The questions I have for you

What makes you sad? What makes you joy? Where does that power you hold in your light waltz come from? How did you choose this path? What is it that calls you? Has your heart ever broken? Where do you see yourself in five years time? What kind of candy tickles your sweet tooth? Does God ever sing to you when you sleep? How many lives have you lived? How many remain? What is your favorite eye color? Do you see it in mine? What smell drives you wild with passion? What is your favorite flower?

Work.

Of the things I saw that Tuesday in Maré, the one I remember most was the fish vendor on the street. Despite the burned motorcycles, despite all the bullet holes, despite a BOPE officer being killed in a shootout hours earlier, he still put out his fish. I saw the stand, like a flower in the desert, standing along the side street of businesses that had shut down for the day. I saw the fish dripping wet at the scales and clear in the eyes, meaning you knew that the catch was fresh.

And his own eyes, were clear with determination. I recognized those eyes from the ring. It was the look of a driven fighter, one that refuses to go down. You knew, at that moment, that nothing less than a bullet to the head would stop him from working. Maybe if you looked close enough, you might have seen some worry, but mostly you saw focus, because he knew, despite all the carnage, people still needed their fish, and he was the one that provided it.

The official count in the newspaper is nine. I’ve heard as high as thirteen. My professor said that at least three were innocent bystanders. You have to understand how the BOPE are trained here in Brazil. A friend of mine recalls when the BOPE would drive around in their armored trucks, stick rifles out through shielded windows and blast demoralizing phrases through the loudspeakers. “Stay off the street, you fucking worms!” was something he remembered hearing while growing up.

They are trained to be vapid of most human emotions, perhaps the one that seeps through is the one of vengeance when a fellow comrade falls. It is that rage that turns the innocent into collateral damage, justifies any costs in reaching a goal. It is an emotion in which I have empathy, and in some strange way, I can relate when imagining one of my own falling in my presence. I feel for them, in this way, and I feel sorry that it is the only emotion given to them to filter all the pain in this world. 

I’ve been sad these past couple of days. I cry at random times - while I am meditating, while I am on the bus or just walking down the street. I have to stop, give a moment of mourning, a prayer for those I worry for. Part of me just wants to lie down, and sleep, but I remember the fish vendor that day in Maré. I don’t know if he lost anyone. I don’t know how deep his politics run. All I know is that he lived there. This was his community, and I’m sure his heart broke in one way or another. He probably wanted to lie down as well, even more so than I, but he put out his fish. He understood, even when the world crumbles at your feet, there is still work to be done. 

A shadowbox for Maré

I shadowbox, a lot, in the park plaza outside of my apartment. I shadowbox when I don’t make it to the gym. Sometimes the schedules don’t match up, sometimes I’m just lazy. This time it’s because I can’t go there, the nature of the situation won’t let me. 

I’m getting updates from my students over Facebook. It's a bit strange for me, but I guess this is the norm in the age of the internet. They tell me about the situation in Maré, about the shots that have been fired all day, about the police coming to their homes and that they don’t understand why. They’re twelve, these kids.

One of them tells me he read in the news that there were over four hundred BOPE officers in the community today, insists I watch this one station for updates, REDE RECOR. I flip through my television and I tell him I can’t find it. I’m watching Cidade Alerta instead. He gives an "umph" and tells me they don’t cover the real news. I smirk at the reply. Sharp kid, this one.

My photography student Raynne keeps asking about our next lesson. I tell him to plan for our field trip to the Sebastião Salgado exposition on the 11th of next month, but I begrudgingly have to add, “...if I can go pick you up.” 

He asks what we’ll be studying in our next session, asks if I'll have time to maybe come give a lesson this Thursday. I find it funny and sad at the same time. Funny that despite the circumstances, all he can think about is photography. Sad that I don’t know what to tell him. I really don't know when I'll be able to go back. When he wonders how long this will go on or how it will end, I try to play big brother and tell him that this will pass, and that we will go to Jardim Botanico to see Salgado, but what the fuck do I know? I'm not the one that lives there. 

