Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Absolution
After 2 full days of virtual isolation in its loveliest of forms, I rehit the beaten path.
Beaten is a great word for today. So is victorious.
I am running myself over. We will begin with the night that passed.
After a much-missed sunset on the beach and shower in the ocean, I gave into my cravings and quested peanut butter. Encountering the aisle at my local supermercado, I perceived 2 types: the cheap Brazilian shit with more sugar than peanuts or the extremely expensive cheap American shit. I almost gave up. I almost let myself tell myself that peanut butter does not exist here and it will be that much better when I get home. Caring more about tattoos trips and birthdays and being impulsive and hungry, I opted to buy the cheap fake Brazilian shit. And so it is said.
A seemingly minor detail with unascertainable significance, at least for you:
I sat alone in the dark of mid-night while the house around slept and I listened to music, chainsmoked, and played minesweeper. I spent every night of high school at Grove St. in a similar manner, plus or minus a few ingredients (one being piece of mind; another, peace of mind). To be tapped in again--to retouch myself like that--no, I am not sorry.
The people have arrived at violent and drastic and soothing vibrations that soared and dregged me through this dialectic of a day. To introduce with increased clarity, the miseries can only be understood through the perspective of the ecstasies, and vice-versa.
Immediately following my awakening I did not open my computer, which was a good way to start the good start of my day. I have been on a personal health kick lately (we all know it won't last--maybe if I refuse to be serious about it consistency will follow) and while my deliciously strong Brazilian coffee was brewing (a cute anecdote: Brazilians call American coffee "chafe" pronounced chah-fay because "cha" means tea--in other words, American coffee is weak, and it is, now) I entered the would-be breezy blanket of blistering heat that is my veranda in the summer to do my past-3-daily Cayce exercises. After some added personal stretching and calisthenics, I went to satiate my other newest obsession (this one shant disappear for I love it too much)--VITAMINAS. Not vitamins, either. Smoothies. With fruit and potatoes and flax seeds and oats and milk and the occasional (almost spelled it right on the first try but I was not any closer than every other time I've tried) raw egg.......
Feeling extremely powerful I entered the street. In the sun's pulchritude I exulted with Mike's bass in my ears and howled at my sky--RAH!
Here begins the sharp, and I mean this people, sharp fluctuations that characterized my day. It should be of no surprise to you (as it surely was not to me) that under the oppressive noise of car horns pointed my way piercing through the odor of the defecating Salvador heat my bike ceased to function. A daily occurrence--no matter, all was well--I just needed to get off in the crux of mid-morning traffic and re-align my chain, scraping my hands in the recently reapplied grease and subsequently dousing my colorful shirt in it (I am not being sarcastic here--it really is not a big deal--this happens every day and it is ok). I get less and less annoyed every time this happens, but as the day progressed and it continued, my cool eluded me further under the warring ultra-violets.
Again, I am getting ahead of myself. And you know, in the above paragraph, I tried to seem calmer than I actually was. Yeah, it happens all the time. And yeah, I get over it quickly. But I was not lying when I said sharp fluctuations. And to be honest I was fucking napalm in the morning.
After a vigorous hand-washing and wipe-down upon my arrival at guitar class, I got to jam the blues for the next hour. Feeling reignited by and reuinted with the power of my morning smoothie, I reentered the world and chose to frequent my generally frequented bike shop. After only 10 minutes of impatient waiting and utter ignore-ance by those who propriet said establishment, a quick twist of the screwdriver and an extra slick of grease seemed to do the trick.
Wow! That was easy. Nothing is ever easy in Brazil. But everything always gets done.
Flying higher and higher, I procured a copy shop, which happened to be right next to my bicycletarian source of frequentation!!! And all I had to say was "make 10 copies, please sir!" And so it was. I had 10 fresh warm chord sheets in my hand and 2 less reais in my pocket as I tied on my freshly shined flying shoes and boarded my happily lubed street machine.
Smiles abounded through me the streets of Salvador on that densely heated morning. Immediately noticing that the bike was not nearly fixed did not dishearten my spirits.
After a noontime rinse followed by a fortification of homecooked meat and veggies sloshed in some kind of boiled-down and spiced animal fat all over a fluffy bed of rice I enjoyed joyfully wrung fleeting moments of dispensary pleasure. And off again people, to meet my fate on the streets of Brazil.
(In the heat of the moments, I neglected to mention that today was my first day of classes. How fitting. I really cannot think of other words besides epic and normal to describe the day. Opposites conspiring to create a whole. No shit Sherlock, what is not new in the life of Nick Lenderking-Brill in Brazil?)
