Coffee and Showers
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-garlic, corn-anything-oh god it´s so good and even a bit healthy and it tastes like heaven when you need it to-when you needs something healthy in this place) -imagine light affinity with friends.
This is la doce vida. The sweet life. The simple and good life so many people on fazendas here know-without electricity almost always, with wood stoked fired cooked ovens made of earth and just small houses with chairs and uneven floors and coffee grown right outside and fresh medicinal plants and horses and dogs and land until it´s hard to believe one family lives on so much land and showers that are only water in a bucket with a shower head you turn on. God.
Imagine.
And the coffee here. God.
This experience-it´s been so good for me. To get to know me-as a human. I deleted all my pictures the other day-pressed the wrong button and sailed through the warning question-so used to seeing it-not reading it. And there was nothing I could do. I cried.
God-I cried.
I sat on the uneven wooden floor in my room, looking at a hole before me and cried and looked up and bent over and cried-hugged myself and stroked my leg and wished someone were there to dilute my grief. I smelled the garlic on my handkerchief and looked at it and cried-was grateful for it and seeing the woman who gave it to me-Inga- and smelled the old garlic on my hands- smell like Marcy and me at P.G. convention in the prep room and her teaching me spanish hymns-en la calme de la noiche- and cried throughout it all. Thought of so many people I´ve made too many mistakes with and was so helpless to change any of it- cried and accepted my grief and helplessness as a human and cried.
And then I got up. I got up and smiled and moved on. Knowing how much I want to change things done -knowing it makes me careful now. And this place-this experience-its so good for me. I´m going to learn portuguese-work in the viveiro and participate in creating a database for our floresta´s parcelas. I will run-learn to play the flute and festa.
I saw my flute as it was being made, my handmade flute and me, and I have made new songs on it-as I walked over red earth on a hike to a peak nearby-backpack behind me, and the feelings of the peak of Gramina in the afternoon, the remembrance of my dan-yus on a Brasilian mountain side, my legs stinging from the cuts, my hands sore from a few falls, my butt dirty with the mud I slid on, and the enjoyment of all the breezes and waterfalls and life spurting up on a mess of more life.. that helped me on the journey- we went to see more of this mess of life on life. That was a good day, and I hold the feeling of Alamao-the German one who could be gay, Filipe Bob-Marley´s nephew.., Amanda who calls me her sister and Gustavo who started it all by throwing the cold cold water on me from the waterfall, being cold and happy and young and alive together in such a beautiful place in such a beautiful way.
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-garlic, corn-anything-oh god it´s so good and even a bit healthy and it tastes like heaven when you need it to-when you needs something healthy in this place) -imagine light affinity with friends.
This is la doce vida. The sweet life. The simple and good life so many people on fazendas here know-without electricity almost always, with wood stoked fired cooked ovens made of earth and just small houses with chairs and uneven floors and coffee grown right outside and fresh medicinal plants and horses and dogs and land until it´s hard to believe one family lives on so much land and showers that are only water in a bucket with a shower head you turn on. God.
Imagine.
And the coffee here. God.
This experience-it´s been so good for me. To get to know me-as a human. I deleted all my pictures the other day-pressed the wrong button and sailed through the warning question-so used to seeing it-not reading it. And there was nothing I could do. I cried.
God-I cried.
I sat on the uneven wooden floor in my room, looking at a hole before me and cried and looked up and bent over and cried-hugged myself and stroked my leg and wished someone were there to dilute my grief. I smelled the garlic on my handkerchief and looked at it and cried-was grateful for it and seeing the woman who gave it to me-Inga- and smelled the old garlic on my hands- smell like Marcy and me at P.G. convention in the prep room and her teaching me spanish hymns-en la calme de la noiche- and cried throughout it all. Thought of so many people I´ve made too many mistakes with and was so helpless to change any of it- cried and accepted my grief and helplessness as a human and cried.
And then I got up. I got up and smiled and moved on. Knowing how much I want to change things done -knowing it makes me careful now. And this place-this experience-its so good for me. I´m going to learn portuguese-work in the viveiro and participate in creating a database for our floresta´s parcelas. I will run-learn to play the flute and festa.
I saw my flute as it was being made, my handmade flute and me, and I have made new songs on it-as I walked over red earth on a hike to a peak nearby-backpack behind me, and the feelings of the peak of Gramina in the afternoon, the remembrance of my dan-yus on a Brasilian mountain side, my legs stinging from the cuts, my hands sore from a few falls, my butt dirty with the mud I slid on, and the enjoyment of all the breezes and waterfalls and life spurting up on a mess of more life.. that helped me on the journey- we went to see more of this mess of life on life. That was a good day, and I hold the feeling of Alamao-the German one who could be gay, Filipe Bob-Marley´s nephew.., Amanda who calls me her sister and Gustavo who started it all by throwing the cold cold water on me from the waterfall, being cold and happy and young and alive together in such a beautiful place in such a beautiful way.
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