travellingchel

I imagine bending over backward, my body like a wet olive leaf, until just my feet and ankles and calves are upright. Until my hands touch the hot earth, and my eyes see the world turned around, upside down. I imagine his words flying right above me, across the space my torso just was. So they miss me -- no contact. "Stay." No contact. Instead I'm silent. What do you say to that? Yes, I'll stay. Of course, you're in charge here, you say you want me here, I'll be here. Instead I'm silent. Silent as I walk to our door, a hole in our earthen wall, and silent as I choose the pomegranates and onions in the cacophony of the bazaar. Silent as I keep walking from the bazaar and as I reach my lady's house. Silent as she lets me in and makes the phone calls. Silent as I board the bus, as I see that little brown head, not yet two weeks. Not yet mine. Silent as I shiver, silent as I wipe my face, silent as my vision blurs then clears, then blurs again. ...

I picture her sucking one of those cold, red toned fingertips into her square mouth, the tip hitting her straight white teeth, pulling it out and wiping a smudge of ink off my temple. Her name is Margaret, and she's 45 years old, possibly older. A strong woman, a professor, feeding us knowledge like apples. “Hello Emily.” Margaret's stopped between the music and sociology building to say hello to me. Straight bones lined up from hips to her collarbone, and just one more reason I feel so oddly unlike myself when she's near. Are those bones lined up so straightly or is that just the impression from such upright posture? “Hi Margaret.” Oh god, I should just have called her professor, I think, but I want her to step closer with that healthy looking body and those heavy black clogs. “Are you enjoying this beautiful weather?” Who else says that, ‘this beautiful weather?’ I know, of course, my mother. I feel sad that Margaret had to ask the first question. Yet I love it. It...

By me. I wanted the rain. I pictured a sea in navy blue rolling above, a fragment of moon still haunting the day. I got instead: a cold, blank sky and a sun hiding somewhere behind it all. When I left the hospital room, I looked down at my lap, my pale green gown bunched on my thighs like so many wrinkles on an old, disused woman. My legs motionless beneath it. They have men and women and other survivors come and talk to you in track suits, or pin striped business suits, or linen pants and pink cashmere sweaters, to tell you about life after an accident. “It’s been a blessing, really, losing my legs.” Or “Since my own accident I see everything differently. It filled a hole in my life I never knew was there.” But her voice is raspy and it sounds like her holes have found their way into her speech instead. I’m supposed to visualize me walking again, or kicking a soccer ball. I’ve never played soccer. And my visions don’t include me with two working legs. My first day back...

The egg beater, so small and untidy, laying among it all. The flour, that huge bag, sagging under its own weight, flour leaking from its coners and those eggs. All neatly in line, but two-two empty spaces there. The tiles beneath are glossy, and I know will be cold. Egg yoke spilled, just more gloss on gloss. My dishwasher open, the lid hanging loosely. The dishes inside somewhere-behind in the dark. And my fridge. That big mass of stainless steel, but not so stainless after all. There, in the corner, a smudge. Grey meeting black meeting grey.

Speckled There was bright light in a small garden, and shade beneath a few trees. A small nun sat speckled dark and light, on a bench beneath a tree, space on all sides of her. Soon a taller nun joined her. Here they sat outside of the sun, knees almost touching. Their faces were plain, unassuming. They looked the same. Anonymous under black robes and wimples. ‘It’s God’s gift to us.’ The taller nun shifted her wimple, showing dark hair that framed the white of her face. Dark circle around light. She moved closer to the small nun. Their feet touched. Their knees. Their shoulders. Their bodies angled together. Heat rose to pale cheeks, marking them both. ‘A gift, or a test? ’ She paused, then, ‘If Mary knew-‘ ‘Mary won’t.’ ‘She’s the head.’ ‘God’s the head.’ ‘That isn’t any better for us.’ The color slipping away, then, softly, from beneath curled shoulders, ‘It’s not natural. This is not natural. We. are not natural.’ ‘No. God always has chosen special people. The Israelites, the Apost...

