Yeah, birthday's.

Yes. I know. Currently I have the desire to write but lack the will.

In lue of more scribbles, here is another video.



My 2007 birthday bash went off without a hitch. Yes indeed, the soiree had it all. Two d-jays, two kegs, afro-brazilian drum beats, and a rediculous amount of socializing. There were many familiar and unfamiliar faces present, and a glorious lock down by the night stick Federalies (so fun those silly little sound ordinance thingies).

In the end, yes we had a good time, and no you may not ask me what my birth age is.

Either way, yeah birthdays!

Buddy Down

Some moments are wow moments. Some draw you in. Some breathe in the quiet, or stir with the rapture of being alive.

Motorcycles are an odd embrace of such things. They fill one with this sense of being alive, full, animated, but constantly remind you that sure…

…you are alive

…but not by much.

My riding buddy took a spill on his R6 yesterday. This came on the heel of a series of accidents just this last week – one buddy down at the track, me witnessing a fatal motorcycle crash involving a blind S.U.V driver, and four car accidents at work. Yikes.

In my short time jumping around in the sport bike culture, I have realized two very important things. First, sport bike riders like to go FAST. Very Fast. It becomes a point of machismo pride to hold down that throttle. I went out riding with a bunch of guys on R1’s and GSX’s. They were pretty experienced riders, insisting that their road activities took a back seat to the agro-maneuvers of the track. Surprising, indeed, as I sweated bullets trying to keep up with them through the CO back canyon roads, speeds exceeding 90 – 100 mph.

The second thing that I have learned is that no matter your experience level, this shit will kill you. Half of those guys ended up destroying their machines within a few weeks. My riding buddy did just the same, careening into a field of rocks off HWY 59. I trailed behind him and documented the whole thing.

Our ride started off pretty tame, with a tad bit of traffic weaving to get the blood flowing. We headed off into one of the many canyon routes, jumping around hairpin curves, riding at modest speed levels (40-50 mph). These little human physics experiments always seem to happen fast. My buddy somehow got off alignment on one of the curves. He compensated incorrectly by down shifting, maybe a little too much back brake, I’m not sure. All I saw was rider separating from machine, an explosion of plastic and dust, both disappearing off a sharp embankment on the roadside. I was expecting carnage. Messiness. The unpleasant irreversible vicissitudes of a really bad day.

No such thing.

Before I had even turned off my bike at the side of the road, up jumps my friend giving me the thumbs up. Somehow, flying backwards, he had managed to flip over the rock bed off the road and land in a very small fortuitously placed patch of grass. I surveyed the damage, both his and the bike. And came to one of those wow moments. A “dude, you really should be dead” sort of thing.

Witness the resulting chaos. The swarm of police, ambulances, and curious passerby’s. We moved his bike up into a drive way beside the ditch. The mood was light, considering no one got hurt. A kind of ‘yeah that really sucks but doesn’t the air smell sweet’ sensation.

I tried to save him a ride in the ambulance, pretty certain he was in good health, but the authorities insisted on making him poor. As we waited, the ambulance driver filled me with horror stories of local gun shot victims, canyon crashes, and the motorcyclist as organ donor equation.

Looks like the riding days for my buddy are over. Too much damage and points on the license. And he knows he was one of the lucky few…to find his grassy knoll. Me, well, I continue to ride. Knowing full well the dangers. Toning down the machismo, and picking carefully the groups I’ll go riding with. I want to be old and graying before the flights of angels wing me to my rest.

Springly Warmth

One step and you will see, the brilliance of a born again sun.

One measure and you will know, the flutter of life in branch and tepid sky.

Bustle fills the emptiness of winter past.

Water melts, deluge runs.

Spring breaths and fills us anew.

* * *

Few things make me happier than a sunny day. There is something chemical about it. My blood seems to run quick, my eyes alight, my heart flutters with the anticipation of a dynamic sway. Singing, dancing, movement—these things are all part of it. The sun bristles with volume and fills matter with the desire to come alive. It animates the winter constricted, fills and flourishes, and leaves me wondering how I survived those long snowy months (Cry freedom cry, oh Michigan, I do not lament your passing).

