He looks more and more like he did in the old days….
Loving the long hair, distinguished, proud, classic…
and his Raybans, dark and mysterious, leaving you wondering.
And WHAT is that in his hand? A Legionnaire’s HAT………
HIS Legionnaire’s Hat………….
I found this Resume, while searching for him in 2004
It was written in Portuguese, and robot translated…
“Been born on 14/02/1958, former Rio de Janeiro pupil of the
Collegio Pedro II, former urban guerilla during periodo of the
dictatorship, exiled em 1979, having lived in 5 paises, and
transited by others the 43 in all continents.
Having worked as Fishing of Ouricos of Mar (Professional Diver)
of the coast north of the State of California.
He ties the Alaska, where I lived per 4 years having worked
there tambien as Fishing of King Crab, that and considered the
profession most dangerous of the world,
And having served per 5 years in the French Foreign Legion, in
the Duzieme Regiment Etrangere de Parachoutists of where I
gave low with apos metals of bravery to have passed for tres
great conflicts, as:
Chad, Djbouty, and finally in the Gulf War Desert Storm.
Eximio sailor, having crossed the horn four times, two times
being aground.
The unica reason pra that I bring everything this tone, and so
that can subsidize what I believe gives a success, my book of
memories that would like to see published, as much how much
the remain of my tedious workmanship would literaria.
None ties the moment, but I wait to revert this picture how
much before.
In the truth, I have dues letters and an article on fishes of
ouricos of the sea, and the Exon Valdez, published in the
periodical San Francisco Chronical.
I Wait Contacts…”
………….Alcir
The story that Alcir told me, of how he discovered Who he was,
discovered that he was First and Foremost a loner and a diver…
is actually heartbreaking, yet beautiful too.
“My inner self started when I was 6 years old, and I was drowning
in high seas. My father trew me in the wader, he watch me as
I tried to stay up, my arms an’ legs grabbing.
I wen’ down, and didn’t come up. I Loved it. I went down to the
bottom, and sat in the mud for a long time…. maybe four minutes.
Suddenly I appeared up, with a big smile, and I discovered my life.
All I wanted was to dive.
I discovered who I was…. a loner and a diver. I didn’t need anyone
else to help me, or to tell me who I was.
And that is when I started fighting it.
They…my parents… could never understand why I refused to use
my intelligence, which they said I had.
Two times I broke the world record for deep sea diving.
I went over 75 meters down…
I don’t care that it was not recorded. I know who I am. “
I remember he told me once that he went down … i don’t know…
200 feet or something crazy. When he came back up, the
other guys didn’t believe that he’d gone down all the way to
the sea floor, so he went back down, following the anchor chain,
and brought up some sand from the bottom, just to prove
that he did. This was a Free Dive.
He claimed he could stay down for many minutes… four or five…
and frankly I doubted his story. I mean, impossible, right?
Then much later, I saw some nature program, where it talked
about how some people have this rare genetic ability …
and can, indeed, hold their breath for many minutes, and also
endure deep dives. I had no idea.
“All I wan’ to do is make myself happy. Society wans people who
wan’ to impress society. I’m not a monkey… I’m not a circus animal,
that lives to amuse people… I jus’ wanna live my life.”
He got a medal for bravery. It was in Desert Storm I think.
He carried a buddy on his back to safety, but he was already dead.
“He took 6 or 7 bullets for me”, he told me “but he was already dead.
Actually, he shielded me, but that was not why I carried him.
I never thought of that, I only thought of getting him out of there”
Another war story in Desert Storm… he was sleeping in his tent,
and in the middle of the night, he got up to take a piss… he heard
an explosion.
He looked back, and NO TENT…
He’s been shot 11 times, stabbed 4 times, and something happened
to his face.
“I know,” I told him. ” I can’t believe you’re still alive. I’m amazed.”
“If You are…imagine me?” His eyes grew dark and clouded over.
Still, his gaze was intent, as he looked deeply into me, knowing
he was sharing things hidden so deeply within his heart.
“When I am at war, I do not see them as human beings…no…
as a target; I have a perfect concept that they feel the same for me.”