Devin had rituals, you see. To ward off bees, to distract Thomas, to bring sun. He grew up in a Catholic home; perhaps this obsession with rituals is not so hard to understand then. But it was not Hail Mary’s that Devin said. It was not the Lord’s Prayer. Devin repeated maxims he had read in a book called ‘Small lives, Big Lives’ found in a garbage near his house. Devin and I grew up in Scarlton, an area that smelled of rotted wet wood and grey smoke. There was row after row of buildings, houses, shops, and somehow they all looked the same: blackened, with holes in likely places, and window panes missing, or filled with shattered glass. I met him from the other side of a broken window pane, as he touched with one dirt stained hand each of the four corners in turn, saying, “Don’t cry over spilt milk, don’t cry over spilt milk, don’t cry over spilt milk.” I didn’t even have to ask. “I’m keeping Thomas away.” Thomas. The boy who has my lunchbox, who put the tear in my dre...

Hoje eu fui a caoceira-I went to the waterfall fall today-with Fagane and it passed the day sweetly-like waking again at 6.30 am and seeing more of the beautiful Brasilian sky and mata and talking to Mona easily-sleepily-loosely about who knows what because I can´t remember-the tiredness around my eyes distracts my memory a lot these days- I read over my journal entries as another homeless dog got to know me in this soft heat in the Brasilian evening in Muriae- and read my famished road again-and it almost made me cry because I relate bits of my life to the books I read during that time and the Famished Road belongs to Iracambi and Marcelo and thunder like war.. and say goodbye to the Iracambi gente- once the car of them left in Gustavo´s cute little for Iracambi and Iracambi´s homemade bread in the mornings and afternoons and nights with peanut butter and that special white cheese and goiaba and for Iracambi´s life and breath -I didn´t feel it jump me until it hit my throat-sadness an...

I´ve just said goodbye to the Iracambi team for good. Virjilo made it sweet sweet sweet for me-he talked to me-and touched me on the arm or face or shoulder and connected with me-shared with me and let me share with him-as we walked to the bank together in the dying heat of Murie dusk-people still everywhere and kids just getting out of school-filling the narrow sidewalks so we could play ´meet again after the car´as we connected in portuguese. He was lovely. Alexandre tamben-as well-was lovely as he showed me his soaps at the rodoviaria in Murie where we all had met together-and spoke in english for me-the heat and time passing over me and me hardly aware of it passing. Gustavo and Karen came too, and Neia was there with her notebook for me to write in about Marcelos shirt which I wanted-and which they will make another for me. It was perfect-so perfect like so much of Iracambi for me-like dream or a book or good tea-too short and too long and just fine in the end-fine demais-almost t...

Bitter thrist in my throat always. Slipping down feef first, short backs painted brown with earth and mud-feet and legs torn up with scrathes-decoration ´de mata´-cathcing quasi falls by grabbing bamboo branches with both arms raised above me and feet nearly lifting off the ground and the bitter thrist in my throat always-a gift from the palmita like tree we cut open and chewed -and chewed more when it couldn´t kill our thrist-and more until it left us like this-always with the bitter taste of thrist in our throats. Stopping with Virjilho who thinks I´m lovely and me him-talking in portuguese and listening to the water close by-close by and guarded by thick and steep mata-learning the name of the fruit he is painting my face with and me his face in return-and always-the bitter taste of thrist in my throat-making these moments sweeter in contrast. The descent is so much faster than our rise-which was perfectly brasilian-Tony leading us to the path he thought he knew-and us blazing our o...