But oh, my beautiful village here. It stands as something all together different, where the high elevation sun shines radiantly on a warm spring day. Last Sunday was exactly this. I had just returned from an overnight stay at the DeSouchet miners cabin—a small rental property that I escape to in Dream Canyon, about a 50 min drive West of Boulder. Rustic and inviting, the small log structure sits parallel to a flowing mountain brook, where the air smells sweet of pine and wood smoke, and is the perfect place for a profound mental getaway.

On the return home, the sky was generously void of clouds and a slight warm breeze moved through town. My brother Shem sat with his girlfriend behind our house, methodically seeding summer vegetables into little plastic cups. The grill was on, sizzling, smoking, inviting long dopey stares from our overweight dog resting languidly in the grass.

A bit worn down from a night of running through the woods, I also took the lazy route, spending the early evening hours stretched out in my Brazilian hammock under the sun.

Swinging rhythmically…slowly…my face warm with the heat of direct light, I thought of all the new changes and births in my own life, as if my own path somehow mirrored the genesis of spring.

First comes a change in work. I continue to slave away at Aspen Grove. The pay remains dismal, the labor uninspiring, and my bills barely, just barely get paid. I see my presence there as a means to an end—but only just. How much bottom feeding can one do as a degree holder? I mean seriously!?

It is with these frustrations in mind that I continue to root out a career. I discovered, months back, an adolescent field known as ‘Cultural Heritage Tourism’. Essentially, it boils down to traveling to a place to experience the authentic past and contemporary life ways of a people. It emphasizes sustainability, balanced economic development, and all of the professional angles that I love—anthropology, history, travel, the poetics of people and place. It is only about a decade old, ecotourism and geotourism now falling under the umbrella term. I see so much potential for growth here. I see visions of myself - in the States and in Brazil – working to develop rich cultural programs. I feel travel and stories brimming on the surface. I see academic programs on the rise, and me in the middle of it all.

Who knows where the winds will take me. I may end up a toothless old man, tilling the soil of a back country farm plot in Brazil. Or a masquerade Chinese acrobat. Yes, who really knows?

I have started an internship, however, a small seed of a job in the Cultural Tourism field. Every Friday morning I ride the express bus into Denver, making my way down the bustling 16^th street mall. There, on the seventh floor of a large red stone Masonic building, I work in a little windowless office. I begin with the National Trust for Historic Preservation, dabbling in website changes and networking issues for the CHT program. From there, after months of payless effort, I’m hoping to grab an internship with the CHT program out of the Denver office of Tourism. This one promises part time pay, and perhaps some shining acknowledgement of my university degree.

After this…..perhaps grad school in D.C. at George Washington University (only CHT program in the whole country)…..then on into mid life crisis….kids....house….and eventually that dark unknown we like to call buzz kill. Somewhere in there I’d to stick in a bit of adventure travel, Brazilian Portuguese, and aqua maroon reef dives. Maybe some beer. We will see.

On the romance side of things, I have had tasty little development of late. Her name is hmmm….private, and the rest of her so classy. A good friend of mine in Capoeira directed my fiery mass of a universe towards hers, and I am happy to report that the blessed zingy little sparks have begun to fly. She is 34, thought probably about 22 in appearance, and one of the most intelligent and confident women I have ever known. Her demeanor is one of cool delicious power, slightly aloof, with heavy dashes of playful femininity. A life long dancer and yoga guru, she resides remarkably present and comfortable in her body, knowing full well the power of her magnetism. More palpable than this physical grace, she is delightfully skilled at making me feel like a man, challenging me to be authentic in my personality and masculinity. So refreshing after the underdeveloped bubble heads that have been sucking up to me of late.

And so it is, in both work and love do the renewals of spring come. Much is going to happen, I feel, with the advent of this warmer weather. I’ve been down and out with a back injury, and hope to heal and get back to the Capoeira. I am rigidly setting myself on a more tattoos/more muscle diet, and hope to generate further growth in these areas soon. July brings adventure in Europe, and a month long Brazilian vaca later in the year. My good friend Sheila is coming to visit and Eric is beginning to ready himself for a Denver move (I operate under the principle that if you blog it, they will come).

