November
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7th: "A naked woman, and a carcass truck visits Cicada Hill"
Today, like in the past four days, the sky was of a deep dark gray. A heavy summer storm has more than made its presence known, and we are all awaiting the devastating shower that inexorably will come. These are my favorite days of Summer, and I always take advantage of the dandy weather to get out of the cave and do something in the small world of this great urban outdoors. From hanging at the library to visiting people, I've done quite a bit, and today, in a few hours, I'll be going out again. The plan is to visit the museum
Going up Cicada Hill, what a surprise!: a carcass truck, like the one I mentioned the other day, is also going up Cicada Hill.
In a place where so many animals are butchered and have their carcasses unconsecratedly dumped, it sure is ironic to see one of those just driving by. [NSFW PIC]
The city's main museum has quite the history; one I am not telling here right now. I'll be going back there tomorrow, so the next entry will have a better write-up about the place. For now, all I want to do is share some of the pictures I took there, and tell a funny story about one of them.
This here is an excerpt from one of the city's first newspapers, 4th edition of, and one of the front page headlines is about one of the city's doctors going on a trip:
It reads: "Bound for the village of Poções, where he resides, travels tomorrow the competent and highly regarded medic Dr. Nestor Guimarães, our brilliant confrere from [rival paper]. [This paper] wishes him a happy trip."
This is the typewriter of our most renowned writer: Mozart Tanajura. Others of his things in display are "the last pen he used" and clothes he would regularly wear.
You can see the keys he used the most from their color.
And look what I found encased in glass: The Intimate Moan.
My friend told me a really funny story about this statue. Since this is the city's main museum, it's common for all kinds of grades in school to be visiting. One day, in an elementary school trip, they (my friend) visited the museum. In the back there's the garden, and in the garden there's this statue of a terrifically detailed naked lady. And I mean reaaaaally detailed, as in everything is there with all the peaks and valleys and textures and hairs you can imagine. But the kids never got a chance of getting up close, because the teacher was so flustered about it the tour had to end right then and there, and they all had to go back to school. "This is indecent!" she would shout, shoving the children towards the exit, "Why is that symbol of perversion displayed in what should be a safe, public space!?" And the tour guide didn't say a thing . That was a day of much learning for those children because, as said my friend, the story would make rounds in school, because nobody knew why the teacher was so upset. Tales come and go, and in the end, they all collectively learn a very important lesson about why art is so cool.
So. Naked. Tomorrow I'll be taking more pictures of it.
Day 15 (08/11)
6th: "The Betsies I see"
Today's plan was to visit the library. The November guest book already has my name thrice, each line very close to each other, even though it's been six days already. I don't quite know what to feel about that; last year there was so much movement, but now it seems nobody is interested in visiting the library. I have to wonder how many books will be lost in this trend. Last December, when I had the opportunity to take a look at the list of borrowed books, it was in the hundreds; missing: dozens. My guess is this year, so far, the list of missing books (past the borrow expiration date) is reaching over 100 lines.
In any way, I came back to visit regularly because of a name that quite caught my attention in recent months: Ricardo de Benedictis. He is the current president of the city's Academy of Letters, and a terrifically accomplished writer and editor. In addition, he is also the president of APOLLO: Poções' Academy of Letters and Visual Arts; the city my latest book is about. My plan is to approach him during the coming up literary festival, and present my projects and visions relating to the city and its literary scene. Undoubtedly, I believe, they must interest him, but to make a conversation the more interesting, a pleasantry necessary for good manners is to know and understand the character you wish to interview. Thus, it's imperative I study his life and work, and certainly lucky for me, he's donated the larger part of his bibliography to the local library. All I have to do now is sit down with a pile of books this next week and learn.
Good news for people who are in this blog for the poetry side of it (oh, dear), is that in order to boost my achievements, there will be more activity in the poetry translation department. "Conquistense Poetry" is coming back, production for the next volume has already started, and will be uploaded some time soon. Keep an eye for that.
