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Capitulo 1 – Punkaste!

Capítulo 1

Era um sonho recorrente. Prédios, árvores e pessoas esticavam de tamanho, em fração de segundos, enquanto eu encolhia. Só o que crescia em mim era o desespero de não ser ouvido naquele mundo em distorção. Meus gritos ecoavam pelas pernas gigantes dos meus pais e irmãos, mas não alcançavam as orelhas parabólicas. O pior era perceber que não sentiam minha falta. Familiares, amigos e colegas não demonstravam preocupação com meu paradeiro, como se nunca tivesse existido um Richard Wygand em suas vidas.

Quando recordo da solidão que carregava no peito ao despertar do pesadelo, sinto profunda compaixão por aquele garoto assustado.

Ah, Rirou, meu brother! Como queria ter a possibilidade de voltar no tempo e te abraçar. Sentar-me ao seu lado e dizer que homem também chora e que você pode chorar quando tiver vontade. Eu ia te ensinar também que você pode falar o que sente e ouvir a música que te emocionar. Heavy metal, punk rock, reggae, samba. Não importa. Experimente todos os estilos, criança, era o que eu ia defender. Depois, te convidaria pra rodarmos de skate até que o sol encontrasse o mar do Rio de Janeiro.

Um encontro assim poderia afastar de vez aquele sonho ruim do quarto solitário do apê no Cosme Velho, em Laranjeiras, onde vivi minha infância e pré-adolescência como temporão de um trio de meninos enérgicos, filhos de um casamento que teve fim quando eu tinha 3 anos de idade.

Morávamos com minha mãe e nossos avós em um condomínio de classe média que ficava a dois quilômetros do Cristo Redentor, um símbolo de fé parecido com os gigantes que abafavam meus pedidos de socorro durante o sono.

Demorei décadas pra perceber que acordar daquele pesadelo não significava alívio. Minha voz também não encontrava ouvidos atentos no mundo real e, assim como no sonho, fui me encolhendo até me tornar uma criança introvertida, depressiva, com compulsão alimentar e rompantes de agressividade.

Na primeira briga no colégio, lembro que saí chorando. Meus colegas não entenderam nada, porque eu tinha batido no garoto. O desentendimento começou com uma trombada de futebol, gatilho pra extravasar a masculinidade tóxica que muitos hominhos carregam. O menino me xingou, eu retruquei, e ele tentou me chutar. Como já apanhava em casa de dois bem maiores do que eu, consegui me defender. Reagi por reflexo, segurei a perna, passei uma rasteira na outra, de apoio, e meu colega caiu de costas, ficando sem ar. A gente ainda se agarrou no chão e comecei a dar uma sequência de socos nele, ao mesmo tempo em que desaguava em choro.

Eu chorava muito até os 7 anos de idade. Qualquer mudança na energia de um lugar ou no humor de uma pessoa era suficiente para apertar minha gargante. Logo, grossas lágrimas corriam pelo rosto.

Meus irmãos, os amigos deles e os meus próprios tiravam sarro quando eu reagia chorando a um desentendimento no parquinho ou por sofrer com uma brincadeira estúpida. Lembro de cantarem “Boys Don’t Cry”, do The Cure, e rirem na minha cara.

Como qualquer criança faria, eu corria para o adulto mais próximo que pudesse me proteger e consolar daquele aperto que trazia no peito. Mas os gigantes não pareciam ouvir o pequeno e preferiam ignorar o que se passava comigo. Assim, de tanto ouvir que eu já era grandinho e que menino não devia chorar, acabei aprendendo a engolir o pranto e esconder meus sentimentos.

Ah, Rirou, meu brother! Não precisava ter sido assim. Homem chora, sim, e faz muito bem chorar, viu?

Várias gerações de garotos foram fabricados por essa forma violenta de se relacionar consigo, com os outros e com o meio onde se vive. O resultado foram bilhões de homens inseguros, frustrados, depressivos, infelizes e destrutivos.

