Saturday, April 29, 2017

Local Adoption

Recife was a city at night for me. The time I had off was mostly at night and so I mostly saw things that were available at night. The city was sparkles and night lights. This suited me somehow. 


On the day before my last I decided to go walking along the beach again. Regardless of the murders, thieves and whores. The air was too warm and moist and I was too excited by being South of the boarder again to deal with sitting in my room alone drinking. I looked up someplace to go and decided to walk there. 

Exhaustion, I had not counted on, but it was the exhaustion that got to me before I found whatever place along the shore I was thinking to fine, so after a point I turned back. Walked past the sleeping locals on benches and ran into an elderly lady brushing her dog on the street. 

Her dog was a shih tzu, beautiful little dog. Immediately I felt overwhelmed by all the feelings that come with having lost a pet recently so I couldn't help going up to her and asking if I could pet her dog. She spoke not a lick of English and I speak no Portuguese at all so we were having a lot of fun. It turned out that things worked better if I wrote them down on my phone. 

While I didn't know much Portuguese and she didn't know much English, we had just enough Spanish in between us to figure it out. She told me to put my camera away. 

I told her that her dog was beautiful. 

She told me I was very pretty and I should watch out for bad men. 

I told her she was very kind. 

She told me I was like a daughter to her. 

I smiled. I didn't know how to respond. 

She held my hand as I held her dog and started to cry. 

She wiped away my tears as the ocean crashed behind me. She helped point me in the right direction to get me back to my hotel. 

Brazil was a strange and beautiful place. 





Monday, April 24, 2017

Whores and Humans

Sometimes work and life mix up in just the right ways. My workmates wanted to take me out to dinner in Recife before I would start working and I said yes. The goal was to go to a place that was close by, just in a town a bit over from Recife, so we met outside the hotel and the plan was for them to drive me. 


We drove up and down dark roads and I got a bit of a tour of Recife and the history as we drove. Old history. Buildings older than America, beaches that were once safe and are no longer safe because of the warm weather and pollution. Sharks come up to the beaches and people are asked not to swim anymore in the warm waters. There are new buildings on the beachfront full of Chinese home owners who who are buying up property in Recife. 

The drive was winding, past a road where the prostitutes gather and take johns into the shady brush scrub right off the beach. They tell me about everything, from seedy to historical, they do not sugar coat their city, it's beauty, it's horrors. 

Up a winding road we go towards the restaurant we are looking for, suddenly unable to move, the streets were fully of people. People in various states of undress, drinking, laughing, making music. 

"What's happening I asked?"

My colleague speaks in smooth Portuguese to police officer directing traffic at the end of one of the rows. 

"Unbelievable." 

"What, what?"

"It's Carnival, they are preparing for carnival already! It will be months before carnival time, but already they are outside." 

Getting to the restaurant turned out to be impossible so in the end we ended up at a little mall on the beach, eating seafood and watching the moonlight over the ocean as it lapped against the shore. We laughed and enjoyed the food, the humid night. We laughed at the seediness of Brazil. The happiness of it. It's so interesting here, in this city, fully of frenzy and life. I'm starting to fall in love with South America in ways I could not have understood. 




Sunday, April 23, 2017

Fisherman at Night









True stories. 

Thursday, April 20, 2017

The Fisherman

Brazil was warm. A nice break from the cool I had been dealing with in New York. I needed the steaminess of it, getting lost in the wet damp. Smell of salt. The sea nearby.

The walk from my hotel to the ocean front of Recife was short. I as warned that Recife was dangerous. Be constantly vigilant, be constantly safe.

I wondered if perhaps Recife should be warned about me.

The walk was down dark alley breaking into the crashing waves on the beach, awash in moonlight and streetlight and lamps strung to and fro. It was a dappled light dream, the kind of light that makes you expect to see a mermaid happily content along the shore. Some lonely, naive, Ariel looking for a prince to charm her.

Instead of this there were two fisherman setting up on the beach. Long sea poles stretched into the night sky and I watched as they braced them against their hip belt to cast them out. Light danced around as the line disappeared far out into the water.

I wanted to walk, I wanted to explore a bit, even though exploring was dangerous (muggers, rapists, thieves, don't take your camera out!). I walked for a short way down the beach, taking in the light, listening to the sounds of the lapping waves.

As the tide came in I went lower onto the beach, watching the water rise up, amused that I was wearing such heavy boots on such a warm night. Water playing against the bottom of the stairs and the moon high in the sky; my boots felt light and airy and just right for the journey.