You know those moments when you're strolling about, and you happen to stumble upon somebody that truly resembles —not another person— someone or something that you are deeply fond of? This happens to me a lot, specially when it comes to Betsy, from Summer Camp Island. I have an immense interest in people of her sort and, maybe good for me, it is surprisingly easy to find "Betsies" in the wild, and every one of them I've ever known, indeed, is as cool as Betsy herself.
(The part that stings is that while "everybody else" can naturally have this "Betsy" to them, it's much harder for me to be part of it. I didn't feel very "Betsy" in my Halloween costume, and that sucks.)
Coming home tonight, I passed by one of these people. Afterward it was all whirlwind, heat, and flash inside my head; they were all I could think about.
It's a hardwired flaw, I think, to have my brain making this sort of assimilation. Both because of how frequent it is, and because more often than not, I will connect people to concepts that do not, absolutely, resemble the human (form, idea, etc.) in any aspect. Say, someone and a fire hydrant, for example, or the act of riding a bicycle, or a specific day of the year. Is this because I am in deeper connection with the "everythingness" of reality, or because I so-simply have something wrong with the old brain? Either way, it makes me wonder if anybody else goes through the same.
Sorry for the lack of updates on Pepper. But he's alive and well:
day 11 (03/11)
day 13 (05/11)
day 14 (06/11)
3rd: "My baby died"
So… I had a pretty weird dream yesterday. This is what I could gather from the notes I scribbled right after waking up:
Bothered in a bus, with faceless people that should've been my friends. I got off the bus with the intent of finding a fille I could pay to listen to my sorrows, but all I found was an old woman sitting on a stoop.
“Do you speak English?” I ask. “What's your name?”
But she replied with unintelligible words from a language alien to me.
I sit by her side, then lay my head on her lap. Stroking my hair, she tells me the story of her life, all in words I can understand. In silence, I apprehended her wisdom, and felt my sorrows diminishing in size and reason inside my guts.
Midway through the tale, a strange woman comes out from the dark woods, holding in her bruised hands a transparent plastic bag filled with water, with a miniscule thing floating about inside.
I couldn't understand a word she said, but neither could the old woman. I looked again at the bag, and that previously indiscernible thing had become a goldfish.
Eventually, I came to understand the message the strange woman wished to send: she wanted me to save that fish's life. So, I took it into the hospital we were sitting right in front of.
The panic now was mine. The fish had a baby face and a strong beating heart. The old lady heard its outcry and told me that it was hungry. I asked the fish-baby if it was really bad, and it said, “I'm starving.”
At the counter, a nurse was in attendance, completely covered in medical attire. I asked for a bit of baby formula, for my starving baby was dying in my hands, and begged for at least a tiny little teaspoon of; but the nurse, stoic, looking me in the eyes in a sort of challenge, refused. I got on my knees and cried and cried for a little mercy to be spared, but her will wouldn't budge. I could see all the baby formula she held under the counter: multiple stacks of store-fresh cans; worse yet, they were all about to expire without as much as being touched by a person in need. So I jumped over the counter, stole a spoonful and quickly made a run for it, holding my baby, with the old lady right behind me.
Instead of escaping through the front door we came in, we infiltrated the hospital's private grounds. The baby, I felt, was still warm, but wouldn't respond to any questions I'd make. Its face was turning pale, I needed to feed it at once, but just as I thought of stopping to do so, the nurse appeared, coming our way: in her hand, a big green syringe.
Entering and exiting doors in the maze of hospital rooms, we eventually reach a dead end. The nurse catches up to us, but she doesn't do a thing to the baby or my person. All she does is hand me that strange syringe, this time with a devilish grin, and says, “Here. You're gonna need it, whether you want it or not.”
I question, “For what?”
And she answers in the gentlest tone: “For that little monster you have in your arms. Now scram.”
Without hesitating, we enter the door right behind us and appear at the back of the hospital. It's in there that I feel the baby getting cold. I put my ear on its little chest and can't hear a thing — panic once again ensues. We were at a sort of bus station, and the noise of all those engines running was so loud that it made me unable to hear my own thoughts.
I called the old lady's attention, showed her the baby. She puts a hand the size of its torso over its heart, looks at me and shouts, “Hospital! We need Hospital!” So I turn to the one we just exited, but she warns, “No! That one no good!”, grabs my hand and pulls me towards one of the buses.
