Flavs Paradise

I’ve been finding myself talking more and more to strangers, everyday. Little stolen moments, here and there, in a great assortment of places and hours. Funny is that I remember, as a child, hating when my mom did this exact same thing. She would start small talk to someone on the bus stop or a saleswoman at the store and I would just grit my teeth, mad at her intrusion. I couldn’t understand why she did this, why she had the need to engage with people that she didn’t know and provide, most of time, that idle chit-chat to fill the silence. I was young and just found it so awkward that it made me form tight closed fists. I guess I just didn’t see her point, wasn’t able too see past it, because – to me – silence wasn’t bad or weird, silence was in fact comforting and familiar and, in my conception, respectful.

But now I seem to grasp the concept better, to understand my mother’s reasons. Or not. Maybe now I am better at expressing my emotions or have grown into different desires and goals. All I know is that, as an adult person, in the rush of my lunch hour, I feel oddly compelled to initiate a conversation with the girl that is now serving coffeeso the window at the restaurant. As she poors mine, it is just the two of us, and she smiles as I make my order. And it is not because she smiles, it is just something that erupts inside me, as I feel an unstoppable force open my mouth and expell the words out of it.

However, I feel like this time, I’m not doing this because of my usual ego issues – unlike the common reason for all people that share the talkative personality, I don’t feel the need to charm her with words in any way, or coerce her into admiration, nor a smile, to reassure myself that I am still good and cool. I also know, deep down, that I’m not also doing this only because I want to be polite or nice, or because I feel like owe this girl – chubby and wonderful in her red apron – the faux attention that people pretend to pay in others to feel better, or as a snob repayment for the service she is providing. I wouldn’t do this, for people who do are terribly vile.

I guess I am not only compelled to speak to ger because she seems lonely. Actually she just seems fine without my chat, more tired than other people, but fine, working, in her own peace of mind. Not even bored, most definitely not lonely; in fact, it seems that I feel this sudden desire to address her surge because I am the one that feels lonely. I am the one alone – me, in my fast lunch hour (oh, modern times, oh, fast times!) that rushes by, where I gulped down, sitting in a hard plastic table, across a stranger that couldn’t even dignify me or acknowledge my presence with a look on the eyes.

And it is now that I understand my mom very well. Just like her, I crave the human contact that lacks in other parts of my life, I crave the reassurance that I am still there, alive, that people notice me. I must feel less invisible, must prove that people can hear me still and not see right through me, like a ghost or a shell of person, colorless. I need to share and receive the attention of others that I seemingly haven’t been receiving for a little while.

Suddenly, I understand my mother and the old ladies on grocery stores and those drunk men at the bars – like me, they just had to express it, couldn’t help it! They just had to say it all to whomever was willing to listen, all in order to prove to themselves that they were still present on the same face of the same earth as others. Like a telephone where the other end has gone silent, they needed proof.

It was just solitude. Not blind old ladies, not boredom, not alcohol. And If all those people were right here again, I’d talk.

I’d hug them all.

muita coisa mudou. e depois não mais. e muito tempo se passou, depois ainda mais e ainda mais algum.

uma era depois disso – pelo que se sente. e ainda passou mais outro tempo e mais um pouco. e tudo  assentou. e, por muito, o mundo continuou girando no seu eixo sem nenhuma mudança, sem susto e assalto, sem calafrio. sol e noite apenas, sem grandes alardes.

no entanto, ao mesmo tempo, sem que eu percebesse, o relógio trouxe consigo a primavera, estação aquela onde as plantas florescem e o pólen voa, o vento fecunda de botão em botão. e, tudo girou – inclusive meu coração;

e foi na tarde mansa, depois do café preto e sem açúcar que nos beijamos. meus olhos desfocados, nadando e brilhantes com o olhar de encanto. já você demonstrava só um ar de muito satisfeito consigo mesmo, dos louros de que havia me provador errada – tinha comprovado, me mostrado que era necessário apenas o toque da língua na fruta para gostar, sem o drama, o ferro e fogo.

e jogou meu copo vazio fora, a boca de cafeína, o hálito, e tomou minha mão na sua, convencido de si (e belo no topo do seu altar) e citou: “viu? a prova da doçura do mel é, somente, o próprio mel”.

e estava certo.