Things I find strange: I want to stay here and continue being a vegetarian for the rest of my time in brasil- I will eat meat when I travel for my last month here because so much comida brasileira is con carne and I want to experience it all- France is coming up soon and I haven´t chosen my hosts yet- France is coming up soon and all of my French is now portuguese- I´m sad that my portuguese will become french very very soon- I haven´t done tai chi in 2 weeks- I want to write-people -updates-the newspaper I´m in charge of here-and I haven´t - I can see myself here for too long -and I like this pensamente-this thought. I can´t decided whether to return here or not-and would I stay for so long if I did?

One more thing I find strange: .... people don´t leave comments on my blog- .... P.S. Feel free to leave any sort of comment-or just talk to me through leaving comments on my blog...I will find a way to respond.........

Marcelo´s bread is beautiful again. Tomorrow when he isn´t here and his bread is, I wonder how beautiful it will be. It´s soft inside but sesame seeds on the top and tempos demais-too much time- in the oven make it hard. Cutting it, hard-like the thought of my Brasilian memories-I fumble and make a mess of the bread-spilling little white crumbs over the plastic lid. Hard, hard, hard. My book-The Famished Road-and this bread-hard, and precious. Precious when I stop reading and can´t stop crying because it pressed me so fiercely to harsh reality -like burnt earthen walls -and the imprint of it stings my cheek and hands and knee fronts when I let go-when I´m free. Hard. What is it? Things feel hard today. My alarm didn´t go off again this morning and I missed my chance to travel with the beautiful Spanish woman-to camp and trek and eat fajitas and banana oatmeal cookies at waterfalls and view points on Parco do Brigodeiro -missed a week-end of fine and lovely memories-lost because I´m me ...

Receitas brasileiras Farofa: 4 cups of farhina trigo-flour 2 small cebolas-onions diced 1 can of milho-corn 2 ovos-eggs 3 cloves of alho-garlic minced 1 tbsp sal-salt 2 tbsp oregano 1 tbsp curry powder Heat oil with oregano in panela-pan and sautee onions Whip eggs Add ovos, salt and alho continue Stir in farhina slowly, adding oil as needed Add curry and corn –still stiring in flour and cook for 10-12 minutes Test and add salt/anything else you´d like to taste (For example-you can add fried potatoes as well) Serve hot and enjoy. Capachi-capati-Indian Recita (Not sure the name is spelled right...) 2 sprigs of any herb you enjoy (Mint, Oregano, Basil, Rosemary whatever you like) 1 cup of água-water 1 cup of farhina trigo-flour 1 tsp sal ½ tbsp açúcar marrom-brown sugar ¾ cup of sementes de sésamo-sesame seeds In a medium sized bowl, mix água, herb, sal, and açúcar. Slowly add farhina (more or less as needed) and sésamo until it holds together Roll out into 2 thin (1/2 a cm) circles In...

Truth is filling up my spaces-change like patches in old and moldy clothes. It can only be a good thing. I think this when thunder passes across Minas-thunder and more thunder and it sounds like war. What is Minas to me? It's this green-the green my hips and fingernails and knees hold inside them-which I think I will never get rid of. This green that is in so many places all over the world. Minas -it's a beautiful word and my lover and music and all this green. It's Iracambi and Brasil and thunder like war. Minas.. Minas... Minas....

Trail Blazing We just came back from a very very long trailblazing session-each of the 6 of us taking turns wielding the machete and me the only girl. It was fairly intense work and the sun was quite hot-my legs are a mess of scratches and bites-they almost look ridiculous but that´s what happens when you don´t wear pants as you trail blaze.. People tell you when you come-wear pants when you walk on the trails-cuidado para cobra (insert snaking hand movement and wide eyes) snakes-cobras- we saw one -was from a distance. It wasn´t venomous..this one Menos linda-less lovely and unlike the one we saw behind our bathroom just the other day-curled up and enjoying the sun as much as we. Unfortunately because its so venomous-Jacaraca it´s called-and so close to where we sleep we had to kill it. It was actually quite lovely to look at-before its head was crumpled by a old Italian man with bright eyes and a small stick. Much like the bicho´s (a word for little animals or insects) I had to kill ...