Após 33 anos e milhares de quilômetros percorridos, depois de inúmeras sessões de terapia, de todos os tipos, e de me encontrar com seres maravilhosos que me permitiram conquistar a liberdade de desfrutar meus prazeres sem censura, posso dizer que estou mais perto da cura do que jamais imaginou o pequeno Richard Wygand, tão assustado em seu mundo de gigantes opressores.

Naquele improvável encontro, além de consolá-lo do sonho ruim, eu mostraria que a versão Rirou 2020 cresceu o suficiente para encarar os monstros internos e externos. Tenho certeza que ele ficaria orgulhoso em saber que se tornaria no futuro um homem, esposo e pai realizado.

Essa volta no tempo seria tão incrível e importante que eu não hesitaria em contar-lhe que agora estamos fortes o suficiente para declararmos guerra contra a maior desumanizadora das criações humanas: a Igreja Católica Apostólica Romana.

Sim, pois não culpo meus pais ou avós, nem nenhum adulto que tenha contribuído com a minha formação. Minha mãe, coitada, recém divorciada, tentando retornar ao mercado de trabalho, sem tempo de vigiar três marmanjos. Naquele caos, dizer que homem não chora era a maneira mais fácil de criar em mim uma casca para aguentar o mundo lá fora.

O problema é que lá fora estava uma sociedade fundamentada em princípios religiosos, envenenada por verdades limitantes sobre o que é certo e errado e ignorante o suficiente para ameaçar crianças ao inferno só por não seguirem à risca os padrões morais cristãos.

Engolir o choro foi a primeira armadura que me vestiram para lidar com o mundo de gigantes reais, mas ninguém me protegeu para absorver os dedos em riste em minha direção que me julgavam um menino mal por ouvir heavy metal, punk rock ou andar de skate.

Eu tinha oito anos quando escutei de um amigo do meu irmão que o pôster de um morto-vivo do Slayer, que ele tinha no quarto, era o atestado de que o juízo final não seria fácil pra nós, amantes de rock’n roll.

“Vocês ficam ouvindo essas músicas do diabo, saibam que Jesus vai voltar com um trem, pegar quem acredita nele, e queimar todo o resto”, foi o que ele disse.

Para quem gostava do estilo, como nós três de casa, ouvir aquela sentença me causou muito medo. Aquele menino sabia de algo que eu não sabia. Podia ter razão, sei lá.  

Sem poder chorar e com pavor de sofrer o julgamento alheio por ser quem eu queria ser, acabei me retraindo até merecer tapinhas de bom moço na cabeça.
 
A recompensa vinha em calorias. Devorava toda a comida que via pela frente. Meio pacote de pão branco com mel ou catchup era um lanche comum nas minhas tardes. Nas festinhas de aniversário, ninguém superava minha conta no número de cachorros-quentes.

Acima do peso, aos 7 anos de idade, tornei-me um garoto que sabia que era uma pessoa boa, mas que se anestesiava com sódio e açúcar para adormecer sem medos e culpas. O pior é que nada disso me livrava de encontrar em pesadelo com os gigantes e a solidão.

Chapter 6: as wicked

For years I believe I was doom for a life of surfering and pain. For real, was a feeling that I couldn’t enjoy life, and if I did I would be punished. Everything that gave me joy was going to be the end of the world. Like, everything was my fault. Heavy metal thought me that the easy way out, ending life, was not an option. 

Yes, it’s true, the feeling was that I was wicked. Like in my dreams is it was always there,  demons faces saying I couldn’t enjoy life. I didn’t know what those demons were until I picked up the guitar to play at 39 years old. Not only that, it only started to make sense on my 40th birthday! That’s when I realized I was battling my own existence.

