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our lady maria!

I don't know what that is, but it's an ugly looking thing. I wanted a mango but I didn't get what I asked for; I got this bullshit. It's one of those fruits or vegetables you look at and feel sorry for as it doesn't compare at all to the beautiful indigo, orange and yellow and bloody colors of the “good looking” fruits. Vendors are yelling and screaming and you have to guess which piece of food they're talking about; I think I heard five names at once and the one that sounded the funniest stuck with me, although I forgot it after some guy bumped into me--apparently he'd been chasing something that he liked--and was stuck in space briefly, floating endlessly as if there was nothing and no one and loneliness, searching in a sea of emptiness for that word that I knew I'd recognize if I encountered it once more. Damn lonely. But space is full of all sorts of crap so I kept walking, bumping into people on my particular arrow of time. Looking at the hills there are buildings stacked up one above the other; such a green, wet collaboration this place is, how deeply I feel the need to receive something. Not a sunburn. It will rain in heat and heat in rain and I don't know what the hell is going on. Everybody is wearing their damn shorts and I got on pants, though I was lucky enough to see some jeans; I think I found what that guy was chasing after.  But the market on the street only stays entertaining for ten minutes because staying longer than that seemed liable to entice me into wet heat, like I'm sure it's what my tongue feels like when I'm salivating just wet and hot, stuck in a little cavern where everything stinks but you're attached and can't think too damn much I need to get on the bus. But on the bus what do I find! More perverts. Some kids talking shit and I don't even understand their slang. Everyone's looking at a cell phone, sweating. The Rubi line out of Jaraguá is even worse, rolling through the hills on a track as old as the city with a car that looks like the first model of a modern train. I pass by some kids kicking a soccer ball at their mom trying to pump water for their bath. She's got a gigantic melon cut and I hope it's for dessert, imagining a bit of salt sprinkle while singing a beautiful song of blue mountains in the morning. But Luz station isn't a piece of shit better. Too many people trying to get on and kissing and touching, not trying to pay me any mind. And as soon as I was about to start wishing I had someone to kiss and touch I get it on my butt, a little squeeze and pull on my leather belt, like you should've had a leather belt on that ass when you were little, would've had more discipline, less street walking. Not what I want, neither what I asked for right now. What-you-want?-I-do-anything-ten-dolla looking girl. And I can imagine some pimp trying to talk to her about being cut from the team, she ain't try hard enough. Away from the station I see a bunch of little restaurants where they cut fresh cooked meat, a Mediterranean restaurant called Habib’s I'd been to the day before and payed way too much for some strawberry juice with milk; some African immigrants trying to sell stuff on carpets laid out. I can’t understand how they speak either but the accent is of the city for sure. Dogs and parks and bridges going straight through a valley of skyscrapers, a garden on city hall’s rooftop. I trip a couple of times walking across the street, catching sight of a sexy table-tennis match. All the young couples watch, the girls trying to restrain their little boyfriends from embarrassing themselves. The guy who kept getting it in on everyone was this dude with a baseball cap, dark as night and a smile like the moon rising on a polluted horizon. A disruption of disapproving ladies coming from Mass at the chapel with their veils wanting to fall and guard those eyes as they looked at the passing
escola de samba, people gasping and laughing at the guys grinding on each other as if it were calamity, and mouths gaping at the rebola das negas wanting to get with the girl with no waist but everything else. The tourists get into it too, noticing this Japanese guy falling in love or hot desire with a blonde dancer. That's the summary of the story behind the foreign population. Men and women with tambourines and snares and agogôs and shakers, looking like a walking rainbow because, you know, all people love to samba. But forró and pagode compete in the alleys. Hearing the tastiness of that soulful beating I had a quick confidence. Wanting to walk up to some woman I see that she is with someone. Another is dancing too well, God knows I can't catch her feet. I give up and get back on the bus, take the long route back home. Everyone is talking now, no one left unscathed by conversation. And Our Lady Maria! I notice this beautiful creation of God’s green and rainy Earth sitting next to me, but I might as well be a wet and stinky tongue. I try to use mine to speak to her, and as soon as I make two sounds some guy pokes me hard in the back from the seat behind.”É minha mulher, rapaz!  Por que tu tá falando com meu xuxu, hein?!” (or to follow the language I've been using: That's my lady, bro! Why’re you talking to my chuchu?) That's when I fell from empty space to Earth: chuchu the name of the, wait. So I ask the guy what a chuchu was. He tells me it's what he calls his woman. I say whah, and he pulls out the ugliest looking fruit I've ever seen, just feeling sorry for the shit. Of course looking at the woman I see no resemblance. And now as we pass the Lapa station I was starting to realize how little sense the entire place made.

Vixi Maria!

5 февраля 2019 г. 15:37:48 0 Отчет Добавить 119

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