Pigneto 

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“Come oooon, let’s go to bed already!”

“Babe, just go ahead, I’ll be in in a bit”

“No, but I wanna lay down with you”

He smacks me on the bum. He’s the man. Men are soft when their hearts are on fire. Lone boats sail around looking for home, for earth, some turn pirates from salt water and desperation and start robbing. Others pilgrims, striders, or even lovers of the big sea keeping them afloat and the stars that lead them.

But even the lovers look for earth, and when they spot it on the horizon they tremble with longing, hope, and the most crushing of fears.

I kiss the ocean-heart of my merman  husband, full of stars and space. I can wrap myself in his arms at night and float around in universes in infinity. Until he starts kicking me in his sleep and I slip into another bed to dream. Who do you run from, in your sleep, my love? 

Tenderness makes my skin sweat honey, where he doesn’t drink it, it evaporates to perfume to air. 

“And now for something completely different..”

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Whenever I get nauseous I look at my feet. That way I don’t see the ceiling right over my head or the sea of people blocking the narrow passageway in front of me and occupying the space of my theoretical escape route behind me. It took me 4 minutes to walk the 50 meters from one side of the platform to the other. Its not that its a very long time, or the energy of the crowd. Its the tiny underground space these four minutes and hundreds of people are crammed into. I look up to check which direction I’m going and feel dizzy. Feet, my feet. There are nobody here.

“Shhh” I press my ear against his chest to listen to the silence inside a giant vortex drawing everything in and under water. Things disappear in there to never resurface. I’m not sure if they drown or if they are just cushioned and held in this space. I’m not sure what the difference is either. So I close my eyes and plunge into those black, sweet waters. You ever only see the Moon and the Sun in the same sky for a short while, but they are always in love.

I slowly lower my body down to the floor, poking my bum up and pressing my elbows into my sides. Then slither forward to arch my back and look towards my anja chakra. My shoulders peel back and pull my heart open, I feel my whole body shining. without any effort I lift myself up again as I roll over the tips of my toes to press backwards. I am in child’s pose on my mat, in the international sunshine arts’ studio, on the floor, on the Earth. My teacher places her hands on my sacrum and helps me go deeper, I press out two drops of salty gratitude from my eyes.

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Bald Poetry and a Beat Root Passport

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Bald Poetry and a Beat Root Passport

I dream of Ariel. His ears cut off, van Gogh wasn’t crazy either. He smiles. I reach for freedom, for a razor, and carefully slice off my left ear. I stay with it in my hand, looking at it, my cut off ear, overtaken by doubt, should I sew it back on, if I don’t what does it mean.

I wake up in the middle of my dilemma. Morning shower, my razor in the bathroom. I shave a little piece of my head and marvel at the sensation, pass Karité to protect my newborn skin. I look weird, I look beautiful.

A kiss on my naked head, never felt anything like it!

**My last post received over 180 visitors and 280 views, I never had this kind of traffic before! I can only take it as a clear sign that I ought to pursue a career as a bald poet**

… This Sunday I am going to use my European beetroot colored passport to return to Gringolândia (well, most likely that is, because lately few things are very predictable).

I am looking forward to soy lattes and to the gentle spirit of the people, the softness of the peace which seeps out of the walls. The peace which silently suffocates the outrageous, disturbing pulse of the life that beats in everything, beats inside me stronger now, after two therapeutic months cuddled at the chest of Brazil.

Rio is pulse; pumping out chaos, color, creativity, sex, celebration, violence and beauty, beauty, beauty.

”There are a lot of things which could be a lot better in Rio, but it has a really good magic”

Magic. That’s what I feel. And I am aware that I am experiencing Rio from the point of view of my European passport privilege, a ticket to a life with a kind of freedom which means not ever having to seriously worry about violence, visas, or money to pay for health care.

Its a comfort privilege, its separation too. I live in a fenced off condomínio, Fortress Europe. It is a wealth which doesn’t show up on my bank account.

I am not leaving with a crushed heart this time, but with a suffocating feeling in my chest from the expantion created by having so much love compressed into tiny chambers, knowing that I am of this too: it is inside me.

And I can come back.

Still… I sit blank-faced looking at Avia’s page booking my connecting flight out of here, scanning my mind for another option…

Longing and belonging: loving

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Last time I came to Brazil I threw my self head first into an uncontrolable fascination turned romance which made everything around me electric with promise of possibility. I had opened my hands to let go of everything else and they were both free to cling to this. So I clung. As a climber to the side of a mountain (I fell and bruised, of course.)

This time was different, I came to Brazil already in a love story; in love, with a heart and a place. I came with my left palm open, a small bird sitting in it. I trode gently, I wished for it to stay, to nest, I carried it, carefull to shield it without smuthering it. I enjoyed its singing so, its hopeful singing from an honest heart opened, in devotion, in bravery, as if it didn’t realize how exposed it became. What I longed for, what I longed to belong to.

The bird flew… left but the softness of its kiss in my hand, tears on my cheeks. The fleeting smell of roses and aching oceans of gratitude…

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