The penetrating dilapidation of my vehicle began grate...And as the sun beat me and the grease coated my hands and clothes again, my good humor waned as my discord discontent discomfort and anything else disagreeable waxed. Well, here I was in the middle of the afternoon, late for class, not knowing where the hell I was or where to go. Oh, I tried before leaving home after living my life for so many years to locate my classroom. Internet is useless for that sort of thing. Face-to-face directions are even worse:
Nick: Where is the UFBA Federacao Campus?
Ernani: Oh, it's right up there, next to the church around the bend, you know.
Nick: What street?
Ernani: How should I know?
Not that a street name would make a difference--they are only useful when used in conjunction with street signs. Carnaval must have drained the monetary resources from that pool of the municipal budget.
Sometimes you eat the bar and sometimes the bar eats you. Back in the street, my emotions could have fried an egg. I asked a group of people where to go--"oh it's right over by that sport complex right up the hill." Thanks guys. I decided to venture over to the campus I knew and just ask someone there. Surely they would know. And anyways, I was on a bike that almost worked, so it took no time at all.
--Where is the UFBA Federacao Campus?
--Oh it is right back there, just go along the beach and you'll see a hill.
--What street?
--How should I know?
Ok. Back to the bitch that bore me. Getting closer. Next.
--Where is the UFBA Federacao Campus?
--Go back down there and it is up that hill.
All these directions had 1 (one) thing in common: this hill. Common sense and desperation told me to just go up the next hill I saw. Little did I know I was truly being driven by instinct, not really having any idea where to go.
And so it was a regular Mount Sinai of a hill. The bike only broke once going up it.
At the top I received not stone tablets, although I must say that God surely kissed my forehead. For there before me I beheld a dilapidated old gate and a narrow pathway with a rickety rusty sign reading "UFBA Federacao Campus" pointing towards a cobblestone/dirt/gravel parking lot. I chuckled at my spoiled Americaness--where is the classically inspired Jeffersonian architecture?
After spending 5 minutes trying to lock my bike with my brand new virtually dysfunctional lock (nothing is easy but it always works, kinda) and just about throwing my hands up and howling at the sky again--this time in rage rather than vivacity--I succeeded and entered the building. I was shocked, like for some stupid reason I always am, by the deadening heat of the building I had just entered.
GIMME THAT HEAT BABY YEAH! UH FEELS GOOD YEAH
My classroom was bereaved of all but 2 jovial girlies. Smiling, they informed me that class was already over. Well, shit, at least I know where the room is now.
Feeling not utterly frustrated and defeated, for there were splinters of satisfaction curling out my nostrils, I retired to my bike and again could not unlock it. After violently jimmying it and getting more and more leveled by my own petty rage, it suddenly clicked open with no effort at all. A buffoonish grin seeped into my cheeks. What a release! I let Jerry's sweet voice fill my ears and sat down on the grass to enjoy the pervious cigarette that I had previously weakly promised myself I would not have until nightfall. The sun bathed me in welcomed warmth--oh, it was soft! Those warring UVs made their peace with me by melting the flaming candle birthed out of my waxed adversity.
My writing is too fucking complicated. Fuck. It is only fun to write and only kind of fun to read. Well, no, pretty fun I guess too.
Some very biblicalesque meat and bread (did not bother to wash the hands before indulging--suckled my bones and guzzled that grease right down with them victuals) pumped my pistons and I was ready to go again.
Fast-forward through my uneventful afternoon in class......ZOOP!
Standing puffing in the dark outside my final class of the day took me back to my days at Hardvard Extension...ah yes, the good old days where we drank martinis and played squash at the club...Last night I was moved to upload a very special show into my iPod without knowing why until the moment I am describing. As I reminisced, the only fitting soundtrack was the opening notes of Harry Hood from Phish's 20th anniversary show at the Fleet Center in the Bean, 12/02/2003, which also happened to be my first rock concert ever (besides Crosby, Stills, and Nash with my parents...). Ease rebelled and regained the throne.
Rage and frustration did not overthrow it. But anxiety and hopelessness did. Why did I decide to take a Contemporary Brazilian Literature class? Cause I am ambitious and want to be challenged and I genuinely thirst for Brazilian literature and I know it will improve my skills with the language. But shit, I have difficulty in English literature classes.
Let's just say I was completely lost and I don't think I will be found. As appealing as the dance and soccer classes sound...I am going to stick it out and see what happens.
Feeling dejected, I let Their (is that blasphemous?) notes drown out any tension in my brain and SOARED DOWN THE EMPTY STREET FEELING LIKE A KING AND A GOD AND A WONDER OF A MAN!
Thank you, O bike of mine--tho thou may betrayest me, thou art as faithful as my lamb to my teat.
Nothing is easy in The States either. Think about the RMV.
It is not about ease or completion. It is about the person in the moment in the place and the blocks either preventing all progress or fitting together to make a road.
