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 …

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.



… not even a week ….

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

Getting back into the frame of mind will be a challenge.
I have been busy doing other things, things that are somewhat
180 …………from writing about stuff from the past.
I do life coaching now, and being in the moment is what
it’s all about……….. not recalls.
Responding to the voice on the phone, the face of Other,
reminding Intuition that This is me too,  and
I Know this, I understand this, and
I only need to trust this intuitive part of me that
has been stuffed away forever,
and it will tell me Everything, and give me every answer
for this Other that IS me.
We are all just a mirror for Self.
Realize this, and life becomes a magical movie full
of sound and fury…………and yes, i’m going there…….
………and signifying …………..ALL.



…here and now…