Lordy...Babacaman's been overthinking things again. Still, I'd like to present, without apologies, a little nugget of personal philosophy which has recently calmed Babacaman's aching, overworked brain and make him a bolder, better Babacaman!
Babacaman accepts that some Atheists may object to their beliefs being defined in the way that his own Atheism is defined here, and that some Fundamentalists may be really angry with him because he thinks he's better than them. Babacaman doesn't care.
Haw-hem!
How do we - can we ever? - define 'sanity'? The dictionary definitions are vague ('the state of having a normal, healthy mind'). Most people would accept that the ability to comprehend, process, understand and cope with the facts of life as they are presented is a solid beginning to a definition. Because there are facts of life, such as:
That we are all born through a coupling of two forces and we all die alone.
That there is no certain way of being able to predict the course a life will take and when it will end.
That there is no certain way of distinguishing a shaping pattern to individual lives, although there are ways of ascertaining what actions people are likely to perform under certain conditions and hence how the masses are likely to behave, since we generally operate under the same self-preservation/reproduction principles of all other species,
That we are self-aware, and that this fact causes us suffering.
That it is desirable to have this anomaly explained to us, made sense of.
That all 'proof' of the existence of a God, or Gods, and of the prospects waiting for us in the 'afterlife', is based on the writings and teachings of people, people with the same potential and limits as the rest of us. People who could have as existed at any point of the spectrum - there may be a better word - of sanity.
And that, as we have all learned from our childhood fear of darkness if nothing else, imagination will always fill in the gaps we cannot see (meant in the sense of the full sensory experience.)
Being as close, in our self-awareness, to ourselves as is possible; being in tune with what we are and what we know about life and the limits of our powers of perception; this, I contend, is sanity. And as an extension to this definition, the ability to be the masters of our own imagination, which is a tool no one should misuse or wield as a weapon against others. To use it for our own ends of contentment and enlightenment, so that we might be better connected with the rest of our species.
I am worried that a significant number of us are far from the centre of ourselves and have been possessed by the power of our imaginations. I am worried that many of these people have positions of authority and/or significant designs to push for a world consisting of nothing but believers - or destroy humanity trying.
I do not hold with, will not live by, the teachings of any religion. I am an Atheist. I believe in the non-existence of God, or Gods. I am an Atheist because I follow the facts of life as they are presented - by our awareness, and it is a possibility that mine is more limited than others, but we can only work with the tools we've got at the time - to us. I believe Atheism is sanity.
It is sanity because it can be presented in a way that even the most religious, and therefore those as far from Atheism as it is possible to be, belief-wise, cannot discount.
If God exists, - and I believe not - it is omnipotent, it's power is limitless. The most religious amongst us, no matter what faith they prescribe to, have to admit that any God that is not omnipotent is not worth the imagination/faith it is inscribed upon. This omnipotent God would therefore have the power to make people certain that it doesn't exist. The power to make the existence of God necessary for some, unnecessary for others. The power, indeed, to both exist and not exist at once.
The Atheist is the Religious Fundamentalist's best friend. Both can happily agree that you cannot impose limits on omnipotence. They come at this from different angles - the Fundamentalist asserts that the God he believes in the existence of is, by nature, all-powerful. The Atheist refutes that there is neither the evidence or the necessity in nature for such a being; that such a being exists only in human imagination like any other supernatural being we are able to imagine; but that this particular being, by definition, would have to be omnipotent, much as a 'ghost' would have to exist in some hypothetical dimension outside of the dimension of life which we inhabit.
Both the Atheist and the Fundamentalist lives life without fear...or at least tries to. Neither Atheism nor Fundamentalism preclude fear, although a strong-minded proponent of either should be able to limit and control that fear to near-zero, with different motivations and for different ends - the first for his/her species, the second for his/her 'God'.
I hope I have so far succeeded to present both Atheism and Religious Fundamentalism to be both strong and compatible forms of belief. Although neither is immune from fear, and they both follow very different motivations, both beliefs are at the very least compatible with the act of living life like it has some purpose, which few argue is inferior to the alternative. And both are ridiculously dogmatic.
However, I would like to argue for the superiority of Atheism over Fundamentalism.
