F-i-f-t-y. All four of us hit it, this summer. Madonna got herself a ballplayer, Michael might be losing himself a mansion, and Prince is always getting into something fine. At a younger age they each were some point of reference; as pre-teens maybe the original Michael was a role model for a hot minute. Now; they are just peers in the age-game. For me, I am feeling like 19 at fifty. Free like those peeps that go to Europe backpacking after college is done.
“Hmmm. Yeah, I think that I could do it. I think about it some part of everyday. I need to make plans, arrangements; my girl, family-the blood & the chosen, revenue streams, possessions, etc. Going on the road for an extended period is all about creating the right bases. Cleaning the slate & lightening the load.
Brazil has been a kick for me, in too many ways. I need a comfortable place to sleep. Sounds simple, but if you know me you wouldn’t laugh. The insomniac values sleep like a sweet spliff. Something about here, Bahia makes me feel at ease. Could be lots of things, not quite sure which or what.
–Why did that woman, the chubblove one just jump into my stuff? Knock my book over, shift my shit, to get into the seat next to me. The bus ain’t that full. She coulda asked me to move. You know, riding an interstate bus can be a funky hairdo that won’t grow out quick enough……
I think that these thoughts are coming up now because I am headed back to Cachoeira. This was one of first destination after Michele split back to NY. Its all about nostalgia and going home again. I see the finish line, for the first time. Also, yesterday and Wednesday I was stuck up in Allen Woolf.
Allen came raining down hard into all of my thoughts. I was a bit paralyzed by the memories he stirred up. The Hindus and the Jews, probably most folks say that the spirit is present for thirty days after someone passes, takin’ care of business. They are tying loose ends, collecting memories and leaving their trace in the consciousness of the families that they created in life. It makes me think of the accelerated Technicolor flood of visceral re/memoried-images of my life with Sylvia that came randomly at all hours of the day in the first three months after she, Mom, passed.
Something still keeps churning up. Though now, I feel like it is more of a gentle touch, keeping me from getting burnt. As Kath says, “remembering to take the sweater that you were told to pack.” I usually wonder how do I get to where I find myself. My life is so much soup sometimes. This morning as I prepared to catch the moto-tax, to the Lancha boat, to a city bus, to the interstate bus I was already tired. Still nursing the remnants of a minor flu, I just wanted to putz. But, I wasn’t comfortable in my skin where I was that morning at Sacatar either. Please trust me, think twice before creating a Cancerian boy-child. Emotions and moods run deep.