,

I can´t walk on water,

I can´t spread any sea,

The river I now glimmer belongs to my tears,
 rebelliously disobeying to their natural course,
 upwards, straight to my insides, with one last

Thursday, November 22, 2012

COMMENT: Austin Peralta's death

          It is with great sorrow that today I face Austin Peralta's death. For those who don't know him, Peralta was a prodigious piano player, devoted to the music art form since a very young age. But most important, he was a young man, that had the misfortune of watching his existence fade away. I have never met him in person, yet, and just like many, I have been presented to his enormous talent as a musician. It was through Youtube, about one year ago, once a random user posted a video of his performance at the 2006 Tokyo Jazz Festival, at only age fifteen, alongside his own trio. I immediately felt mesmerized by his talent. The method he developed, his style, celebrated for uniting jazz with instrumental hip-hop and electronica, to what became considered as the style of such prodigious human being.
Now, it is with shame, with sadness, with sorrow, that I must display, however, the reality about an artist that for the past year became very dear to my heart: Austin Peralta, barely twenty two years old, died Wednesday, living behind a sad world, now darker, due to his death. While no official reports have yet surfaced, and no cause of death has yet been stated, word of Peralta’s shocking death began spreading virally late Wednesday, and my thoughts rely with his family and friends, for this was a enormous lost to us all.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012


          I don´t necessarily remember how I got my first PlayStation. It was one of those items that simply appeared. I don´t remember picking it up. I don´t remember the ride home from the local store where my father bought it. Quite frankly the only moment I remember from such adventure was a big shelf displaying tons of different packages, each one containing a different game, a mysterious universe to unveil.  I feverishly wanted my mother to buy me Tekken 3, since a good couple of my friends already had the previous Tekken installments, and that was the game every boy mostly desired at the time. Yet, the salesman agreed with her, my mother, that such game was too violent for a seven years old, so they picked up Crash Bandicoot 3 and Hercules instead, to what might have possibly been one of the greatest decisions ever made. However, a little boy's memories happens to be of the strongest kind, since at that point our existence is short, and our memory is sharper than ever. My entire relationship with the magic grey box is as vivid as my today's late breakfast. I easily remember I lived in fear of turning it on because, for some reason, the connection with the television was malfunctioning, and I thought I broke the console my parents put so much money on. So I would not even touch it, thinking I was successfully fooling them. I easily remember how my mother, once in a while, would give it a try, and if she could pull everything together, she would tell me, when picking me up at school, that I had a surprise waiting for me at home. I remember how fast my heart would beat while coming home, as if the console could speak out loud that I broke it, something I never actually did.
I feel however, despite my peculiar relationship with it, that the same thirty-two-bit grey box became somewhat of a cult object to a certain generation. It is one of those items almost all of us could easily draw with our eyes close. It changed our views. It opened us up to a enormous number of life lessons that, alongside with morals gave by the ones who raised us, made us distinguish between right and wrong situations in life. Certainly, like any other interaction system, it must be managed, for not everything is good. If my mother would have bought me Tekken 3 instead of Crash Bandicoot 3, perhaps my perception on violence would be corrupted, and I would've become a troubled boy. Yet, my point is, despite somewhat of a popular belief that gaming consoles might be a bad influence on a young child's mind, I would like to pitch in favor of it: sure, they might become somewhat of addictive, and unconsciously lead to bad actions, distorted thoughts of how everything around us function. Yet, the little boy or girl playing that console, a developed model of the same one I once played, cannot be responsible for the lessons presented to him or her. It is up to their parents, to the ones that teach them, to contemplate the difference between good and bad, and to be the judges of what a child may or may not play. After all, I only desired Tekken 3 while at the store. After all, I have never felt happier than when I got home from school, only to find out that my mother had been able to turn on the console.