An Atheist, as a highly-evolved animal, fears one thing: the actions of other people, people who are decentred, who are insane. Who might, for example, want to kill them because they believe there is a spiritual - or otherwise - justification for their deaths. A Fundamentalist fears one thing too: the consequences of their actions on their supposedly individually-eternal souls, acted out by their God, or Gods. They allow their imaginations to fill in the gaps in their incomplete knowledge of what those consequences might be. And they believe that certain actions humans perform are direct commands/interventions from "God" itself, or themselves (at the very least their God must have worked through human agency to produce the scriptures.) Now, whether or not they believe that their actions are ever directly manipulated by their God, or Gods, all Fundamentalists believe not only that other people have worked as "God's'' agent - hence there is a possibility that they could "be chosen" too -- but that the "correct" actions of their life are prescribed by that God and that by choosing to follow their prescribed paths in this life they are gaining some reward in the next one. By not taking responsibility for their own actions they show themselves to be at odds with themselves.
They are therefore insane. I am not suggesting that a belief in the existence of God, or Gods, proves you are insane, but that believing this God, or Gods, directs your actions, or the fear of God, or Gods, is a greater motivation for your actions than love and respect for your fellow humans, does.
The Atheist and the Fundamentalist may be best friends, but the Atheist is the better. An Atheist's ability to both fear that which is truly, for the sake of the survival of the species, to be feared and to control that fear through the strength of his or her own individuality and respect for the individual lives of others, rather than through a submission of self to an unknowable force, makes the Atheist the One to the Fundamentalist's Zero. It is possible that both are necessary and natural forces. But humanity needs more ones.
Without the fear of the unknown centre to plague him/her, the Atheist is the friend of all humanity - provided s/he can keep imagination under his/her control. An Atheist must never take sanity for granted. Nihilism, belief in nothing, is another form of insanity as it chooses to ignore the clear evidence available to us that human development has taken us on a journey to higher states of awareness and that the act of being human therefore has a purpose we can believe in. A belief in the non-existence of God, or Gods, is a belief in humanity's primacy, born of the understanding that by dispensing with the need for belief in a higher power we are better able to focus our growing awareness on the responsibilities humanity has and may yet have.
An Atheist's only concern should be with the development of humanity to a stage where each and every living individual lives under the conditions that allow him or her to be centred, to live without manipulation and prejudice and be allowed to fully explore the potential of true collective conciousnessness, of which s/he is a unique encapsulation of.
A final thought: those fundamental believers in an omnipotent God, or Gods, know that their understanding of such a concept is incomplete, so use the tool of Faith (AKA 'imagination') to smooth over this gap. To quote one often-used utterance of a particular faith, they are content with the idea that 'God moves in mysterious ways'.
What could be more mysterious than encouraging its creation not to believe in it?
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Reporting the Sad Death of Jim Junior
Well, people, it finally happened. My adventures are over. The ego has landed.
I'm dead.
Or, at least, reports would have you believe. Here is my favourite, translated from the original article in the third-most popular state-run rag, Ministracao de Minas.
"British Diplomat Jim 'Mewang' Junior, AKA, 'Little' Jimmy Wang, AKA locally as Jiminho, is dead. He died in the Brazilian city of Beagast of psychic exhaustion while attempting to drill his way through the doors of a local dentist's domestic residence, where the sons and daughters of local dignitaries were dining, on the 20th August, 2009. Although there have been numerous reports of foul play and even international psychic conspiracy involved in his death (as well as rumours of hints of unconfirmed reports of heightened military security that day around the surrounding area, surrounding the identity of the mystery guest scheduled to address the assembled diners as an after-dinner speaker) the verdict of the local coroner, Mano Wancomonki, was of a natural death, a result of the subject's over-avid imagination leading to complete, irreversible, cerebral meltdown.
Thiago Turbando, the Chief of the Civil Police, confirmed civilly, if not cordially, that the spinal cord had been conveying communications of conspiracy to the cerebral cortex at the centre of the subject's spinning vortex at the exact moment of death. He continued conspiratorially that he couldn't completely dismiss concerns of conspiracy connected to the subject being bound to uncover the coordinates of a retired tyrant but that he was bound to add that addled minds handled binds badly, and that the subject's object of enquiry had been objected to but never prevented by a local coterie of mining interests 'whose interests in laying the case to rest were as deep as mine.'