I will never get a new bike lock. I will continue to put myself through the psychomania murderous thoughts-inducing agony of trying to get it open just for that sweet sweet moment when it releases. And it just clicks. With no effort at all. With doing nothing different. And that moment is like a drop of fresh milk on your tongue on a foggy green spring morning in Albemarle County.
Countless times I have been told straight to my face that my beard is ugly. This culture is very straightforward--they might call a plump child "aquela gordinha" or "that little fatty," and I like that. But I also get a sense that outside appearance prevails. This could be because I live with a man who owns 50 different perfumes, and I am sure I generalize. But the point is, nobody will ever think I am handsome as long as my beard remains thus.
And for this I am extremely grateful. SO GRATEFUL! I cannot tell you how grateful I am. I want to be alone. I do not want attention. The beard is a part of me; it keeps me safe at a staff meeting that makes me vulnerable to the whole world. And this is not an unhealthy isolationist retreat. This is an introspective and scary but fearless journey inside to be with myself. To spend time with myself. To get to know myself. To be free and simple and uncomplicated for emphasis. I feel wonderfully alone. I feel absolved.
You know, I really like Brazil. This innocuous and extremely important passage opposites conspiring in creation of a whole deserves more than a parenthetical notation. Perhaps I have already beaten this point into the ground. But this defines me. I am Rita. What is Paradise? I am love, I am hate. I am happy and distraught. I am frustrated and peaceful. I am Brazil I am America.
I am Nick.
I am nothing! As nothing is.
Beaten is a great word for today. So is victorious.
I am running myself over. We will begin with the night that passed.
After a much-missed sunset on the beach and shower in the ocean, I gave into my cravings and quested peanut butter. Encountering the aisle at my local supermercado, I perceived 2 types: the cheap Brazilian shit with more sugar than peanuts or the extremely expensive cheap American shit. I almost gave up. I almost let myself tell myself that peanut butter does not exist here and it will be that much better when I get home. Caring more about tattoos trips and birthdays and being impulsive and hungry, I opted to buy the cheap fake Brazilian shit. And so it is said.
A seemingly minor detail with unascertainable significance, at least for you:
I sat alone in the dark of mid-night while the house around slept and I listened to music, chainsmoked, and played minesweeper. I spent every night of high school at Grove St. in a similar manner, plus or minus a few ingredients (one being piece of mind; another, peace of mind). To be tapped in again--to retouch myself like that--no, I am not sorry.
The people have arrived at violent and drastic and soothing vibrations that soared and dregged me through this dialectic of a day. To introduce with increased clarity, the miseries can only be understood through the perspective of the ecstasies, and vice-versa.
Immediately following my awakening I did not open my computer, which was a good way to start the good start of my day. I have been on a personal health kick lately (we all know it won't last--maybe if I refuse to be serious about it consistency will follow) and while my deliciously strong Brazilian coffee was brewing (a cute anecdote: Brazilians call American coffee "chafe" pronounced chah-fay because "cha" means tea--in other words, American coffee is weak, and it is, now) I entered the would-be breezy blanket of blistering heat that is my veranda in the summer to do my past-3-daily Cayce exercises. After some added personal stretching and calisthenics, I went to satiate my other newest obsession (this one shant disappear for I love it too much)--VITAMINAS. Not vitamins, either. Smoothies. With fruit and potatoes and flax seeds and oats and milk and the occasional (almost spelled it right on the first try but I was not any closer than every other time I've tried) raw egg.......
Feeling extremely powerful I entered the street. In the sun's pulchritude I exulted with Mike's bass in my ears and howled at my sky--RAH!
Here begins the sharp, and I mean this people, sharp fluctuations that characterized my day. It should be of no surprise to you (as it surely was not to me) that under the oppressive noise of car horns pointed my way piercing through the odor of the defecating Salvador heat my bike ceased to function. A daily occurrence--no matter, all was well--I just needed to get off in the crux of mid-morning traffic and re-align my chain, scraping my hands in the recently reapplied grease and subsequently dousing my colorful shirt in it (I am not being sarcastic here--it really is not a big deal--this happens every day and it is ok). I get less and less annoyed every time this happens, but as the day progressed and it continued, my cool eluded me further under the warring ultra-violets.
Again, I am getting ahead of myself. And you know, in the above paragraph, I tried to seem calmer than I actually was. Yeah, it happens all the time. And yeah, I get over it quickly. But I was not lying when I said sharp fluctuations. And to be honest I was fucking napalm in the morning.
After a vigorous hand-washing and wipe-down upon my arrival at guitar class, I got to jam the blues for the next hour. Feeling reignited by and reuinted with the power of my morning smoothie, I reentered the world and chose to frequent my generally frequented bike shop. After only 10 minutes of impatient waiting and utter ignore-ance by those who propriet said establishment, a quick twist of the screwdriver and an extra slick of grease seemed to do the trick.