All of this. The job, the romance, the car washes, and tree blossoms, the motorcycle rides and campouts, will bud, and bristle, and in their spring breathe life anew.

(Messin' around at work.)

(Taking the big lumox out for a walk.)

(Girl's like guys that have good skills. Computer hacking skills. Beer Pong skills.)

(My basement.)

(And the Dream Canyon Cabin stream.)

(The cabin sauna....so much brrr.)

(Visit by my boy Jonathon. Enjoying much expensive but insanely good Brazilian food.)

Play Me

F*@k the man!!!

Just got back from the Title & Registration Office, also known as the 3rd level of hell. I was a bit tentative upon entering the place, not because of the fiery read décor or the fat bellied little imps poking patrons with sticks, but more for the fact of the little noticed sign hanging by the door that read: “We f*@k you because we can.”

So there I was, happy as a clam (please note that clam rhymes with sham), ready to grab my license plate and head out the door. I had done everything right. I had saved, and saved, and saved, resolutely sacrificing to buy my used FZ1. The paper work was there, proof of insurance, title, and delightfully honest sales receipt filled out by yours truly. I had jumped through the hoops, a blissfully ignorant lap dog, ready to grab my plates and head out on my first ride.

Bam…crunch….slap to the face. The attendant, wearing a strangely bemused grin, slides my plates across the table. Ready to head out the door, a voice, from the red she-devil pulls me back with a, “That will be 565 dollars sir”.

“Wait. What?” My heart sinks in horror.

“You see” she continues, “the money that you earned at your low wage job….well that is taxed. Suck from the government nipple and you pay. Then, we let you take that money, dream, and dream, and scheme, and buy high priced items that ultimately convince you that you are happy. We take that money that was just taxed, and then we tax you again. We call it the ‘F*@k you’ tax. Live in a high income town, and we assume that you are rich, so we tax you more. Then, we let you earn more money until you die….so that we can tax you again.”

Me, well, I stood breathless. I was about to cry. I had hopes of escaping my low income mind numbing job for a brief series of moments (in Europe they call them “vacations”), but now, having been taxed for paying my taxes, I was pretty much screwed.

Red tinged and hasty footed, I walked out the door. They let me leave the not so pearly gates of hell with a smile, knowing full well, that I wasn’t going anywhere. That my freedom was tied to their taxes, and that my soul, monetary or otherwise, would return.

Grrrrrrrr…….

Pretty but expensive.

Delicious. She's finally mine!

Ahahahahahahah! Oh sweet lordy lord she’s mine. Finally mine.

From the earliest of my adolescent days, I have had a love affair with motorcycles. I can remember passionate yearnings for a Buell X1 Lightening before high school, and many a crush and love affair thereafter. My dad’s into trials & BMW’s, my brother into dual sports, my uncle owns a Harley, and me—well let’s just say I’m a sport bike kind of guy. I like shiny objects and voluptuous motors, something that will scream and peal when I want it to. Something fast, phallic, and delightfully sizzling to the touch.

Blame it on the Italian in me…I dunno…but for me a bike is like a beautiful women. It embodies all that I love in romance. It has to burn, steal away concentration. It has to be mysterious, and diminish all other flames. It has to entice me with its power, yet roll over when I turn the key.

Speed, danger, and the union of it all. These are all part of it. Two connected bodies entwined in that thing called passion, that reminds you what it means to be alive.

Oooooh….don’t let me get carried away.

The bike that I have been dreaming of for years has been a Yamaha FZ1. I was hooked the first time I took my uncle’s FZ out for a spin. For me, it is the perfect union of things. It is sleek, fast, and designed with the curvy figure of the sport bike class. But it also pays homage to the practicality of a tour bike, with more of an upright stance than say the R1. It is a naked bike, without all of the frilly plastic around the body. Comfortable, yet dangerous…a true mix for a lover like me.

And now with much hard work, patience, and Santa blessings. She is mine.

1000cc’s of pure bliss. Completely moded out by a bike technician.

