'ilhaam
“A lover cannot be chosen a la smorgasbord. A lover has to be chosen from soul-craving.”
Dear Simone,
Today I met a yellow and black snake with its tongue stuck sideways,
compressed from sternum to coccyx. If it were human, those would be the landmarks of the battleground. I stuck around to look for its brown eyes. Only its head and tail were intact though the two dark sockets bore back at me.
Ridicule arrives in many forms. I was forced to leave when I couldn't produce anything.
I walked the path to Mirante Dona Marta- the lookout point near the Environmental Protection Area of Santa Teresa. The cliff overlooks Christ the Redeemer; though the fog concealed him. I felt absent and lost on the way home, even though it was one steady street.
This is when I saw the snake. I nearly trod on it and gave a quiet squeal when I caught my misstep. Beside the reptile is a concrete bench and on its seat were three parcels wrapped in pink, purple, and blue paper. I would not have seen the boxes had I not jumped sideways and landed on my hands and knees facing the bench. The seats are tucked in the jungle's shadows where the oblong yellow Jaca hang. I was served a Jackfruit drink from a vendor in Lapa with a plastic curly straw and enjoyed it very much. It tasted sweet and reminded me of Thailand. I sucked it slowly and wandered the pulsing streets of people decorated in bright green and yellow. The World Cup was on and it was Brazil was playing Serbia. Young women painted their faces with gold and green, a shade for either eyelid, and men sported the Brazilian flag across bare chests.
Did you know that if a man dreams of his chest, it is a symbol of fortuitous finances, and if a woman dreams of her breasts, it is a sign of fertility?
Drums resounded and the streets were full of beer bottles and the scent of sweat and cigarettes. Firecrackers split the camaraderie and babies shrieked to show their enthusiasm. Cha Cha said that Lapa is like a crack town and it reminded me of Gastown, so I felt at ease amongst the madness.
I carried my Jaca drink in its plastic cup and when it was gone, I tossed it in a bin and walked the hillside to Santa Teresa. The snake was where I'd left it as I passed. It can't see anything with its face as it is, which is probably a blessing since I stole the packages from its side.
Who left the packages, I didn't bother to consider. I couldn't read the writing on any of them for it was in Portuguese and the rain had caused the blue marker to bleed. Each was a different size, though all were shaped more or less as a square.
The first package was heavy. The second was very narrow. The third was hard and fit in my palm. I picked up all three and, slipping them in my leather satchel, I skipped past the snake and ran the rest of the way home.
My pace was uneven and the bag banged on my leg, and I heard a faint jingling as I ran.
When I arrived at our tall metal gate, I pulled out the small red key, turned it clockwise, and pushed the door. I felt someone behind me though when I turned around, nothing was there.
I hopped down the steps, said hi to Lula and Doggie, and caught a few of the purple flowers on my shoes from the wet. My living room is scattered with petals. I've left them in the corners. I like how life looks in the cobwebbing from the walls.
The house is haunted, I've decided and the spirits that express themselves through sighs in the evening no longer cause the hair on my forearms to rise. I felt a man arrive the other night. I could taste his cologne. At first, I thought someone may be cooking because of the pepper, though then I knew it to be aftershave when the soapy aroma shifted into my bedroom.
The man introduced himself as Derrick and he had dark hair and a long mustache and didn't bother me much unless I'm reading. We got into it about Carl Jung the other night.
The man said,
'To love someone is easy, but to love what you are, the thing that is yourself, is just as if you were embracing a glowing red-hot iron; it burns into you and is very painful.'*
He was drinking a beer that he'd put in the fridge. I spotted them, a six-pack in the back, to the left of the lettuce and hard-boiled eggs. I didn't want to be rude so I left the beers in the fridge and when he pulled two out and sat down with me on the floor, I was relieved.
I was happy they were his and not Marjons.
I had been writing with my rainbow pens in my new notebook when he called and I answered without saying anything. He's well-versed in The Red Book, which I've not read- and not particularly care to.