“I don’ wanna die, I don’ know why. I don’ care about life or death, but …
somehow, I don’ wanna die”
He told me so many things about himself that night. My heart is
heavy with the realizations of his youthful pain. He said at six,
his mother told him he wouldn’t live til he was eight, and every
year she renewed her predictions.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because she didn’t like me.”
He was always in trouble, at home, at school. And then came the
beatings.
Now today, I realize that he is ADHD. And these people are usually
extremely intelligent, and in those days they were completely
misunderstood.
And the father story… a life of beatings. With the belt, with a
piece of wood, with whatever he had in his hand at the time….
…even kicking him, and when he fell to the ground and curled up
in a ball, well then he’d kick him some more.
They both took great pleasure in punishing him in front of others.
Strange, how such terrible deep scarring can direct someone to
such drive, such accomplishment.
I’ve felt for some time that all of this was about proving himself
as a man. But not to be loved, not to be liked by others.
And he was never accepted or shown love by either parent.
No, it was something deeper. Proving to Himself that he was
what he Knew himself to be…… Extraordinary.
—————————————————————-
Ah the eternal question… n’est pas?
What is it that turns stable and sane people, who are
quite able to function and breeze over most of the big
bumps in life…
…into creatures who suddenly find themselves on a
rollercoaster of internal chemicals, unable to
think of much else, and behave like mindless
blubbering idiots?
“Love…an intense feeling of deep affection, a deep romantic
or sexual attachment to someone;
fondness, darling, passion,
to fancy, be fond of, or adore.”
Well! that certainly covers a bit of territory.
Me thinks we need about 18 words for love, like the
Eskimo/Inuit with their many words for Snow…
(although Google tells me this is another myth, and that
the European Sami People are the ones with all the words)
No wonder we’re confused. Let’s try going deeper…
“1. a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.
2. a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as
for a parent, child, or friend.”
or how bout…
For me, I know that I was programmed for it….let’s call it
Romantic Love.
I’m an American, and between the old fairy tales, Disney,
and Hollywood… well, there ya go.
I was also somewhat sheltered, raised on myths, prone to
fantasy, and innocent in the most wholesome way.
I have grown wise to the world, but I am still a fool
when it comes to Love.
But I Do know the difference between “Being in Love”, which
is the Romantic equivalent of idiotic infatuation, and Real Love.
And I don’t think Anyone outgrows the ability to fall in love,
at least for a little while.
Out of mind would be the appropriate phrase.
But as time passes, if you have some genuine aspects there
that hold your interest and continue the attachments, you begin
to have Real Love, which is this deep and abiding feeling of tender
appreciation and attachment, plus an admiration for parts of
a person, even though you are well aware of their
shortcomings and rotten parts.
This is very different from the first, and much more satisfying.
It is at this phase that you might actually find someone
you can stay with.
Well…? don’t you honestly in your heart of hearts finally
somewhere believe there is a Someone for you, a someone
that was predestined to find you, or you them,
…someone who will be the mirror to your disposition and the
puzzle piece you’ve been waiting for…
…the perfect fit sexually, of course…..as well as
Someone who will appreciate the little parts of you that
others might find strange and irritating…
…and it really helps if that someone also Real Loves You…
Oh, the Right one will not only Get it, they will Enjoy it…
Relish it, Savor those eccentric, delightful parts of you, that
you Know are wonderful and shareable… and just a little weird.
Come on … admit it. Even the cynics, the disheartened,
the broken hearted, and the most world weary amongst us…
I am willing to bet that down in the heart of your beaten up little
heart, is that soft little core, that childishly, purely as a child,
sweetly as butterflies, believes there will be someone who will
Understand who we Really are, while also turning us on….
….to the point of mind bending ecstatic transformational
blending of two souls into one magnificent pulsating
glowing being….whilst allowing us to leave our bodies and
become one with the Universe…
…oh wait…am I aiming too high?
Come on…. it’s there, you know it…
otherwise, why would we keep on trying to find it?
