Partida (de novo)

In less than 12 hours my flight leaves for Atlanta, Georgia. Then Boston... In 6 hours I need to be showered, and perhaps see one last film at the quaint cultural center where I wandered, yesterday, just off the beachfront in Ipanema. But between now and then, there is a universe of contemplation to be had. I will meander the mosaic sidewalk, massage my feet in the pristine (and imported, I might add) sand. I may even spend my last Reais... or not. I will stare into the endless and ever changing abyss that is the ocean.

When I was a child, before I had the certainty of my eternal uncertainty, when God was a concept that still felt untainted, and distant from its present cliché, I decided that if I were to choose a temple for my religion, whatever form it might take, it would be there, alone, facing the vast throbbing ocean, feeling its cool pulse seep into my bones. The palpitations of my (even then) searching heart aligning themselves with the rush of the water, the pull of the tide, the thrust of the waves crashing in circular imperfection. My God, if I were to find it, would be an imperfect one. Not much has changed.

The southern stars were beautiful, as I remembered, but sadly, I was unable to lie, back to the cold pavement, with only the sound and fury of the ocean´s symphony in my ears. Not this time. This time I played it safe. I kept to myself, but strayed not from the lighted paths. I drank in silence with my book for company, an unfaltering companion. I watched girls and boys train their bodies in the darkness... and I walked home, to a bed that was clean, but not mine.

Today I will walk out into the crashing surf, for a few brief moments, pay homage to my chosen temple, give thanks for the bounty to which I am privvy. I will not say goodbye, but até mais...

Reporting from Brazil

This is my fifth day in Brasilia. Five days of relaxing in relative quiet, tucked comfortably into Nina and Beto's flat, allowing myself to be led about, sleep in, read books. I am not quite able to relax, to separate myself from the guilt that threatens to peek out from behind my masquerade of vacations. Five days away from the frantic rhythm of conference attending in Río de Janeiro, and then the 4 days of walking, walking, walking over the mosaic-lined streets, past sex-workers and tourists, few (fewer than I expected) famished children, and beautiful bodies that exercise at all hours of the day and night along the gorgeous coastline.

Friday night, my plane descended through darkness, over a city with wide avenues and neatly laid axes dividing it. It is a strangely desolate city, beautiful (if you can call it that) in its futurist government fantasy, straight-lined ministry buildings that comfort with their sameness, or perhaps threaten with their militaristic soldier's stance. Nina smiled and waved as I stepped out of the baggage claim area, and we slipped past the throngs of others to a flat, newly paved parking lot, driving into the black. It was so good to see her, to feel like the last two years since we saw one another in Mexico, melted away. So many things have changed, but things have stayed the same, including the sense that we meet people at certain points in our lives because we are meant to.

The "festas junhinas" are in full swing, celebrating the patron Saint of Bahía: São João. The weekend passed in a flurry of activity, slow cafés de amanhã, food and parties. I spoke Portuguese, for practically the first time since I have been here, that is, if you exclude my typical chatting with taxi drivers, and straining to make some sense of meaning from bar-goers. I am finally immersed in an educated and engaging language environment, and it is exhausting.

Among the educated here, English and Spanish are commonly spoken, but I chose to fumble around in my inter-language, and have learned quite a few odds and ends along the way, words that complete certain lacunae, others that I never knew I was missing. A few examples are as follows:

gatinha = linda = cute
estufa= greenhouse
hortelã = mint
manjericão= basil
um cara= guy
urubu= black carrion eating bird
ameixa = ciruela = plum
castanha de cajú = cashew
tarada = (not like in Spanish where it means idiot/ jerk, or Brazilian "babaca") sex fiend

