New site is up for my movies, which I’m just starting to take seriously. Stay tuned for an upload of You Alone are Real to Me.
Get inspired.
—Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.
Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.
She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.
Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.
She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilightseries.
If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.
You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.
Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.
Or better yet, date a girl who writes.
Hello, Hello
September has started. Lots of plans to go travel in the future, when the weather gets more summer-y. Hoping thats the end of September. Cambara do sul, Florianapolis, Falls do Iguaçu are all looking good.
It has rained a lot this week. Trouble sleeping through it makes me groggy. I seem to have gotten caught up in the idea of not being able to sleep. So the first thing i think about when i go to bed is how to sleep, and i dont actually do it. Tried relaxing music, but that annoys me more than the rain. Grrrrr
Speaking of good things, classes are great. Except for that one in which my latin american culture prof asked me to describe the effects of WWII; Just in general. In portuguese.
Im also going for pancakes today. Very good thing. Not breakfast pancakes, but pancakes filled with meat. Expensive, but worth it.
I start work on a farm next week. I start an internship in 2. Looks like ill finally be doing things during the day other than sitting on the computer. Two more good things!
Expect the next update after my epic adventure through the hills and valleys of Cambara do Sul
Well, my bad. I’m an awful blogger. Luckily I’m still a prolific writer. I’ve got a word doc on my computer that’s got pretty much every major thought I’ve had over the past month. Here are some snippets.
JULY 26
I am starting to feel better. It wasn’t that cold, I just wasn’t used to the indoors. Still not. I was really sick for about 7 days. Head ache, stuffy nose, sore throat, cough, chest congestion, bad stomach. If my cold were a kind of car wash, I got the works. Submitted to getting an antibiotic, even though it’s a virus. I think the fever forced my hand there.
Winter is still at midseason. Some days are worse than others, but that’s true everywhere. I’m trying really hard to get all the junk out of my mind. Like a kid using a filter in the sand to find rocks and bottle caps. I just want sand in my beach. I’m cleaning house, not excavating.
If that cold did anything it tore down my walls and made me eager to walk around healthy. That Internet addiction sure came in handy when I was too weak to leave the couch. Comic con was conveniently during the worst of it.
I’ve got a decent grip on Portuguese. Not smart enough to tell the difference between grilled and fried chicken when ordering at McDonalds, but good enough. I can converse and understand most of what is said to me. So long as it is slow enough.
Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, but my eyes haven’t opened, I forget that I’m in Brazil. I don’t think I’m at home. I’m just not here. Its been happening less lately. I dream in Portuguese a lot too. It used to make me wake up sometimes. When I couldn’t sleep and I was borderline hallucinating bilingually, I would have trouble being happy speaking at the next day. Before it seemed like the English and Portuguese parts of my brain were fighting. Now they sort of just exist next to each other. Progress!
AUGUST 1
Solidarity will save me.
Sometimes you’re not supposed to feel things alone. Let people feel them with you. Feelings are heavy. This mucus in my head makes them heavier. This is home. I need to start relying on people more.
AUGUST 2-9
I’ll just summarize over this week. Angry that my visa was wrong, my classes got lost, and the weather was weird. Found unflattering videos of High school Dave on my computer, cue self-hate session. All ends with me just saying, in simple terms, Fuck it.
AUGUST 17
Aw,Sniffles. Just keep hanging around. I think my stuffy nose has been the most consistent thing I’ve experienced here. This week is hot. Not too hot. But I’m still not adept at switching from 4 to 22 degrees in a matter of hours. I think that I can’t think about things. I could, but it would do more harm then good. There is only one way to get the most out of the next 121 days/18 weeks and 3 days.
Just keep doing. Don’t stop. Not for anything (except running out of money) Feel everything. Do everything. Stop trying to figure this out. Save the sorting for Christmas presents.
And now…AUGUST 18
I learned how to cook a great sandwich. I re-decorated my room. I’ve started all of my classes. They’re great, and confusing in ways I can’t even explain. I have a new housemate. Might have gotten in trouble for not cleaning the stove after I cooked. Might be spending too much money. Life is pretty mighty right now.
Here’s a list of good things.
My room is me in room form.
My bed is very very comfy.
In every class I have, someone has reached out and talked to me.
In every class I have, the teacher has been incredible.
Capoeira is a good thing. Maybe the best thing.
My mom here is wonderful and kind.
My friends at home always check in on you.
I am speaking Portuguese. I basically learned an entire language in a month. Fuck yes.
That sandwich. Nuff said.
So that’s the update. I promise the next one will be before september 20.
ME (As I type this)
So about a week or so ago, winter hit. It hit hard. Thats when i discovered why people kept telling me that winter sucks here.
People dont have heating systems.
It rains all the time.
And its high time for all kinds of fun colds…like the one i have right now.
Some sort of virus. Its a different kind of cold depending on the medicine I take. Sinus meds make it a chest cold. Chest meds make it a head cold. And both result in very little sleep. Being retainer-less doesn’t help my face (see jaw) feel any better. So there have been a few long nights watching star trek/hitchhikers guide to the galazy/dr.horrible.
Oh that bed finally broke on me. I’m on the other one now. Sink broke tonight. Maybe the window next? Fresh cold air 24/7. Mmmmm
Suffice it to say that this week is tough. All i can do is tough it out. At least I have my class every day, and hot meals, and hot water, and internet. Could do a lot worse.
Sitting wrapped in a blanket currently. I sort of dread going to my room. What with all the cold clothes/air and weird bed. Getting into bed feels like the stages of a space-shuttle launch once it’s in space. I enter the room. Switch pants for pjs. Switch winter coat/ layers for t-shirt and thermal and hoodie. Get into bed. Wriggle around for warmth. Wait a few minutes. Take off socks. Wait a few more. Take off hoodie. More wriggling. Then the goal is sleep, but that hasnt really panned out
Pretty pictures from before winter up soon.