After a lifetime of running – running away from problems, from people, from worry – life finally catches up and grabs me with its heavy, slimy hands. It is all too cold and weird, the hands of death and of darkness, its grip on me. It is too quick, the whole ordeal: suddenly, the world falls on my head, the shrapnel piercing my skin, the sound deafening my young, unprepared ears. However, after the stun, it all seems clear. Apparently, it is only after the blow that my senses awake, that my numb conscience is jolted up and that I finally once again can feel my legs and my body. It is bleeding that I remember that I am mortal.

It is tiresome, the whole thing. The scenes are too fast, and I feel like puking. My heart craves peace, craves sleep, my head and stomach hurt. I am dizzy. However, as tired as I may feel, as disoriented as I may be, I am afraid of sleeping. In fact, I have developed a hatred for it – things die, go away while we sleep. Death creeps while we are abandoned in the fever of the sheets. Happiness evades. But the world of dreams is good, too good, with Morpheus inviting me to the seat in his highest throne; but I resist, at least as much as I can. I have to, you see?, or else darkness will take over. So I just don’t give in, won’t let it charm me. Like a child, I put my foot down and only say no and no and no. A mantra, a negation-mantra against sleep. I must thrive, things must live. I must keep life alive with my open eyes. But it is not for long: my eyelids fall like lead and I get into a deep trance. And I drop, as dead to the awake as a cold, lifeless body, into a restless dream.

When I wake up the world is still there, apparently still the same. I accept it, even if it seems improbable. Although unlikely, maybe this is the story: maybe I am the only who changed or the only who sees things the way I see it. Maybe not. So I drink my coffee, put on my pants and go on. And, as I brush my teeth, half an hour later, I’m thoroughly suffocating. Normal is too much at the moment, the experience too vivid and bright. All I want is to stop and scream and give up.

But I fight it. I push the thought to the back of my mind, hide it the in the farthest mental drawer that I possibly can. I bury it, together with its friends, with the old cold bones, like childhood traumas and bad dreams. As I spit the foam from the toothpaste, I kill thoughts, feelings, dreads and just mindlessly flush down the morning, the sunlight, the smiles. Down down it goes down the drain, for I must.

In the end, this is all senseless. A repeated motion. It yields nothing good. THings will still die, whether I want it or not. Other things, like people, will go away. Nothing will be comfortable nor agreeable. Nothing really is. Things are comfortable in moments and for moments, but there is only this. There is me, as I feed my body, as I deprive myself from sleeping. My sensations and my thoughts and my feelings only. They will only ever matter to me, and theirs to them, and no one else.

Maybe this will fade. But for now, I am lonely, more lonely that I have ever been. I am desolated as I realize that we are born and raised to give birth and raise more people and things that will just end up leaving us too. I am sad to notice, as I cross the city square full of old, crinkly people, that we, at most, can be joined together in different lonelinesses, in a big group of people alone, but that we never really share. We are together, but never really touching, reaching. We are just living, each to its own, in a collective bubble. It is all but a consolation prize, the convenient company of others, for – in the end – we are truly all born alone only to die alone.

We live our lives, day by day, dealing with wins and losses, both small and big. We try to have fun, be with our dear friends, loved ones and spend our money not only paying the bills, but eating, drinking, fucking and generally being alive. We walk to our offices, to museums, buses and our cars: we move and we go, out and about, making choices, right and wrong, according to our beliefs, trying to perfect and excel in the paths we deem better. We try to be proud, too. We fail, but make up, dust it off and just walk on. Keep walking. So we go on, living the best we can, focused on our own happiness, love, contentment. However, we constantly do this on our own, inside our minds and privacy, cherishing all that is ours and only ours, putting some very special people hidden in the shadows of our personal spotlights. We don’t forget them, see, nor seize to care about them… it’s just that they don’t often cross our minds. Those people tend to get little of our attention and not a lot of importance, for they are somewhat ill-fitting in our places, our well regarded little life-places, our time, our careers, and also because what they have to offer is, seemingly, not compatible, just not quite enough for the current state of our lives lives. It is more than surpsingly often that we walk forward and leave so many of those people behind, lost somewhere between our chores and other pieces of our puzzles, even though they are important and love you. And it is only when shit goes down, when breaths hang by a thread that we see that we did bad, that we drank and ate and were merry but all at the cost of forgetfulness and selfishness. It’s on these moments that memories and regrets come rushing out, words and pleas spilling out of minds and mouths, begs and prayers. We reach out to the gods and people, cling to the tiniest of hopes, bringing up those forgotten good memories, that springing forward like a good dream. And it is only between the hospital’s white walls and, later, in between tears shed in warm, uncomfortable beds that we, ashamed and guilty, notice how everything is so very, very frail, and how much we forget that all things, one day, have to go.