Nina and her lovely friend Ana Caro, have been accompanying me in the evenings, and girl-time, while something I have gotten plenty of with the new friends that I met in Río, is always welcome. We spent a lazy Sunday reading at the Centro Cultural Banco do Brasil, and then Nina and I got comp tickets (her mother was a professional theater actress, and her friend was producing) for an international theater festival: a Russian clown tragicomedy about "Family" in which there were no words spoken. It was hilarious, and, in fact, profoundly emotional. The audience participated in such a natural way, and the sound-track was an integral part of the show. Today I spent the afternoon with Nina's 78-year-old grandmother who worked for years in the Senate, and was present for the 1988 constitution creation, as she took me around the Senate and the Congress and to the Palace of Itamaraty (Foreign Relations building, the name in Tupi–Guaraní means light/ or clear rocks, and apparently the Baron whose namesake this is was one of the early colonial precious stone merchants). The wide-open spaces that Oscar Niemeyer envisioned for this capital city, built from the ground up in 1960, are still impressive and respected. The grandiose scale is personally dwarfing, but, I can't say that it lends itself to bridging the vast gap between the bourgeoisie and the rest of the country. As Nina and Beto both work in government positions, we have been discussing (among other things) the difficulty of praxis, of actually putting into action the ideas and ideals for which one fights from within a system.

I am amazed at the contrast between Brasilia and its counterpart, the old capital, Río de Janeiro. My wanderings, though by no means exhaustive, lead me to the conclusion that the two places are as different as day and night. This is not a judgment, but rahter an (if cliché) observation. Where Brasilia is peopled by single-occupancy vehicles, Río is teeming with bodies in motion. In the affluent southern zones like Ipanema and the Lagoa, with well-kempt, figure conscious bodies pursuing exercise, in the "comunidades" and other more "popular"areas, with workers, fatigued at the end of the day, fighting against the impossibility of low wages and large families, on the beaches, soccer balls, always flying, sometimes in games of "soccer-volley"in which hands are off limits and heads, chests, thighs and feet are the means by which balls are propelled over the net, at night, on the sidewalks of Copacabana, women not so much strutting or hawking wares, but making those wares noticeable nonetheless, with a gentle sway of the hips, or perhaps a defiant thrust of the chin.

I asked my new friend Niamh one night, late, as we walked back to our hotel after celebrating, I think, my birthday. "How does one procure a prostitute? I mean, men obviously have some training that we do not. What sort of initiation must you employ. How do you know?" We pondered this for a bit, imagining that there must be some sort of code. I was thinking how dreadfully embarrassing it must be to make a mistake, and as I pondered this, a man neither young nor old, neither attractive or horrible un-so, says to us "Compro sexo". We burst into laughter as we march past him, in our very un-alluring clothing (Niamh is wearing long tights under a skirt and chunky sandals with a Mexican rebozo wrapped tightly around her, to combat the late night chill, I am also wearing sandals, and a modest (very modest) dress and sweater). "Well, I guess we have our answer,"she laughs... "But wait, was he buying or selling? What does that say about us?!"

OF course, what it says is that we were doing precisely what we were warned against, walking alone, two women, unaccompanied. Nevertheless, and despite such well-intentioned and well-advised warnings, that was, perhaps, the most pernicious experience that we had. Earlier that day, Selene and Sara and I, after our wandering through Santa Teresa (which, at the time I only imagined, but later confirmed is in quite a dangerous spot, as it lies in all its decadent colonial splendor, precisely between two warring Favelas) were sitting by the ocean-side contemplating the graceful curves of the rock-embraced bay, when after declining his wares, a kindly vendor warned us with gestures that were unsettling (an imaginary knife slicing an imaginary throat, presumably one of ours) that we should not stay on the beach after dark because the police could not see us. It was still light, and despite our gringa chatter, we proved ourselves aware of our surroundings, and did in fact, get up and leave en-masse when two questionable "figuras" or characters, came ambling our way in a vaguely menacing manner.

