Crazival

Facts. Facts are fun. Facts are the currency of truth, traded as hard cash in a world of disputable observations. One seemingly undeniable tome of facts, the Guinness Book of World Records, has consistently maintained Salvador’s preeminent status—its number one position as biggest street party in the world. Imagine five million people running amuck in a swarming mass of sweat on skin, letting loose with wild abandon, dancing, bobbing, a landmark of such a sufficient size it is likely visible from space. Believe me when I say, the heat alone of those bodies could rival that of the sun, at least in intensity or zeal. For those of northern blood, it is more than surreal, something God probably shakes his head in wonder at. Call it sensory overload at its most human. And it must be experienced, at least once, in a given life time.

Let me attempt to describe it for you.

Porto da Barra – O something hundred or anothor hours – Bahia, Brazil.

It is dark. The hot Bahian sun has dipped somewhere over the distant horizon. The city is beginning to take over the night with lights of its own, flooding the street with hues of hazy acrylic. The shadows of cement electricity poles move in waves above the street as taxis, busses, and buzzy one cylinder motorcycles dance across their path. Traffic has breached and flooded its boundaries, spilling in steady moving lines to the official point of commencement, the beach front streets that line the Salvador bay. People vibrate in anticipation, drinking heavy cocktails of beer, and vodka, and red bull—anything to intensify the heat of their own civic fire.

Get out. Step out of the car. People are everywhere. The music hasn’t even started to play, and yet the city dances. Masked men and women in all manner of dress enter stage left. To the right, colorful t-shirts swirl in mass moving down the street to the beach front and initial staging point of the picture show. The scale of this movement – little points of light eating, running, talking on the phone, uncountable in its activity – robs the mind of control. That inner desire to organize, so human in its subsistence, all but flutters away, driving one to another state—one more akin to liberation, and the true acknowledgment of the world as chaos. It is a scary yet awe inspiring place to be.

From one end of the port to the other, massive semi-trailers line the street, belching out heat and fumes and noise. Thousands of watts of sound equipment sit like ancient columns built ten feet tall on their side, and on top bands prepare to play. Drums, keyboards, guitars, microphones, all are switched on, tested, tuned, and readied. Singers drink cold water, cooling their own vocal aspirations, ready to excite the crowd. Behind these trailers, large areas are roped off for the paying patrons, those people who can afford to follow the heavily armed vehicles as they pass down the road.

Look. Stirring, stirring masses.

The crowd drones in anticipation. People bob in and out of reality, swirling with thoughts of alegria (happiness) as the booze begins to kick in. Before anyone is truly ready…..buuuutat. Bu tat to tat to tat. The drums explode! Announcers come on and greet the crowd. Everyone cheers and the massive pile begins to churn and move languidly down the road. Breathing room and personal space mix, and thousands upon thousands of people begin to share their sweat and their voices.

Quick, grab a beer. Avoid loosing money to a robber or the street (I lost 100 reis, grrr!). Watch and listen. The queen bee stirs from her pedestal, grabbing the microphone and smiling. She will lead the way. One foot, one foot, then the other. She sings, everyone cries, steps on and follows forward. She will lead the way.

The semi-trailers of sound belch ahead. The heat of the equipment mixes with the hot summer air, creating a rolling mass of steam that lurches down the street. People begin to dance, really dance, swirling in red and green and blue patterns. Men grab women, women grab men, men grab men, women grab women, few barriers remain for those who want to breathe and to kiss and to love. To the side of the paved avenue, vendors sell roasting meat, beer, and water, hoping to make a quick buck in this so called season of madness.

And mad it truly is.

As the rain starts to pour, a thick torrent from the sky, the city continues to buzz, an up hill crescendo with little break for climax. Water runs down the street in heavy swathes, dirtied from the mass of trash, and piss, and sweat. Everything is wet, and dirty, full of elasticity and passion, a picturesque and undeniable portrayal of the Brazilian soul.

All night the kings and queens parade. People spin until their feet are full of pain, until their energy is utterly spent and they can dance no more. So much light, so much sensation, it saturates all. The morning slowly comes, and the streets begin to empty. Only in daylight hour are the revelers forced to desert, and many with regret that the dawn has already come.