Reports of a man fitting the exact physical description of the subject except for 'a kind of renewed spark in his eyes' leaving the scene of the death moments later were being dismissed by top-ranking officials as 'the gayest kind of fake-ass analysis this side of Serra Bundagrande' (a reference to the local mountain range, widely-supposed depository for a batch of clinically-rejected anal suppositories, which separate the state of Minas Demais with the neighbouring state of Santa Paula.) "
In truth, reports of my death have not been greatly exaggerated. I am not the person I was.
I will never again think, talk, act or walk like the lowly Junior Minister I was before my rise from the catacombs of all-corrupting power-hunger allowed me to achieve my new-found state of primacy - inheriting some prime reality-estate, if you will! - although I will continue to use the addendum of 'Junior' after my new ID as a mark of my concurrent collaboration with the musical combo of the same name.
Something was lost to the world forever on that fateful late-afternoon, but it more a pop of the cherry than the cork. Not that corks, champagne corks, were not popped, metaphorically, by myself.
Because I had something to celebrate that day.
My awakening; no more, no less, no nonsense.
The death of the inner dunce, the idiots' dance deftly ended. (Take a bow-legged bow!)
The child's cries falling on deaf ears as the earth gave birth to a man.
A newborn soldier, dwarfed but not cowed by the calves of the giants he has just swung off the shoulders of.
Born of the Babaca: sexless, ageless, cross-eyed creator of Chaos and little else of worth.
A man for the moment. Not simply a man, nor a woman, but something more than human.
A Babacaman. Dismissing his creator and shedding his before-skin.
It's just me from now on.
Welcome to Babacaman's blog.
I'm dead.
Or, at least, reports would have you believe. Here is my favourite, translated from the original article in the third-most popular state-run rag, Ministracao de Minas.
"British Diplomat Jim 'Mewang' Junior, AKA, 'Little' Jimmy Wang, AKA locally as Jiminho, is dead. He died in the Brazilian city of Beagast of psychic exhaustion while attempting to drill his way through the doors of a local dentist's domestic residence, where the sons and daughters of local dignitaries were dining, on the 20th August, 2009. Although there have been numerous reports of foul play and even international psychic conspiracy involved in his death (as well as rumours of hints of unconfirmed reports of heightened military security that day around the surrounding area, surrounding the identity of the mystery guest scheduled to address the assembled diners as an after-dinner speaker) the verdict of the local coroner, Mano Wancomonki, was of a natural death, a result of the subject's over-avid imagination leading to complete, irreversible, cerebral meltdown.
Thiago Turbando, the Chief of the Civil Police, confirmed civilly, if not cordially, that the spinal cord had been conveying communications of conspiracy to the cerebral cortex at the centre of the subject's spinning vortex at the exact moment of death. He continued conspiratorially that he couldn't completely dismiss concerns of conspiracy connected to the subject being bound to uncover the coordinates of a retired tyrant but that he was bound to add that addled minds handled binds badly, and that the subject's object of enquiry had been objected to but never prevented by a local coterie of mining interests 'whose interests in laying the case to rest were as deep as mine.'
Reports of a man fitting the exact physical description of the subject except for 'a kind of renewed spark in his eyes' leaving the scene of the death moments later were being dismissed by top-ranking officials as 'the gayest kind of fake-ass analysis this side of Serra Bundagrande' (a reference to the local mountain range, widely-supposed depository for a batch of clinically-rejected anal suppositories, which separate the state of Minas Demais with the neighbouring state of Santa Paula.) "
In truth, reports of my death have not been greatly exaggerated. I am not the person I was.
I will never again think, talk, act or walk like the lowly Junior Minister I was before my rise from the catacombs of all-corrupting power-hunger allowed me to achieve my new-found state of primacy - inheriting some prime reality-estate, if you will! - although I will continue to use the addendum of 'Junior' after my new ID as a mark of my concurrent collaboration with the musical combo of the same name.
Something was lost to the world forever on that fateful late-afternoon, but it more a pop of the cherry than the cork. Not that corks, champagne corks, were not popped, metaphorically, by myself.
