Point-to-Point

Lampposts in a favela and in life: Point-to-point.

You have to show impetus. Even if you are going to get stuck ahead. Even if it’s a one-way ticket. Only in this way do you honor past combatants, set an example for the present ones, and inspire those of the future. Point-to-point, more than an effective technique of tactical progression, is a statement of petulance: you will not stand still — no matter the circumstances. And, more than that: you go forward. You do not go around. You do not retreat to advance. You just go. The straight line is the shortest distance between two points, isn’t it? Yes, so keep going. From dash to dash, you draw a line and advance. From point to point. There is more than violence in combat. There is a certain wisdom. Show momentum and you progress toward your goal. Because if you retire at this most difficult time — if you loose the impetus — then you won’t go anymore.

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The Antithesis of Combat: Shoulders of Giants

Shoulders of Giants
(by Maria Lindsey)

Whoever recognizes Plato’s “Republic” in the series of posts “The Antithesis of Combat“, even if it is only a small glimpse of it, with incomparably less philosophical and literary quality, is not in the face of mere coincidence. I have always admired the construction from scratch of Plato’s state in Book II of the “Republic”, and I think it came to my mind when I realized how inferior the adults are to children, and I decided to get rid of them (us) in “my state”.

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The Combatant – #1

When the alarm goes off at two in the morning, he is sure he is still dreaming. He just closed his eyes, so it can not be time to wake up. But it is. The problem is that after twenty hours working hard to protect the families of others, trying to earn in the private sector the money the police is supposed to provide, those three hours of sleep seem to pass like a glimpse, a brief interlude of life as deep as one’s own death.

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The Belligerent Fool

The belligerent fool.
(“Call of duty ghost.” / CC BY-SA 4.0)

Right from the beginning of my “scientific career”, I carried alongside another profession as a State Civil Police Officer. I’ve always had an adventurous spirit and I wanted to do some good to society. Since I had never been inclined for charity work, I thought that I could do some good by shooting bad people instead. Here, in Rio, I knew that wouldn’t be too difficult.

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Despicable Mourning

“We are in mourning. For ALL the lost lives in Rio de Janeiro during these 39 days of 2019, we are in mourning.
For the six dead after the storm.
For the ten dead in the fire in the Vulture’s Nest.
For the thirteen dead in the police operation in the Favela of the Pleasures.
And for all the dead that didn’t make it to the news.”

(I don’t understand the world I live anymore. Innocent or criminal, you are all the same.)

Six people died because of heavy rains that ravaged Rio two days ago. Yesterday, just before dawn, ten youths between the ages of fourteen and sixteen were burned alive in a fire at the Flamengo training center. Shortly after, thirteen armed criminals were killed by the police in a violent favela. What, besides the Angel of Death hovering in the skies, is common among all three cases? According to one of the city’s largest newspapers and, of course, to a bunch of idiots across social networks, the answer is obvious: EVERYONE is a poor innocent victim.

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Fuck it! You Perfectionist Fool

Foolish perfectionism.

With me it’s always pain or pleasure. Always fleeing or diving headfirst. I said that if I changed the plans, I would be accepting defeat. So what? I’ll say it as straightforward as possible: Ten years ago, I left my best friend to die on the battlefield. I never accepted that defeat. I simply evaded it. And now I want to do the same with this seemingly much more foolish situation. Now, it’s only about my character; there are no lives involved besides mine. I want to lose and not accept. This is pure evasion — again. Fuck it! I’m going to lose, but I’m going to change and adapt. I should have done it ten years ago. I’m going to start doing it now.

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Living dead

“I’ve lost all my youth in there… I’m a living dead.”
If it depended on me, you’d be just dead.

Two facial expressions: one bursting with mirth, the other, frowning with sorrow. A homage to the muses of comedy and tragedy? A symbol of live theatre? No. Cop killer. The AK-47 is just a confirmation. The pistol tattooed on his calf, another. Three cards: Ace, Five and Seven (Art. 157: “Armed robbery”), yet another. I say he should have been dead by now. “I’m a living dead”, he agrees.

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First Day of Work

I got to work thinking about police cars; I got home thinking about sheep.

The flames of the celestial battlefield remained on the horizon, declaring the day’s imminent victory. Before the white wall, police cars were dark pieces of night, deserters of a lost war. They filled the whole right edge of the extensive patio leading to CORE, parked at near right-angles, skewed toward the exit as if yearning to depart. In the past, I’d say they looked thirsty for combat; now, they were just homesick. Only I seemed to want to be there, since I came from the opposite way. But that was just an impression.

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