Wow! That was easy. Nothing is ever easy in Brazil. But everything always gets done.
Flying higher and higher, I procured a copy shop, which happened to be right next to my bicycletarian source of frequentation!!! And all I had to say was "make 10 copies, please sir!" And so it was. I had 10 fresh warm chord sheets in my hand and 2 less reais in my pocket as I tied on my freshly shined flying shoes and boarded my happily lubed street machine.
Smiles abounded through me the streets of Salvador on that densely heated morning. Immediately noticing that the bike was not nearly fixed did not dishearten my spirits.
After a noontime rinse followed by a fortification of homecooked meat and veggies sloshed in some kind of boiled-down and spiced animal fat all over a fluffy bed of rice I enjoyed joyfully wrung fleeting moments of dispensary pleasure. And off again people, to meet my fate on the streets of Brazil.
(In the heat of the moments, I neglected to mention that today was my first day of classes. How fitting. I really cannot think of other words besides epic and normal to describe the day. Opposites conspiring to create a whole. No shit Sherlock, what is not new in the life of Nick Lenderking-Brill in Brazil?)
The penetrating dilapidation of my vehicle began grate...And as the sun beat me and the grease coated my hands and clothes again, my good humor waned as my discord discontent discomfort and anything else disagreeable waxed. Well, here I was in the middle of the afternoon, late for class, not knowing where the hell I was or where to go. Oh, I tried before leaving home after living my life for so many years to locate my classroom. Internet is useless for that sort of thing. Face-to-face directions are even worse:
Nick: Where is the UFBA Federacao Campus?
Ernani: Oh, it's right up there, next to the church around the bend, you know.
Nick: What street?
Ernani: How should I know?
Not that a street name would make a difference--they are only useful when used in conjunction with street signs. Carnaval must have drained the monetary resources from that pool of the municipal budget.
Sometimes you eat the bar and sometimes the bar eats you. Back in the street, my emotions could have fried an egg. I asked a group of people where to go--"oh it's right over by that sport complex right up the hill." Thanks guys. I decided to venture over to the campus I knew and just ask someone there. Surely they would know. And anyways, I was on a bike that almost worked, so it took no time at all.
--Where is the UFBA Federacao Campus?
--Oh it is right back there, just go along the beach and you'll see a hill.
--What street?
--How should I know?
Ok. Back to the bitch that bore me. Getting closer. Next.
--Where is the UFBA Federacao Campus?
--Go back down there and it is up that hill.
All these directions had 1 (one) thing in common: this hill. Common sense and desperation told me to just go up the next hill I saw. Little did I know I was truly being driven by instinct, not really having any idea where to go.
And so it was a regular Mount Sinai of a hill. The bike only broke once going up it.
At the top I received not stone tablets, although I must say that God surely kissed my forehead. For there before me I beheld a dilapidated old gate and a narrow pathway with a rickety rusty sign reading "UFBA Federacao Campus" pointing towards a cobblestone/dirt/gravel parking lot. I chuckled at my spoiled Americaness--where is the classically inspired Jeffersonian architecture?
After spending 5 minutes trying to lock my bike with my brand new virtually dysfunctional lock (nothing is easy but it always works, kinda) and just about throwing my hands up and howling at the sky again--this time in rage rather than vivacity--I succeeded and entered the building. I was shocked, like for some stupid reason I always am, by the deadening heat of the building I had just entered.
GIMME THAT HEAT BABY YEAH! UH FEELS GOOD YEAH
My classroom was bereaved of all but 2 jovial girlies. Smiling, they informed me that class was already over. Well, shit, at least I know where the room is now.
Feeling not utterly frustrated and defeated, for there were splinters of satisfaction curling out my nostrils, I retired to my bike and again could not unlock it. After violently jimmying it and getting more and more leveled by my own petty rage, it suddenly clicked open with no effort at all. A buffoonish grin seeped into my cheeks. What a release! I let Jerry's sweet voice fill my ears and sat down on the grass to enjoy the pervious cigarette that I had previously weakly promised myself I would not have until nightfall. The sun bathed me in welcomed warmth--oh, it was soft! Those warring UVs made their peace with me by melting the flaming candle birthed out of my waxed adversity.
My writing is too fucking complicated. Fuck. It is only fun to write and only kind of fun to read. Well, no, pretty fun I guess too.
Some very biblicalesque meat and bread (did not bother to wash the hands before indulging--suckled my bones and guzzled that grease right down with them victuals) pumped my pistons and I was ready to go again.
Fast-forward through my uneventful afternoon in class......ZOOP!