It was a short trip. It was already full dark and I had a full day ahead of me anyway, so I turned back after hardly half a mile to get some sleep, to get ready for the tomorrow, whatever the tomorrow was going to be.

Back past the fisherman. And as I passed the line tensed and I felt the excitement in the action on the beach, that old familiar excitement of catching something on your line. Fishing is fraught with good and bad memories for me, but the excitement I experience was real enough.

The stone wall that ran the length of the beach was close so I sat and watched my fisherman. They acknowledged me with a nod and a wave. We were together now in this moment. Friends, all of us, all of us interested in what was on the end of the line.

One man worked the reel while the other watched the waves slap against the shore in the darkness, waiting for something to break. His patience​, my patience, rewarded after about five minutes as a large fish broke the waves and was pulled, dangling and thrashing from the hook.

They pulled it onto shore and up to some rocks, practically in front of me, and bashed it on the head. Over and over again. The wet thing wiggled and thrashed, dead already, just the death throes of the nervous system, the body doing what the body does when the brain is disconnected violently by fisherman on the beach.

They smiled tooth smiles at me. I smiled back and clapped as they tossed their prize into a plastic bag, strung the line and cast again.

For a moment, I wished to feel the chum between my fingers. I could smell it from my perch the salty bloody, gamy scent.

I understood that bait scent.

They cast the line back out again while I stood and shook the sand off my dress, my boots sparkling against the pavement.

The walk home smelled like salt and blood.

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

Brazil

I went to Brazil.

Brazil is a set of stories.

Warm stories.

Humid stories.

The stories of the voyeur.

I did not interact with Brazil as much as I would have liked to. I was still learning how to interact when I went.

The middle of a move, the middle of a transition, the middle of everything. It was so much. But it was an important time.

My visa came in almost literally hours before I was to fly. I worried the entire time. I hate being without my passport for any length and two weeks was a long time. In the middle of that time I went with my acknowledge lover, Hellion, and a spanking bottom we shared to a club for spanking under the stars.

I smacked at least one person in the face.

We had a very good time. It was a time that was worthwhile and one I may never recreate.

It was the ending of a long time in New York, the New York club scene, the New York social scene.

I was surprised at how many people knew me.

I was excited for Brazil.

Now, we have come to the time for those stories. Digested moments. My life.

My life is nothing, sometimes but the synthesis of moments. All lives, really, are nothing but the synthesis of living: it only becomes tedious when you don't recognize the power that lies in 20 minutes of living. Ignore that, and you become nothing but compounded banality. Recognize it, and your life becomes magic.

Brazil was a serious of moment.

It was magical.

Monday, April 17, 2017

Down Time

It's down time.

The best way to describe the space in-between. I'm in the airport so often now that I'm almost as well known as the flight personal on my favorite airline.

I spent a great deal of time in lounges.

I spend a great deal of time thinking.

It is an odd thing to travel so hard and so often and so well.

Right now it's downtime. Time to catch up on some stories. Time to tell the tales there are to tell.

Time to see people, really see people, instead of see through people. There are the masses that have come and gone, but then there are those that are slowly becoming a part of something greater.

A larger whole.

Friendships.

Real companions during downtime.

In the meantime, I miss at least one part of New York more than I can stand. This I need to write about, too.

Downtime.

Writing time.

Thinking time...


Friday, April 07, 2017

Cellar Door

I'm on the road again. Leaving Glasgow soon to go back to London. This trip has been full of work and I doubt I'll do anything much more interesting than that between now and the long flight home. The upcoming visit to Hellion has me so excited I can barely stand it.

However, since I'm going back to London I might go again and try to find one of the bathroom bars, or maybe the same bathroom bar I went to last time. Bathroom bars, what will the world think of next. Well, at least this was something that had been thought of. Last year when I was in London my boss at the time pointed it out to me.

"I thought I might take us there."

"What's there? The subeway?

It looked like a subway box, they way it stuck up out of the ground, but apparently it wasn't a subway box.

"That is a bathroom."

"You wanted to take me to the bathroom?"

"No, it's a public bathroom, but now it's a bar."

"Wait, what?"

So at some point in the past a bunch of public bathrooms in London were converted into little bars and restaurants. This one, as it turns out, had been converted into a bar and as far as I could tell mini cabaret. I'm up for it, but not really with co-workers. Fortunately we didn't go there.

The next night I got away from work early and decided to have a look.