Buying used is smart in the bike world, as now I have low mileage well maintained beast at almost half the price.

The extra’s include:

Yosh Slip - On
Ivan's Jet Kit
AIS Removed (Ivan's kit)
Penske 8981 W 600# spring - Rear Shock
Full build front forks - Racetech Gold Valves/.95 springs/fluid
16/48 gearing - new chain and sprockets @ 3500miles
Double Bubble light smoke windscreen
Speedo Healer w/ Top Speed Memory Function
Temp Gauge - lighted w LED indicator, and manual fan switch
New EBC Racing Brake pads (front only)
Tobe Steering Damper
Intuitive Frame Sliders
Pilot Powers - Nearly New
Tank Slapper Protective Clear Film on Tank

Damn! I’m so friggin excited to ride this lady it hurts!

My down payment is gonna hit the mail soon, and I should have her delivered in a few months. Come spring I will be hitting the roads, enjoying the wind through my face, and living up the passion of a lovely new ride. If your lucky, I’ll even let you ride with me….heh.

So yummy. And so finally mine. That’s all I have to say.

Leo out.

Yeah, I know. Finally...

Oh good journal of mine, it has been too long. Life it seems moves without you. Your pages once gilded with the trappings of adventurous youth now lie creased and undusted, waiting to be shelved into the ubliet of my personal library. Once cherished and adored, you now sit forgotten—a testament to the scratchless turnings of a mundane time, where automation – thoughtless and routine – becomes the sole mode and method of being.

Now, new frontiers lie ahead. New stories have yet to be written, and blank spaces filled. Where once there were palm trees, beaches, and all the beauty of the southerly cross, now sit mountains, present and looming, a different setting for a future tale. Faces and faculties have changed, new measures won, personal triumphs bested by smiling domesticity.

And in this…

…this present place.

You creak, you yearn, you finally open. With new stories to let loose upon the fluttering world.

* * *

Ah Boulder, Boulder, Boulder. So much and so fast. In all truth it is hard to complain about living here. You would really have to work at it. The city is so very rich and vibrant with life, a hot bed of culture and arts, and a maelstrom of unconventional practices and activities. Just the other day I was driving around in some unnamed neighborhood and saw an old lady walking her dog, a Great Dane, and just next to it a collared lama of all things. There they strolled, hairy beast and mountain spitter, walking the sidewalk side by side as if it was the most normal thing in the world. People slap bumper stickers on their hipped out Volkswagen vans with slogans like “Keep Boulder Weird”, and all eccentricities considering, they ain’t lying.

Take the annual “Naked Pumpkin Run” for instance, where “scores of strapping young lads and lasses take to the streets in a fine blend of artistry, harmless debauchery, and nudity”. “Why?” a Midwest church goer might ask. Well, because we’re Boulder, because we can.

We have quirky people, glorious shopping districts, and some of these:

Plus our town looks like this, and we channel your jealousy to powerful ends:

But anyhow, as far as my life goes, I could describe my experience here with one simple phrase: Rich transience. As with the last year and a half of my life, everything I touch seems to change, to waiver and disappear so fast—verification of the inconcrete nature of my little corner of reality. Thus far, in little over three months here, I have run through three jobs, three housing states, and three girlfriends funny enough. I worked first with my brother doing heavy landscaping, fitting rocks into nooks and generally making green places more pretty. Then came all hell of hell’s bells, work at a coffee shop where I had to arise at five in the morning to deal with scores of muttering grumble bunnies who had not YET had their coffee. Now, I work a full schedule picking and delivering organic and conventional goods for an Online grocery business that just started up in March. The crew I work with is fun, but the activity rather lean on the intellectual side of things. I have already started to critique general business practices, and am slowly working on a marketing plan for them, even though I am a simple minded peon and lowest on the ‘who’s the smartest monkey’ ladder.

The love agenda has been equally fleeting, with few worthy connections made. Ironic how my skills in meeting women have steadily increased, while the propensity for finding worthy one’s continues to fall. Not that I haven’t been dating good people, just that the time and place variables keep rolling me snake eyes, when a seven is the only thing that will do. It would be nice to meet someone that I really connect with again, but who am I to rush the unmovable. Taisa and I continue to talk over the phone and cherish the memory of one another, and I look forward to seeing her again soon (next year perhaps), but two thousand miles is a long way to bridge in this current moment of time.

