29 – Brazil Brasil Brasileiro

 

Clown of a whore! This city, this place, this house…

What is it coming to? Puta estupida?
You don’ know? What you don’ Know? Get thee…GO!!!!

What do I have to do between pitfalls, acid fall-out and chemical waste, power black outs and electrocution to just have a happy month?

Ah! Brazil! Brasil Brasileiro… It is just a state of mind!.
My Mind…not yours

And now if you throw your self off a building – before you go cold someone will own your identity number, your name, your job, your desk, your office, your apartment, your life and your soul.

If you wanted to get to vanish as I did, you would have to be prepared to spend several years of virtual economy, of black money pissing around with personnel assistants, junior sub-managers, sector organizers, junior systems analysts, junior sub-managers, temporary liaison officers, production assistant managers, sector organizers, sales managers, chief directors, creative directors, project directors, and project directors’ personal managers…no end to it. Or,… Do It My Way. Vanish. Fled. Gone. Done.

I vanished. Did it in plain sight of every one. In front of your very eyes and your friends

So I told you: “I can never have any idea what your revelations and accusations about me may have on other people. For my part I was almost carried away by them, their arguments were so convincing. On the other hand scarcely a word of them was true. Certainly as untrue as anything anyone may tell you about me. Points that I will come to later in this article…

I have been especially astonished at many peoples misrepresentations of me, to you – especially since I spent so little time in their company and hardly ever said anything about myself, to you. Especially, not to you. I always thought that they were particularly brazen, like you, (my little invader), in that they were able to fabricate without foundation, nor even a blush, all sorts of concoctions about me.

Concoctions that were usually based on something told to them by some one else who had heard it from some where else. Probably provoked by my feral appearance, my sharp, or eclectic style of dress, and my exuberance which never took into account the perceptions of those around me.

When I realized that my cynical allusions to my own life were being taken seriously, that my dark sarcasm was being perceived as the truth of my existence, I knew that I had gone too far.

One of you described me as “having the hands of a killer and the eyes of a priest”. Pretty unusual for a girl who had never met the first, nor been counselled by the second. But I understand what you mean.

I mean, if I must be honest about it, I have often “revealed a truth” to a certain person for no other reason than to see from which mouth the story will emerge later. Thereby learning where and how “information flows”. I call it information for want of a better word. For it is not information by any stretch of the meaning of the word. What is information though, is The Path the Story Takes. From my mouth to my ear.

Let me remind you of my position. This is the first time in my life that there is someone who thinks that they know me who has “not actually lived with me – except to be under my own roof”

I will expand on this: there are only three people in this world who truly Know Me. My parents don’t know me. They know some things of my life and they know parts of me under certain circumstances. My siblings know other parts of me with in other contexts.

People I have worked with know even less. And people that I meet here and there, even over time and with a hundred conversations – only know that which I allow them to know. Never any thing more.

So how could any one think that I have airline personnel, you for example, running errands for me, from Brasil, then talk about my life except in a superficial way…especially since I do not want to be incriminated in anything. More surprising that anyone who knows so little, will believe things about me from some one else who knows even less.

So I was so cruel? So I ran rough shod over your dreams.

Well, I ask you now…was it not cruel of you to profess your love for me when I would clearly not reciprocate with an equal love for you?

Was it not indeed cruel of you to force your self on me? … after I had made it clear that I was not interested… All your pain was because you would not stop after the first time. (You should have gone home a long time ago. Aahh shit now you’re never going to make it).
Well, I ask you: was it not cruel to profess on grounds of a previously non-existent interest, concern and keen anxiety about matters in which you had never had the slightest interest? Not until you came into my house?  And not until I would not bed you?

Memory of domestic issues, however, surface and then they are just problematic children that I would as soon wash my hands.
Besides: You make too much of sex. A persons sexuality is a private matter, of small moment. If it suited our temperament to share love with each other, and we wanted to do that by mutual consent, and with eagerness and love, that is surely only between us.

Your argument was unfortunate in the extreme. I told you

I only make love to a certain kind of woman. Once I ate hamburgers because I was hungry…now I eat caviar out of dangerous girls, without fear of remission. They taste like O…

What does this mean? Comes the question…so slow to get the meaning.

Okay I will be cruel…Once I used to fuck women because I was horny…for a long time now I only fuck with women who are just like me. They are dark haired like me, fast like me, crazy like me. They hunger like I do, are impassioned as I am by what they believe, as driven as I am. And if I look in their faces. The hair, the eyes, the mouth … we are alike as people of a kind. We are Us. Separate from them just by our nature. We are family. Mothers for 6 generations and children to 2169. The 500th anniversary of men on the Moon. One thousand years of House Franco. Like olives without pips. Sweet succulent girls who grow to be women, then tell the tales of old wives and leave a memory. Like the smell of cooking, or freshly floved skin on a warm evening with the passion not yet subsided …

And I am surprised as you would be at how many they are. And hang out in the same cars and bars as you do…but they don’t go around spilling their guts, and trying to find out and be honest, etcetera.

The only way to have real fun is in the anonymity.

Dig that? Nancy Drew Alice in Wonderland. With a pencil. If we thought the world was like you, Pollyanna would be a TV star. Who the fuck can remember Shirley Temple?

Shit, every woman wants to be Traci Lords or every man wants to fuck Traci Lords…who da fuk wants ta marry Lucille Ball, or Meryl Streep… Any one for Miss Ellie?…buy a farm in Dull Ass. Tex Ass?

Then you started to prowl amongst my memories. Images, photos, letters, writings, scripts. An unfortunate thing to do. To go to look for things in my past. Because you don’t have one? Is that it? Puta?

To prowl around in another persons innermost thoughts and dreams and dark desires is to become warped and damaged.

Jealousy done killt yo hart honeh! Dju no betta than da average whaat honkey slut ju looks jus laake… No mo dan a who’…’n a stooped, cheep who’ at dat. Ju crazee az shee-it.

And then you think you will presume to imagine I will kneel to eat you as I did for those that loved me. You wait for me to unlock your gate. The one you made for yourself…