Cancerous Moments I imagine a million different ways to make this moment reproduce like cancer cells-oh Iracambi...the silences...la doce vida...the earth here-its drawing-sucking-draining out all this beautiful things and my smell- my shirt has a peculiar smell- Earth and old rain and sweat and me and coffe and air. God and its killing me-how do I describe the fullness of my body right now-of me and my thoughts. I feel I could go on like this forever-the smell of me and old hand-rolled tobacco kissing me forward until my knees and elbows and teeth ache with it all. All the fullness and beauty of it all. Sucking beauty out of my every every pore-how how how. I can just stay here with my unanswered how until aching swallows me wholly. Oh why go back to things already said? Because they are good again-because they slide over your body like water or cream or happiness and the emotions are fresh- fresh and what can you do except try and get the same again and more again...

It´s 6.54 Mon. 1/21/08. Uneven grass covers rolling hillside-below-just before the strata-street-are reeds like bulrushes and a small fruit tree encloses a ditch and just after and more to the right is a stretch of different trees-I look for two the same and am not sure I see any. This kind of bio-diversity-is humbling. From benches around our kitchen table under the veranda-a vista belo-a beautiful view of this-and of vaca´s-cow´s that lie on the green-trees placed alone or in small patches around them and cut into the edge of a hill-vermelho terra-red earth-as if someone tore up a chunk of this grass-creating a precipe perhaps cut by the river that runs through out Iracambi. And a mist shifts and moves left across the picture-it´s almost ridiculous how beautiful it all is. Tuffy-the residant guard-smells like himself- wet dog beside me, and leaves his smell behind to go lie beneath the wooden table-the songs of the passaro-birds-stop and start sporadically-different ones responding t...

Learning Iracambi Things here move differently. If you watch things then you see them in curves-only pieces visable at a time-shades different each time you blink. Like watching the Mineiro, the beautiful one from Minas- who plays the guitar like nobody´s business-you see it in curves... first- an unintelliable stream of Portuguese and half-smiles..then you can notice later that he spoke only to two people and later yet that he looked at you too many times... Curves of what was happening, and no picture of the whole thing-curves and curves of the same thing..And you can´t follow anything for too long without curving yourself, becoming more of the curves you try to follow and starting to spiral. This is the Brasil at Iracambi that I´m beginning to know. How can I explain these sensations-they feel like truth and reality. What do I mean? If you aren´t flexible, you will hurt and eventually break. Flex when people can´t understand you and don´t want to continue the conversation of hand mo...

Garlic Tinted Tears and La Doce Vida God. What a day. It was almost surreal how amazing it was. And now I have coffee-God. What a day. I can´t even write about it-it was that good that any writing would only diminish it. But. For the sake of those in the know-Imagine. -the green you´ve seen in the films, imagine a dirt road-with a light blanket of heat- of sun over bare skin and the sound of the river and your feet over the drying earth-terra (que cheiro bom-terra) Imagine the perfect amount of lunch and cake-bolo- for dessert. Imagine a book so good you smile during your sleeping hours thinking of it-and a vista of green green green and then some. Imagine quiet after everyone has left-and a good good feeling of yourself that comes with quiet moments and unrecognized victories over indifference and illness. Imagine the thought of your handmade flute-flaota-and the sound of your lover´s guitar playing-the taste of farofa-(flour with oil and whatever you´d like in it-eggs, onions, banana...

My alarm didn´t go off this morning, at 6.20 as I planned. Somehow, I was awake @ 6.23 and got up then to start my day with a shower. The smell of the shower- it gets old so quickly-stale piss and the wetness of the floor-moldy wood or something similar...tempered with my honey shampoo Cafe de manhna-more of the pao from the minerio-and God-it´s healthy... It´s healthy. It´s healthy ..... This non-white bread with raisins and whole wheat flour is eaten in binges-it´s baked french style, and so we take two short fat pieces and depending on our style..spread it with pasta de amendoim, margarina, cheese and margarina, goiabada jam....whatever´s kicking around and closest. Just sweet enough-heavy and ridiculously satisfying with a copo du cafe doce. Tony ... who is the viveiro´s main man, ( an artisto with a that peculiar scent I identify with hippies like him...what is it? Oh. It´s what we smell like without deordorant and lotions and perfumes...our natural smell) walks in and has his pao...