Because I had something to celebrate that day.
My awakening; no more, no less, no nonsense.
The death of the inner dunce, the idiots' dance deftly ended. (Take a bow-legged bow!)
The child's cries falling on deaf ears as the earth gave birth to a man.
A newborn soldier, dwarfed but not cowed by the calves of the giants he has just swung off the shoulders of.
Born of the Babaca: sexless, ageless, cross-eyed creator of Chaos and little else of worth.
A man for the moment. Not simply a man, nor a woman, but something more than human.
A Babacaman. Dismissing his creator and shedding his before-skin.
It's just me from now on.
Welcome to Babacaman's blog.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
One Month On...And Closing In
It's four weeks to the day that I've been here in this inverted inferno, where 'inverno' is 'Winter' and Winter is regularly above 30 degrees celsius. I've been well welcomed to this particular jungle though, no doubt about it. Despite the malevolent nature of my intended prey, hiding out in his shabby fortress somewhere in the vast interior of this countrinent (like the other Nazis before him), and the sinister, sickly signs I am beginning to apprehend that my presence, my mission, is not going unnoticed, there is an abundance of goodwill emanating from the people I call friends (though they may be fiends.) I have mentioned the mercurial figure of Leonardo, the hedonistic headcase who rarely sleeps if there is fun to be had, although I was relieved to see him looking tired for the first time last night - he actually yawned, I think, although he may have been trying to swallow a particularly tasty-looking mosquito. He was still too tired to flick out his tongue. Then there is 'Turbando' (name explained in my previous post), and his glamorous girlfriend 'K', who happens to be a relative of my own Maria and, unbeknownst to anyone but us, another undercover agent. Her cover is so deep that even she is unaware of her role. Her apartment overlooking the entire city of BH is a perfect vantage point to watch the police helicopters on their own surveillance missions and get a good look at the numerous visitors the couple receive, ostensibly for parties and social gatherings although I believe Turbando may be involved in organising late-night raids on hospitals to steal life-prolonging drugs (vital eveidence gained from Maria's former connection with and contacts in the pharmaceutical industry) - it is a leap, I'll grant you, but there can be noone in greater need of these drugs than shrivelled old prunebag Bog Mugabe. Could there be a link? I'll find out soon enough. Turbando again is nothing but friendly towards me and like the rest uses English with me despite his worries that it isn't so good. Saves me from having to embarrass myself with my lamentable Portuguese! Sometimes he gets into a rage and smashes the windows of cars and shops but I think the rage itself is a ruse and he is merely practising for the hospital raids. Talking of hospitals, there is another fascinating figure to mention at this juncture - one 'Dr Jelly', a psychiatrist with a flexible approach to life, both physically, mentally and , perhaps, morally. He is a smiling, generous-natured man and his girlfriend, Laura, (a psycholgist) a fizzing bombom of a girl. 'The Two Psychos', as I have affectionately dubbed them, are clearly influential in the group, and I suspect they may have connections with the drug raids. Finally, there is Eduardo, the 'Sandman' AKA The Bear. He is unfailingly friendly and a good source of local knowledge. I believe that there might be a secret to him, however, that forces him to work in cahoots with the others on whatever nefarious schemes they may be up to. So much work to do, to find out the truth, but I feel I'm getting closer every day...
There are disturbing occurrences happening more and more often that need to be paid attention to. I believe I am being watched myself, and that my life may already be in danger. More on this next time. Until then - ate logo!
There are disturbing occurrences happening more and more often that need to be paid attention to. I believe I am being watched myself, and that my life may already be in danger. More on this next time. Until then - ate logo!
Friday, August 14, 2009
Muito Prazer...and Ian Curtis Robot Samba!