Standing puffing in the dark outside my final class of the day took me back to my days at Hardvard Extension...ah yes, the good old days where we drank martinis and played squash at the club...Last night I was moved to upload a very special show into my iPod without knowing why until the moment I am describing. As I reminisced, the only fitting soundtrack was the opening notes of Harry Hood from Phish's 20th anniversary show at the Fleet Center in the Bean, 12/02/2003, which also happened to be my first rock concert ever (besides Crosby, Stills, and Nash with my parents...). Ease rebelled and regained the throne.
Rage and frustration did not overthrow it. But anxiety and hopelessness did. Why did I decide to take a Contemporary Brazilian Literature class? Cause I am ambitious and want to be challenged and I genuinely thirst for Brazilian literature and I know it will improve my skills with the language. But shit, I have difficulty in English literature classes.
Let's just say I was completely lost and I don't think I will be found. As appealing as the dance and soccer classes sound...I am going to stick it out and see what happens.
Feeling dejected, I let Their (is that blasphemous?) notes drown out any tension in my brain and SOARED DOWN THE EMPTY STREET FEELING LIKE A KING AND A GOD AND A WONDER OF A MAN!
Thank you, O bike of mine--tho thou may betrayest me, thou art as faithful as my lamb to my teat.
Nothing is easy in The States either. Think about the RMV.
It is not about ease or completion. It is about the person in the moment in the place and the blocks either preventing all progress or fitting together to make a road.
I will never get a new bike lock. I will continue to put myself through the psychomania murderous thoughts-inducing agony of trying to get it open just for that sweet sweet moment when it releases. And it just clicks. With no effort at all. With doing nothing different. And that moment is like a drop of fresh milk on your tongue on a foggy green spring morning in Albemarle County.
Countless times I have been told straight to my face that my beard is ugly. This culture is very straightforward--they might call a plump child "aquela gordinha" or "that little fatty," and I like that. But I also get a sense that outside appearance prevails. This could be because I live with a man who owns 50 different perfumes, and I am sure I generalize. But the point is, nobody will ever think I am handsome as long as my beard remains thus.
And for this I am extremely grateful. SO GRATEFUL! I cannot tell you how grateful I am. I want to be alone. I do not want attention. The beard is a part of me; it keeps me safe at a staff meeting that makes me vulnerable to the whole world. And this is not an unhealthy isolationist retreat. This is an introspective and scary but fearless journey inside to be with myself. To spend time with myself. To get to know myself. To be free and simple and uncomplicated for emphasis. I feel wonderfully alone. I feel absolved.
You know, I really like Brazil. This innocuous and extremely important passage opposites conspiring in creation of a whole deserves more than a parenthetical notation. Perhaps I have already beaten this point into the ground. But this defines me. I am Rita. What is Paradise? I am love, I am hate. I am happy and distraught. I am frustrated and peaceful. I am Brazil I am America.
I am Nick.
I am nothing! As nothing is.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Bakc in Blakc
After 6 freeing days without a computer, I have successfully spent 6+ hours in front of the screen. But you know what? I don't feel bad about it. I love traveling nature computer.
I am feeling more infused with the True Meaning--which is, of course, nothing.
Chapada Diamantina is beautiful, but that is not what I want to talk about. Physical beauty is shallow in essence and does not require elaboration. So I will provide some photos and a few anecdotes to satiate your curiosity.
I am feeling more infused with the True Meaning--which is, of course, nothing.
Chapada Diamantina is beautiful, but that is not what I want to talk about. Physical beauty is shallow in essence and does not require elaboration. So I will provide some photos and a few anecdotes to satiate your curiosity.
 |
| When I think of the park, I think of this mountain |
 |
| Cachoeira de Fumaca--the 3rd highest waterfall in the world |
Memorabilia:
-the village of Vale do Capao. Just 1 street with a few restaurants and shops. And always live music
-the house we ate at every night. A cheap delicious homecooked feast of meat and veggies
-simple breakfasts followed by stretching Cayce style
-really strong delicious coffee
-waterfalls
-self-serve ice cream by the gram
-street dogs
-playing guitar late into the night
But let's talk about the way it all made me feel.
No. Let's not. Cause I am just not there yet. I have not been able to process the changes within me yet.
I will say this however: I am very happy to be quiet and alone today.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Carnaval
I left casa yesterday afternoon...
and...
14 hours
2o cigaerettes
Countless Trio Electricos
1 barbecue-on-a-stick
Hundreds of bones in 1 body constantly moving to a beat
Too many waterfalls of urine
At least 4 hands in my pockets in unsuccessful attempts at theivery
1 punch in the face as a result of resistance to thievery
Literally tons of trash
Not enough water
Not one intoxicating substance (that's a lie--life is intoxicating and I took a big slug of it)
1 sunrise on the beach
1 shower in the ocean
And one lonely trot home where I never felt more accompanied
later.....