And how much we fail, daily, to notice all that is wrong.

entrou no ônibus bem agora pouco, ali na central do brasil, e se sentou do meu lado uma moça bem morena, daquelas meio gordinhas (“parrudinha”, como diz a minha mãe), em um vestidinho de oncinha curto e apertado, os cabelos arrumados em cachos bonitos e largos.

entrou, toda pomposa, com um namorado careca, baixinho e igualmente gordinho sendo puxado por uma mão. subiu, se equilibrando em tamancas de salto plataforma bem altas, daquelas meio baratas, cobertas de pequenos brilhos e miçangas. veio descendo o corredor do 249, com o carequeinha em uma mão e um buquê de rosas vermelhas imenso na outra. os dois, com tatuagens combinando nos antebraços – nomes e corações em letras rococós – e ela, com os dentes da frente separados e uma penugem espessa e negra no buço (chamaria quase de bigode) e bijus, muitas bijuterias, soando como sininhos, douradas, sorria, sorria muito, sorria largo…

e a moça do banco na diagonalo olhou com descaso, um bocejo grande de quem trabalhou a semana toda. virou os olhos. e a moça nem viu (ou não se importou) e mostrou mais os dentes, aquela fresta uma janela para língua, e beijou o namorado na bochecha com uma criança agradecida. feliz.

e foi a cena mais bonita que eu vi hoje.

You can see that she is her mother’s daughter and that she is her daughter’s mother: same hair color, same shape of mouth, same pearly whites for smiles. Both in blue jeans and white shirts, those heavy arms and their plump, large arses.

###

It is awfully late into the night. I know I’ve had my fair share of booze and many of the other passengers must have had too. We all look pasty and blurry, wet like all drunks are on late Saturday nights look like. The movement of the bus, speeding down the empty avenue, ignoring red lights, is both hypnotic and sickening for my seasoned stomach.

In the seat next to mine, a woman is sitting down, reading the smaller of psalms books I have ever seen. Her face, weathered from time, work and life’s endless hardships and bullshits, scrunches up, frowning upon the reading of the Lord’s word.

And her skirt is short, so short, too short for the cold, rainy streets outside the windows. It rides up as she gasps at her reading, showing skinny, shinny shaved legs, like sticks, sporting a cigarette burn by the knee. But she won’t tell, her face a sharp, stoic thing, stony, high cheekbones – she is putting on a brave face, holding on as she sits on this bus, on her way to her work, into the night, into the streets where she will venture until the day cracks in the sky, the sun like yolk in a soft sunny-side-up breakfast.

She won’t tell, her brave face won’t break. She is working on those avenues tonight.

###

Day after day he is there, same spot on the same sidewalk, on the Red Cross street near the hospital building, under the shade of the tallest mango tree around. A blanket covering the floor and all kinds of knickknacks sorted orderly on top of it.

It all just rubbish, really – objects in more or less good shape that were thrown in the garbage by people that didn’t need it anymore or that, maybe, even died.

But there, in his blanket, are his daily findings, his little treasures for sale. Honest little skinny black man, searching garbage cans for a living, dumpster diving, and, everyday, displaying it for any ragged buck anyone is willing to spare.

And today, as usual, we have an old photo camera, some old vinyl LPs, a broken chain maybe of brass, ragged shirts and pants, shoelace-less shoes and a whole other heap of trash, neatly organized by size, color and type and, mostly, all broken and useless.

