Reminiscing

     

     Near the Kirk Douglas theater, in Culver City, a stone's thrown away from the Sony lot, there's a elementary school. 🏫 At precisely 10:24 am, Pacific time, three teachers were trying to line up twenty students or so, to take their photograph. I could have said picture, but photograph is more eternal than a simple picture. 

     "Picture this!" someone says and then describes what *he/she/they/them* want you to see. And it is never life changing . But no one says "photograph this" because that is serious business; a photograph will stand the test of time and mark that moment forevermore.

     Many years from now, those children will look at that photograph and will be unlikely to recall the names of their classmates. My elementary school photograph is framed; it hangs on my hallway; my partner smiles every time she walks by and sometimes mocks me by saying "good morning, Karla Maria" or "good evening, Karla Maria" to the girl I love when I was 8 years old. She says the name loudly so that I can hear it over my acoustic guitar. 

     My thespian partner is Canadian; I'm convinced Canadians are all extraterrestrials; only golden retrievers are nicer and after years and years I come to find out my yellow fur coated golden retriever are sometimes called Canadian golden retrievers. It makes sense.

     It's remarkable to me how many dots in my lifeline connected in these crossing roads in Culver City. The Sony lot is where they once made films, today they focus on making movies. They had a different name then; Columbia Pictures. He who has the gold makes the rules, I venture, so gone is the beautiful lady holding a torch and I will let you tell me what is the image that Sony Pictures chose to inspire those elementary school children, because I certainly can't recall. 

     A film is a sequence of pictures, frames, lined up together and it was Kirk Douglas who gave birth to the film that would change my life. For many years, he tried to get it made but couldn't arrange financing; when he became too old to play the main character, he gave the screenplay to his son, Michael Douglas. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest won a bucket load of oscars, including best picture - they call everything pictures here in La La Land, it is a word power play by the head of studios to keep those pesty artists grounded. By grounded, I mean well paid; it's easier to control people who work for cash.

     I walked into a theater in Brazil and all the dots connected in my mind: fashion, music, photograph, lighting, cobblestone and street lights; a kaleidoscope of things I loved strung together to tell the story of my mother.

    At lunch, Ray smiled at me and asked me what I was thinking. It is what Canadians do when Brazilians stop talking. 

"I'm reminiscing" I said. 

"And when is it that you are not reminiscing?" She asked. 

"When I'm thinking of you." I should have said, but I fumbled the moment and took something from her plate instead.

                                                    

** seriously; if the worst that happens to you today is that someone uses the wrong pronoun for you, count your blessings. 

Une Recette Pour Une Belle Vie

   

     Sometimes, the memories of my grandmother overwhelms me and I have to go searching for pieces of my history online; the history that formed me as a human being was written in Afonso Arinos, a small village located on the borderline of the states of Rio de Janeiro and Minas Gerais. Minas Gerais, undoubtedly, one of the most beautiful places in the world. 

     Just type the name of a few of its cities in your image search box and you can begin to plan your next vacation: Diamantina, Tiradentes,  Congonhas, Sao Joäo del Rey, Mariana, and the second most beautiful city in the world for me: Ouro Preto. New York City being forever my favorite city, followed by Paris, which lost the second place in my heart when I visited Ouro Preto em 2015.

     Tonight, for whatever reason, I typed Rio das Flores into my search box and discovered the beautiful Fazenda do Paraizo, owned by the beautiful couple, Paulo Roberto Botelho and his wife, Simone Botelho. There's so much I could say about the property but my words will fall short to describe the beauty of this place. You can see it for yourself.

     The second Fazenda was a nice surprise since I know the family who owns it; we all grew up in Afonso Arinos; merely 10 minutes away from where  Fazenda Santa Justa is located. An added layer of nostalgia is the fact that Vanessa Cardäo, the young woman describing the place is related to the girl I loved when I was 9 years old. 

     Then it came to me why I had a hard time talking about the beauty of both places; certain experiences have to be lived, not described. And in living it, day to day, a human being can begin to form a receipt pour une belle vie. 

     Here's how the exquisite Vanessa Cardäo describes Fazenda Santa Justa::

 "Essa fazenda pra mim tem gosto de memória, de lembrança, de felicidade, de valores, de família e de Deus também." Clarissa Cardäo. 