You. Well you are unreservedly tired. You have climbed a mountain, wish for rest, wish to sit in your tent at the base camp of Everest and never see a mountain again.

For the brasileiros, there are still six days of Carnival yet to rise.

Ayda and me pre madness. Yes, somehow I was convinced to

go as Popeye (the sailor man). Twas fun, aside from the fact that I

ended up being dragged to the gay bloco, and the costume

ended up being more of a liability than a asset. Oh, well.

Grrrrrr. Sailor tattoos. Grrrrrr.

Despite my best efforts not to let this happen, happen it did.

Burning under the sun is rather unavoidable here, especially when

you are a white boy like me.

Go Gringo Go!

Lets Get Visual

Trying to wake up at 4:30 to catch the morning waves.

Taking a pounding. Sandals are hard on feet, at least for the first few weeks until you get some new skin.

Surfistas da manha. Surfing is hard, like going to war with the sea. But weee, I am learning.

Enough green to feed even the hungriest of eyes.

My host, Ayda after a cold shower. Brazilian women are sometimes to firey for their own good. A cold shower and massage are necessary elements to my own personal sanity. This is in need of a good discussion.

Chic Brazilians like their poodles. If only he knew how rediculous he actually looked.

Letting Go

Entering a foreign culture is a difficult process for most people. It requires complete malleability, a willingness to suspend the underlying laws that govern ones own society, and a desire to learn new things that may appear frightening or distasteful. In essence, it is a process of acclimatization—a time for the body to ‘normalize’ unregistered external input and make it comfortable and familiar. This period of adjustment is different for us all and often depends on our experience with the alien cultures, and our willingness to adapt to them. If anything, this could be likened to a cold water swim on a hot summer day. When one hits the water, a quick gasp of breath escapes the body. The eyes light up with shock and register fight or flight upset in the sensory inputs of the brain. Only with acceptance, with recognition of a threat-less state will the body calm itself and back down. The secret to all of is to LET GO.

My last post was my way of dealing with this upset, of dealing with the culture shock and frustration of this new and unknown land. Brazil is really quite an intense place—truly the coldest of alien pools I have had a dip in. While I still have a long way to go (months and months) in terms of proper acclimatization, I did feel a palpable sense of release with my desire to LET GO.

It happened rather innocently. Just a little party put on for some American teachers here in Bahia. I was invited by a beautifully wonderful acquaintance of mine to attend. I ate churrasco (Brazilian barbeque meat….slober slob), drank beer, babbled in English and Portuguese, and danced the night away. I hugged a palm tree, I embraced the warm sea breeze, I looked up at the sky and muttered a thanks.

Simple really. If you truly want to adapt and to change, to get over the culture shock and embrace the wave of unfamiliarity, just do one thing.
Embrace the unknown. Smile at the universe and…well…just LET GO.


--Been to dangerous to drag the camera around, but pics are coming soon. I will have internet at the house after carnival. Speaking of which
stay tuned for some good reading.

The Ins and the Outs

Whooooooo. Breath. I awake today with a rather nasty hangover, something I haven’t had for some time, so forget the flowery speech—we’ll see in what manner things come out of my head.

Ouch. Drink of water. Sigh. Ok.

These last few days have been a whirlwind. Hmmm, a whirlwind. No, I take that back. More like a roller coaster with a lot of disquieting ups and downs. At best, I have been profoundly moved by the beauty here. I have breathed in the incredible panorama of greenery and sea, my lungs full of salt air and romance. Turn around, and not one second later I have been saturated with ugliness—palpable, sharp, and distressing. I gravitate towards thoughts of never leaving, of working my way into this society, buying a little apartment and building a life. Then, before another second passes, I am shaken by the disorder, the traffic, the sharp division of the people. It is an interesting thing to taste, these intensities. But could I do it all the time?

Things all and all have been fun...but…wait.

Ouch. Drink. I don’t think I have the patience to do this in length. It’s like this:

High Moment—running around with my friend Ayda, meeting lots of people, eating amazing, amazing, unexplainably amazing food. Fejoida at her mothers house. Wow.