Where one holds their attention shapes the context of a life. Jung doesn't need my support, nor do I need his wisdom right now.
I asked the man if I should open the packages.
When I arrived home with the parcels in my bag, I pulled each out and shook them lightly to see which was making the bells. It was the smallest one. After I'd wiped it down, I set them on the credenza and contemplated what to do. I did nothing at the time and set about my day, working and writing, and I went for a long run to Mo Cafe (which was closed) and when I checked my Health App, it showed that I'd traveled twenty-two kilometers that day.
By evening, I was exhausted and had forgotten about the snake and my theft until the man appeared. I smelled him before I heard him pop a beer and didn't bother looking for him. He sat beside me and leaned against the sofa, which I think is filthy though he didn't seem to mind.
He asked me what I was doing, and I said writing to you- Simone- about the nature of love. His response was to quote Jung and I told him to stop it because I don't want people in my head cluttering my own thoughts up with their ideas!
It's stupid to think you can keep everyone out all the time.
I've limited my conversation to very few. You and Clara. Sometimes Georgina. Amanda, occasionally.
Love is such a fickle thing, Simone.
Right now, the concern is what to follow; the thing that moves as smoke that you cannot touch, see, or taste? Or do you reach out and hold on to what you know to be secure, true, and trustworthy?
I thrust for the spark. I whistle for the whimsical. I dance the line where desire meets despair.
Love is painful if you move toward the thing that has no endpoint. When I look for Christ in the fog, I know he still has his arms spread even if I cannot see Him.
Is that faith? Trusting in the unseen? Though I saw him before and know he cannot move. He is immobile, made of stone.
My love is not a stone. My heart is not immobile. This is the thing that constantly twists and spits within us and the only way through it is to step into the center and withstand the heat and the cold.
It is bitter to be loved and also the sweetest offering one can give.
The man has been in love many times. He is twice divorced and loved his wives distinctly and dearly.
One was Brazilian and the other American. He married the Brazilian first and took her dancing in tight yellow dresses and they drank caipirinhas until the mood bled and their skin crackled like popped corn with their arousal. His second wife was an intellectual and liked pantsuits and expensive wine that the man would uncork with one hand while fondling her with the other. She was a bit prim and he is not fancy and when they weren't making love, they disagreed on everything else in the world.
Outside of love what is there but the bare face of necessity?
The man said he got trapped in the arrival of his arousal and forgot how to get out until he was kicked and signed papers.
He said I would be a good wife for him, someone more pragmatic and polite, being Canadian as I am.
This was when I asked about the parcels. I don't want to marry, lest of all, a dead man who sneaks in at night and provokes me while I'm writing. What a nuisance!
The man said I should open each of the parcels despite the dead snake where I discovered them. Omens are what we make of them, and the snake could be anything.
I wanted to ask him about my bare-breasted dreams, though I thought to leave that discussion for a woman guide.
A woman in the house only comes out when I burn the Jasmine incense, so I'll do that and bring my inquiries of my body. Everyone has a role to play and the trick is to work within the boundaries. Know what to ask and of who, and you will never be dismantled.
The man drank both of his beers while I ripped open the packages. The biggest one I chose first was a bit of a disappointment, for it contained a Filofax with letters written in Portuguese.
From the second package, I procured a green vase in bubble wrap.
The third parcel, the one that jingled, presented a small blue box, and inside on a silk cushion was a bracelet with tiny bells shaped like the cashew apples of Brazil.
The man plucked the jewels from its bed and latched it to my wrist.
He left shortly after, having finished his drink and our conversation waning, and the mystery of the three packages resolved.
I readied for bed, ringing the entire way from bathroom to boudoir.
I woke up thrice in the night to the chattering of bells. Each time I recognized my hands moving beyond my body and naked as I was, I still felt hot. Burning as that red-hot iron!
*Carl Jung, Zarathustra, Page 1322.
Photo source.