I wonder, as I look clearly at it now, if I was up to the task.
I chose not only a Brazilian man, but also a genius…
a Revolutionary, free thinking, well educated wild man,
…who read all the classics while still a child, and dreamed
of being one of those heroes who changed the world.
A man who saw very early that Most of the present world
is basically bullshit, and way off course.
Someone who didn’t fit in, and never wanted to.
And someone who was punished
from day one for being who he was.
And with a primal spirit that chose a physique so enriched and
so blessed, as to be called Special….in the nicest way….
So able and blessed, that he believed on the one hand that
he was able to do Anything, while on the other hand having
been told he was bad, so bad he was not even worth a mother’s love.
Confused, torn, convoluted, lonely, cynical, and hopeful…
…and a complete Romantic.
Do I like challenges….ya think?
So what’s my deal? And what have I learned from all of this,
this story that is still and yet half-told…?
One…. Sometimes Love is not enough.
Two…. we know not what the goal or outcome is, or might be.
Three… let go and let…(insert the name of whomever you choose
as your source of wisdom, life and trust.)
Oh, and don’t forget
Four…. shit happens, the Universe decides, and shit happens.
Stuff floats into life…and we call it, even if we deny it.
That, and making Art of Life… is my project, my path, and
my choice… deal with it, process it, and enrich Life itself.
And make your wishes known to the Universe, visualize what
you’d like, and then…..choose what comes…
He decided to see if he could still get into it…
It seemed a continual pendulum swing, from highs to lows,
from close to push away, from together to alone, and
obviously that was what it was.
Why the mystery? Onion layers…
Two people, old enough to know too much, to think they’ve
seen it all and enough more to sink a goat, now thinking
they can each transform themselves into the Fool stepping
into the Abyss, as he called it. And why not?
What more was there to do, but complete the circle,
and begin again.
But new borns cry a lot. They throw tantrems, they are
afraid. Nothing makes any sense, and they want to be held
and rocked.
They want soothing songs and nonsense stories
to swim them into themselves, where being is
a Dolphin dance of knowing without words.
The Issues…….and the Methods…
She thought deeply on this one, because just now it seemed
like the “fight” wasn’t about the issues at all. It was about
the style used to prove a point, about winning, about being right.
At least to her it was, and that was all she knew, of course,
like all of of, each of us.
Consider the life of the man. Beaten as a young child by
both parents, isolating himself for protection, proving
himself again and again, yet the only answer he ever
got was from himself, like when the father threw him
into the ocean to teach him to swim. Sinking to the bottom
revealed his abilities to hold his breath, and the complete
and utter joy he felt when he realized he was at last safe
and in his element. Alone now seemed a strength.
And War. Always at war with all of it, but when the real
thing came with the Legion, he saw a path to rightousness,
recognition, and power. He could be a true Hero.
He hadn’t figured on what it would do to his heart.
So fucking alone.. he was completely alone, wrought with
past cobwebs, ropes, the scars from war…the hardest fucking
plastic known to man wrapped around his heart.
Old ways are not set in concrete, but they Are set in neurons,
pathways, grooves so deep, so repetitiously run.
And new tracks can be near impossible to dig out.
________________________________
_______________________________-
Journal musings…. January 2006 in Rio
“You have to really Want this, for this to work,” he says,
and the words echo through the convolutions of brain cells,
concentric circles from a center…. created by a leaden heart.
It felt so heavy. All of it. Sad….. Dark.
Confusion had set in, and too much thinking could be dangerous.
Yet to not-think was unthinkable…. Hmmmm.
She’d been given the front veranda upon which to sit, to get
away from him, from the constant TV, and his moods.
….which actually was quite remarkable, amazing really,
and she could view the wandering streets and flashing
cloud storms and island comings amidst the constant breezes
with a sort of detachment that she needed… desperately.
“This is My House”, he would announce to no one in particular,
at no particularly special moment…except
to her I guess, and the dog, and his Mother upstairs,
and to himself most of all.
His stubborn willfulness had served him well at one time,
most of his life more likely. But now it felt like stacks of
concrete pillows, between the two bodies lying side by side.