Low Moment—getting in a car. I have driven a lot. Ayda feels especially generous with her car after she has been drinking. This was fun, like barreling down a race track with no rules. Stop Lights, Pedestrians, cordiality? Mere suggestions. While I feel better behind the wheel than as a passenger, I still feel each and every time that I am going to die. And fuck man, people are sooooo, ahhhh, wtf. It’s quite possible.

High Moment—heading to the beach outside of the city. Eating crab, and little fish balls, and fried fish French fry like thingies; jumping into the warm embrace of the South Atlantic, staring in awe at the almost unimaginable scenery and the beautiful people that embrace it. I don’t know what god was thinking when he/she/it crafted these people, but they’re faces, breasts, pictorials, bodies, lips, smiles, etc, etc, are really quite unfair. I don’t generally feel unpretty, but at the present moment I feel kind of shafted.

Low Moment—getting locked out of my apartment. God made these people beautiful, but not very practical. Why does nothing work? Why is every fucking door fitted too loosely or too tightly? Why when things break do they tend to stay that way? Why, when a nice gringo gets locked out of his apartment (door jam) will the neighbors not help? Actually, I know why? Divisions. Safety. No one would open a door for some strange guy, cause in this society, it’s safe to believe that he is not very safe. Understood. But fuck, what’s a neighbor for if not that.

High Moment—having one of those beautiful interactions with Ayda’s young niece and nephew. One of those special moments, sitting around the living room playing guitar, talking about American and Brazilian music, laughing at the way things come out of each others mouths. When you are in a tribe (close kinship or social circle, going to write more about this later), you are really in. Friendship, kisses, hugs, it’s amazing.

Low Moment—why does everything cost so much? Gahhhhhh. I hate you George Bush.

High Moment—Brazilian hospitality. Like nothing you had, are, or will experience again. My cup is always full of beer, my plate a constant mass of piling food, it is incredible. In terms of welcoming a guest (again, if he is one of the tribe), they are masters. Simply put.

Low Moment—ok, sigh, last night. I have been never been so in the culture and yet so very separated from it. Now I hang with Brazilians, which is great, if they have the patience to interact with my shat ass language skills. But fuck, I have just put myself light years away from the savvy socialite play on words poet that I claim to be. I am Fez, on “That 70’s Show”, but not funny or likable. So I went out with a bunch of ridiculously beautiful and chic 20 somethings, clearly the “we are way cooler than you crowd”, and just failed miserably at being a relatable human being. I know how to play this crowd back home, have made a study of them because shoot…I like pretty ladies. But wow, the group ended up having a house party and I became that quiet guy in the corner that stairs at people and probably creeps them right the fuck out. No language skills = No interaction skills = No communication skills = Next to no flirting skills = A seeming lack of confidence = Beta, Beta, Beta = Why would I want to sit next to you let alone have your babies?

I hate not playing alpha. Hate, hate, hate, hate. Sigh.

Drink. My head hurts less. I’m going to get something to eat.

Getting Settled

As the days move on, the sensory assault of my arrival has begun to diminish, at least in force and frequency. Naturally, as the first week still lingers, life continues to drift in an unpredictable course. I awake each morning to the sound of traffic, of movement outside my window, and beautiful sing song from the neighborhood birds. Sleep here is difficult, as I was given a minimally present quarter inch thick mattress and an old dusty pillow to cuddle up to. My allergies have protested and are persuading me to purchase something a bit more accommodating. Despite these discomforts I do sleep, and quite deeply, my brain flooded with new things to learn and in need of a good reorganizing.