Poor old honest man, tired eyes, droopy mouth, baring the fruits of his scavenging for a money. Maybe he feeds his children with these earnings, maybe he doesn’t have any – maybe he is alone in the world, but I don’t know, won’t know for he never tells. May God bless his search and his trade for, day after day, I see no new items and no items missing.

Good luck, little skinny trash man.
And how much do you want for that coverless book?

###

He is a big, tall man. Not very fat, but with a married-man-belly growing more prominent every year. His hands are too full to properly be able to hold his suit jacket, his briefcase and his keys.

But he is a grown man. A tall, bulky man, in his last thirty-somethings, suit and tie, probably a lawyer, an accountant or something of sorts: his hair is well cut, nails clipped and a watch that doesn’t look too cheap nor shabby. he really looks like a man that has made something for himself.

A grown man, he is. Clumsy, but a full made man. However, he is someone that should know that, under no circumstances, a grown-up man should drink chocolate milk out of a little box with a little straw (in public).

it’s just fucking ridiculous.

I could summarize everything by writing “from ashes to ashes we are”, but that would be too fucking corny.

in reality, today is the day that most revelers cry (I, myself, included). today is the reminder that life is about to go back to moving on, and that, in just less than 24 hours, the new year is about to start (even though we are in the beginning of the new year’s second month already). however, this is not a matter of calendar, of mundane abacus of hoursm it’s about feelings.

today is the day we finally wake up, get our brooms, buckets and mop the dirty confetti floors, turning off the lights because tomorrow – oh, much dreaded tomorrow – we go back to the starting line.

***

knowing this, I wake up early, even before the sun is born in the toothless mouth of earth that is the open Rio de Janeiro sky.

time goes by, very quickly but also very slowly. it’s like a deadline to a lifeline, very conflicting, confusing. I vote for coffee out, when it’s still cool from the early mornign breeze.

no shower, no comb, no nothing. just the search for coffee, for I have too much time on my hands, time to kill before the party awakes, and not enough time for everything.

***

I feel manic, like my brain, which has been slowly cooking, has finally turned into the mushy, bloody stew it always seemed to be. I’m just too buzzed from excitement, caffeine and sugar, and my heart bounces like a ball in my chest, my pulse a heavy bass line, a fish out of water.

my phone finally rings – it’s time for the showdown – and I gulp down a cup of water on my way out. I take the cup and all with me, tying my shoelaces on the door step, no time to lose.

my mother even laughs, like he hasn’t in a long time. she is amused with my antics for the first time since the beginning of carnival, since the beginning of this all. at last, she isn’t mad or angry or worried – she is probably relieved that it is all coming to an end, that normalcy and routine and tidyness are about to fall down on our heads again, so we can go back to being normal, confortable in the cozy little everyday squared boxes we reserve for ourselves. but I don’t blame her – she, unlike me, dislikes upside down, chaos, and likes sleepping nights and waking mornings; I really don’t blame her or yell, roll my eyes. I won’t do this because she is relieved and I know it, and she knows I know it, but she has the decency not to tell me, not to express her motherly concerns and, for this and many other things, I’m relieved too.

***

the buses that go up to Santa Teresa are those small, driver slash ticket collector buses that take forever to arrive and even longer to depart. so, since I have to stand on the bus stop, on the endless line and wait, I buy a nice, imported beer on the bar in front of it and it’s heavenly, even though it cost me 14 bucks. and, you know what? I don’t even fucking mind. “why worry?”, says a big hairy man few steps from me, a tall man dressed as the devil, long horns, a goatee and red underwear (not another stitch on), to a friend on the phone. why worry, in fact?

so I don’t mind anything: the packed bus or the loud, cranky teenagers, the heat that causes droplets of sweat to travel down my back and into my pants, nothing.

I feel like Buda, if Buda had been a brown girl dressed in green and black, with a leprechaun’s hat in the middle of Brazilian carnival, sharing a beer with the devil in a crowded city bus. I’m a fountain of Zen.

***

walking its limestone-paved streets makes me remember how much I love the city I live in and, specially, how much I used to love Santa Teresa. don’t be fooled, I still like it, but a little of the intensity has gone away, washed away over time like the wall paint chipping off the arches of Lapa.