Here I am.
The thing that I don't get: as I am walking home away from it all, hoards of people flow against me, back down into the fray. Where are they going? To start again? I can hear people singing dancing yelling outside my window as we speak.
No--I get it. You do too.
Carnaval is inexplicably wild. Really--primal and feral. A beast. There is no law. It is not this world. It is of the other. It is a lifeforce that you step into and it sucks you in and you are anonymous because nobody is individual anymore. It is one big machine.
Goddamn, a fucking great night peppered with intense lamentation for the infestation of this human vermin and equally great appreciation to be a part of something so unique in the endless span of time. I am talking about the human race here.
I felt really sad sometimes.
And more so, alegria.
and...
14 hours
2o cigaerettes
Countless Trio Electricos
1 barbecue-on-a-stick
Hundreds of bones in 1 body constantly moving to a beat
Too many waterfalls of urine
At least 4 hands in my pockets in unsuccessful attempts at theivery
1 punch in the face as a result of resistance to thievery
Literally tons of trash
Not enough water
Not one intoxicating substance (that's a lie--life is intoxicating and I took a big slug of it)
1 sunrise on the beach
1 shower in the ocean
And one lonely trot home where I never felt more accompanied
later.....
Here I am.
The thing that I don't get: as I am walking home away from it all, hoards of people flow against me, back down into the fray. Where are they going? To start again? I can hear people singing dancing yelling outside my window as we speak.
No--I get it. You do too.
Carnaval is inexplicably wild. Really--primal and feral. A beast. There is no law. It is not this world. It is of the other. It is a lifeforce that you step into and it sucks you in and you are anonymous because nobody is individual anymore. It is one big machine.
Goddamn, a fucking great night peppered with intense lamentation for the infestation of this human vermin and equally great appreciation to be a part of something so unique in the endless span of time. I am talking about the human race here.
I felt really sad sometimes.
And more so, alegria.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Notification Message
Hello Friends,
I will be deactivating the blog, just for 1 week, because I am going here:
And I want to be completely disconnected from the computer.
See you all next Sunday!
(Carnaval is a trip. I can hear it happening outside...and then I step into the fray, and it is like entering this whole new dimension where you are completely anonymous and nothing is real...)
I will be deactivating the blog, just for 1 week, because I am going here:
And I want to be completely disconnected from the computer.
See you all next Sunday!
(Carnaval is a trip. I can hear it happening outside...and then I step into the fray, and it is like entering this whole new dimension where you are completely anonymous and nothing is real...)
Friday, March 4, 2011
One Man's Ideas
I would like to discuss the Carnaval of phenomenon in Bahia de Salvador with you all.
This may be futile because there is nothing I know of to compare it to. It is even more important than the State of the Union Address. So let's rely on my power of first-hand description, viu?
Part 1: The objective non-opinionated solely observational phase--
Carnaval is the central point of reference for time in Salvador--"oh, yeah, the first time I ever played naked volleyball was before Carnaval last year."
The entire time I have been here, the entire city has been preparing. It is as if nothing exists after Carnaval. People talk about Carnaval the way the talk about the weather.
I know what I can compare it to now. Whoville at Christmastime. And I am not even exaggerating. It's like comparing slumgullion and scottiglia.
I erred: things do exist after Carnaval. In fact, EVERYTHING is just going to get done after Carnaval. I just bought a new computer! I'll figure out how to use it after Carnaval. You are arrested for trafficking drugs! We will try you after Carnaval. You are here to go to college! We will start classes after Carnaval.
Even so, in a sense, nothing does exist--these are all things people do not want to do. And they put them behind Carnaval, because they want them to not exist anymore.
(Just to give some context on what actually happens during Carnaval--interestingly enough, and only by accidental coincidence, I am assigning the meat of the slugmullion parenthetical status. There are MASSIVE trucks with live music on top called "Trio Eletricos"
which slowly amble through the streets on these "circuits," and people dance, eat, drink, sing, make out, and fight. Bear in mind--this description is as watered-down as Brazilian beer (maybe). I will make another attempt in the opined phase).
The news on television ceases. Unless you consider images of last night's debauchery and the lineup of artists for the coming eve news. As I type, the television is on full blast and all I hear is Carnaval music and every 2 minutes my host dad: "Look! Look! It's Chiclete com Banana!!!" One cannot escape Carnaval.
But why would one want to? That is a ridiculous question however you view it.
The party goes until about 5 AM. Rivers of trash erode the street. Somehow, as if by magic, it dissipates and by 6 AM the party has recommenced.
The magic that I speak of brings us to the next order of business: the Carnaval hierarchy. We have 2 sub-groups, each with various echelons.