I’ve always felt that dance is an offering, a prayer, if you will, and the shadowbox is the fighter’s dance. It is the ritual we perform to honor the sport, and shadowboxing alone in a ring is probably one of the most sacred rituals I've ever done in my life. But my legs have been hurting for the past week and I can’t really bend my left knee. When I try to perform an offering for those in Maré, for the kids that couldn’t go to the gym, for all those that fell, on either side, everything feels awkward, uneven. Pain stabs into my knee when my foot hits the ground. I’m a wounded dancer stumbling on one leg. 

Maré is wounded now. The total count is nine - two from the police, seven from the community. But the numbers don't really matter in the end. Nobody ever wins in these wars. I think the community will heal, be back in prime form in due time. A true fighter always returns. But you never know when a fighter's last day is upon them, when they're forced to hang em up and give up the dance. All I can give now is half a prayer, and hope the rest works itself out in the end.

A walk down Teixeira Ribeiro

I walk into Nova Holanda, a favela inside the Complexo da Maré. The black iron horse of the BOPE greets me, the Brazilian version of the American SWAT. My instincts tell me to turn around, but I have a photography lesson with my student, and I also really, really need to pee. 

Walking down Teixeira Ribeiro is different this time. Some stores are still open for business, most have their metal gates touching the floor. The corner where I used to see the drug boys congregate is deserted, a couple of fallen motorcycles left in their place. I see the plastic table at the corner of Rua Principal stacked neatly on the sidewalk. It's the table where traffickers once sat around counting their money. A gray swivel chair rests on its top. The BOPE stare holes through my skull as I walk past them. It’s the one time I am not wearing my Fight for Peace T-shirt, foolishly thinking that enough people in the community know me by now. The thing is, they do know me. It’s the police that don’t recognize my face.

I arrive to the gym to closed gates, so I relieve myself in the corner. I call the public relations manager, Gabriela, on the phone, ask her if the gym is open today.

“No, didn’t you read the news? There’s been a lot of shots fired last night and this morning. Where are you?” she asks.

“Outside the academy,” I strangely chuckle.

“Oh Nick, leave now. I’m sorry nobody told you. I’m so very sorry.” 

Two kids approach the gates with smiles turned frowns, whispering to each other in disappointment that it looks like the gym is closed today. I put on my T-shirt, hoping its blue emblem communicates a symbol of peace, alerting the authorities that I mean no harm. I see another person on the street wearing the same garb. My heart fills with relief. It is like a banner thrown into the air, like finding a fellow soldier on the battlefield. We brace arms. He tells me the same thing that Gabriela did. He tells me to leave as soon as I can. I tell him I'm on my way to catch the bus. He tells his companion that he’s going to walk me down to the freeway, to make sure that I’m safe. His friend starts walking with us.

I ask if this is because they are starting the pacification. 

“No. There were protests last night. A police officer was killed.”

I ask if they are here to find the person responsible.

"They are looking, for someone..." 

I ask if anyone has died this morning.

“Yes, a BOPE officer was killed in a shootout.”

I ask if anyone from the community has been hurt.

“I don’t know. It’s too early to tell.”

We continue walking down the street. There are BOPE squads swarming the neighborhood. They hold their rifles diagonally pointed toward the ground with a finger rested on the trigger. I am afraid that one of them might flinch and shoot off my toes. I see a motorcycle on the ground burnt to a crisp, bullet holes in car windows and on the sides of brick buildings.

“It’s a war here,” I finally say to him. He only nods in return. He has no words for this comment. 

He leaves me at the freeway entrance, tells me to cross onto the other side. 

“It’s safe over there,” he tells me. 

He turns to walk back to his home, back down Teixeira Ribeiro.

“Vai com Deus,” I say before we depart. I’ve never been the religious type, but it’s the only words I can find. 

“Go with God,” he kindly says in return.

Notes from my 4th trip

They want to stop me from writing, but what they don't know is that writing is the only law I follow.

I am mourning something, I just don't know what

Well now, happy endings would just be boring now wouldn't they?

Whenever you find yourself wanting to keep all the bananas for yourself, something is wrong.









             I'm not so sure why it is so difficult to find a decent life









I guess part of finding contentment is slaying some of the wild riders within you

I guess when you really need it, it returns.

I mean the best way to describe this experience is that it assumes no outcome and any one you have envisioned in your mind is utterly defeated.