The owner of the apartment, Badega, is a quiet and relaxed guy, and has been very hospitable in his welcome. He has allowed total access to the apartment and food, insisting that I cook and shower and do as I want. This is quite a wonderful thing, as I was barred from kitchen access and house life with my last host family. As I understand it, we will be sharing the cost of food, the maid, and internet access (which is getting installed next week!). I am paying him $350 reis a month (about $200) and sharing the cost of added utilities. This is quite a reasonable price, I think, though not without the pressure to find a job and earn extra income.
The neighborhood, Brotas, is typical working class Salvador, with lots of foot traffic, little grocery stores, hospitals, and the rest. As anywhere in this city, it can be dangerous at night if one isn’t careful. Here I feel more pressure to fit in—to try and combat my foreign skin and unfamiliar look. Just before I left the US, I bought a stylish little watch to grace my wrist. It was a dumb idea….it now stays at home.

As I found out yesterday, transportation to an from a neighborhood like this can be a difficult and frustrating thing. Badega left on a sailing trip yesterday, and I was left to my own devices. Before long, I became bored sitting at home and decided to venture off into the city. I hopped on a bus to Porto da Barra, the more touristy beach front next to the city’s own historic light house. Putting deep sours into my soft American feet, I ran around the neighborhood visiting old friends, and breathing in my last trip to Brazil. Walking down the beachfront, I was to my everlasting gringo shame the whitest person on two feet. This can be a dangerous and annoying thing here, a target for insistent vendors, thieves, and street kids asking if you want marijuana or blow.

After drinking a cold beer and dipping in the sea, I decided to make my way home before the sun cascaded past the sky. It took me two and a half hours, grrrr, and is apparently damn near impossible to catch a bus back home. I sat at three bus stops, waiting, straining to read the bus signs for a familiar road. Each person I asked about getting home told me something different. With the sun going down and my pallid glow becoming ever more pronounced, I finally gave up and took a taxi back home. Twas’ an expensive conclusion and one that I dare not repeat too often.

Culture Shocked²

Holy Sweet Jesus I’ve done it again. The gauntlet has dropped and my head strains with the weight and noise of it. Monastic Oklahoma life, in all of its solitude and insulation has quite literally passed away—a swelling and triumphant discorporation leaving me twirling on my callused little toes. For the second time in two years I stepped off the plane with butterflies, rightly anticipating a swathe of verdant greenery and a heady cascade of summer air. Flying into Salvador by day has its charms, with the South Atlantic dancing on the right outside wing, and the white sandy beaches beckoning to the left. As soon as your foot steps off that plane everything changes. Not only does your language and familiarity pass away, but so too the steady cascade of inputs feeding the machine—those patchy variables of everyday life that function with hardly an upward glance. Once in and onto new land, it truly feels like a sudden rebirthing, and all one is left with is to look and feel and touch anew.

Upon my arrival, things got started right and proper with a meeting of my Denver friend Ayda, who in her jubilant and expressive manner so typical of Brazilians picked me up from the city airport. Her brother Ciao took the reigns of the car, but only after a difficult round of Tetris where we tried with great difficulty to fit all three passengers and my luggage into the most mini of miniscule iddy biddy cars.

As we drove through the city, running errands to this place and that – picking up things for the apartment, visiting friends and relatives – my how my foreign eyes slowly began to adjust (or at least attempted to). To those denizens accustomed to first world living, what could be more shocking than a transplant into this.

This city is fulllllll of people. And I mean full. I had to cringe every second or two thinking our car was going to nail some poor passerby making their way down the street. Lines of people, parading every task and masquerade of greater humanity, vibrated as we passed on by. Every bus stop, every city corner, were like mini solar systems, full of groups and assemblies and clusters of stars.

Now, if one were so inclined to play creator, grab up a number of these clusters, hold them in your hand, and then loose them onto this world. The chaos that would ensue, from forces of gravity and boundary, like some great cosmic marbles game, is exactly how I would describe the movement of the city (and especially the traffic). On the road, people cut lanes, slam on their breaks, run through crowds, and completely ignore speed limits, street signs, and polite gestures. How strange that on a social level, I find Brazilians to be the most friendly and helpful of people, but on the street all laws of opposition somehow come into affect. At one point, Ciao got in a fight with Ayda over some petty matter, and decided running red lights in heavy traffic was sound and justifiable. Not to mention, drinking in the car is no big deal, and we all had a couple of beers (albeit light) full and twirling in our bellies.