Sub-group A: The Network
--homeless boys who run around with massive sacks crushing and collecting aluminum cans with uncanny speed and efficiency, being that crushed cans are worth 5 reais/kilo (about 6 bucks/pound). In this way, the city is cleaned...of cans, at least (which luckily happen to be the main source of trash).
--street vendors with their "piriguete" specials: 4 beers for R$5 (piriguete means slut)
--cops. The one time of the year when the Policia Militar serves a function besides stealing money from criminals or violently assaulting innocents; this function being to walk in cute little lines through the crowd. I have never seen them so organized.
--the entertainers!
Sub-group B: The People
--pipoca (or popcorn). We stand in the street and are subjected to whatever may come our way.
--camarote dwellers: A camarote is a pavillion on the side of the street with food, drink, and other music. You pay to stay in a camarote and watch the Trios pass you by...
--bloco travelers: some get to ride on the Trios, some just get to walk in the special roped-in area surrounding a Trio. Which is meaningless. I can stand outside the rope and hear the music too. It is really a status symbol cause you get a special T-shirt. We have folks paying R$1000 to be near this guy:
Bell Marques is the King of Carnaval. And so fitting too! He literally encapsulates this whole big thing. Before I knew who he was, I saw him on ads and billboards all through the city and I thought he was some silly clown hired to do a commercial! But that is just the point--Carnaval is silly.
Part 2: The Subjective Biased Phase
(you may have sensed some judgment in Part 1 as well. You must have known I was kidding when I implied that "objective" is anything more than an abstract concept absolutely impossibly applicable in the world of humans!!!)
Carnaval is the most important thing to Salvador. And it is a joke. A huge silly kiddy carnival! And I say this with the most endearment and love possible--because I fucking love it! I think it is wonderful! This is the largest concentration of people gathered for one single event in the entire world--and everyone is here to be a little kid again (with some adult qualities like heavy drinking, public sex, and violence)!
Why can't we do this? We are too serious. Who's idea was this? A big massive 2 week long party once a year (technically it only lasts 6 days but here in Salvador we extend it a few days in either direction)! No wonder it is the most important thing to this city!
But we can do this. We are doing it.
Carnaval music is ear-piercing and repetitive and absolutely perfect for the occasion. I could never listen to it. But I cannot help to move my body in contra-skeletal undulations and permutations when I hear it. It is a completely specific and ideal genre for the biggest party in the world. It makes you want to throw up and dance until sunrise. Often times both occur simultaneously.
PLEASE watch this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbIFP-DwAP8
It is very informative and the computerized narration juxtaposed on the freeeeeest corporal expression I have yet witnessed is a cause for snickering. (For further research simply youtube "musica carnaval.")
Carnaval is an extremely interesting human phenomenon and can be psycho-analyzed to death. But to do so would completely crush the spirit and whole point. That's just it--what is the point? There is no point. It just is.
No. It isn't. Nothing is. I sat on the beach, looked around me, and knew with certainty that everything is nothing. It is all created by the mind. And the mind is nothing too. We are empty but awake.
And I (don't) literally think my mind is about to explode. After letting dissipate the semi-permanent grin resultant of dancing for hours until the morning to mind-thumping gut-rearranging music, I came home and sat for hours more smoking and thinking and had some very sad very intense very formative moments. And slept a dreamful and uninterrupted sleep.
People often say "literally" when they mean exactly "figuratively."
But in this very moment there are 6 or 7 people all within a 10 foot radius of me talking loudly (all of Ernani's relatives are here to enjoy the famous Carnaval of Salvador). The TV is on full blast. I am blasting Bach in my ears to concentrate. And--I am pretty sure a little drop of cerebellum just trickled out my ear down my neck and into my lap. I had better pick it up--maybe if I eat it it will find its way back home.
After a rinse, I will lather, and repeat.
YEAH!@
This may be futile because there is nothing I know of to compare it to. It is even more important than the State of the Union Address. So let's rely on my power of first-hand description, viu?
Part 1: The objective non-opinionated solely observational phase--
Carnaval is the central point of reference for time in Salvador--"oh, yeah, the first time I ever played naked volleyball was before Carnaval last year."
The entire time I have been here, the entire city has been preparing. It is as if nothing exists after Carnaval. People talk about Carnaval the way the talk about the weather.
I know what I can compare it to now. Whoville at Christmastime. And I am not even exaggerating. It's like comparing slumgullion and scottiglia.
I erred: things do exist after Carnaval. In fact, EVERYTHING is just going to get done after Carnaval. I just bought a new computer! I'll figure out how to use it after Carnaval. You are arrested for trafficking drugs! We will try you after Carnaval. You are here to go to college! We will start classes after Carnaval.