At age of 39 is when I told my wife, I wanted to be the one who stays home with the kids and learn music. Not only because I didn’t want to work. I mean I don’t want to work, because the truth I can’t have a boss. I think from all the bosses that I had, there is a very few that I didn’t say fuck off. Me out there is a menace to society. It’s true, cause I have an attitude and I know how to use it, like the guy from office space.  The scene where the guy from office space,  says fuck off and got promoted actually happened in my life a few times. Or that scene with George Costanza, when he does everything the opposite way. Anyways,  I said I want to stay home and say fuck you to the Pope and rock. I also wanted to stay home mostly because Luke is as sensitive, if not more than I am, and now Amber. She is also super sensitive. 

Scaping hell (depression) is about learning about my sensitivity and using, and as I do that I want to teach my kids how to use their strength in life, after all my sensitivity is my strength. This way the story won’t repeat itself. The crazy thing is as a sensitive person I became very angry inside due to not exploring my sensitivity,  and swallowing my feelings. Didn’t look like I was an angry person because like the movie Anger Management he says there are 2 kinds of people: the one who explodes and the one who listened quietly day after day. Well, I am/was the one who listened day after day. Felt like I was grounded for 33 years.

Hell and fire was spawned to be released and that’s when the other day I made the video of saying fuck you to the Pope. As I released all this anger in form of art I noticed that things actually started to workout in my life, and the paranoia is gone. Things are no longer heavy and the energy is flowing. Not only that, by doing this, it creates a positive effect in the people around me, my family. Maybe not the devoted catholics since my story make them uncomfortable, but it’s what they say, life begins at the end of the confort zone.

Now I planned to release my first kids song in portuguese this week, however since we are moving (we got a house, see how choosing love/joy things workout?), I decided to wait and record the video in the new house. I believe this will have a much deeper meaning. Because the reality is, on January 20th,  Saint Sebastian day the Padron of my hometown (Rio de Janeiro,  Brasil) we bought our first home. That day was when the world turned around for me, that day was the day I realized I was not doomed, and I finally found my place under the sun. Yeah, I escaped hell, and it felt like a slapt in the face of destiny. Well, maybe not a slapt, but more like a mooning to destiny. I always loved mooning LOL. 

Punkaste,

Rirou

Chapter 5: More human than human

Today,  01/20/2021 is actually the day of Saint Sebastiao, the patron of Rio de Janeiro, my birth place. At first I wanted to launch my book this day, but since I realized my story is way bigger than I thought, I needed more time to finish the book. Now the idea of this blog is actually to talk about spirituality, so I decided to use the date as my first post of 2021.

The crazy thing of all of this, is that after I decided to talk about my depression,  the opportunities of making my point started to showing up at my door.  I mean, from Leo the Great answer my tweet to reading an article where the Pope says that those who are skeptical about the vaccine are suicidal denial. You can read here.

If I am completely honest,  my set back started with what the Pope said, and here it is why. I am skeptical of this vaccine. I mean, people have all the rights in the world of being skeptical with this vaccine. I am not antivax or a conspiracy guy. I am just human! But to be fair, just in my life time alone I learned about bullshit science with the tabacco industry,  with the nutrition industry,  with supplements industry,  and even with some medicine industry. My kids are vaccined, I believe they work. But this one is different in so many ways, specially because every day there is something new to the virus (unless media lies about). I am not the only skeptical, I did a poll with a few of my followers and 100% said they don’t trust this vaccine either. I just want wait a bit and see more results, until I make my decision.  No, am I not suicidal denial,  I had those thoughts before because of what you antecessor Pope said. I don’t anymore,  but I can’t help the fact that I am a sensitive man. Yeah, I am sensitive like a witch, so God save the queen!

Let’s be totally fair here, we have a big mental health crisis. Now, come out and call people suicidal denial for being skeptical, it’s not super smart in a crisis, is it? I can even say is a bit judgmental.  I mean, have you even heard the other side of the story? I think I can prove why I am skeptical. Am I right? Am I wrong?  No one knows!  Because even one of my son’s doctors said “who knows, maybe in 10 years from now we will say, that was not a good idea.” Or maybe, just maybe a few of us. A very few of us do know about it, and then the game is not monopoly. The real game is hunger games.

