Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Monkey Business

Whenever there is any doubt, there is no doubt.

Robert DeNiro in Ronin (1998) 

No matter what your field is, the risk of being scammed always represents a consistent possibility.
Rates grow in such activities as acting, singing and the performing arts in general.
How easy it is to take advantage of people when their sight is blurred by the inebriating fumes of dreams.

It might happen, then, that along the path we will meet people who will make an impression on us for their alleged expertise, their networks and connections, their ambitions and plans. They will convince us that our skills are unique and that they need to be properly employed. These people, often disguising their fraud under big names, will offer us sponsorship, will promise us fame and the possibility to join the big shots. All they want from us is a symbolic token to prove our bona fide: money. And after we've been brainwashed by all their promises of fame and wealth, their absurdest requests will sound perfectly logical.

We're naive.
Yet, we're no idiots: sooner or later, they will show themselves for who they really are. We will realize that something makes no sense. We will see that their behaviour lacks professionalism, and that an artificial and well-designed scheme hides behind a nice facade in Art Deco' style.
They're very well organized and, as soon as they smell you might no longer be buying it, here comes the long-awaited reward: an audition, maybe a modest sum of money - a bait for you, an investment for them - maybe their production company's stocks, maybe your name on a newspaper article or a billboard.
And back we fall into the pit, until we realize that the company is not part of any stock market, that the articles were never written by a journalist, and that anyone can put their own name on a billboard; you just need to pay.

Old rules, although cliched, still retain a lot of wisdom: when it's too good to be true, it's simply not true.

Have you ever been scammed?
Can you share?


Thursday, June 13, 2013


Leaving is to die a bit.

Edmond Haracourt

An unidentified, sometimes imperceptible, 
sometimes heart-piercing, feeling of void 
fills the moment we say
A Moment Before Goodbye - Copyright © Miguel Darco

The hours and minutes before leaving are spent wishing we had parted already. Yes. An intense discomfort of the heart makes us wish we wouldn't have to go through it; it makes us wish we could be yellow enough not to have to face all that, and it makes us wish we could run off and hide someplace. 
We cannot. 

It hurts. 

The hours before are lived like a ritual, as if we were headed for the gallows, as if we knew that what we have now will never be again. It might not be the last time we see the person or the place we are leaving, but they will not be the same. Neither will we. 
A missing tree will make all the difference. A whiter hair will change everything because they are expressions of deeper events in the geology of our soul and of the place's soul.

I was weeping because Richard Parker left me so unceremoniously. 
It broke my heart. [...]
After all we had been through, it didn't even look back.[...]
I suppose in the end, the whole of life becomes an act of letting go. 

But what always hurts the most is not taking a moment to say goodbye.
I know Richard Parker's a tiger, but I wish I had said, "It's over. We survived. Thank you for saving my life. I love you, Richard Parker. You'll always be with me. May God be with you."

Life of Pi