Overall though, my life is definitely not all boohoo and humbug. The richness in my transience comes from so many areas. Except for my limited travels, no place I have lived can compare. First off, I live with my two brothers and two other great roommates. Our house, an ugly 60’s brick shelter off Yale road is a true compliment to good spirits and a fun lifestyle. We have a dog, “Stich”, who is the fattest piece of Doberman sausage I have ever seen. He is dopy bear like animal with a winning spirit and brings a lot of joy into our home. Our house is game madness, and we are now equipped with foosball, ping pong, horseshoes, disk golf baskets, and every manner of Nintendo and PlayStation hardware known to man. Our parties have become infamous, full of barbeque, good people and great times.

(Our house on left...ah the things we do for fun)

Aside from work and the thousand other circles I travel, a great deal of my friends here are fellow angoleiros, really good people that I have met playing Capoeira here in town.

There is Larry, our illustrious leader and capoeirista extraordinaire,

Michael, the acupuncturist,

Finnish fire child Henna…

…and so many more. Capoeira is a great outlet for me, and with the five groups currently playing in Boulder, the town truly provides. I am now doing both styles of Capoeira Regional and Angola, and am proficient in the art of back hand springs, hand stands, and am more flexible than you ever wished you could be. Sorry.

As usual Brazil continues to be of great fascination to me. I am joining up with a Portuguese language group out of Denver, and hope to start some university classes next year. I have opened a Brazilian savings account (right next to my motorcycle savings account hooraah!), and hope to travel there once a year if possible. On a vocational level, I have been studying a relatively new field called Cultural Heritage Tourism which might lead to some interesting opportunities in the States and perhaps someday in Brazil. Just sent my resume to the director of State Heritage Tourism last week so we’ll see what comes of it.

Other areas of richness include the inevitable work on personal spirituality and growth, which is really par for the course in this town (When in Boulder, do as the Boulderites as they say). To my greatest aggravation and fatigue I still remain plagued by extremely visceral dreams of my ex-wife, though the frequency has subsided quite a bit. Since childhood I have dealt with irregular sleep patterns and nightmarish dreams—as if my subconscious has a cyclical fascination with my inner demons. Not fun to say the least, and the emotional tug and pull of these particular dreams have been the worst yet. In response, I have put myself on the offensive with my brother Shem as encourager, and a form of Tibetan Dream Yoga as guide. Sounds hippy, yes, but it is actually one of the oldest exploratory forms of lucid dream training in documented history, and there is a lot I feel I can take from it (ah, well, sanity is overrated anyway…hurumph).

So all in all, life continues to move. There is a lot I continue to be thankful for, a bit I feel anger toward, a dollop I feel frustrated with, much I rapturously enjoy. All in all, the sweeps of my transience continue to carry me toward some unknown place. I hope to be back in school or dabbling in the professional world soon. I hope to continue growing in my passions and interests, make connections and building bridges along the way. I hope to find some measure of love yet again, whatever that means. All, I guess, in some great bid to call myself human.

Blah, blah, blah.

Leo out.

Updates coming soon......No....really I swear!!!!

Onto the job thing...

People have asked, thus do I answer... There comes a time in a man’s life when the threat of old age and the din of obligation bespeaks anchors, chains, and all of the portents of settling down. There comes a time when the nature of the world in all of its carnivorous splendor demands forethought and a choice—the resolution of more secure and stable path. It is in this moment, at the edge of the precipice, that one must ask the most difficult of questions: Just who in the hell am I, and what pray tell will make me happy?

As many of you know, I have been teetering on the edge of this cliff for some time, slowly wavering towards a self actualized fully informed decision. Over the past year my travels both across the States and in Brazil have afforded valuable personal discovery time, allowing for insight into the structure and dimension of the who behind the me.