The lights are red and oppressive in side. Everything is weird bright, like an hallucination. The feeling, the sensation is of stepping into a speakeasy. A red head in a low cut gown leans against the bar next to me. He hair is piled on her head and it is impossible to look away from her, her body, her breasts beautifully exposed. She is the cabaret singer, working with her accompanist, who plays perfect organ for her bawdy show. 

She slinks around the bar, drapes herself off men and woman, kisses the girls, makes the boys blush. Some of them try to bluster, to be asses, really, but she embarrasses them easily enough and the crowd in the crowded underground laughs. I feel like Alice in a booze soaked wonderland. It was fun for the night. I can image it would be fun again. 













Tuesday, April 04, 2017

Heroes

Gillian Anderson is 48 years old.

Gillian Anderson is one of my heroes. Has been since agent Dana Scully really started to give holy hell to geeky Mulder. Mulder and Scully have probably done more to define what I, as a bisexual, am attracted two more than any other superstar. Discounting the fact that Debbie Harry was my first crush and Jim Morrison my second.

Gillian Anderson has been doing a lot of work lately. I've been in love with all of it, but the piece I've found the most interesting has been a show called 'The Fall'. It's dark, it's a DCI show, it's got murder and death and serial killers and Gillian Anderson.

In the first episode her detective meets a another dective that she wants. She sees him and she knows she wants him. She doesn't really introduce herself. She barely has his name. She starts and finishes the conversation with her hotel and room number. As I watched I swooned. This woman, who she is right now, I want to be this woman.

He comes to her room. He dies, as he must. Later she is confronted by others in the department. He was a married man. Didn't you ask. Didn't you know. She is beautiful in her defense.

Man fucks woman. Subject: man; verb: fucks; object: woman. That's OK. Woman fucks man. Woman: subject; man: object. That's not so comfortable for you, is it?"
There was a part of me that wanted that level of confidence and fuckall. To just do what I wanted to do without considering how it might appear. The politeness of it.

In Seattle I go out with the New Yorker to dinner at a place called the Brooklyn Seafood Room, or something like that. Because of course. He is buying, the food is good. The waiter is cute.

The water starts hitting on me from the minute I sit down. He makes me feel desirable and sexy and amazing with every dish he serves. He lets me know he's interested and I'm interested back. Why should I be. Why can't I be.

People don't do this, I think.

People don't just go back to their hotels with strangers.

Woman fucks man, I think.

The New Yorker pays for food. We stand and start packing our bags to leave.

"A moment. Give me that." I ask for the bill fold.

"I paid?" The New Yorker looks confused.

"I  know."

"What's that."

"My business card."

"What are you doing."

"Leaving my number."

"Are you serious."

"He's cute and I'm single, why not?"

"He's not going to call."

"Wait for it."

We leave. I go back to my hotel. The New Yorker to his. My phone rings fifteen minutes later. There is a knock at my door twenty minutes after that.

The door opens.

"I don't really want a conversation."

"I didn't come here to talk."

Never have I felt more alive. Never have I felt more unreal. Never have I felt more that I have achieved the power of my heros.

Woman fucks man.


Saturday, April 01, 2017

Layover

Travel.

This has becoming a defining feature of my life, to be on the road. Travel. Travel. Travel. Go, go, go. This does things to a person that are difficult to explain for many reasons. First, you lose connections, everyone is at the end of a flight and the end of a flight could be the end of a relationship. Everything is a singular moment.

My life feels like a collection of singular moments strung together making something, making meaning, making time pass, making reality come together before I lose the thread of it on a flight in a distant country.

City.

Place.

I am so many places now.

This year I have already covered five countries and ten cities. It's barely April and I will keep going. Who is to say what the end of the year will have wrought. After the work, the hours, the years invested in making something like a career I have managed exactly what I wanted to manage. There is a sense of success.

I HAVE ACHIEVED SOMETHING.

But what have I lost to achieve?

The thing that is most striking is the human element. The human connection. How do you connect with people when your life is 24 hours on the ground.

How do you connect with people when the modern age is staring into small screens, social media, internet transience. Social media is the death of socialization. I no longer socialize with the world around me as the world is lost in their boxes, in the bright shiny lights. I miss the conversation in a bar.

I miss the stranger as friend.

I've found a new freedom in my age and in my travels and have found it harder and harder to connect. To find connect.

Still, I wouldn't trade it. What does that tell me.

Eight hour layovers. I know the airport well enough to treat it like a second home. Not even just one of them. All of them. All of them. I know them.