There was a general consensus among the female conference-goers that Río was far more inviting and far less dangerous-feeling than we had imagined before comming. I certainly spent a good deal of time comparing it with Mexico City and concluding (not surprisingly) that the cultures are entirely disparate. The most notable differences regarding my sense of personal comfort and safety are the following: 1) Unlike the experience I often have in Mexico in which men leer, make obscene gestures and comments, and catcall from distances (and don't get me wrong, I love Mexico, and once in a while even miss such enthusiastic attention, especially when trapped in the heart of gringo-babilonia in which no one looks you in the eye, let alone makes you feel lust-worthy), the tendency that I noted here, beyond appreciative looks, was that men will engage in flirtatious behaviour (rather readily) only when invited to do so, by means of casual conversation (as in the case of taxi drivers who assert their single-ness and disbelieve one's own), and, at least as far as my 10-day experience goes, comments rather than lude and degrading, tend to be friendly and uplifting (if not necessarily sincere). 2) Personal space is respected, and even in crowds, other pedestrians are given a decent berth that seems almost iviolable. 3) Beach-peddlars, and street-vendors, while enthusiastic, are, in general, very easily and graciously denied. That said, I found that in my brusque ways (accustomed to my stone-faced blocking of tenacious hagglers and hangers-on), I actually offended several, until I realized that they were, in fact, quite sensitive and that a smile was an acceptable out, rather than an invitation for unwanted sales attempts.

So Río, in all its 75 degree late-fall wonder, indeed holds a place in my heart, and an invitation to return. Though my initial exuberant claims of wanting to live there are, I realize, not essentially true, mostly because it feels like a city that when lived in loses much of the glossy sheen, and the profound class discrepancies likely wear on one's conscience to the point of agony. And, Brasilia, a bit like LA, and DC, and at the same time nothing at all, has offered quite a bit of insight into the inner workings of the Brazilian government, with its ambitious youthful middle class, and its sense of austerity and containment. Next, Nina and I are off to São Paulo this Friday, which, I have hear compared to NYC... We shall see... We shall see... In the meantime, I am off to the "Clube de Choro" to hear a child-prodigy play the songs of Chico Buarque, and perhaps to the National Museum tomorrow.

PS
The concert was so amazing, and much more than just Chico Buarque... but here is a sample: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jn2YPiqdUH4

Bemvindo Brasil

My bags are (mostly) packed. My presentation is under control. I am cleaning my house, on a lazy Saturday, after making a lemon custard tart with almond meal crust, a strawberry apricot crumble in an identical crust, and homemade brownies, all for a little girl's (not my own, but practically) birthday tea and sleepover.

So I am a breeder, he laughs at me. I suppose I am. There is this insatiable desire for a new baby, the baby smell is intoxicating, as is the soft skin, the adorable searching mouth. Baby. No. Baby. Yes?

There will be no babies for the time being, as my travels will take me places that were I strapped with a squirming infant, would be impossible. So I let my mind relax, enjoy this singlehood fully. I haven't enjoyed it really, never stopped and took the time. Or perhaps I did enjoy it, but not enough.

So off I go to Río, the destination that has been my dream for years. Ever since I can remember I have wanted to go to Río, much in the way that I knew I had to live in Mexico, and California. There are places that call to us, and others that take us by surprise.
I am caught wondering, these days, about where the next grand adventure will take me. This desire to be immersed in a culture foreign yet familiar is almost as strong (stronger? - certainly more acceptable) as the desire for a baby, and doesn't require my body to undergo massive and transformative procedures. Just a few long plane rides. This time armed with anxiolytics. I am not ashamed to admit that with the passage of years, or perhaps, motherhood itself, I have become much more fearful when flying, and do my best to restrain myself from grasping for the hands of strangers in abject terror as I (believe) I am plunging to my death. It hasn't happened yet, which of course doesn't mean it won't or can't. But I am still hopeful.

So, back to this language thing, or the cleaning thing. It is a little strategy that I employ when feeling anxious about things beyond my control (which are many and diverse). I don't feel nervous about not being understood, or able to communicate in Portuguese, but I do feel a bit uncertain of how I will move myself about, without being a conspicuous foreigner. I suppose that is just a risk I will take, to stick out like a sore thumb, or to move awkwardly among strangers. I must not mind it too much because I feel the wandering need so strong sometimes. It is time to move on.