Professionally speaking I have begun to narrow my field of interest, readying myself for that great leap of commitment into career specialization both within and after school. Two choices now stand before me, two vastly different realms of thought and vocation that I am eager to explore. They are:

Museum Studies

and, of all things…

Law

To pursue a career in the museum field seems, at first glance, a natural choice for me. I have devoted the last five years of my volunteer and work time in museums, and have enjoyed it almost every step of the way. There are many aspects of the field – working close with the public, exhibit design, interpretation of historic and cultural materials – that I believe I am well suited for. The work is creative, challenging, and would likely be for the most part, intellectually sustaining. Where I fault it, however, is in the ever critical economic arena. By definition museums are non-profit agencies. They spend the great majority of their efforts fighting for monetary hand outs, scraps if you will, and are adept at finding ingenious ways to NOT pay people. As archaic as it sounds, my experience over the last few years has turned me into somewhat of a traditionalist in that I want to be the alpha provider, the ‘man of the house’, in my future domesticity. In the end, I could probably make a decent living doing the museum thing, but I question whether decent is adequate.

If I were to pursue this field, CU offers a great program that I could apply to next fall. I would likely focus in the administrative realm, rather than the curatorial realm, and given a few decades would probably win relative comfort, job security, and that decent salary (I dunno…maybe around 50 grand with benefits).

Now, the law school proposal has been consuming my thoughts of late. The idea was sparked by an off hand comment from my mother, and also by an experience I had in Brazil. While in Salvador, I ended up volunteering for a housing project/social foundation in the Simões Filho municipality. There, a public prosecutor by the name of Hortênsia Gomes Pinho had taken on a steel production company, which had essentially destroyed the surrounding environs and living condition for people in the region. The civil investigation and following suit produced, in the end, a substantial flow of cash which enabled social organizers to create a housing project for the afflicted. It was, in one word, inspiring. I was doing the anthropology thing at the time, writing about project, but realized even with my ‘mightier than the sword’ pen who the true movers and shakers were.

This thought in mind, with little knowledge of what a career in law would entail, I headed off to the CU school of law, the newest and shiniest building on the Boulder campus. Having spent my undergraduate years tucked away in dilapidated anthropology and humanities buildings, I was impressed by the life and hmmm…currency of the place. A little sprout of thought popped in my head and that was…gee self, maybe you could do better. Maybe being a shut-in in potentially dying institutions isn’t for you.

Doing some research online, two areas of law were of great interest to me. First, cultural heritage preservation law (protection of archaeological sites, matters of cultural identity, etc.) and second, indigenous law. Both would allow me to stay within the circle of studies that I have, for so long, been interested. So on first glance the idea of law sounded interesting, palatable, perhaps even fruitful, but what of the reality?

Well, doing more research, I found this to be the average view of law school and the life trend of the lawyer:

“Law School Summary: Born ----->genetic defect ------>desire to be a lawyer -----> take LSAT -----> accepted into law school ------> three years of torment ------>rest of life in torment ------> Die”

Not so positive, eh? While my research is at best superficial, most books and opinions that I come across are of the vein “my god what have I done to myself” and “how can I get out of the profession of law before it kills me”. First outlook looks gloomy, yet I continue to ponder.

Now, as for the CU school of law, my chances of being accepted are staggering. The school itself is top tier, meaning it’s expensive and contains lots of people way to smart for their own good. Admission quotas dictate that roughly 75% of the very small entering class must be women and minorities, leaving the last 25% of white males to fight viciously over the limited seating (as a side note, I’ve been contemplating what it means to be a minority, and if the socially fabricated term applies to me, considering there are three generations of “latinos” in the fam). If I do get in, I must contend with three years of hell, even if the subject fascinates me and I am a 100% enthralled. Oh yes, and despite the stereotype, the great majority of lawyers out there, except in the largest and most well known firms, don’t really make that much cash. I could anticipate roughly $60,000 out of school if I land a good job.

Ah, the realities of reality. Blah.

So with all this in mind, this is my plan. Over the next year, until I can apply to one of these programs, I will continue to probe, search, and discover which option is best for me. I will be conducting interviews with people in these respective fields, and doing lots of reading on the matter, to “edumacate” myself properly.