Was she to be like the desolate dog, if you could call him a dog,
that was allotted two small spaces within which to eat, do his
duties, be quiet and cower.
He addressed him as “Get the Fuck….” as the poor wretch
jumped up, desperate for a touch, for tenderness… and the
man would cringe, because he hated the dog.
It was the most disturbing thing she’d witnessed so far, the
distain he held for this shit eating dog who had so thoroughly
disappointed him and his visions of what a dog should be.
Maybe the dog was just trying to clean up his jail cell,
she thought, maybe he’s really trying to be a good dog…
Was she to be the “other twin”, protruding from his ribs, ever
connected, never her own, never as large or as individuated?
“Be by my side” now had it’s double meaning.
Did he even begin to know how to let anyone in, even one
he claimed to love? Was he even in control of the little door
that swung open and closed, daily…
There’s the light, and wait…. oh, and now it’s gone…
Did the most courageous man she’d ever known cower
at the possibility of real love?
For this was love becoming real, going far beyond the
fantasy he loved so well and could keep in control.
Beyond the heroes in books he’d emulated, the ones
who would run off to fight another dragon.
No pretense holding distance… This was so real it was
palpable, in the air and sifting like dust to the surfaces
of everything he touched in this cell he shared with her.
“I’m going over the Abyss”, he had sighed one morning,
a couple of days ago.
……………..”and do you know Why?”
She looked long and hard at his face, now miserable
with confusion, yet here he was, the little door opening
just a bit once again …
She motioned to herself…. and slowly he nodded,
…. sadly, tenuously, as though for that moment he had
risen out of his automatic self and was viewing it all
with clarity and a mildly puzzled perspective.
“What do I do?” …..
After a moment, her own answer came, as it always had,
since more years than she cared to remember.
“Jump and Trust…. that’s all you can do…….
“OK….”, he nodded, and it was done.
____________________
It’s now Thursday, five days into my visit to Rio, to Alcir,
and we’re home, and he’s drinking. I have never known
anyone who can drink like he can, and yes I know it’s a
bad sign, and yes I know Brasilians drink more beer than
any other country, and yes in that tropical heat, that half
frozen freezer stored refreshment cannot be beat, but…
This man has such high tolerance to everything, since
maybe birth, and so it’s a gift and a curse. I have seen
him put away liter after liter, go to the store, buy eight
more, I drink one, he drinks the rest, and while he’s out
he’s done shots of Scotch at the local garage bar.
Yes, along those winding urban streets there are countless
bars in garages, little gatherings of men sitting on cheap
plastic chairs, smoking and bullshitting. It’s a part of
Brasilian culture, the men just go out at night and drink.
So Thursday he drinks, we cuddle, he asks me not to
let him go, and then sneaks out when I fall asleep.
Friday there’s the usual hangovers, denials, and Mr
Bad Mood. Sullen isolated shit head.
We go grocery shopping at the giant Mercado that we
usually walk to, sometimes holding hands, but this day
he drives us, because his elderly Aunt Maria needs to
go too. He goes to a chair at one of the little mall stops,
and Maria and I go in with our separate carts and get
what we need. She is not a happy person in general,
but when neither speaks the other’s language, it’s pretty
lonely. She cooks, and I can’t even ask her about
ingredients or where something is. And he’s back in the
mall drinking beer, and beginning to refer to
us as “you people”. This does not bode well.
I’d so looked forward to getting out and shopping for
things, finding new fruits and vegetables, people watching,
and now he’s just mean and doesn’t want to be there.
When I’m in line, which is always endless… I mean, take
a book or some playing cards when you shop here…
he comes by long enough to load the cart up with beer,
and a big Scotch. Oh, and I’m buying.
Of course I’m buying… I’m a rich American and I’ve
intruded upon his space, and I will pay.
Maria and I are now pretty much the same, in his eyes.
Irritating women who want something from him.
Never fall in love with a man who hates his Mother.
_____________________________________
Friday, sometime early March 2005
Last nite was a watershed of story, as he poured the scotch
and poured his heart.