The dissertation has been moving along, there is no more ache in my bones. Smiles come easily and naturally. It is time to be alone, and exploring, eating up the world with my eyes, bringing new flavors to my lips (much like an infant might). I shall make every effort to report of my travels while gone, but make no promises, not even to myself.

Santa Barbara is burning

The smoke unfurls in rich brown curtains, and the wind kicks up, sending dust in swirling patterns along the path.

Through almost unbearable heat, thick waves of refracting light seem to rise from the pavement. Sundowner gusts favor nothing but the eternal renewal of the burning season. Phoenix wings are consumed, like paper, as the flames mix with oxygen, releasing energy, transforming matter into nothing... and everything unknowable, intangible...

Rebirth will come, too. I think.

But when?

It is strange. How something so powerful as the heart, the muscle that propels blood through our bodies, can be, ultimately so fragile.

It is strange how a lie, or lies upon lies, can snap something both tangible and invisible. A cord of connection. A consuming desire.

And in its wake?

There are no more intense gazes to be had. No hands reaching out. No warm voice melting the distance of a darkened night.
But there is also no more desire. No more aching. No more wanting. Just a dry, tearless, emptiness. Just a tightening in the chest, and stomach.

When mornings come too soon. And the nausea is more about the work that has been left dangling, like an old-fashioned telephone cord, left forgotten, because of some other more urgent communication.

I think of my childhood kitchen. The walls were a mustard yellow. Or perhaps I am misremembering. The telephone was mounted next to the smooth, white moulded door frame. There was a linoleum pattern on the floor, but I have long forgotten it. The phone was an opaque yellow, lighter than the goldenrod walls. Discolored from years of use. It was a rotary phone. That was before touch-tone was a typical option. That was when the words "touch-tone" meant something.

Technology. It is a bitch. We believe we are more connected by it, but in some ways, it gives us more excuses not to engage in our real life. In the real world. Hours can pass, and the limp phone cord of my childhood hangs there... the buzzing busy signal throbs ever louder.

I used to read books for pleasure. I used to love literature. Now I dread books. They are a task, a chore, a guiltily consumed commodity. I shall begin again. I say this to myself and I believe it. I read 45 pages tonight of a book of no consequence, and great delight. I did not, once again, conquer the abyss of my thesis.

I find that I don't care. I don't have anything to say.

Put this behind you, get back to your work, the kind voices of reason and guidance say to me.

But what if all of this has been a grand scheme, orchestrated by my own hand, to avoid said work, because I fear it is meaningless. But at the end of the day, the love that we have invested in vain, doesn't it also evaporate in meaninglessness?

I try to find the silver linings. I have my entire life ahead of me. I get myself back. I can be more patient, less forceful, more demanding, less forgiving. I can walk away from anything, and keep myself whole and in tact. I can recuperate my relationship with my brother. I think. And I think about the hysterical phone calls - mom - I cried into the phone... we drew blood. Standing, quivering, at the head of the staircase leading down to the deliciously musty basement.

Where did that rage come from? Why were we so cruel to one another? The phone dangles precariously. I don't smash the bottle of tomato sauce against his head. I play out the consequences and the angles of horror. I set down my anger. I walk away from it.

I walked away from anger so many years ago, convinced that it was an unacceptable emotion. I don't know that I want the anger back. I will instead turn my back. Not torture myself, not nurture, not care, not support, not coax, not promote. I will instead, go back to listening to intellect-stimulating public radio, remind myself that there are things outside my head, outside myself, outside my pain. Which is rapidly relinquishing its hold on my bones, even now, leaving only that great vast plain of emptiness. A treated canvas on which to paint. A starry night, perhaps. It wouldn't be the first.

Yo no soy esa mujer en peligro
De llanto desbocado y pecho expuesto
Ni aquella despiadada y cruel,
Hambrienta, voraz, sanguinaria.

Soy las dos y soy ninguna.

Poderosa conjuradora de un ser divino
Que se niega a ser
Peón en una guerra incógnita
Sin principio ni fin.