(I had to let it go of my love, for him, because of him. it wasn’t healthy. but that is a sad, long story that has been told way too many times.)

the novelty, though, never wears off. every little shop nested on the high walls, every garage-turned-bar, every terrace-turned-samba is just new and pretty all over again, even though there isn’t a streetcar anymore. God, don’t we miss that little yellow bundle of joy that used to decorate the charming streets up here? let’s never forget.

and so, against the wall next to Bar do Mineiro I stand, slack, relaxed. my belly is full of feijoada and imported beer, a nice warmth from beans and meat and malt swimming inside me, loving my stomach, my liver, my internal gears and mechanisms. there is new graffiti here, love messages, protest songs. I breath in and it’s all art and pot smoke from an Italian couple smoking in front ot me. all I need is love.

and a new bloco parade passes us by, wind instruments, drums, very vocal people. they chant like footballers, only here the love is for the same team: happiness. a young girl smiles at me, enchanted. she is probably barely ten. I drown in her watery eyes. later, I will cry of happiness on the subway, remembering the love only a child can feel on her fist carnival.

happiness is contagious and, definitely, the only feeling allowed in carnival, in this place.

I forget about him, let my memory of him be stomped upon by the dancing, animated feet  and throw my heart in the revelry, all my love pouring out. I swallow hate, every word of it, to be digested together with my meal and it works wonders: my adoration for Santa is born anew.

blossoms here a new meaning for ashes.

***

they have caipirinha popsicles up here. buckets and more buckets of ice and of those little green plastic, frozen bags of joy up here.

oh, inventive little carnival rascals, this is just too perfect! be blessed the bored, infamous minds that invented this weapon against heat, sobriety and boredom.

they also have water guns and a kid hoses me down with its pistol from a makeshift tourist camp set up in a enormous Victorian backyard. it’s heavenly.

we can all be happy again, like big drunk children.

***

I’m dizzy when going down, the slopes to steep to walk in this state.

however, the view of the ugly, old, gray pyramid cathedral is magnificent, all the brownstones encrusted in the mountain’s stone, breathtaking. it sober me up. and it’s all too much for a moment and I’m overwhelmed with emotion that I can hardly breathe.

a pair of friendly arms catch me, a hand holds mine and down we go. like rivers to the ocean, like I said, we end up in Lapa…

***

I come home and it is very late that night.

my mom is about to open her mouth but decides against it. she can see my tear-streaked cheeks and understands. she doesn’t have another thing to worry about. it’s all over. for a moment, sadness flashes in her eyes too. she knows, she knows.

but she is happy, too. tomorrow is the day, the one she has been waiting for, the it is the day alarm clocks will ring again and rip children away from their sweet baby dreams, and will wake up lovers out of their warm beds to push them into buses full of other grown, responsible people. back to work, back to life.

the wall clock strikes midnight like it’s chanting “it’s over, it’s over” but I’m not desolated.

I just feel like today is new years and that 2013 won’t break my spirit.

***
in fact, today is a brand new Monday and I still got a smile to show to the world.

the fourth is my fall, the day when I have no grace nor energy left.

my heart feels as heavy as lead, sad that my body can’t seem to keep up with my mind. but I face the music, my own mortality: I am not as young as I used to be and nothing can be done, nothing can turn back time.

I just sit and melt in the heat for nine hours. I hear voices outside but don’t dare to leave my room.

for once, I listen to my mother, her wise horoscope-like wisdom: repair your body by resting and eating a nice, hot meal, repair the holes in your trousers with sowing, repair your future with a night’s sleep.

a wise oracle she is.

***

at night, I dream a sweaty dream of music. sleep comes hard, in pieces, as usual. but, at four am I am ready for everything again.

I wake up with my mouth dry, taste of ashes.

it’s ash Wednesday again.

on the third day, I almost don’t make it.

***

but I do. I live. I rise.

it’s late and almost all daylight is gone, but I make it. the shower feels heavenly on my weary bones: cold, fresh. I feel like a new person. I look at my face in the mirror for the first time in days and I notice how tan I am and, unfortunately, how deep are the dark circles under my eyes. the mismatch my smile, the patch of white showing between my lips – proof of my good spirits -but, in the end, they are happy dark circles, see? ecstatically happy. they are evidence of the love shared with my city, my peers, my strangers – with all people that are connected in this mesh of colors, smells and sounds, night after night… circles these not at all like the mourning purple of normal sleepless, worried nights.