A cage of light

It would be kind of cool to have Japanese porn drawn onto a potato chip in your honor.

Some organizations really want to poison the blood of good people.

There is no way to describe this emotion, just like swimming thru gray oatmeal trying to make sense of the world.

I get it. We're just trying to fit it all into the perfect frame of our mind. That's all composition is.










               But I am still probably going to law school.









When you think about it, dying a baby would be quite pleasant.

Sometimes good emotions get in the way of business

Sometimes are we not just drinking, burning, fucking for an answer?









That looks like a giant dancing hat

what did we do to upset that gyrating happy man on the beach, Desireé? We did something to make him frown, scowl in anger. Maybe it was because he could see we wouldn't last, and it is always a shame when such a love is forced to separate.

I feel like my mind is being stretched to all the unnecessary + inappropriate limits










           'WTF?' is right, Marcella! 'WTF?' is up with any of this shit
we see and feel?!?










Stuart, I hope you win that battle. I hope you can coexist with your demons.

I still want you to fuck me, Kaia

                                            Just don't play the demonic lullaby right now.
                                                     Well, that kinda sounds like it.









Less visions, more physical manifestations








                  like a yellow shark head coursing thru my body

I'm just trying to put this in some sort of sense.

I feel like I've been possessed by someone else's hatred this past week.

When children first start liking each other, that's a funny thing, isn't it? It's like the birth of something that can be horrendously sinister, or heavenly blissful. It all depends on how we care for it.

Protect your heart. Its the only one you have.

There are so many questions I want to ask you, Marcella --->
Sometimes I am frustrated that we are separated by the page. Sometimes I just want to wake up next to you in a mute language because we would still know, there is something that pulls us together. Something beyond words or reason. Something divine, something commanded by the heavens as its will to be done. That is our union, Marcella.









                   The purple joker that confronts the solitude of the cold desert









Don't demonize them. It is us that forced them to face that reality.

Sometimes I get off that bike and give one last desperate glance at my humanity,

because I don't know if I'll still have it at the end of all this.

Now I understand why you look at her with such loving eyes. 
It is because you think she could be the one that saves it

I am paralyzed in a sepia autumn, textured with tatami mats of flowers, celebrating creation and the beginning of a journey.

Don't write any of that which was planned. That makes for shitty storytelling
                                   And you don't want your ex to be viewed as a shitty storyteller.








V-
you don't have to be strong thru this one. Just know, either way, you'll still be a superhero to so many

Right back where I belong, in between the neon laces + the dancing hat.

I will devour the head of a baby bald eagle if I have to, but I'd rather not, because I think I'm a vegetarian

                 For Theo:
                    My blue guardsman of the sea. I'll miss you dear brother.

I feel like my insanity has finally seeped outside of these ceremonies

At this point, I am lost in the narrative.

That's the problem with Brazil. It's rich has been allowed to reach the point where nothing will fill the human hunger.

Those are just sacred terms: mother, daughter, sister, wife. That's just how I saw it.

That's the funny thing about fire, why it is so alluring. It is selfish destruction in its consumption. But the light rain from the heavens will eventually estinguish its flames. No matter how hard it rages, it has no control

Em este mundo globalizado, Quem não sabe o que é Taiwan?

Marcella,

Reading the book you wrote is like decoding messengers of war. Translating every word is like a divot to the master key. This is by far the most beautifully complicated way of getting to know someone.

The trick men have yet to understand: the true will of women, even when broken, is unbreakable.

You in Portuguese, me in English. We are the same writer, I realize now, Marcella.

FUCK 

THESE 

RULES!

As hard as we may fight against that current, we are all just swimming in a story that has already been written. If we are meant to drown, we are meant to drown. It is a fate already written, just color for the narrative.

                                    All of you who think you have "boring" lives in comparison to mine, don't you see that I envy you?

If I ever have an assistant, it will be a gay male, just cuz I feel like I owe em that one, for never being available.

she writes poetry with her life. That is why I am in love with her.

Its amazing how much of ourselves are revealed in the opposite sex, often the part we fear.

Sorry Ariele, I know you've always meant the best in your heart. I've had a shitty week for the soul. Forgive me?

Jebadiah, both you and me are howling for the same red moon.