Hopefully I'll be eating my words soon. Talk like a Brazilian. More specifically, eating my syllables in order to sound like a oper eaker of Zilian Tuguese. They really do end up sounding like that here, except with a deeply ingrained cultural understanding of what everyone is doing, so it sounds nowhere near as silly as that last sentence did. The word 'voce' ('you'; pronounced 'vossay') comes out like 'oce' ('ossay') or even plain old 'ce' ('say' what!) 'Ta', a common form of positive response to an opinion or instruction, I recently learned stands in for 'esta bem', or 'that's fine'. This practise lends itself to some inspired plays-on-words, such as the nickname given to one of the Beagaboys (my own nickname, inspired by the Vengaboys, for the criminal group of men-friends I've been hanging round with here in BH, purely for sociable, drinking, locating Mugabe, having-a-right-old-laugh purposes), Tomas. For ages, I couldn't work out why he was called 'Turbando' by everyone. Then I found out it stood in for 'Estou Masturbando' ('I'm masturbating') but, because they remove the 'Es' part in speech it becomes 'To(u)mas Turbando'! Clever, eh! (As an aside, most of these nicknames seem to stem from a certain Leonardo, a Puckish figure who seems to be the nominal leader, at least in his own head, of this local gang I've infiltrated. Other nicknames are not so convuluted; a Brazilian-Japanese friend is known as 'Jappa', another with Lebanese roots known as 'The Turk'. I have been so far blessed with two 'apelidos': 'Twat' and 'Wankerjimmy'.) I am currently studying Brazilian Portuguese from a deliciously chunky tome, my Bible, entitled 'Muito Prazer' and it has, indeed, been giving me much pleasure on these warm and balmy, barmy, nights. It is probably a more useful book than the Bible, and certainly better-constructed! I just kissed it. For luck.
Last week I made my first solo flight away from the overly-familiar bosom of Beaga (BH) to penetrate the awe-inspiring massiveness of Sao Paolo and see some old friends. I spent the whole day alone, sick with gripe (a cold) on another damned bus, but it was actually a pleasant kind of journey, until we got stuck in an SP rush hour towards the end and I lost my i-pod/had it stolen in the most pathetic way imaginable - it fell down the side of the seat, headphones still in ears, and in my frenetic scrabbling for it I must have alerted the c**t in the seat behind because when we finally arrived at Tiete Rodoviaria (the second-largest coach station in the world, after New York, reports 'Muito Prazer' in a reading activity) it was nowhere to be found.
Still, SP was great, like London if it stuck its own thumb in its mouth and blew, and everyone and everything became slightly more coffee-coloured. The smoking ban started THE DAY I ARRIVED, which was slightly annoying (a terrible habit, but gives you something to do when everyone's speaking a language you only vaguley understand); gives you some idea of the kind of city we're dealing with. Cosmopolitan, an eye on world trends etc. After sampling some of the gay crowd (purely visually) on Friday night, Saturday was a cracking day, and about as Brazilian as you can get. Me and my guide, Andre, took a bike ride to and through Parque Ibirapuera, a treat (a bit like Battersea Park with palm trees and coconut sellers), so as to get the 'health' part of the day over with, before going to a feijoada restaurant and eating, like, a whole pig in a stew. The restaurant, disconcertingly, became a Samba club at about 3.30 and all the tables were put aside as the live band ambled onstage and everyone began shaking their rears and stamping their feet like impetuous, overgrown children. In a kind of communal fervour. Suitably inspired, and aided by a couple of strong caipirinhas, I began to join in. I looked like Ian Curtis, quite possibly as he was dying. Or at least a robotic toy version of same, made by some nightmare Japanese fan website. Still, I'll learn. Watch. And learn. And watch some more. Mmmmmmmmm.
Last week I made my first solo flight away from the overly-familiar bosom of Beaga (BH) to penetrate the awe-inspiring massiveness of Sao Paolo and see some old friends. I spent the whole day alone, sick with gripe (a cold) on another damned bus, but it was actually a pleasant kind of journey, until we got stuck in an SP rush hour towards the end and I lost my i-pod/had it stolen in the most pathetic way imaginable - it fell down the side of the seat, headphones still in ears, and in my frenetic scrabbling for it I must have alerted the c**t in the seat behind because when we finally arrived at Tiete Rodoviaria (the second-largest coach station in the world, after New York, reports 'Muito Prazer' in a reading activity) it was nowhere to be found.