 "For me this farm "tastes" like memory, remembrance, happiness, values, family, and God too." Clarissa Cardäo. 

     Words to live by. What else is there to say? 

                                                    

Mother

A New Cottage Industry

     

     There's a new evil brewing in the greatest country in the world; don't pretend ignorance, for you know exactly the country I am referring to: the country that sends its boys to war around the world and call them heroes, offer them parades and a whole day out of the year to celebrate them. 

     A special day where the citizens of this magnificent country can enjoy a day of leisure and drive to the beach, to the mall; on the way there, at the traffic lights and sidewalks they can see the parade of veterans: missing limbs, hunted by ghosts and demons,  begging for scraps and living in tents. 

     A few romantic souls, still linger to the story they were sold and beg for money dressed in the uniform they used to fight the wars that provided us the freedom to walk the street as  free people.

     The country I am referring to has created agencies to protect its citizens and assure their safety; agencies such as the DIABETES FOUNDATION that links diabetes to fat consumption and advise the public that sugar in moderation is healthy; and the American Society for Nutrition and National Institute of Health that advises the public that there are no links between obesity, high calorie consumption and lack of exercise. It is all genetic and therefore only managed by prescribed drug use. For life.

     Coincidentally, this particular country gain billions of its revenues in two primary sources of income: the military and its pharmaceutical/health industry. And now, they have invented a new evil way to profit from its citizens: compassion.

     Politicians, known worldwide for their empathy and devoting service to the people, have began a campaign to "house" mentally ill people for up to an entire year while they are tested and treated for their illness. 

     We have to hand it to the pharmaceuticals companies creative way to acquire new customers. 

    The new evil, as it turns out, it's nothing new: the executives of pharmaceuticals companies and their lobbyists have aimed their sights at the homeless, as they finally see a new way to profit from them. Politicians have began singing their song of empathy, while other politicians appeal to the self centered selfish among us and talk about "cleaning the streets." 

     Pretty soon, to our joy and delight, our streets will be cleaned and safe once again. A few voices will rise in the defense of the unhoused but it will be muffled by our silence , as we drive to the beach and the mall and the clubs and restaurants and the tourist destinations. 

   As we go on with our lives, ignoring the sufferers as we do now.

   On the sidewalk of this great country there will be signs that read: " This clean sidewalk was brought to you by GSK, Pfizer, Johnson & Johnson, etc.."

     And this will be the great experiment of our lifetime as they open hospitals around this great country and harness their skills on the homeless until they have perfected the art of imprisoning people to test their new drugs. And make a profit for their investors.

     Once they are done with the homeless, they will come for our families, as they did in the 40's and 50's and 60's. Our children, fathers and mothers. A full circle indeed.

A clown's perspective: " When the business people and politicians find a way to profit from the homeless you will see the streets of America clean up real goddamn fast. I guarantee you that." George Carlin

Gliders and Sufferers

     

     Only God can make a tree, but I can make trouble. I can hurt my fellow men and be content within myself; for getting my way, above his, hers and they be denied; because it is in my nature to do so. Am I created in His image? Has God bestowed his disdain to His creatures as we disdain ourselves daily.?

     In the cities of this world there are only two kind: sufferers and gliders; gliders being the ones that take to the city in enjoyment as his fellow men perish. And with the help of the ones and the zeros, display to the world to see. And envy. 

     A sure sign of a malady within is the pleasure to display as others suffer; but here I am also at fault, because the gliders suffer too: an existence is long enough for creatures to understand how weak, perishable and transient we all are. Every social media display is a desperate cry for help.

" Am I alone." "Do you feel my pain?" Can you for the time being enjoy my material things and make me feel happy and complete? Can you see me? But not in the way I see myself. Can you see me with envy, with desire, for it is through your eyes and likes that I can briefly feel enough; that I can feel that my existence is not in vain. 

     In a world where many profess the existence and the love of God Almighty for us, it begs the questions: why is that love not enough? Why must we search for likes and recognition in social sites?

     Surrounded by my family; while others have none. Surrounded by my beautiful friends; while others are alone. Surrounded by the fabric and materials of this Tesla; while besides me, at this traffic light in West Hollywood tents line up one after another on the sidewalk. Tents, trash and flies is all there is now. For the humans that surround it go unnoticed; unless they make themselves noticeable; to our despair. 