Happy July
love,
sick dave
I am officially in my twenties.
I might not be able to order food properly, shop, or move about the city sans-fernando and not get lost, but I am in my twenties. I’m an adult more or less? Can adults shop without chaperones?
Here’s the good and bad and birthday of it-
Bad:
So far I’ve only gotten lost on the bus twice. The bus near my house definitely goes to the train station but the buses at the train station are mystery buses. I could go anywhere. Not cool places like the kind Ms. Frizzle and magic school bus went to, more like tiny cramped streets that have no resemblance to my neighborhood.
My bed won’t stop breaking.
Only a handful of people understand anything I say
I’m the only American in the University.
It takes 2 buses, a train, and about a mile of walking to get to my school.
Good:
So far I’ve only gotten lost on the bus twice.
Once I met with the people who actually knew about me, I was fine. They’re actually really nice. One even speaks English fluently enough to get my jokes. Jackpot.
The food is pretty incredible sometimes. They combine bread, cheese, and meat in very cool ways (i.e. pasteries, fried dough, etc)
I still keep in touch with those guys I hung out with my first weekend.
My host mom is kind of an angel.
Might get a new room with a big bed and a couch.
It’s beautiful here.
Internet works.
By the end I will be fluent in another language.
I’m the only American in the University.
CAPOEIRA
Birthday:
Got lost even though I was purposely trying not to
Went to the university only to find it was closed
Got a cd of classical brasilian music from my mom here
Went to a bar and….
I got called a nerd in Portuguese. Then someone told me to lose the glasses by mimicking the action on his own face, since i understood none of what he said.
A drunk brasilian claiming to know a little English rattled off the following stereotypes- California, surfing, skateboarding, Citi Bank
Since I look so young, the people watching me drink kept asking if I was alright. Of course I don’t understand what they’re saying, so I just give thumbs up.
Decided to leave (not very drunk) and yet still managed to slip on the wet floor on my way out. That won me a lot of choice looks from the locals, who already thought I was hammered.
Ordered rum on my own.
My friend had the band dedicate a song to me.
Holy Shit. Holy shit holy shit holy shit.
That’s the only thing I remember thinking. As the strange smell of the Porto Alegre airport turned into petroleum fumes, a quirky representative of my new school (who spoke very little English) asked me what my thoughts were on Obama and popular music while swerving back and forth on a road with dotted white lines serving as suggestions rather than actual lane dividers. The way that cars move here is like the way microscopic bacteria move around in a puddle. It seems like a total clusterfuck, but there’s a strange harmony to it.
Strange is the perfect word for what I feel here.
Strangely excited.
Strangely scared.
Strangely strange.
After nearly 24 hours of flying across two continents, of ridiculously uncomfortable seats on 12 hour continental flight, of figuring out how to change a flight in a language I didn’t speak, I had finally landed in my home for the next six months of my life- and I didn’t understand anything. So I sat in the passenger seat of the radioless VW feeling tired, angry, confused, scared, and a little teeny bit excited by the energy of not knowing what was going to happen next.
We didn’t go directly to the house. We went to the school, where I underwent a process I can only really explain like a prisoner transfer since I didn’t understand enough of what was said to make a judgment otherwise. (Not that I even understand what a prison transfer is like) I went into a building. I sat in an office and was handed an essay on transsexuals to flip through that was written in Portuguese. Went back outside to switch cars. This time I would be with my host sister, also spoke no English.
I think my first real panic was when I asked where I was going/what would happen the next day and I got a thumbs up.
I arrived at the house and had some small talk with the two women who make up my family here. I don’t know how they understood a thing of what I said. Spangluguese (Spanish/English/Portuguese) isn’t really comprehensible. Thought I would get some sleep, but no luck. School again, 7:30 am. The time detail was achieved through a conversation with Fernando, the Spaniard phys-ed teacher who lived with me for the first week.
Of course the person who actually knows about my program wasn’t at the school the next day. So I had to wait the weekend with… no idea what my program really was and no real way to speak effectively.
Lucky for me I learned fast. Fernando spoke spangluguese better than I did. We got along really well. He is the friendliest guy. Even when he had no idea what I was saying he would smile and give me a thumbs up. Positivity in conversation seems to be the universal bridge over any language gap.
Through Fernando I met some other people. Next thing I know I’m watching the world cup every day it’s on. I’m sipping chimara, a local tea like drink thing. I’m at a festa improving a song in Portuguese about all of the words I don’t know yet. I’m at a bar til 3 in the morning singing Bob Dylan tunes. I’m learning swears in 4 languages. In one weekend I have some friends, a tiny tiny linguistic hold on Portuguese, some new appreciation for old American music, and still no idea what I’m doing here.
I am too alone in the world, and yet not alone enough
to make every minute holy.
I am too tiny in this world, and not tiny enough
just to lie before you like a thing,
shrewed and secretive.
I want my own will, and I want simply to be with my will,
as it goes toward action;
and in those quiet, sometimes hardly moving times,
when something is coming near,
I want to be with those who know secret things
or else alone.
I want to be a mirror for your whole body,
and I never want to be blind, or to be too old
to hold up your heavy and swaying picture.
I want to unfold.
I don’t want to stay folded anywhere,
because where I am folded, there I am A lie.
And I want my grasp of things to be
true before you. I want to describe myself
like a painting that I looked at
closely for a long time,
like a saying that I finally understood,
like the pitcher I use every day,
like the face of my mother,
like a ship
that carried me
through the wildest storm of all.
You smell like Sardines!
Made for those who know secret things, by someone who does not