Yes, life here is indeed inconceivable. One just has to experience it first hand. The poverty here is so endemic, so deeply entrenched; it is hard to picture the city any other way. Hanging out with working class true to rank Brazilians is so different than life in the green tourist zone. Had my maiden voyage to Brazil unfolded as it did yesterday, driving around the slum areas and in full unabashed traffic, I think it would have scared the living shit out of me.
But this time around, things are different. I want to take the authentic path—to live, and love, and learn as a Brazilian, to truly get a handle on what life is really like here. This requires some level of acceptance, and courage, and an ability to forget position and first world ideals. This, I feel, is my path—to be a cultural warrior and combat my scrappy hold on normality.
In just one day, my first day here, I felt more challenged than in the whole of my year and a half return to comfortable living in the United States. Such things are overrated (at least for me, for the time being), and I look forward to this narrow path and the wide array of challenges that now lie ahead.

Departing the Oklahoma sub suburbs.

View outside the living room window. Yeah green!

Cafe da manha

Thought this was such a great subtitle, had to snap a photo.

My bedroom. The mattress is thin, and the air hotttttt, but I call it home.

As morenas do Brasil. Sigh. No caption necessary.

Destination Brazil

The journey begins. I stand facing south with the wind to my back,
unseen tendrils caressing, dipping and diving, moving past my body
and on to the arid plain. Freedom it whispers, movement and song,
a smile past my ear that flies up and onward—a stretch that looses
farther, and farther, and farther away.

First to the ancient metropolis of the Wichita’s,
to the bayous of Louisiana, to the turquoise waters
of the Gulf Sea. One tip and toe onward it flutters,
first to embrace the priestess and her voodoo cry.
Then comes drag of both fire and smoke, the breath
within a word, and the gift of sound for plantation cane.

Slowly, at destination she materializes.

Where upon...

and hither to...

A terra do vera cruz.

In green majesty and splendor. Great forest and coastal water. Colonial kingdoms born anew.

She turns…

She beckons…

And in concert must I yield, to smile and step forward,
to follow, right, onward, and ever through.

Pubwished

So I am finally, ever so finally, an officially published author. Way back in 2003, when I spent my days crawling around archaeological sites and old dusty libraries, I submitted an article to Michigan History—the most widely circulated history publication in my home state. This particular project was a result of my efforts as the lead researcher for the Southwest Michigan Black Heritage Society (picture little white boy me, driving around the rather segregated city of Kalamazoo, looking for leads). I got the job through my good friend Donna, who I worked with at the Kalamazoo Valley Museum. She maintains, to this day, that I am the best writer and researcher she has ever had, which is a complement to be sure.

This particular article was on the Underground Railroad in Kalamazoo County, and local abolitionist leader Henry Montague who ferried slaves furtively throughout the district. It was a fun project, and one that deserves a spotlight in Kalamazoo’s divided climate. Only thing is, the magazine reduced the size of my article almost by half. Taking out that many words pretty much butchered my own hovering authorial voice—kind of like King Solomon actually chopping the proverbial baby in half, instead of just pretending he was going to do so. It was hard to see my baby go.

Anyway, fast forward five years and they’re finally ready to publish it. I feel somewhat inspired, and would really like to publish more. Maybe some travel material perhaps, something on the history and current life of Salvador. Maybe a love story or two. It’s good to finally be pubwished, and for the rest we shall see.

Cemeteries. A historians wet dream.

Grave of Henry Montague and his wife of more than 60 years, Abigail Kingsley.

Waiting

Current ETA: 20 Days. Life moves in cycles. I am now back at Black Rocks Ranch, spending the holiday with my folks and the remaining days before I leave for Brazil. Just as last time, this place is the calm before the storm--a secluded and isolated bubble that requires a closer connection to nature and a weakening of my socialite city habits. It is in some respects a difficult place for me to be, disconnected from the noisy chaos of Boulder life, and a good number of weeks away from my South American adventure. The place has it's beauty, it's monastic like perks, but still. 20 Days. I continue to work, to wish, to wait.

Black Rocks by Dusk.

Paintball with the boys.