I feel reinvigorated, truly, born anew. my father looks worried, tells me my liver won’t stand it. but no need to worry, my old man. the saints protect all drunks this week, no harm shall befall me. I am under their shield, I’m drunk with love, I am purified.

god bless the blood of carnival, the sweat from the dancing brows that, on this holiday, wash away our sins.

***

truth is I barely feel the heat anymore. the ceiling fan looks like a decorative piece, slow, harmless. my whole body is singeing, like the fire from the sun has permeated my veins. I still sweat profusely, though, droplets breeding, multiplying on the whole surface of my being. a beer shall fix that, very soon. as soon as my feet touch the world outside, I will reward my dry, parched throat with the nectar of the gods.

***

however, my costume feels different today, like it doesn’t fit my spirit, like it is missing the point. too black, metallic, heavy. the boots are too brutal to dance, awkward on the swing – carnival is all wrong if you have no rhythm. so, today, I put away the first persona of carnival, tucked with care in the back of the closet, and I’m reborn a completely different, all in white, light, as a swan.

this one, it fits me today. my feet are now feathers, the asphalt, clouds. everyone is angels, balls of energy, I reflect it all, nothing can hit me, hurt me. I feel like hugging the world. we melt as one soul.

***

night fell in the blink of an eye. I barely notice and here I am, and there it is, the whole day, gone, just like that. it’s a shame, I wish we could have more, just for today. the band finished its last song, says good bye, people chant for more, just one, but to no effect. the bloco clears away.

after the crowd gets scarce, I can finally see my feet. I find a saxophone reed on the floor, in a delicate case, pick it up. a memento I shall cherish, an unusual good charm. and the stone floor from Praça XV is finally revealed and it shines, a pond of liquids from various sources and types creating a watercolor reflection of the pitch black, dotted with stars sky above.

and the last people start hopping away, high hopes for more music, more agitation, more of everything. carnival knows no bounds in Rio, it is a party that lasts until the last turn of the screw, never tiring, never tired, never boring.

“sleep is the cousin of death”, they say, and everyone here is buzzing with life.

***

I go with the flow and since an ocean refuses no river, we end in Lapa, mother of all mothers, open arms to all.

and, to me, one of the most beautiful things is carnival love(rs), those people whom, for just one day, one night or one song will be married under the bleached arches of the church of Lapa, blessed by the tram line just above. all young couples, livid with love will be greeted and blessed with a confetti shower instead of rice, happy, laughing, kissing their brief spouses lovingly, with such a passion that the word is unable to describe.

and since every bloco ends here, for a last call, a last shot, a last kiss, as I make my way through the swarm, I see them everywhere, tongues clashing, legs tangled against walls, street lights, bar stools. may your union last forever, may it never be cut short or go sour, young guns.

my head spins.

and I come back to reality as a kiss breaks in a loud POP in front of me. he is a really skinny dude, the groom, a bearded jaw, shirt open and a Hawaiian garland around his neck. the bride is a really pretty young thing, probably barely eighteen, dressed as a pirate.

and they stare, intently. their eyes are foggy with a dark brown, misty with desire. husband and wife for this moment, they hug. an kiss. no need for rings, mazel tov, mazel tov!

I leave them behind, unable to look back. let them be. at this moment, they are probably sharing a (parting) kiss. she will cross the street, back to her group of giggling friends, never to be seem again. he will stand still, trying to warp his head around the facts, trying to settle his swimming stomach, looking for another shot of ginger cachaça.

star-crossed lovers they were before they met. husband and wife they chose to be in these moments, these kisses. beautiful strangers in their memories they will be forever now.

“what was his/her/their name(s) again?” we will all say that at some point, in some carnival of our lives.

***

and I am home again and all is dark. I get sad for the first time since the beginning of this insane roller coaster. but I won’t cry, I promised. but it creeps in the back of my mind, a little voice, a reminder: Monday is over now. half of carnival is gone.