Still, SP was great, like London if it stuck its own thumb in its mouth and blew, and everyone and everything became slightly more coffee-coloured. The smoking ban started THE DAY I ARRIVED, which was slightly annoying (a terrible habit, but gives you something to do when everyone's speaking a language you only vaguley understand); gives you some idea of the kind of city we're dealing with. Cosmopolitan, an eye on world trends etc. After sampling some of the gay crowd (purely visually) on Friday night, Saturday was a cracking day, and about as Brazilian as you can get. Me and my guide, Andre, took a bike ride to and through Parque Ibirapuera, a treat (a bit like Battersea Park with palm trees and coconut sellers), so as to get the 'health' part of the day over with, before going to a feijoada restaurant and eating, like, a whole pig in a stew. The restaurant, disconcertingly, became a Samba club at about 3.30 and all the tables were put aside as the live band ambled onstage and everyone began shaking their rears and stamping their feet like impetuous, overgrown children. In a kind of communal fervour. Suitably inspired, and aided by a couple of strong caipirinhas, I began to join in. I looked like Ian Curtis, quite possibly as he was dying. Or at least a robotic toy version of same, made by some nightmare Japanese fan website. Still, I'll learn. Watch. And learn. And watch some more. Mmmmmmmmm.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Brazilian Dentists are the Bestest...and Bussing Down to Rio!
Aaaahhhh! My mouth breathes a sigh of relief as the horror of my gingivitis comes to the beginning of its end. All thanks to a fine dentist, of the finest Japo-Brasilero stock, who took me to his clinical bosom yesterday and, accompanied by a soothing commentary in almost flawless English, scraped my gums clean until they bled. And bleed they most certainly did! Huge slivers of bacteria-filled calculus were pointed out to me lovingly as they were wiped onto the back of his rubber gloves. I was also invited to watch the procedure on a handy little portable mirror. Thoroughly descaled and advised, better than any of my NHS chaps and chappesses had ever managed, I went about my way, resolving to look after my teeth in future as if they were my own.
After such grotesqueries, it is my pleasure to touch upon the delightful subject of Rio. Not Engalnd's very own, dear, dear, Ferdinand but the city that owes its name to a mistaken belief by the Portuguese explorer who discovered the place that he was sailng down a huge river which turned out to be merely a slightly over-extended bay. He was obviously really, really eager to name that sucker! Oh, but it is a beauty. Maria and I spent a wonderful weekend traversing all the song-inspired beaches (my favourite being Leme, presumably a misspelt tribute to our very own Motorhead's lead rabble-rouser) and swooping up and down mountains that allow views which don't just take your breath away but sweeten it up with camomile before popping it back in your tongue in a silken negligée. Almost as spectacular as the ocean waves which constantly gobble up surfers (soon rescued by Team Rio: Surf Police) is the inland lagoon, just a few blocks back from the ocean. We crossed it at night in a swan-shaped paddleboat and traversed its entirety by bike the following day. No crime, muggings, shootings to report but the favellas twinkled naughtily from the hillsides the whole time, looking by day like scabs and by night like some kind of barnacle-inspired bling, and all the time threatening to burst their pustular violence over the toned, tanned bodies of the elite. But for that weekend at least, they didn't.
Got a night coach back. The air-conditioning belted down the whole time like a Antarctic wind. It wasn't even that warm. This was supposedly how executives travelled. It gave me a really nasty headcold that lingers even now and I felt quite dreadful in the morning. Resolved to take planes to all Brazilian cities in future...
Next time: Bussing Down to Sao Paolo!
After such grotesqueries, it is my pleasure to touch upon the delightful subject of Rio. Not Engalnd's very own, dear, dear, Ferdinand but the city that owes its name to a mistaken belief by the Portuguese explorer who discovered the place that he was sailng down a huge river which turned out to be merely a slightly over-extended bay. He was obviously really, really eager to name that sucker! Oh, but it is a beauty. Maria and I spent a wonderful weekend traversing all the song-inspired beaches (my favourite being Leme, presumably a misspelt tribute to our very own Motorhead's lead rabble-rouser) and swooping up and down mountains that allow views which don't just take your breath away but sweeten it up with camomile before popping it back in your tongue in a silken negligée. Almost as spectacular as the ocean waves which constantly gobble up surfers (soon rescued by Team Rio: Surf Police) is the inland lagoon, just a few blocks back from the ocean. We crossed it at night in a swan-shaped paddleboat and traversed its entirety by bike the following day. No crime, muggings, shootings to report but the favellas twinkled naughtily from the hillsides the whole time, looking by day like scabs and by night like some kind of barnacle-inspired bling, and all the time threatening to burst their pustular violence over the toned, tanned bodies of the elite. But for that weekend at least, they didn't.