Even so, in a sense, nothing does exist--these are all things people do not want to do. And they put them behind Carnaval, because they want them to not exist anymore.
(Just to give some context on what actually happens during Carnaval--interestingly enough, and only by accidental coincidence, I am assigning the meat of the slugmullion parenthetical status. There are MASSIVE trucks with live music on top called "Trio Eletricos"
which slowly amble through the streets on these "circuits," and people dance, eat, drink, sing, make out, and fight. Bear in mind--this description is as watered-down as Brazilian beer (maybe). I will make another attempt in the opined phase). The news on television ceases. Unless you consider images of last night's debauchery and the lineup of artists for the coming eve news. As I type, the television is on full blast and all I hear is Carnaval music and every 2 minutes my host dad: "Look! Look! It's Chiclete com Banana!!!" One cannot escape Carnaval.
But why would one want to? That is a ridiculous question however you view it.
The party goes until about 5 AM. Rivers of trash erode the street. Somehow, as if by magic, it dissipates and by 6 AM the party has recommenced.
The magic that I speak of brings us to the next order of business: the Carnaval hierarchy. We have 2 sub-groups, each with various echelons.
Sub-group A: The Network
--homeless boys who run around with massive sacks crushing and collecting aluminum cans with uncanny speed and efficiency, being that crushed cans are worth 5 reais/kilo (about 6 bucks/pound). In this way, the city is cleaned...of cans, at least (which luckily happen to be the main source of trash).
--street vendors with their "piriguete" specials: 4 beers for R$5 (piriguete means slut)
--cops. The one time of the year when the Policia Militar serves a function besides stealing money from criminals or violently assaulting innocents; this function being to walk in cute little lines through the crowd. I have never seen them so organized.
--the entertainers!
Sub-group B: The People
--pipoca (or popcorn). We stand in the street and are subjected to whatever may come our way.
--camarote dwellers: A camarote is a pavillion on the side of the street with food, drink, and other music. You pay to stay in a camarote and watch the Trios pass you by...
--bloco travelers: some get to ride on the Trios, some just get to walk in the special roped-in area surrounding a Trio. Which is meaningless. I can stand outside the rope and hear the music too. It is really a status symbol cause you get a special T-shirt. We have folks paying R$1000 to be near this guy:
Part 2: The Subjective Biased Phase
(you may have sensed some judgment in Part 1 as well. You must have known I was kidding when I implied that "objective" is anything more than an abstract concept absolutely impossibly applicable in the world of humans!!!)
Carnaval is the most important thing to Salvador. And it is a joke. A huge silly kiddy carnival! And I say this with the most endearment and love possible--because I fucking love it! I think it is wonderful! This is the largest concentration of people gathered for one single event in the entire world--and everyone is here to be a little kid again (with some adult qualities like heavy drinking, public sex, and violence)!
Why can't we do this? We are too serious. Who's idea was this? A big massive 2 week long party once a year (technically it only lasts 6 days but here in Salvador we extend it a few days in either direction)! No wonder it is the most important thing to this city!
But we can do this. We are doing it.
Carnaval music is ear-piercing and repetitive and absolutely perfect for the occasion. I could never listen to it. But I cannot help to move my body in contra-skeletal undulations and permutations when I hear it. It is a completely specific and ideal genre for the biggest party in the world. It makes you want to throw up and dance until sunrise. Often times both occur simultaneously.
PLEASE watch this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbIFP-DwAP8
It is very informative and the computerized narration juxtaposed on the freeeeeest corporal expression I have yet witnessed is a cause for snickering. (For further research simply youtube "musica carnaval.")
Carnaval is an extremely interesting human phenomenon and can be psycho-analyzed to death. But to do so would completely crush the spirit and whole point. That's just it--what is the point? There is no point. It just is.
No. It isn't. Nothing is. I sat on the beach, looked around me, and knew with certainty that everything is nothing. It is all created by the mind. And the mind is nothing too. We are empty but awake.
And I (don't) literally think my mind is about to explode. After letting dissipate the semi-permanent grin resultant of dancing for hours until the morning to mind-thumping gut-rearranging music, I came home and sat for hours more smoking and thinking and had some very sad very intense very formative moments. And slept a dreamful and uninterrupted sleep.
People often say "literally" when they mean exactly "figuratively."
But in this very moment there are 6 or 7 people all within a 10 foot radius of me talking loudly (all of Ernani's relatives are here to enjoy the famous Carnaval of Salvador). The TV is on full blast. I am blasting Bach in my ears to concentrate. And--I am pretty sure a little drop of cerebellum just trickled out my ear down my neck and into my lap. I had better pick it up--maybe if I eat it it will find its way back home.
After a rinse, I will lather, and repeat.
YEAH!@
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
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