New Years in Norman. I hopped a couple hours away to spend the
holiday with Ben and Micha, welcome compatriots in the search for
good American fun.

Snappity hoo! New Years in the 70's is freaky flash and fun too!

After raiding the parents closet.

Beer shotguns for good measure (p.s. I don't recommend them)

Dancing and Miami Vice.

And all around pretty people and good times.

Down and Out

Ughhhh. Christmas. Generally the holiday fills with me joy, gaiety, and a renewed faith in the human spirit. This year, Santa put aside the candy cane surprises and decided to bring me a virus for the holiday. I have been completely down and out for Christmas eve and Christmas day, watching the family run about enjoying one another's company, and shared activity. I'd love to share more, but I lack enthusiasm, my head hurts, and I'm going back to bed. Ughhhh.

A Fond Farewell

Capoeira Boulder – my how I will miss you. You taught me to stand on my head, to walk on my hands, to show gravity who’s da boss. You taught me that it is ok to wear white, to tuck in my shirt, and kick some major ass. Yes, how I will miss you.

I discovered one of my old leather bound journals as I was packing up my room yesterday. Thumbing through the well traveled pages, I came across this entry dated

July 24^th, 2001:

“…One of the best experiences I’ve had on this trip happened a few days ago when my half cousin Laurent took Alec, I, and a few of his friends to a jazz festival in Fribourg (Switzerland). The festival ended up being a kind of Brazilian themed street party, with tons of great music and food. I experienced my first Brazilian concert huddled in a mass of Europeans in the middle of the city square. For hours I danced and sang, listening to the rhythmic beat of Chico César. It was an experience I definitely want to relive.

…After the concert, I watched a group of Brazilians perform one of the most beautiful martial art forms I’ve ever seen. It is a kind of dance where the combatants mimic punches, kicks, and other various strikes—all driven by a dance like stance and accompanied by many gymnastic feats. Most of my free time is taken up with martial arts, and this form known as Capwayda (yes this is how I spelled it) is definitely the most beautiful and one I now feel inspired to learn.”

Amazing how things come back into your life. I completely forgot that I ever had this sentiment, and find myself – years later – living that tucked away desire. I fully admit to a love for this sport, and truly look forward to more rodinhas in the Black Rome of Brazil.

I Am

The personal life deeply lived always expands into truths beyond itself. This is my crux and cornerstone. I am a life lived with profundity and passion, a myriad of personas expanding free into this beautiful world. I am many things to many people, a shard of glass reflecting the color and complexity of the outside within the in. I am a lover and a poet—someone who enjoys the taste of creativity, and the muse that wakes it from its slumber. I am a warrior and a fighter, strength unwavered, a rock born solid in the torrent of the sea. I believe in the search for truth, and the humility to recognize that my path is not the only way. I believe in embracing my masculinity, without apology, and living up to the King that I am. I live what I love, seek that which I will, and expand to what is and what will be.

Stream of Thought

I am sprawled out on my bed in the basement of the Yale house. Winter is upon the Boulder community, and a hoodie, socks, and my thick roupas da cama are necessary to keep warm. I woke late into the morning today. There is something about a cold bedroom that keeps one huddled under the blankets, unwilling to face the present and ever so blistery looming day.

I am a tight little maelstrom of emotion. It feels odd to approach my departure date, to say goodbye to this little mountain town. In the year and a half that I have been here, I have met, cuddled, and produced a number of satisfying relationships. I have run the path of wild abandon – both animal and human – through mountain streams, flowered pastures, savoring little scenic delights of the Colorado countryside. I have discovered chai tea, Nepalese cuisine, Capoeira Angola. I have enjoyed a diverse form and function of living.

I am, albeit slight, a delicate vibration, a person conflicted. I am struck with two wayward directions—the desire to remain, to stay, to build; and the desire to go—to throw off my shackles of routine and stability, to see and taste and feel all of the world.
I know that my time looms to settle down, invest myself in one job, one profession, and one place. I know that for financial success, this is necessary.

But the time is not now. Not quite now. Half of me resides in another world. A world of palm trees and chaos, acarajé and vitality. The world is full of abundance, of culture and thought, and I am swept up in it. The walls are just too big to build my house.