Got a night coach back. The air-conditioning belted down the whole time like a Antarctic wind. It wasn't even that warm. This was supposedly how executives travelled. It gave me a really nasty headcold that lingers even now and I felt quite dreadful in the morning. Resolved to take planes to all Brazilian cities in future...
Next time: Bussing Down to Sao Paolo!
Monday, August 10, 2009
The Velvet Mysteries of a New World...and The Joy of Pork!
Hello chums and bums,
Well, well, well; I could have never imagined what a series of consecutive minor culture shocks to the eyeballs, earholes and sensual organs living in Brazil would be! The stimulations are as severe here as the hedonism is head-mangling. Can I dig it? Yes, I believe I can! My whole demeanor was dour before I left, my posture poor and my anxiety glands pumped up to ten. This past 17 days has been a slow loosening up of poor old stress-mess Jim Junior, and it's a bloody relief I can tell you. There are still many river's of shit to build bridges over (or tunnels under, providing both contractors are reputable and able to meet in he middle) but things are looking pretty sweet on numerous layers of the cake (except, ironically I suppose, for my damned teeth which have mean moaning blue murder for the past month - presumably because of my fondness for cake, both real and metaphoric.)
So to what do I attribute this wonderful mellowing of the soul and softening of the sphincter? Well, first of all, special thanks and feeling must flow towards my wonderful hosts, my ever-smiling and constantly comforting sleeper-agent (and occasional lover) Maria Haha (a codename, naturally) and her welcoming, accomodating mother, father and maid, who prepares daily the most nourishing comida mineira (food from the Minas Gerais, or General Mines if you will, state of Brazil.)
Talking of food, I have renounced all forms of Vegetarianism, Veganism, Vulcanism and other free-thinking silliness to chow down respectfully and gluttonously on a glorious array of the finest farmfod I believe the world has to offer. Take the pig (please). I previously entertained a rather snobbish, stand-offish opinion on the lowly swine (currently enjoying a pretty poor press on both sides of the pond, it has to be said.) I was with Samuel L. Jackson, who once complained of its lack of regard for its own sanitation. Well, sewer rat might not taste like pumpkin pie but, by God!, a good feijoada is slave food fit for kings! A stew of black beans and, potentially and pretty much literally, every single part of a pig. It's gorgeous. At least the one I had in Sao Paolo was. And the the restaurant became a buggering Samba bar; I mean, how Brazilian can you get? Throw in a cachaca/caipirinha or three (good with lime, even better with passion fruit) and the night's a good um.
And the three cities I have thusfar explored all have their charms. BH, my current hometown, is despised by sophisticates in the more renowned locáles of Rio and Sao Paolo and for that matter by many of its own residents but I see its positive sides. It's a fine, mountainous city that looks a little like I imagine LA does at night from up the Praça do Papa (where some Pope once said some mildly encouraging things about the horizon before shufling off to some other franchise); if it is the 'Sheffield of Brazil', as one Paolista wag dubbed it, then it's like a twice-as-high, barking mad, frenetic Sheffield with a permanent heat haze and more attractive women.
Rio and SP are, to be fair, very differerent propositions. It is very possible I'll be moving to one or both of them at some point in the near future. I'd like to devote a separate entry to each of these gaudy metropolis's very soon - suffice to say that they both beat the Washington DC-aping BH back into the mineshafts. With an ostentatiously jewel-encrusted, Oscar Niemeyer-designed shovel.