I hope tomorrow holds more things, even better things. I hope the fantasy never ends, the novelty never wears off.

I hope tomorrow the world engulfs me like it will never let me go, holds me tight but spits me out, throws me like a ball and transforms me into someone completely anew.

I hope I can make it.

I wake up at home and I’m a sweaty, crumpled mess in a grave of tangled bed sheets. my mind is only home to a thick wall of foggy, hangover-ed memories, and my mouth is as dry as if I had eaten handfuls of cotton balls. the sun is white and blinding to my sleep-deprived eyes, high in a cloudless sky.

it’s already a bit into the late morning, just a couple of moments away from lunch. I’ve missed the early morning call to today’s street fest, but it doesn’t matter. it is only the second day of this all, still in the peak, in the finest of fines moments and we’ve got plenty choices to fill this hot, sweaty afternoon as we please.

in this stage between dream and conscience, my mind travels to memories of last night and I sing a little song to myself, my voice raw. we did scream to the top of our lungs for quite a while. and my legs throb, the muscles hard from the extraneous walking and dancing and my stomach rumbles from eating only hot dogs and beer for a whole day. but it is a bright new day, this pretty, young thing that is the holy-day, so I get up and get coffee and brunch, put on my costume, and off I go, out the door and into the light.

however, before the doors hits my ass, my mother looks at me crooked, disapproving, but it’s a brand new day, so leave me be. give me a glass of water, some aspirin, please, and let me, for I’ve got places to go and people to see, mother. and no, I don’t know if I am coming back today.

this is a secret only the pagan gods can tell, a fortune only them can predict.

***

the drums beat tum-dum-dum-dum-dum, like a heart, and the sax plays, and it is mellow and contagious. tambourines jiggle, their zils like a thousand Brazilian angels flapping wings. all voices are one. they sing of the past and of how good it was.

but truth is that it was never better. never will be. it won’t get better than this.

“ooohhhh, que bom que era!“, they say.

***

and when night falls, I find myself stumbling upon mountains of garbage piled on top of sidewalks and hefty crowds of drunks. my costume is halfway off already, my own bottle of beer falling to the sides, leaving a trail of foam and warm gold behind me. a couple of steps in front of me, a group of about twenty young men are dressed in skirts and orange wigs, belching marchinhas as if the world would end tonight.

arm in arm, I join the singing. we hug, as makeshift sisters, as, for tonight, blood and booze brothers.

but my feet are killing me, blisters atop of blisters, and the stupor of the booze is wearing off and I’m tired. the air is sticky, humid and clings to the bones, and my hair sticks to every part of my scalp, as the city seems like the furnace that warms up the devil’s breath. but, the people around sing and sing and, far away, I can hear a lonely radio play softly, among the tornado of voices, the last songs from an ending friendly barbecue. and, strangely, suddenly, I’m comfortable. I could walk for days in this desert of happiness, of feeling.

so I do.

***

at last, the subway ride on this final leg of the trip home is calm and uneventful. people catch some sleep and sober up on every corner, sitting on the floors, resting against the poles, half their costumes lost to the crowd, the heat and to the asphalt gods. in front of me, a cute couple kisses, she a cat, he, a clown… kitty is so exhausted she can barely look her lover in the eyes. I yawn.

she yawns back, a full open mouth, eyes watering with tiny sleep tears. then, she rests her head on the window and, outside, the lights go and go and go, faster, trailing the way, staying behind us. their loss. the next station is closed and dark, – no passengers allowed on Presidente Vargas station – lit only be red L.E.D.s that announce the train’s destination. sleepy, tired Vargas, he whom endures such harsh bullshit on normal weekdays, people coming and going, ever so impolite, enjoys in carnival a well deserved rest too.

and the subway pulses in waves of sleep. my usually deft fingers feel thick, heavy, and my head starts to drown. but it is a good drowning, it’s Morpheus waters, a sea of bubbling yellow alcohol and the last drops of adrenaline. and my ultimate bit of energy is drained, and I stir in my uncomfortable plastic seat, heavy as led as I fall to the dirty subway floor, it exhausting – but peace finds me.

until tomorrow, carnival. until tomorrow.
night night.