She points up at the sign, shouting, “Hospital! Hospital!”, but hospital wasn't written on that one; but neither was it in any of the destinations from that station. We hopped on that one bus and the trip began.
The driver, as we were leaving, looks over his shoulder and shouts to the passengers, “Whoop! Who's ready to die?”. And they all rejoice. He pulls the shift, and it comes off, then the handbrake, and each time he turns to us and asks, “Does anybody want this?” But nobody wanted any of it, so he threw it all out the window.
I didn't fret during the trip, despite knowing that that bus was aimed to the afterlife. Something inside me knew that it didn't mean no harm to me; but not the lady: she was terrified.
As the bus sped through the traffic, though, the driver seemed to have a change of heart, and stepped hard on the break to try to stop the bus; which was unsuccessful. As a last resort, he maneuvers to stop the vehicle by ramming it against a taxi parked on the side of the road. The impact wasn't strong, but apart from the baby and I, all who were in that bus died. It was carnage.
I jumped out the window with the baby in my arms. Now it cried like fingernails scratching a chalkboard, like real babies do.
Here, Mme. Bovary wakes me up at the usual time, asking for food, and I attend to her needs. But wanting to see how that dream would end, I postponed the morning to-dos and went back to sleep.
Now, I was in a high school. The baby in my arms was wrapped in a white sheet, but when I uncovered it to take a look, the baby face was gone; it was but a tiny, orange goldfish.
The bell rang with Bovary waking me up again, but I shushed her and went back to sleep.
Now, I was at a farmer's market, and held the baby in a closed fist. When I opened my hand, it was still a fish. I put it close to my ear and heard a loud heartbeat. There were two skater boys with me, and we were just browsing.
As time passed, the fish would become smaller and smaller, until it was just a tiny little beating heart, the size of my chewed up fingernail, where I placed it.
Suddenly, that sense of duty came back, I needed to find the baby something to eat, and this time there was food all around; only I couldn't speak to the sellers to explain my situation, and they all shrugged me off and went on with their business. Meanwhile, the cadence of the little heart slowed down to a full stop, while it morphed and grew around the tip of my finger, in the shape of a pinkish crayfish. Once it finished growing, it was the size of a giant red shrimp, with little legs on each side.
Finding no luck in my food quest, I decided to exit the market, but the gates were all guarded by different gangs. I picked the one where men with a Haitian accent would ask, “What do you have there with you?”
I had nothing on my person, and found the question strange. The main man took me by the wrist and pointed to the fish: “This here, what this?”
And afraid, I said, “My baby… that's my baby.”
Weirded out, he looked me in the eyes like I was insane, then ripped off the head and legs of the crayfish that was now one with my left index finger; on a hand that was getting thinner and paler by the minute, compared to the opposite one.
“Baby!?” he spitted out, “This no baby! This a shrimp!” And the men laughed, finally letting me through.
Outside, the midday sun made walking down the hill an inferno. I looked down at what used to be my baby, and all I saw was a sorry piece of seafood burnt to a crisp. There was no beating heart in that charcoal mess.
I ripped it apart piece by piece, throwing them against the walls and windows, the sidewalk and the parked cars. They pulverized upon each hit, and lasted for at least a dozen. By the end, I had no more a left arm.
Once it was done, there was no relief or satisfaction; neither grief nor sorrow; I felt nothing.
2nd: "Grandma and I terrorizing the flower fair"
Today was a holiday, and very early in the morning my mother called saying, "Grandma and I are coming this noon. Have some food ready." And I did my best not to say some really bad stuff and hang up on her; nevertheless, she did the latter to me without hearing a single word from my mouth.
Noon came around, I had prepared some fettuccine Alfredo with the food money for the rest of the week, with little salt, naturally, because of grandma's old lady blood pressure problems, and mom was quick to show her displeasure in a very dignified manner: "I'd ask you for the salt, but seems you're out of it in this kitchen." Which made grandma, wide-eyed in surprise, say something in my defense: "This is a superb sauce, deary. And the pasta is cooked just the way I like it."
