Journal in Rio, January 20, 2006

“What a three weeks it has been, since I arrived here …
I am learning how to communicate with him, without emotion,
and this seems to be our singular project right now….
His anger, my tears, which of course just set him off more.
I have to be the one to change it, stand up to him, which is
not only scary, but extremely challenging, since he is such
a Master of Bullshit.
He’s used to getting his way by charm, by swift words with
perfect timing, or by bullying.
I must say it is one of the larger challenges I have met in
my life!
One quite significant happening last night was the intense
but brief conflagration over money.  He asked me for $10,
I asked for what, he said “what do you think?”, I said NO,
then his Breathtaking FIT, one obviously rehearsed from
years of attack and manipulation.
Then he comes over, stands over me, does his STARE,
….seconds pass, and slowly we begin to crack up, and then…
the dark cloud dissipates.

Moments later he just throws in this amazing, clear, brief
“Thank you for not letting me go snort… it’s just a habit,
an impulse… you know, an impulse?  I really don’t want
to do it anymore.”
End of chapter.  After that, we proceed to have the Best
evening so far….. the TV went off, the music played, drinks
but no powder, with lots of laughs over cooking Camarao
and the snacks I bought…. and he even enjoyed them,
after the Weeks of protests about my shopping for My foods,
My inability to change and my need to Rule (!)….
Can you say Projection?…
and he actually was Present and Funny and I feel like
I am finally learning how to deal with him a little.
These days have so many ups and downs, I can’t keep track.
It’s All about Him, and it makes my head spin, how he is
all over the board.

My instincts were correct at coming here when I did…
I felt him not only slipping away from me, but closing down
and going Dead inside, in his Heart.

Dead Man Walking must be his Indian name!  and I keep saying
which really pisses him off…..



… breakthroughs …

ImageJanuary 1, 2006

Rio de Janeiro, on the island in Guanabara Bay…

Sunday morning is a disaster.  I was demolished, maybe slept
an hour at best, and can hardly begin to sort out my feelings.

Our fabulous NY Eve had turned into near disaster, with him
so drunk, more so than I’d Ever seen him, crashing into people,
passing out for 4 hours, leaving me in a strange country with
no idea where to go or what to do.  Thank God for the kindness
of Brasilians, all Two Million of them along Copacabana Beach,
for there were a few who knew 3 words in English and helped
me while I waited for Mr Wonderful to wake up.

When he awoke, it was dawn, and he was still drunk, and
kept asking me if I still loved him.   Once he awakened on the
street, we found the bus, walked home up the hill, and collapsed.
The same thing went on all day Sunday, him all pitiful and so
hungover,  but somehow we got through it.  Not pretty.

Monday, no one was working, so we stayed home, and I got sick.
Throat sore, coughing, sinus ache… tired… We slept a lot,
watched movies, and slept some more.  It was a good way to
avoid facing our reality from both sides, I suppose.

Tuesday we went for a long walk to the town area and stores
where we could get groceries, and I bought a great set of
stainless steel pans to replace the toxic antiques he was used
to using.  Here I was buying organic produce, and he was
using aluminum and teflon, with no idea what he was doing
to his gorgeous cooking.
He was a great cook, having learned at his Grandmother’s
side, and I remember fondly the way he would make cross cuts
on the half onion in his hands, using a small paring knife,
then make slices across to make little squares for his sauces.
He’d do it the way old people used to do, and beautiful hands
he had…brown and graceful and elegant, as he laughed and
stirred and tasted.

I am sick with fever, and after we walk home through the
old delapadated suburbs and put things away, he goes out
again.   He doesn’t just go out… he comes back and goes out
again, getting drunk, snorting god knows what, and getting
drunk again.
The third time he wants to go, he tells me not to let him,
to tell him Not to, so I do, and he lingers.
Finally I say…”want a massage?” and he melts.
“OK”…  and he falls upon the couch pads.
He falls asleep during the entire back side massage, and
sleeps deeply, quietly, the way he almost always does…
How can a man like him be so peaceful in sleep?

He wakes up speaking Portuguese, and I guess talking
himself awake from a dream leftover.  I laugh…
He does amuse me.



Dead Man Awakening