On work….wow, how crazy it has been. I got a call yesterday morning that Aspen Grove – the online grocery business I have been employed for – is finally going under. I knew this was coming. The place is a quagmire of dysfunction. I have watched, grinning in puzzlement, the big cheese owner make one silly decision after another. I have watched a man, with years of higher business education, fail at the most basic business principle--connect with people. The guy is a social moron at best, with little personal or marketing skills. Not only was he incapable of properly connecting to our customer base, but he had an uncanny ability to drive away his employees as well. Really drives the point home that learning how to deal with people is the most valuable skill I can learn.

One benefit to the shutdown, free food, in abundance, on a level never heard of before. About a week ago our work freezer lost power and got up to 40 degrees. The food was not spoiled, but due to liability issues we were unable to sell. That means free food for me! In the last week, I have brought home over $5000 in gourmet steaks, Alaskan cod, salmon, fruit pies, organic frozen dinners, over 50 pizzas, etc. My brothers and I made an emergency hardware run, buying and filling two massive storage freezers in the garage. Friends, roommates, everyone stands to benefit. And the funny thing is, I get hardly ounce of it! I’m leaving in two weeks and will never even get a chance to sample all the food! Haha, oh well. At least its good to feel patrimonial.

So leaving. Yeah, I am excited. I dream of Brazil every night. I will be staying with a surfer, and look forward to a little romance with my favorite goddess of the sea when I arrive. I have been buying a number of educational materials on business, hoping to increase my vocabulary on the craft of making money. Brazil will indeed test these skills. I hope to get work in a language school or as a private English teacher. God knows that I am a verbal kind of guy. And wouldn’t it be nice to actually use a bit of my brain on a professional level again (menial labor bahhhhh. No more!).

And tattoos….oh the tattoos. Yes, I am in love with ink. Good ink. People that are smart, whose intelligence and creativity in this world are reflected in their tattoos. I believe that the more time you put into a project, the better it will come out. Quite a natural thing really. Most people put little time in their tattoos, and the quality reflects that. Each of my projects I have spent months on design, redesign, body placement and style planning. Like a good piece of writing (this one notwithstanding), it takes draft after draft to produce anything of value. Witness my next project, Borneo Tribal Dragons on my arms and upper pecks. Borneo Tribal Polynesian is my favored style. It is bold, simple, easy to maintain, and a testament to a remarkable indigenous craft. My next ink session starts in January, at Bingha tattoo in Brazil. God I can’t wait.

So enough of random thoughts.

Work in Oklahoma coming soon. Then Brazil. Then more life in all of its glorious splendor. Until then.

Ah minha cidade, here I come!

Pic This! -- Halloween and Michigan Treats

So I discovered something this year. Halloween--amazing! Somehow running around as an adult with eye makeup and red britches proved more fun than the childhood pursuit of candy. Witness a couple of pics of me as Papa Satan and my gang of little red devils.

Yale House, Party in Hell. We are getting big.

And limos. Mix with caffeine, olives, and vodka, and you've got a sure fire mix for a rockstar.

After Halloween, I finally took the much anticipated trip
back to Michigan--to see old friends and jump around the well
aged haunts yet again. The trip, on the whole, felt
rather surreal. Running around Plainwell, Kzoo, and
our favorite back country portals, I admit
to a strong and palpable stirring of remembrance,
fond or otherwise. It was an amazing venture,
to stare into the eyes of old ghosts and strengthen memories
before I leave for Brazil.

Bests friends since middle school, Eric and Jonathon, my forever companions.

And who could forget the woods, fertile playground for my youngest memories.

How nice to run around and remember. J-Dog and Me in the Daniels Woods.

The Gravel Pit. Nuf' Said.

Eric and I finished off the trip with our Green Top, Ol' Style, Drunk by noon day.

And so many lovely visitors. Liza and the rest.

Truly good show. And great way to say goodbye for a time. I remain
on the path of a unpredictable and unknown future. I continue to wander,
unbound and unbidden, a ghost explorer in this world.