Right or wrong I am human,  so I would appreciate less judgment and more respect in my belief.  See, the problem is you! And no I never get offended, I just might think you are an asshole, and you don’t fuck with my feelings. Not again, because my #1 rule in my house (mind, body and soul) is the story does not repeat itself. I broke the cycle!

I am more human than human.

My name is Rirou and I want to conquer the world.

Hey brother Christian with your high and mighty errand
Your actions speak so loud I can’t hear a word you’re saying
Hey sister bleeding heart with all of your compassion
Your labors soothe the hurt but can’t assuage temptation

Hey man of science with your perfect rules of measure
Can you improve this place with the data that you gather?
Hey mother mercy can your loins bear fruit forever?
Is your fecundity a trammel or a treasure?And I want to conquer the world
Give all the idiots a brand new religion
Put an end to poverty, uncleanliness and toil
Promote equality in all of my decisions
With a quick wink of the eye
And a “God you must be joking”

Hey mister diplomat with your worldly aspirations
Did you see your children cry when you left them at the station?
Hey moral soldier you’ve got righteous proclamation
And precious tomes to fuel your pulpy conflagrations

And I want to conquer the world
Give all the idiots a brand new religion
Put an end to poverty, uncleanliness and toil
Promote equality in all of my decisionsI want to conquer the world
Expose the culprits and feed them to the children
I’ll do away with air pollution and then I’ll save the whales
We’ll have peace on earth and global communion

I want to conquer the world
I want to conquer the world
I want to conquer the world
I want to conquer the world

Punkaste,

Rirou!

Punkaste, the book – Chapter 1

Here it is the first chapter of my book with the release on EASTER 2021!

-Chapter 1-
 
It was a recurring dream. Buildings, trees, and people stretched in size in a fraction of a second while I shrunk. All that grew in me was the despair of not being heard in that distorted world. My screams echoed through the giant legs of my parents and brothers, but did not reach the parabolic ears. The worst was realizing that they didn't miss me. Family members, friends and colleagues showed no concern for my whereabouts, as if there had never been a Richard Wygand in their lives.
  
When I remember the loneliness I carried in my chest when I awoke from the nightmare, I feel deep compassion for that frightened boy.
  
Ah, Rirou, my man! How I wanted to be able to go back in time and hug you. Sit next to me and say that a man cries too and that you can cry when you feel like it. I was also going to teach you that you can say what you feel and listen to the music that moves you. Heavy metal, punk rock, reggae, samba. Does not matter. Try all styles, kid, that's what I was going to defend. Then, I would invite you to go skateboarding until the sun meets the sea in Rio de Janeiro.
  
A meeting like this could take away that bad dream from the lonely room of the apartment at Cosme Velho, in Laranjeiras, once I lived my childhood and pre-adolescence as the beginning of a trio of energetic boys, children of a marriage that ended when I was 3 years old.

We lived with my mother and grandparents in a middle-class condominium that was two kilometers from Christ the Redeemer, a symbol of faith similar to the giants that drowned out my pleas for help while sleeping.
It took me decades to realize that waking up from that nightmare didn't mean relief. My voice also did not find any attentive ears in the real world and, just like in the dream, I kept shrinking until I became an introverted, depressed child, with binge eating and bursting with aggression.

In the first fight at school, I remember crying. My colleagues didn't understand anything, because I had hit the boy. The disagreement started with a soccer crash, a trigger to vent the toxic masculinity that many men carry. The boy cursed me, I snapped, and he tried to kick me. As I was already beaten by two much bigger than me, I managed to defend myself. I reacted by reflex, grabbed my leg, swiped the other for support, and my colleague fell on his back, running out of air. We still clung to the floor and I started punching him, while crying.