I didn't eat it myself, but tasted enough to know she was right, and I did not let mama incite a fit in me. But that I was more than ready to kick her ass out, yes I was.
Today was special also because it's the first day of the annual horticulture fair, and if there's something grandma and I can bond, over it's that. We're both very proud plant parentals, and that fair for us is like being a kid in a candy shop. We had the time of our lives, but I'll get there.
After lunch, we sat outside to rest for a bit before going, and grandma began telling her stories. She was never a storyteller; more of the old lady gossip type; but now that she's nearing the end of her life, like a blooming flower, she's showering everybody that will lend her an ear with the story of her life.
Grandma was one of the first to condemn me when I came out, back in the day, and it was very clear her distaste for "people like me", even though I used to be one of her favorites. But now, since all her offspring have bailed on her, she knows I am the last resort for keeping her memory alive. Thus, her righteousness gave me a chance.
She started right at the table to speak of her childhood. Of how she would, every day, walk five leagues to reach the farm of her rich folk, and then walk the five back. On the way, fruit farms that extended as far as the eye could see held nothing but the most plump, juicy of oranges. Throwing pebbles, she would get some down, peel them with her nails and eat them on the spot. "Sweet as honey they were," she said, "but I never saw a single one of those at the farmer's market."
(Brasil has a pretty big problem: the best of what we produce is not destined for ourselves, but for everybody else in the world. Nobody produces oranges like us, but those all go straight to the American table. The rest are ours, but seems we never did deserve to see the full result of our effort.)
At the farm, Swiss pigs and goats and beautiful horses. She remembers caring for a little baby goat that the mom rejected. She would embrace him like a human baby and feed him milk from a bottle every day. "That," she said, "was something I could never forget. I named him José, but for no special reason. All goats look like Josés."
16:00 on the dot, mama clapped twice said, "Time to go, people, the car is here!" And we rushed to the door, not to leave the driver waiting. As the car moved through the streets of neighboring boroughs, grandma would always have a tale to tell about the history of the place, as well as her own history with the city. "The lake is almost beautiful," she said, seeing the results of the clean-up, then continued. "In my time, though, it exceeded beauty. This lake used to go up to my house there on the hill; all these hills around it, none of it existed back then: it was all water. With time, the lake would dry up and people would start building houses. There was so much rain, the whole year long, but the lake, instead of filling up, emptied out. It's still big today, but it used to go as far as the eye could see. The sun would set and rise to and from the water."
At the turn of the St. Helena street, she would point and say, "There, right there. A plane, really big, came flying down and boom! Crashed right there. The people gathered, the plane was on fire, and a man very, very rich, owner of a thousand leagues of land, had his arm stuck to the door and was shouting 'someone, cut my arm, quick! I'll give you anything! I'll give you all I own! Just cut my arm, please!', but no one had the courage to do it. Give it some time, again boom! The plane exploded, and he died, in front of everyone."
I asked her about the cinema theaters the city used to have, and she told tales of her very first boyfriend, and how the Cine Glória was the place where she had her very first kiss. She remembers every single one of them, because back in the day, her favorite weekend diversion was watching Mazzaropi flicks ("the Brasilian Charles Chaplin") in the theaters. She would always have an eye on the Arts and Culture section of the paper to see what films were "em cartaz", and wouldn't miss a single one. "The cinema today is better, I would say. But, I'm not a fan of going to the mall to watch movies. It doesn't feel right," she said.
When we arrived at the fair, I had my camera in hand and took pictures of EVERYTHING. (If you enjoy my flower pictures, get ready for the next couple of updates to the album, because some beautiful stuff is going to come out.) Grandma and I were jumping from stand to stand, checking every leaf, every petal, and drooling over all of it. Sadly, I don't have money to spend on more plants, but I helped her choose so many nice packs, full of seedlings, that she'll be sharing in the future.
There was an orchid there that smelled like chocolate and cost more than my life. I smelled that thing for so long, it probably doesn't even smell anymore. LOL And there were so. many. roses...