It started after he came home, after going out to get smoke, and
coming back two and a half hours later. He goes to the favellas
to score, and although I worry about that, he tells me not to worry,
they know him, and he can take care of himself. That I believe.
He’d run into friends, drank, coked, come home and looked into
her eyes, searching for anger.
She could not hide anything from him. He always saw, so this
time she truly said no, not anger, just adjusting to frequency.
It’s every 2 or 3 days…
“No… not every 2 or 3 days… no……. oh…………….yes….
I guess you’re so damned smart.
Just don’t be like the other ones, please. Just understand me.
I will never lie to you, I will always be true to you, always,
I swear. Can you handle me babe?”
She looked long into his eyes. “I Think so…”
This night she desperately wished for a recorder. The things he told
her, the way they rolled from his tongue…how could she ever capture
a tenth of them…?
She told him her main concern with his drinking…
“Your drinking is your business…how it affects me is my business.
I’m concerned with your health, that’s what worries me.”
“When I die, they oughta cut out a few organs…burn the rest please…
but take some of me and study, because I am not a normal person.
“I have drunk and snorted and shot, and been shot, and I live.
I’m not normal.
I’m not going to live long, babe, and I’m not going to change.
I can stop, I have stopped if there is a reason.
“But I don’t wanna spend my life sober. I’ve seen too much.
No, you’ll see me dead.
Just don’t bury me. Burn me, throw me in the ocean.
A Viking burial would be nice. But otherwise just burn me, please. ”
Water filled her eyes…..
“I’m not afraid to die. I never have been . You know what scares
me…the only thing?. I’ve never told anyone this.
What scares me is dying without being called a man.
To be worthy of being called a man, that is the one thing.
Not to die one of the masses….. oh….”
“In the Legion, they had a name they called me…..”
(I know it, but I’m not sharing it right now, as I’m not
sure he’d be OK with that).
“Oh, I’m good…I never miss. Never. One shot to the head.
I took out a squad of 40. I wait…I watch…watch for days,
I know their routine, I know how many and where. Pow Pow…
I could take out 5 in about 14 seconds. I was the Best.
“Once they found me, they chased me for 4 days in the desert…
140 degrees day, -35 at night. I covered myself for some shade.
I drank my own piss.
“They called out my special name, “It’s ___we gotta get him!”,
and they chased me … a bunch of them…
It was 35 miles to the sea, Once I got there, there was a beeper
and I could be found. But I had lost mine, and no one
knew where I was….”
Obviously he escaped and was found, but I never heard how.
As a child, he was always in trouble, always being punished,
and the parents seemed to enjoy it, and from his stories,
they were quite creative.
They laughed at him, and called him Tatubola… little Armadillo…
The parents had a new horse whip and were trying it out on him.
There were other family there, and they all laughed as his mother
whipped him, and he rolled into a ball, rolled all over the ground
and down the hill.
The others said the parents must know what they are doing,
they’re the parents. Little Armadillo, rolled up in a ball.
“My father decided the belt wasn’t good enough. So he turned the
buckle on me. A man 6’2”, 190#…do you think he needed to use a
buckle on a child? What a coward. But I never cried. Never.
I thought of what Tom would do (Sawyer), he wouldn’t cry.
No, it was not me who should cry. It was them, they were the
ones who were not human, they should cry.
“Once, when my mother left him, in order to get her back, he tried
to impress her by taking me on the back of his bicycle, for a ride to
show what a good father, a good man he was.
He put me behind him, and we rode.
“My ankles rubbed against the wheels, rubbed them raw and bleeding.
And when he saw, he told me how stupid I was, and he beat me.
I’d ruined his beautiful fantasy picture.”
Turns out he was ADHD. I know it. Total Right brain.
Got in trouble in school every day. He read voraciously, and
everything at school seemed stupid, he already knew it.
Typical of ADD brains, unusually bright and intelligent,
easily distracted, able to focus intensely, and on their own.
He read all the classics early on, filled his head with the heroes
of so many times and places. All of them, the great books, he read.
