'intaZara
“I don’t want an answer, I want to be alone.”
Dear Simone,
The sun is out of my eyesight when it rises, and I can see the shadows it creates on the dark tiles on the terrace. What time is it where my lover dwells? What hour can I call? I never ask myself this, seriously, though it is magnificent to pose the question. I ask many things of myself and none of others; I don’t believe having your needs requited through someone else is possible.
I’ve been dreadfully anxious the past few days, and my lack of certainty drives me to such madness. I saw a pregnant woman with a scar down her side, from armpit to waistline, and she walked a zigzag to mimic the line. I couldn’t smell alcohol though her eyes were wild like the dog behind the iron gate. I pass this dog every day on my run down the hill in Santa Teresa towards LaRgo das Neves. I cannot see the dog's body; the bushes hide it, but I can see its eyes and long red tongue as it leaps at the bars. The dog is mad. I would be too cooped up in chains.
Pascal used to say that we are all slaves; the only real choice is choosing our form of bondage.
I hated him for saying that!
The pregnant woman on the streets roamed back and forth in her crooked line with that manic stare and picked-picked-picked at her cotton shorts with a thumb and forefinger. No one gives her money when I'm around. It may be different when I'm not around. Many things change when someone leaves, and something else arrives.
The woman walks around Leblon, one of the wealthiest neighborhoods of Rio, where everyone at the beach is decked out as if they're going to the club. High heels, sparkly tops, spangly earrings, eyeliner, eyelashes like cat whiskers; it's a scene to be seen. I sit facing the Morro Dois Irmãos- the 'Two Brothers Hill' where the Vidigal favela is located in the South Zone of Rio, Zona Sul, that extends from Botafogo to Leblon.
There's a hike that takes you to the top of the Morro Dois Irmãos to see the sprawling Rocinha, aka little farm. The Rocinha is the largest favela in Brazil and home to many social workers and activists. The Rochinha has a thriving community with NGOs, bars, nightclubs, restaurants, and educational institutions. It still has very high crime rates, though it is home to nearly 300,000 citizens of Rio.
I sit facing the hill to get the sunlight on my chest and shoulders and absorb the sounds of waves and Portuguese. It is a lovely, luscious language- delicious to taste. I'm collecting words to use in my travels that won't help me, yet roll off the tongue delightfully!
Estrela - star
Beija-flor - hummingbird
Alma - soul
Gostosa - delicious
Espelho - mirror
Fofo - cute
Cafe - caressing
Magna - sadness
A restlessness prompts me to move beyond the container I've created, and language is my only anchor. I send voice memos each morning to my loved ones and it's more for me than them. Speaking into the voice recorder, I can hear myself shape the context of my world- the things I want to reveal and the things I stuff a little deeper down into the cellar.
Isn't the work to bring it all up and out?
I think so- and when I find myself squirreling bits away in the cupboards, I disrupt the pattern by blurting out something too obvious. I lack tact and with age, I hope to ripen like an old wine that fills the mouth with abundance. My body blossoms like the red flowers in the courtyard with yellow spikey stamens. I don't know what they are called and don't care enough to find out.
There is information that feeds and information that distracts. I am good at sorting through the fluff, and the only question I need to answer is: does this add to the quality of life or take away?
I grow sick by thinking how much I have taken and how much I can give. I feel inept and a bit lame next to the activists I admire. My only hope is to wield words with the same wisdom and inspire generations beyond my vision. Will people be reading in another century? How will humans in the future communicate? I will not be so daft to think I can anticipate or assume the common mode of discourse. A designer recently told Clara and me that placing something that moved on a website was the best way to get people's attention. Wiggling lines, flashing colors, or the subtle shift of one thing into another. It keeps people's attention; it distracts. The media says most Millenials cannot focus for more than 90-seconds. What can you possibly absorb in that short of a time? A minute and a half; goldfish brain.
I read as a form of meditation. Mostly on my phone. I soften the lightning on the screen and swipe until my eyes are dry and I'm blinking like a little rat in the kitchen.
In the favelas, the gas is swiped from the more affluent areas. No one pays for their electricity, or so I am told. Internet is vital, and WiFi is not provided in many establishments.
In Rio, you need a CPF 'Cadastro de Pessoa Física' number to get a SIM card. To get the CPF, you must complete a form online and register with the Individual Taxpayer Registry. It's free for foreigners if you stay for under 120 days.
I will not get one- I like not getting notifications on my phone when I am out in the world. I am not taking many photos, either. You cannot hang on to anything that happens, so why try?
The most important thing is to be reborn; I cannot do that by looking at my past selves. I like who I was a year ago and taht affection may cause me to stop growing. Lean into learning! I want to shout at all the women I see on the beach sporting fillers, botox, and fake breasts. Learning means letting go and loving what's to come. You cannot move past the thing if it's frozen inside of you.
I feel like a frozen face is a little snapshot of what is going on inside. Expressionless; the heart is not a stone.
We are porous beings and we forget this sometimes because of our quest for security. The favelas are the most liberated and alive thing here in Brazil. The lights flash, fireworks cackle, and music blares at all hours. The dogs howl and drums beat and the women dress up in all sorts of enchantments. Everyone else is boring- the rich with their money, the lowest form of accomplishment. We need it to survive, and that should not be the standard of leading a prosperous life.
I wish I could sit with the pregnant woman and listen to her stories. I yearn to understand how she arrived in this place with dead eyes and a full womb. We are all walking around sharing who we are with each other through dress and decor, though the largest impression is left in those silent moments when you think that no one is watching.
Just because there are no eyes on you does not mean people are not picking up on what you are lying down.
The feelers- the ones connected to their hearts- can quickly grasp the signature of movement a person holds. I have been misled because of my own error, not because of manipulation. Second guessing is the mismanagement of doubt. Doubt can strengthen desire if acknowledged correctly. Doubt is like the internet; it's how you use it to strengthen or subdue.
My anxiety is why I am writing to you and it's a result of losing contact with my self. I have been around people for too many hours, days, and weeks, and the result is tiny puncture wounds in my resolve.
Clara asked me about my writing and its purpose. I don't have an answer right now. I get up every day and connect to this one ritual to soothe the disquiet I have towards the social inequality I experience and my utter lack in its resolution. I was cross the other day and took to the streets for a run to burn it off! Swimming also helps though we are too far from the beach for me to easily wet my hot head.
I am fortunate to have the time to muse over creation and construct such angst for myself! Not everyone has this indulgence.
When I feel like a rubber ball trapped in a phone booth, I know it's time to be quiet and move into a more hermetic lifestyle. Last night, I had the best conversation with myself and discovered where the ghoul was chained.
My independence is a large part of my identity, and whenever I bring someone in, I lose the tether to my belonging. I cannot go to others to meet my needs. I must do this on my own.
I don't belong to any one but the tribe of women I hold so close to my heart. Dead and alive, the women I rever answer my call without asking. I've had the same question and keep holding it high; no one has responded yet.
My guides visit when they want to. I do not make demands.
Do demand and desire go hand and hand?
Duty and desire do not.
I'd rather desire over duty.
Both kill, so the real question is- what would you die for?
Photo source.
