Having a mango afternoon as I try to reboot my hard drive. My soft drive got wet in the ocean. The plastic bag holding my copious notes on my epiphany on the River of January didn’t hold so I am trying to recall.
A white Buddha passing through a brown world.
I made my way this morning to the beaches of the River of January. Not quite Tagore’s sea of dreams but the most stunning vista I know in the world. The rugged mountains that frame the beaches of Rio were covered in the morning yellow grey haze.
Hello Hio, as they say down here.
I found a memory. I tracked it down block by block until I cornered it. I found the Hotel Biarritz, where I sojourned my last stint in Rio. My smile cracked wide at my discovery. But alas, inflation had hit and prices were nowhere near what I had paid some years prior. I don’t remember exactly what I paid, but it was far less. So I departed with a smile back to my hostel.
Afternoon, I headed back to the beach. A stop at the traffic light gave me the most incredible vista of Rio rugged beaches. I stood under a banyan, not caring if traffic ever stopped. The clouds hung on the mountaintops of the mountains that stretched down and into the ocean. Rio has beaches without compare.
I stopped under a yellow skol umbrella under the shade for a couple caprinhas and marveled at Rio’s majesty. Cloves and Caprinhas. I don’t think even Hemingway had it this good.
My blue ink poured out onto the pages I borrowed from the kind keeper of the beach bar.
A walk on the beach.
I walked along the beach, heading down the expanse of Copacabana. And I saw it. Amid my bubbling ideas, I saw the shape of a woman in the mountainscape and ocean drive of Rio. I saw head lying sideways on the pillow. I saw her ear. I saw her supple breast. Her wide hips. And her knee up, softly bent.
I walked towards her. As far as I could go.
I walked down the beach until I saw her. I sunbather in the same position as the mountain range. Basking in the sun. Head turned sideways on a towel. Supple breast exposed to the sun. Her knee softly bent.
At some point, I turned around. There was Adam’s apple. Or something else. The far rock looked like a chub. Can’t blame the mountain, I practically had one from the silhouted mountainscape.
Sao Paulo Picasso said “all you can imagine is real.” So true.
I walked all the way down to her. To where the beach ends.
Along the rock wall, I touched her pietra sancta.
From afar, the Corcovado’s arm were outstretch with a white cloud backdrop. Jesus was said to levitate. I put my hands out to catch the wind but had no expectations of levitation.
Down to the end of the concrete pier, where the lines were cast.
And back under a banyan to stare into the vista.
I was bubbling with idea. Percolating, really. And I planned out next chapters and next steps. And I was radiating; emitting joy.
On my walk back, I checked and checked to make sure my plastic bag guarding my notes was closed. It also had a key in it so I didn’t trust leaving it in my flipflops. For years you were looking for the key, but the door was always open (The White Tiger). I prayed the bag would hold. It didn’t.
Sopping soaking notes. I scurried back down the beach, talking to myself trying to hold onto thoughts and ideas. I think I still have most.
I past the stunning Copacabana Palace, where Marlene Dietrich once resided. “Bring me a bucket of sand,” she asked the hotel staff. Puzzled, they asked why. “Where do you think I will go to the bathroom in a dress this tight?” she replied.
The white Palace of Copacabana stood majestic, the a Brazilian flag flapping in the breeze. The outstretch Corvocado looked down from a cloud backdrop. If ever the muse had a beach resort, this was her palace.
I passed four more fluttering flags, as my ideas fluttered in the wind. A Brazilian flag, of green and yellow hue, Tiradentes’ flag, which now adorns the State of Minas Gerais (A red triangle on a white flag with the words: Libertas Quae Sera Tamen (Freedom Albeit Late); the flag of Galo- the Brazilian champions who Marcos and Luiz love, and the flag of Vasco de Gama. Oh, Vasco, I know your final resting grounds in Cochin. But that is another memory.
At quickened pace, I returned to try to hold onto the Muse's precious gift. She is always so hard to hold onto, especially when our devices of trapping her lie drying on a white china plate. In her final imperious gift to me, the wet words now lie written backwards in blue ink, staining the hostel table.