     Nothing, not even the pain I feel when I think of my mother, can hurt as much as the sight of another mother, or a father - I've seen them both - on a street corner, by a traffic light, begging for money; with signs that read: 

" Need money for food." " Need money for rent." 

     While CHILDREN as young as 4 years old sit by their side with an expression I have yet to understand. Or perhaps I chose not to as I try daily to forget all the memories I have of my mother spending her only existence inside a mental hospital so that well educated men could afford their vacation homes, automobiles and their social status. Prescribing electric shock treatments to the depressed until they are no longer there. Branding their children like cattle; for life.

     And that it is; the hypocrisy of it all. As my beloved grandmother would say: " when you point your finger at someone, three other fingers are pointing at you." We all display what we have for the world to see; in communion. It is the only way we have not to feel so alone. 

You display your things: families, friends and beautiful possessions. The rest of us display our pain. We are all beggars in this world, trading for love, understanding, acceptance. For pity. 

And so, as in Your Lord's Prayer,  we too beg. Not to be forgotten. Not to die.

Happy Families!

     There are human beings living in there; human beings I will never meet. I found this by happenstance, when looking for a quiet corner of the world to hide and do some drugs; that being coffee, Starbucks coffee, my favorite drug dealers.

     Not a particularly nice looking building, but it sits at the heart of a very opulent area. That's Los Angeles for you, a third world county that doesn't see itself for what it is because is busy telling the rest of world how to live.

     I grew up an orphan, and windows are, and always have been my Achilles's heel. I remember seeing them at night - beauty and perfection has always taken place at night for me; under the harsh light of day I see it all - I remember windows lit inside and waited to get a glimpse of a mother, a father, their happy children. It is the only thing I have envied in this world: families.

     In my imagination, they were always happy and I always walked away feeling sad and lonely; asking God why He had deprived me of a family. It would be years until I found out he doesn't exist.

     If you look carefully at the picture, you will see the hanging grapes on the wall that mark the division of the property line. I tried one. They are as sour as I feel right now. I wonder if someone with a better life story than mine would find any sweetness in them.

     Could it be true? Could life be a matrix where our experiences reflect how we feel? If it is, then I'm doomed because when I see lit or unlit windows I always imagine a happy family inside; something I've never had.

The Light of Night

     I travel into myself; there's no other destination as urgent, as essential. I, a ghost in my own lifetime, too old  to fit among the live, naive, the young; too optimistic for the bitter, the old, the others that harvested practicality from all they've lived.

     I fit nowhere. I have nothing else but the journey within, the lonely road into myself, like a teenager swimming in a river, diving deeper and deeper into the darkness without ever looking back at the horizon, the misleading thin line of light above; deeper and deeper until a voice out of nowhere reminds me: " This is not your environment, you need air."  Air being others of my kind. 

     But it is the diving I enjoy. It is the diving that disperses bits of truth, moments of me that pop like bubbles in the water surrounding me,  in which I recognize my humanity; the revealed moments of me within myself. The diving one must do alone, without love, companionship; love requires the surface, the island, a blanket: basket, fresh fruit, wine. Another. London.The sun. 

     The sun does nothing but reveal the already seen. Such useless star, the sun. Scorching everything below, as pretentious as an ivy league college professor, pontificating, like that gentleman on PBS who interviewed others and spoke gravely, exuding importance, saying nothing original, regurgitating words of others as if the simple act of understanding merited such arrogance. Such is the sun above. 

     At night, I temper with things at easy. Not at will. In the dark corners, shadows, and reflections of light, the subconscious flourishes, comes out to space, to air  the dense matter inside: mash of memories, disappointments, deep injuries and sorrows. It comes out to be among others, outside of the harsh light that judges, that seem to understand but doesn't. How can it, when the entity itself labors for the reasoning of its own mysterious actions and words?

     In the darkness of lonely nights, if one sits still, doesn't interfere, doesn't judge, one can get those lovely bubbles of self recognition. One can meet the true self dormant within.

     I guess this is my way of saying that this world has gotten to be overexposed and so, so, so very loud that everyone should just shut the hell up! Myself included.

     For a bit. A heartbeat or two until we are so deep within ourselves that we have something to say. About ourselves. Not others.