The leap ahead is large, vast, and only with confidence and the hope of better things can I take that first step onward.

(I think this is me thinking. I think.)

Savvy Springs

Headed up to Colorado Springs for some partying with friends and strangers. Came back to a house full of other peeps looking to hit Pearl on a Saturday night. Spent the rest of Sunday working and recovering. Ahhh, the vicariousness of youth.

(Beer pong with some girl. I swept the match with a last cup slam on the final play.)

(It ain't easy bein' cheesy.)

(This is my drunk face.)

(Checked out Garden of the God's on the following day. The weather was perfect, calm cool seventies. The place was absolutely stunning, with large granite and limestone rock formations pushing up from a seeming nowhere. All very cool.)

(Little did he know that the rock was just seconds from tumbling.)

(Like I said, from out of nowhere.)

(This was supposed to be one of those impressive climbing pics, but my photographer accidently caught the edge of the floor.)

(Saturday in Boulder. Killing time in the Catacombs.)

(I was saddled with being the DD. No booze rockets to keep me awake.)

(Check out the yarn ball I'm arm rolling around my shoulder. The crowd was impressed by that one.)

Wyoming Whistles

Caught between two ends of the curved bow, the string of the berimbau clattered loudly, resonating across the flat open space of the hall. Two hands, fluttering to attention, wrap a worn silence into measured song, breaking the cords of the instrument into a steady rise and fall. With feet placed firmly on the ground the teacher sat at mid center, his white pants and loose green shirt fluttering in the mountain wind. Smiling slyly, a song breaks free from his lips, sailing quickly into an ocean of student voices that add weight to his cry.

“Vou dizer a meu senhor, que a manteiga derramou.”
"A manteiga não é minha, a manteiga é de Ioio”.

With a slight nod of his head, other instruments – an agogo, atabaque, and pandeiros – join the fray, rasping, drumming, and gonging to an unhurried beat.

“Vou dizer a meu senhor, que a manteiga derramou.”
"A manteiga do patrão, caiu no chão e derramou.”

Music well in time, the bateria pushing a dynamic energy, two players join the circle crouching beneath the seat of the teachers lead berimbau. All in place and the roda now formed, the capoeiristas breath in the music, listening to the beat that would signal the opening of their play. Respeito, responsabilidade, segurança, malícia, liberdade—a handshake passes between them speaking of such things. Eyes now locked, they begin to move. To dance. An evasion, a kick, a volley slipping between them. One sequence leads to another, as they stand, and dip, and sway.

The chorus builds and is filled again.

“Vou dizer a meu senhor, que a manteiga derramou.”
“A manteiga não é minha, a manteiga derramou.”

Striking to the lean of a different beat, the match soon slows, and the berimbau signals the end of the game. Propelled by the magic of structure without form, a catalyst born of oppression on the back of a stolen kingdom, a child born to an old world and matured in the new, two players once again take center stage. The teacher smiles, the wind blows, and the dance is lived again.

* * *

This past weekend marked a fun little jaunt for the Capoeira gang, heading up to the mountains for some delicious r & r. A few weeks back, after a busy sweat session in the basement of the CU economics building, flyers of a rather adventurous nature were passed around the room, inviting the willing out to the Flying X ranch in Wyoming. Alex, the blonde haired blue eyed patron of the trip, whose mom held a part in the 40 square mile estate, seemed happy to share in the natural wonder of her long time vacationary abode, welcoming friends and family to join the ride. Three weeks later, after a number of “bless me, my head hurts”-inhuman-but-blissfully-fun practice sessions, the gang found its way to Alex’s place, all quivering and ready to go. After a mother goose rattle snake and trash pickup talk by Alex’s mom, we piled into our vehicles, heading out towards the immense open greenery of northeastern Colorado.

The drive north toward the table top mesas of southern Wyoming was full of interesting sites, not excluding….snow fences!....buffalo statues!...cow pies!...and oh yes, a town called Chugwater (water not included). Michael, Shem, Mrs. Tiitola and I (coolest last name ever), blasted out some Aphex on the stereo, and made contorted faces when the rest of our cohorts drove by. If there is one thing this trip has taught me, it is that we are wise and mature beyond our years.