History, Geography, but not math, not numbers.
“If you got a woman laughing, you’re gonna get some pussy… ”
he continued.
(She remembered the big swedish nurse who assisted in her last home
birth, the most perfect birth. Smile Carol, big smile, she’d say.
An open smile means an open pussy…. see? it was true!)
“You always made me laugh, you’re good at that,” she purred…
“So you must have gotten a lot of pussy…”
“Oh Good Lord, you have no idea!”
He shook his head and grinned.
“You’re clean. Your eyes are clean.
I want to rebuild myself from what’s inside you.
I planted something in you, back then.
I planted it, and it grew inside you, and 17 years later,
you come and find me.
Because you never forgot me, and I never forgot you.
“When I saw you, I saw your goodness. I saw you’re clean.
I was not a nice person at that time. But with you, I gave my best.
It was out of time, and I saw another way. I drove 400 miles..
….do you know how many times? Just to see you.
It was apart from my life.”
She had no idea of this. All she knew was he was diving at the pier.
So it turns out he was driving from Tahoe each time?
He and his Tahoe girlfriend fought about her. She had called that
day, when he’d been gone for so long, took that chance, and the
woman answered.
Later, the woman asked him, and he told her…
yes, I’ve met someone, and this is why I drive.
He told her his friend Mark was a good man, a good friend,
and he lost him as a friend forever, because he hit that woman in
this fight…”knocked her lights out”…and he knew he was wrong,
that was the only time he did that.
She asked him why he was untrue to her.
“She was not a good fuck. She had become like a sister.
I left soon after I saw you”
“You know, they are offering me a job…. I can’t believe it…
$80,000 and I said no. I couldn’t do it… I felt like a whore.
The Legion keeps asking me to come back, come back, we could
live in France, you would be my wife, we would live well.
I would be maybe a Sargent Chief.
And I would teach people how to kill.
But no, I can’t do it. I said no, I want something else.”
“You wanna know the two saddest things?
A soldier without a war, and
and a Man without a job…
I know….. I’m both.”
The time grows nearer to my departure. Over the weeks we have
grown to know eachother better, and certainly talked more than
we ever had years ago. Years ago, the body did the talking.
When you want to be close to someone, and all you have is the
phone, you think of a lot of things to keep the voice on the air,
no matter what.
The old and new Alcir were merging now, and I was almost all done
with preparations, packing, passport, and practicing Portuguese…
Gee, that was a lot of P’s !… and I was ready for
Whatever was coming.
I was thinner, tanner, more centered, and all there was to do now
was to get my stuff in storage, and out of my daughter’s house,
and to be sure my dogs and cats were going to be alright for the
month I would be gone.
I had no idea what would be the outcome, so I had prepared both
for coming home and continuing on my own private Idaho,
and for things to be ok for me to continue on this Brasil direction,
and ready myself for further adventures beyond.
I poured over my journals, and re-viewed the things that I had
found about him and those 18 years we had been apart…
One of the first things I had found was a Resume he had put on
the internet, and I read it once again… the robot had translated,
so any possible poetics were gone, but the essence was there…
It had given me a snapshot of his life somewhat, after he left.
“Been born on 14/02/1958, former Rio de Janeiro pupil of the
Collegio Pedro II, former urban guerilla during periodo of the
dictatorship, exiled em 1979, having lived in 5 paises, and
transited by others the 43 in all continents.
Having worked as Fishing of Ouricos of Mar (Professional Diver)
of the coast north of the State of California. He ties the Alaska,
where I lived per 4 years having worked there tambien as
Fishing of King Crab, that and considered the profession most
dangerous of the world, and having served per 5 years in the
French Foreign Legion, in the Duzieme Regiment Etrangere
de Parachoutists of where I gave low with apos metals of bravery
to have passed for tres great conflicts, as: Chad, Djbouty, and
finally in the Gulf War Desert Storm.
Eximio sailor, having crossed the horn four times, two times
being ground.
The unica reason pra that I bring everything this tone, and so
that can subsidize what I believe gives a success, my book of
memories that would like to see published, as much how much
the remain of my tedious workmanship would literaria.