Lately, I've been a sucker for roses. I can't get enough, and am mama of a nice little rosebush of yellow flowers. My favorite, though, are rose roses, and the ones I found there were just so beautiful. I wanted to take all of it home, but didn't have a single penny to spare, in my pocket. Mom, seeing and knowing why I wasn't getting anything, decided to give me one as a gift, and I was really close to declining it. Like, first she takes all my money, and then she tries to be good by giving me a cheap gift? "Yo! Wake up!"
From the people I interacted with there, there was a super cool guy that knew a whole lot about gardening and gave me lots of pro tips to get my rosebush looking nice. And there was a lady that, every time she found a good-looking flower, she'd come and tap me on the shoulder to say "hey, come see", and point them out for me to capture. We had a pretty similar eye, and her recommendations were always welcome.
Lastly, there was this girl there that couldn't take her eyes off me. But, the suspicion was strong that she was underage. "18," she confirmed, but I wasn't taking it. She approached me one time and said, "Hey, I saw you were taking pictures of my building. [pic related] I live there, you know? You should come around some time if you want to see how the inside looks like." And I was all, "yeah, sure, sounds good."
And then she asked, "Do you... like girls?" to which I affirmed, and so she asked for my number. I never know my cellular phone number, but this time, instead of evading or digging in my backpack to find the note I wrote it on, I just spewed a bunch of random numbers and said my goodbyes. I wonder if she found someone's contact with it, wonder if they will have a "fun conversation" spawned from "the situation". But now I can rest assured that I will not be starring in a Mamamax video in the near future. LOL
As for the girl, she had a really interesting face. All aspects of a Carioca bourgeoise, with a certain poison to it. All white, brown and ashes: that kind of woman; watching a prey with a stare not that of bestial predator, but of effigy, of statue, with a je ne sais quoi that nonchalantly induces fear. If she was her mama's size, I'd take that invite without thinking twice. I'd love to paint her.
When it got dark, it was time to go home. Grandma and I had circled that tiny fair half-a-dozen times, and were at the point of giving tours to newcomers. But mom wanted out of there and fast, she wasn't enjoying it one bit. So we took an Uber to an açaí place, and I had my first taste of pitaia, something the fish-o-mancer always bugs me to try, and all I took from it is: it tastes just like kiwi. It's literally just pink kiwi. He's definitely gonna kill me when I say that to him.
Mom was taking pictures left and right to put on her socials. But I warned that I didn't want to see a single one of me in there. To that, grandma said, "I know what you mean. I also don't like taking pictures. It's funny how on my Facebook, there's always a bunch of ugly people taking pictures of themselves. Even Facebook asks me to take pictures of myself: 'hey, Maria! It's been a while since you posted a picture, why don't you try?' and I'm like hell no! Why would I?" While she chuckled, I could only frown at this display of manipulation.
I definitely should photograph more at this time of day
so many more like this...
1st: "I do not like the government"
The city's b-day has come and gone, but the celebration is only happening on the 9th. The mayor said it will start with a public mass, followed by the [newly enrolled "tradition"] annual race to the lake; at the end, medals will be given and there will be watermelon and drinks a plenty.
What's funny about this is that the mayor commissioned the repainting of the side walks' border, as well as the lane divisors and crosswalks, but only those in the course of the race, and nowhere else. The lake cleanup was also resumed this week, since the mayor is going to give a speech at the dock, and that's totally okay, I guess. Nobody seems to be complaining about the shamelessness all these actions clearly show.
The cleanup was proposed in 2021, began in mid-late 2022, said to be done in less than a year, and now we're approaching 2024 and not a third of the lake is in good condition. [The last three months showed no progress for, apparently, the workers had a hiatus of sorts?] This service aims to get rid of the aquatic plants that took over the surface of the water in the almost two decades of mayoral neglect it had suffered, and despite being a great move by the powers that be, it is simply taking too long. Why? Because that lake being clean is not going to give anyone money. For it to go back to being a well-known tourist attraction, a lot has to change, and none of it is truly worth it for those in charge. Instead of taking advantage of the natural beauty of the amazing lake, in there somewhere underneath the green mass, they instead invest in shifting the tourist attention to more upper-class and/or heavily "capitalist-alized" areas that have absolutely nothing to do with the city's history or culture. And yeah, that's totally fine. Nothing wrong with that.