I cried a lot until I was 7 years old. Any change in a place’s energy or a person’s mood was enough to tighten my grip. Soon, thick tears were streaming down her face. My brothers, their friends and my own made fun of me when I reacted crying to a disagreement on the playground or suffering from a stupid joke. I remember singing “Boys Don’t Cry” by The Cure and laughing in my face. As any child would, I ran to the nearest adult who could protect and comfort me from that tightness in my chest. But the giants did not seem to hear the little one and preferred to ignore what was happening to me. So, after hearing so much that I was a big boy and that a boy shouldn’t cry, I ended up learning to swallow my tears and hide my feelings. Ah, Rirou, my man! It didn’t have to be that way. Yes, a man cries, and it is very good to cry, see? Several generations of boys have been manufactured by this violent way of relating to themselves, to others and to the environment in which they live. The result was billions of insecure, frustrated, depressed, unhappy and destructive men.

After 33 years and thousands of kilometers traveled, after countless therapy sessions, of all kinds, and meeting wonderful beings that allowed me to conquer the freedom to enjoy my pleasures without censorship, I can say that I am closer to healing than who never imagined little Richard Wygand, so frightened in his world of oppressive giants.
In that unlikely encounter, in addition to comforting you from the bad dream, I would show that the Rirou 2020 version has grown enough to face the internal and external monsters. I'm sure he would be proud to know that in the future he would become an accomplished man, husband and father.

Such a return to time would be so incredible and important that I would not hesitate to tell you that we are now strong enough to declare war on the greatest dehumanizing of human creations: the Roman Apostolic Catholic Church.
Yes, because I do not blame my parents or grandparents, nor any adult who contributed to my education. My mother, poor thing, recently divorced, trying to return to the job market, without time to watch three big guys. In that chaos, saying that a man doesn't cry was the easiest way to create a shell on me to withstand the world outside.
The problem is that out there was a society based on religious principles, poisoned by limiting truths about what is right and wrong and ignorant enough to threaten children to hell just for not following Christian moral standards to a T.
Swallowing my feelings was the first armor I was put on to deal with the world of real giants, but no one protected me to absorb the raised fingers in my direction who thought I was a bad boy for listening to heavy metal, punk rock or skateboarding.
I was eight years old when I heard from a friend of my brother that the Slayer undead poster, which he had in his room, was the certificate that the final judgment would not be easy for us rock'n roll lovers.

"You listen to these songs of the devil, know that Jesus is going to return with a train, take whoever believes in him, and burn everything else," was what he said.
For those who liked the style, like the three of us at home, hearing that sentence caused me a lot of fear. That boy knew something that I didn't know. I could be right, I don't know.
Unable to cry and terrified of suffering the judgment of others for being who I wanted to be, I ended up withdrawing until I deserved a good guy pat on the head.

The reward came in calories. I devoured all the food I saw in front of me. Half a packet of white bread with honey or ketchup was a common snack in my afternoons. At birthday parties, no one exceeded my count in the number of hot dogs.

Overweight, at the age of 7, I became a boy who knew he was a good person, but who anesthetized himself with sodium and sugar to fall asleep without fear and guilt. The worst of it is that none of this saved me from encountering the giants and loneliness in a nightmare.

Punkaste,

Rirou

El Rock Punkarena

I had the inspiration for this song while dancing with Luke as I scream “Eeee Punkcarena!” while we dance. Luke of course laugh his ass off. Also, Luke finds this song very inspirational, and on the Macarena version by Elmo he says and I quote “Maybe one day Elmo will have a song named after him”, so I didn’t think twice, I made a song for our family inspired by Luke. Punkcarena simply means enjoy life, kind of hakuna matata but punk, because the reality is Luke has an incredible joy for life. I made a family song because my family is punk af! For a little bit I thought the song was not going to come out, but Jared made his magic with the drums and here we are. This song I made in Spanish even not being my first language, however Spanish is the Pope first language, so he has no excuse to understand. So here it is Pinche Pendejo vossa Santidade Papa, El Rock Punkcarena!

Here is the book Story of Rock

Punkaste,

Rirou

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