None ties the moment, but I wait to revert this picture how
much before.
In the truth, I have dues letters and an article on fishes of
ouricos of the sea, and the Exon Valdez, published in the
periodical San Francisco Chronical.
I Wait Contacts…”
So from what I could glean, he’d attended the most prestigious
school in Rio, which meant Brasil, where when a student graduates,
they are already at the level of 2 years of college. I knew now
that he spoke Brasilian Portuguese, English, French, and I
believe also touches of several other languages, as well as some
of the Indiginous dialects.
He’d been diving for Urchins on our coast, and going to Alaska
for four seasons of the King Crab (and the show called the
World’s Most Dangerous Catch had filled me in on That life!
I certainly could envision him on the deck, whipped by giant and
frigid waves, while working 20 hours a day, that Permagrin
melding his face) and he Loved it!
He’d joined the Legion, and although he’d gotten out in two years
and returned to Brasil, still I guess he continued to serve for three
more years somehow…maybe as part of his agreement for going
home early.
He’d been back in Brasil since 1989, and now had a daughter.
His two sons from two different marriages were now grown, and
they were somewhat estranged from him.
I recalled how he had told me the story of his enlistment…
The fellow had been distracted with other things, screens, pages….
and when he finally saw and interviewed Alcir, the guy gave him a
name… in the Legion you loose all history, can make No contracts,
and there is a new name given.
I seem to remember that something was on the TV screen, likely
the series, for the fellow decided that Alcir was to be Scott Austin….
Steve Austin’s brother…. you remember the Six Million Dollar Man?
He said he was his Brother….
And Usually, you don’t get out for seven years. Period.
He told me that his regiment was the most exclusive, and they
dropped out of planes at such an altitude, they wore oxygen masks.
They were sent in on secret black opp missions, and he had begun
to tell me just a little about those ventures.
I’d known about the Revolutionary thing, and why he was exiled
after some daring stunts, including robbing banks to subsidize
the Revolution.
I remember his tale of doing Two Banks at a time, in the middle of
the street, guns in each hand, and I saw this crazy movie in my
head, with Antonio Banderos, grinning the whole while.
He got very discouraged after learning that the money wasn’t all
going where it was supposed to go, and once again ideals fall prey
to the reality of corruption and lies… the very things he had been
fighting against. He left on a small boat that his grandfather had
paid for, and came to Norway, Hawaii, and then NorCal.
My time flew at the end… too much to gather together, too many
lists and minutiae… trying to think of things I had to have, things
I couldn’t get in Rio… my CDs, my vitamins and supplements,
cameras, film, watercolors, brushes and paper, journals, stuff for
the sun life (Hawaii helped with that, as Rio is on the same lattitude in
the south)…and I wrapped presents for his birthday…Valentines Day!
I’d found him some vintage sunglasses on ebay, and was quite pleased
with myself. He had looked great in his Vuarnets, and I knew the 60s
Raybans would certainly do the trick.
As well, there was the Green issue, and since they only had something
the equivelent of what we called Mexican Dirt weed, I bought some
Sees Chocolates, hollowed them out, and put a little Bud in each one,
sealing them up with warmed dark chocolate.
His bandido was rubbing off…
Still, I had this funny movie in my head, these big Brasilians, smelling
and tasting the chocolates, and dragging me away….
And now He had a list for Me… things he couldn’t get there…
a Living Color tape, Marshall Tucker Band tape, the Bill Murray
film, Where the Buffalo Roam…High Times with some Sailing article
he’d seen, a can of zippo (no can take on plane), and some
good Scotch…of course.
I told him I would do what I could. He was pretty poor, but although
I was relatively the same, still I knew there were many more options
for me, and I had no problem in fulfilling wishes that would make both
of our lives better….
Details, details, details…. notes to myself all over the place.
And that feeling of Can’t Wait in back of it all….
It was all going like a bus out of control, and at this point, there
was nothing I could do but hurry up! and all I could do was wait
and go with the flow.
notesfromthelovewars 