There's this gym that I always go out of my way to pass in front of. Why? Because the attendant there is simply gorgeous. Her desk is near the entrance, and what separates her from the street she's always watching is all but a glass door. For quite a few months now, every time I pass in front of the gym, we lock eyes and have this moment, you know? It lasts for maybe two or three seconds, but feels so incredibly good. We have shared waves, and winks and smiles, but the most important part of this interaction is the stare. We look into each other's eyes and just live in the moment.
It has happened a few dozen times now, and it would again today if she was there. Instead, in her place, I saw a bald-ass man that was absolutely not her. Makes me wonder if something happened, but I rather not worry about it.
Going from the library to the museum, I found a Bananaquit in the wild, perched on a metal column, so I took a picture of it. Such a beautiful, beautiful bird.
The old ladies on the window looking at the bird and me with a big smile on their faces.
As soon as I got to the museum, the curator was closing the windows. He took one quick look at me and said, "Sorry, buddy. You'll have to come back Friday." And I began the walk back down the hill with a big ole frown on my face.
But, next only a few buildings, I turned that frown upside down. Before me was the well-known "worst mall in the city".
Built somewhere in the 1900s, near what used to be the main cinema theater, this was the very first mall the Conquistense people had ever seen; and for a very long time, it was the only mall the Conquistense people were able to visit. Unfortunately, it was absolutely underwhelming.
Its construction was in order to sell the city as "modernized", since from the surrounding (regional) area this was where the state-of-the-art everything was located (first university, first cinema, first theater, etc.). The problem is that the stores and diversions inside were pretty much the same as outside: a finite line of clothing stores and barber shops; maybe a jewelry store or two. Those were clearly aimed at the more impressionable of people, but didn't do much to compete with the other (better and cheaper) stores of the same nature that were much more accessible to said target demographic, neighbors to the mall. Rent in the building was stupidly high since it went all into the mayor's pockets, and for this reason everything was expensive. It came to be known that the mall was for looking, not touching, and specially not for buying; so the businesses naturally died with time.
Seeing opportunity in this problem, a new mall opened up very close by. It knew its target demographic well (being a private company), and didn't prey on the stores affiliated with it. The first city mall's stores all flocked to the new mall, and the old one became emptier than ever before. Not seeing an issue at that, nothing was done on the part of the powers that be, and so the old mall withered while the new mall thrived. And that was until the 2000s came about.
In the 2000s, construction started for a new mall, far away from downtown (unlike the other two), in a new commercial zone that was at its genesis. There, big business foreign companies would flock to in the years up to now, building many hypermarkets and apartment buildings and things of the sort. In the start of the 2010s, this mall was ready to brawl.
Not only three months after the inauguration, the second mall closed its doors, unable to compete, and the first mall —although still working— was in no place to even step foot near that behemoth. Due to government funding, its doors remained open, but nobody was really going in there for the mall aspect of it. During the 2010s, even a bus line called "via Shopping" was created for people to have easier access to that far away building. Nothing was stopping the capitalist monster from taking over.
Now, we're in the 2020s, and a new behemoth has come in to play. The title of "most popular mall", though, is never going to be theirs. On the other hand, neither will the title of "worst mall", because that one goes to the abandoned, bankrupt, shell of a self that never was great, in a vegetative state, still funded by the government, building that I'm in right now.
I've been taking some pictures, but I'll have to come back here another day for more because, no doubt, this will become a one-shot album in the future. [pic related]
At the skate park, nothing was different. Chorão was stupid high off heroin and shadowboxing in front of us, gripping a karambit, saying, "I'm gonna kill a motherfucker. I'm gonna kill a motherfucker that disrespects the underground.", et cetera. Yang Nax came stepping up, asking me to play bass in his new band, but fuck that guy. I met a guy who was asking for advice on photography, and we had a nice chat about our tastes and styles. Now we're looking for a new camera for him. And when I was coming home, I met a poet. Now we're friends.
Recurring scene.