Mas estoy aquí al borde de tu precipicio,
Tentando tu abismal mirar
Hurgando en la gelatinosa inconsistencia
De tu flaqueza sentimental

Paso por paso, recreo las dimensiones de
Mi trágica vocación de amar,
Para extirparla de mi léxico,
Para quedarme con sólo la mejor parte,
Y dejando caer el cascajo inútil

Yo sola,
por mí,
y por ella,
Una y otra,
las dos,
unidas,
entera.

Science Fair

I move through my day, like I move through water. Floating on the surface, not really aware of how and when I hit the wall and turned around, and hit the wall again. But I move, albeit slowly, almost methodically, except for the fact that what needs to get done doesn't, through the hours made of molasses, and the time comes, to retrieve the other half of my team.

There is always a smile and a hug on the other side of the long tunnel. She chatters to Amelia and me about the ice cream, which is more like a milk shake, that she made in her class on bones and human health. I love her chatter outside of the car, but she knows me well enough to limit it to a minimum inside the car. I don't like to have a front seat-back seat conversation, I prefer to just drive. Driving, unlike wading through my day, is somehow soothing. I almost drove north today, just to do it, just to keep listening to the cd that was playing, just to avoid going back to my house, alone.

Instead I stayed at the café of choice and ran into a friend. We went out for Japanese food and Hallelujah! I almost ate an entire meal. She listened, genuinely concerned for me. And then she told me that her crisis trumped mine. And she was right. The depth of her tragedy is so much greater than mine because it involves losing not one, but both parents, in different ways, and an entire lifetime of scaffolding that buckles under the weight of a man that refuses to seek help, refuses to address his emotional pain. I think about that for a while. I take mental note.

My day ends when real life begins. We step out of the car, and despite her protests about the wonderful day, I remind her that the science fair project that we have worked on for the last several weeks is due tomorrow, and that we (ie. me, but she needs to be at least participative) need to write up the experiment and the conclusions. It was a successful project, for the most part, testing to see where mold naturally grows best. We took pictures to document the progress, had a refrigerated control group for our room-temperature group of foods, high, low and medium sugar content. I managed even to get the photos emailed to the drug store this weekend and printed. We had enough poster board so that we did not have to run out to buy more. And then, we wrote.

I printed our "findings" at Amelia and Travis' house, borrowed some cayenne pepper, and went home to cook for the first time in over a week. I. wanted chili. I have never in my life made such an American feast, but I was given, on good faith, instructions that you can't get chili wrong. And it was good. I made a quick salad, with avocado and spring mix from the local farmers market that Nate and Ryan had swapped out for some of their almonds, and a cornbread from scratch. While we four ate, life was, miraculously, not that different from what it was before. I smile to myself and think, "You can't always get what you want..."

After dinner, I sit while they talk to I. and cut out pieces of paper to adhere to the poster board. We have "fun mold facts" (words heretofore unuttered in all likelihood) and a clear, concise description of the hypothesis, the methodology, the observations, and conclusions. The photos, I decide, will stay better with scotch tape. After our guests leave, I continue with this immediate task, it is 9:45, and I. looks at me from over her book. "A little to the left." she says to me. I laugh inwardly about how these things, these tasks that we take on as parents, show who we really are, inside, separate from our own terror of work, or completion, or change. This will remain the same, her deadlines and urgencies will always take precedence over mine. And that, I suppose, is exactly what I signed up for. "Do you feel like you learned about how to structure a scientific experiment?" I ask, hopeful that this will actually have resulted in an educative moment of sorts. She does. She ventured some really interesting ideas in her conclusions (I tried hard not to give too much input) and her understanding of other biological processes and the vocabulary with respect to them did not surprise me, but pleased me in that satisfying way, inexplicable, that only ones progeny can provoke.

Today we will bring her poster in, a day early, as asked in the Tuesday folder, which I finally read on Tuesday, and signed necessary papers on time. Maybe this is the lesson. Maybe the only thing I can do is be a better mother, and a better me. Outsiders be damned!