Haven't found out the whereabouts of Mugabe yet. Could be an awfully long mission. But I did hobnob with the Paolistan bigwigs last weekend at a soirée for the young and painfully hip-hop (in an unfortuntely converted bordello) and had pointed out to me that the handsome boyfriend of my friend's stunningly-apparelled fashionista boss was none other than the nephew of none other than formerly-disgraced former president of Brazil Fernando Collor! Son of his brother Paolo, the media magnate who jealously engineered his brother's downfall!! Never heard of these people? Tut, for shame. Read A Death in Brazil by Peter Robb. Just don't try and borrow it from Jonny P. Because his copies with me! Anyway, maybe I've found a contact to get me closer to the tyrant Mugabe...
Much more to come
Sweet dreams of sweet places,
JimJr
Well, well, well; I could have never imagined what a series of consecutive minor culture shocks to the eyeballs, earholes and sensual organs living in Brazil would be! The stimulations are as severe here as the hedonism is head-mangling. Can I dig it? Yes, I believe I can! My whole demeanor was dour before I left, my posture poor and my anxiety glands pumped up to ten. This past 17 days has been a slow loosening up of poor old stress-mess Jim Junior, and it's a bloody relief I can tell you. There are still many river's of shit to build bridges over (or tunnels under, providing both contractors are reputable and able to meet in he middle) but things are looking pretty sweet on numerous layers of the cake (except, ironically I suppose, for my damned teeth which have mean moaning blue murder for the past month - presumably because of my fondness for cake, both real and metaphoric.)
So to what do I attribute this wonderful mellowing of the soul and softening of the sphincter? Well, first of all, special thanks and feeling must flow towards my wonderful hosts, my ever-smiling and constantly comforting sleeper-agent (and occasional lover) Maria Haha (a codename, naturally) and her welcoming, accomodating mother, father and maid, who prepares daily the most nourishing comida mineira (food from the Minas Gerais, or General Mines if you will, state of Brazil.)
Talking of food, I have renounced all forms of Vegetarianism, Veganism, Vulcanism and other free-thinking silliness to chow down respectfully and gluttonously on a glorious array of the finest farmfod I believe the world has to offer. Take the pig (please). I previously entertained a rather snobbish, stand-offish opinion on the lowly swine (currently enjoying a pretty poor press on both sides of the pond, it has to be said.) I was with Samuel L. Jackson, who once complained of its lack of regard for its own sanitation. Well, sewer rat might not taste like pumpkin pie but, by God!, a good feijoada is slave food fit for kings! A stew of black beans and, potentially and pretty much literally, every single part of a pig. It's gorgeous. At least the one I had in Sao Paolo was. And the the restaurant became a buggering Samba bar; I mean, how Brazilian can you get? Throw in a cachaca/caipirinha or three (good with lime, even better with passion fruit) and the night's a good um.
And the three cities I have thusfar explored all have their charms. BH, my current hometown, is despised by sophisticates in the more renowned locáles of Rio and Sao Paolo and for that matter by many of its own residents but I see its positive sides. It's a fine, mountainous city that looks a little like I imagine LA does at night from up the Praça do Papa (where some Pope once said some mildly encouraging things about the horizon before shufling off to some other franchise); if it is the 'Sheffield of Brazil', as one Paolista wag dubbed it, then it's like a twice-as-high, barking mad, frenetic Sheffield with a permanent heat haze and more attractive women.
Rio and SP are, to be fair, very differerent propositions. It is very possible I'll be moving to one or both of them at some point in the near future. I'd like to devote a separate entry to each of these gaudy metropolis's very soon - suffice to say that they both beat the Washington DC-aping BH back into the mineshafts. With an ostentatiously jewel-encrusted, Oscar Niemeyer-designed shovel.
Haven't found out the whereabouts of Mugabe yet. Could be an awfully long mission. But I did hobnob with the Paolistan bigwigs last weekend at a soirée for the young and painfully hip-hop (in an unfortuntely converted bordello) and had pointed out to me that the handsome boyfriend of my friend's stunningly-apparelled fashionista boss was none other than the nephew of none other than formerly-disgraced former president of Brazil Fernando Collor! Son of his brother Paolo, the media magnate who jealously engineered his brother's downfall!! Never heard of these people? Tut, for shame. Read A Death in Brazil by Peter Robb. Just don't try and borrow it from Jonny P. Because his copies with me! Anyway, maybe I've found a contact to get me closer to the tyrant Mugabe...
Much more to come
Sweet dreams of sweet places,
JimJr
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