In little over 2hrs time, we found ourselves amidst the mountain badlands, awe struck by the natural vicissitudes of the sky (i.e. it got rainy, and then unrainy right quick). As it turns out, the topography of Flying X looks exceptionally like the weathered rock bulbouses of the Wichita Mountains. Taking the long windy dirt road up to the central site, one gathers the impression of an age and size long warn by the ravages of time, like the emaciated skeleton of a dinosaur once ribbed in muscle and flesh—now only a pile of ash and bone. Douglas fir and field grasses spread out across the flatter plains, and free roaming horses wandered their open space. It was on first impression a utopia, but an empty kind, devoid of the greater flocks of our bipedal kind.

Only staying one night, it was in our best interest to make good use of our time. A well isolated camping spot was chosen about a mile an a half from the ranch compound. After tents were set, the ever entertaining side that is David mischievously broke out some juggling gear; fire staff and poi included. What followed was an impromptu renaissance faire—an out of place juggle standoff where the unskilled animated the inanimate, hoping to avoid sharp accidents to the face. Add to the mix some beer lubricant, and lot’s of horse manure on the ground, and one has the makings of a good time!

But anyway…

Later in the evening, after a ruff and tumble climb up the nearest mountain, we settled back into our social selves looking for dinner and entertainment at the main cabin. Boasting a large square footage of grill space by the outside patio, we chucked some meat on the fire, drank some margarita mix, and dutifully stuffed ourselves with chips and dip. Not intending to settle on being square, bottles of beer and vodka were produced, the mood changing from dinner nicety to all out war. The downstairs game room was invaded, and many a high moment lived fighting for the ping pong or foosball dynasty.

After that bit of fun, after deciding it was time to do what it is that we do, we headed back up to the patio for a solid round of jogando Capoeira. I learned the important lesson that, as a martial art, Capoeira is one of the few that can be played funny on the rumy. Slight intoxication actually helped loosen up my game, allowing for a more liberated if not less calculated movement (which is good when one is too novice to actually calculate). After many beautiful games, the night turned into a free for all of sex, drugs, and rock & roll…actually no, but we did play some pool volleyball and do a little congo drumming back at camp. Come on people, we’re not that interesting.

The following day followed the first, with lots of beautiful weather and fun activates. A large contingent of the group opted to stay at camp, while the others ventured off on a horseback ride around the property. Those with hangovers nursed them, and those without guiltlessly traversed the cool mountain air. When all was said and done, the group rolled out of camp around 3:30, leaving not a trace or scratch of the overnight stay.

So it was with but a wave that Flying X passed behind us, a pleasant memory on life’s great horizon…how’s that for an ending???

Many thanks Alex!

(Horse Manure Campsite)

(Eamon's t-shirt says it all)

(How do you spell cheers in Finnish?)

(Crew climb)

(Not at the top and already elated)

(Happy with her mountain)

(Last year, Everest. This year, the world!)

(King of the mountain anyone?)

(Where's Waldo?)

more pics later....

Allright already!!!

New posts, coming soon. Yes, I'm just a lazy bastard.

Birthdays are Weird

Out with Doug. Ate a bit. Drank a bit. Did the birthday thing.

(Went to some Mexican restaurant. Sometimes you feel old on your birthday, othertimes you hang out with 15 people in their 30's, and suddently, you feel younger! Claudia, Doug, and Helen to my right. Claudia is the first Brazilian I met in D.C. The portuguese and Brazil worldcup match on tv were fun.)

(No one messes with the Leo. Especially on his birthday.)

(Bethesda bar. Compulsory peace sign. Who knows.)

(Ladies and gentlemen, this is a subway....or at least the stairs leading to it. The escalator was four stories tall. I was 25 when I got on the thing, and like 26 or 27 something when I got off.)

(Yeah, so, I ended up taking a lovely lady home. She didn't talk much but she was a damn good listener. Don't get any wild ideas, that thing beneath my hand is actually a pen. No really, I don't swing that way.)