And now-in the casa of my lover-as he plays lovely music in his lovely way. You can´t imagine how it sounds- he sounds like he´s from another level of being-his dual melodies and the doce pauses and dying of the notes-their quiet and sometimes not- sometimes sudden births and their lives and their sweet-sweet deaths-this is almost too much-his playing is so sweet- low and lingering. And I can still hear the dead notes because they die so slowly they seem to become ghosts that join you in your body- -and the smell of his marijuana lingers and is so fine and all this as he plays and plays so low and so very lovely. Like a fucking fairytale. Strangely though-there's a little shadow behind my ears as I sit here with his music and marijuana passing over me-unclear at first for my own safety..but.. it's the thought of a soft soft woman (who is she? )-and me-and I would be so skinny and rangy-would be the Marcelo of the relationship Just a little shadow behind my ears.. because oh-you...

As a Malaspina student you can send poems to their newspaper email account. If they like it, they will put it in the next edition as the poem of the month. I wrote a few I thought I might send in. I never sent it in. This is what Sept.´s draft looked like. A Half Pair Can´t find my shoes again. Mon, Tues, Thur, Fri. It´s Wednesday. Christ, Wednesday 5.00 date with my guy-a clinking ghost that looks a hell of a lot like you. The shoes for the brassy outfit I´ve planned are brown, and frayed at the edges; Frayed in that way you know didn´t happen accidently over time, Frayed like frayed nerves again tonight at 5.00 Deliberate and stupid, these frayed edges of mine. And I can´t find them. Sometimes my shoes are so inappropriate Like wine and pizza And your hand on my breast or mine on yours when my boyfriend leaves. I don´t need shoes then. Still, today my shoes would match Only I haven´t found my other one. You can´t work with only half a pair of shoes, Or one with one of another pair. I...

Death of a Pomegranate Wednesday morning-I’m sitting at the kitchen table with coffee, contemplating a pomegranate. We’ve got guests coming over tonight, and my room had to be cleaned last night. Clothes washed, fresh sheets put in, secret things removed from under the bed. It was late when I finally slept. Mother walks in. It’s early and she’s still in her nightgown. It’s an old one, blue and frayed around the edges. She’s washing her clothes too. ‘Morning’. I find it annoying that I have to muster up the energy to be pleasant so soon. Mother will sometimes tell me I need to see the light of day when I get up, that I’m too surly in the morning. I’m too surly at night too. ‘Good morning’. I say, tearing into the fruit and not looking up. Her hair will be frizzed a bit from her sleep, something she won’t notice or won’t care. This has always bothered me. ‘Do you have classes today?’ Pouring herself coffee and sitting across from me. I look at her. I want to say that I wouldn’t be up if...

"Danielle called for you." Why do I always think of Daniel in the den of lions when I hear her name? I ask myself these questions when it has something to do with Danielle, Em’s last girlfriend. Silence. I wait. "Em?" "Ok. Thanks." Not turning her head, not even her eyes move towards me. Something's tightened in her. "So...are you going to call her back?" I feel like I've missed a step in the dance, and she's turned without me. "No." Said very quietly. More silence, and her body language murmurs anger. "Did I do something wrong?" Only I'm confused. Neither of us move. "I just don't understand how, after everything we've talked about, you'd think I'd want to talk to Danielle." She responds quietly, but not hesitantly. "Ok." After everything we've talked about.' But you haven't really ever told me anything." Again, silence. "Jesus, Em. How am I s...