How is your heart, Desireé? Have you let it beat, that way, lately? When was the last time?

French. That is a language where I have lost the dance of seduction. I will be in her care soon, under the wings.

It's just, when I start caring about race, like, to THAT level, I just kinda feel like a douchebag.

I am almost tempted to say the writers behind the show "Californication", "Before Sunrise, Before Sunset, Before Midnight," are geniuses. Savants. And don't nobody tell me some smartass shit in the comments, like their names. I will hunt your blood if you do.











I am afraid, Flora, because of the pain. But I've done all the calculations in my mind. There will be pain, no matter which way you slice it. But that shouldn't make us miss out on life.










          One of us always gets hurt, that's just the way the game was designed. 
                                   Nothing to be angry about.

I saw so many fucked up cats with neon-color eyes this time around

The tired poet resting his pen like a samurai sword.

Maybe the lesson is to forgive, to ask for pardon. 

Maybe that is why life keeps handing you all these unsavory characters.

Don't ever wish you could write like me, just don't. It is a fool's paradise.

Thanks for showing me the path, Andrew

I think the mind has a natural bullshit filter that becomes refined with use. Soon all the unnecessaries sound like white noise, and those fragments of meaning find a way thru. It is usually that of poetry.

That is probably the only thing I can ever truly give to this earth, and that is my house, will be that of no judgment.

                         I am not nearly as smart as most of you,

but I know what it is like to feel.

I am learning how to be sad here, in Brazil, and this is a very valuable lesson

At some point, you stop treating women as numbers, and start seeing them as stories, stories that reveal some harrowing truth of the world. A true blessing from God.

Interesting how after a really intense shit, your opinion of yourself suddenly changes.

Funny how some of the most ridiculously inappropriate people I know are lawyers.

Being alone with a fire is one of the most precious things given to this planet.

You were a hearth to me, Desireé. And now I am feeling cold on my journey. 

                                  That's all.

All writers are in some form poets. Each word is a separate prayer we are sending to the heavens above. Treat them as such.

The problem with censorship is that we've tried to regulate CHILDHOOD

An old man came + said to me, 'do you know why she came to you? It is because she needs your light as much as you need hers.' and with a grin he asked,

"Acredita?"

"Acredito," I said.

                  The forest is a difficult place to wander alone.

The words you once said to me were coded verse in a long poem. 

I am only now beginning to understand their weight.

The only thing brave about me is that I write. 
Everything else about me comes from a place of cowardice.

At this point, I have such a crazy abusive relationship with the pen that it just seems odd to put a label on it, like, 

"I'm a writer. What about your profession?"

Michael, you have one of the most beautiful spirits that I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Never lose that.

The feeling that we exchanged in a kiss.

*(I know it sounds extremely gay to put those two so close to one another, but that is just how it came out.

I feel like an abandoned tower covered in cobwebs.

There are people here in the world that need to hear your stories. Write them for us, if nothing else. Write them to save lives.

It's like, woah, there's no toilet paper. That is a union that will not work.

The stench of your shit should tell you what kind of demons you have just expelled.

I think it has to do with being betrayed by love at a young age. I think that is why I am 

suspicious of 

fairytales.

Sometimes I see stories I wish to be played out, so I just step in if there are not already cast members.

The little that I have learned from business is how to be fake.

We fight because we are cowards.

I take that back, there are really beautiful things to take from business, 

as long as you can see past the superficial sheen.

Dear Rowena Galam, our entire story is just fucking ridiculous when you say it out loud.

I wonder if you know 

that the reason it never happened is because I had to take a massive shit.

Sometimes I actually like that ending better.

a favor to ask

for those of you that know me before now, or even those that have only known me from this moment on, remind me. if you ever see me broken, lifeless, and without hope, remind me. 

remind me of how i once was - full of joy and passion, love sweating out of ever pore of my skin. remind me that there was a time when i wasn’t angry, that i only wanted to see peace, and never destruction. remind me that i used to drink the spirit to sing with the coyotes and dance with the frozen skeletons below. 

remind me that i once believed in love, that it was the only thing worth giving a damn and a place where you could find god. remind me that redemption is a destination never too far to reach, that in spite of how dark life can be, we can always choose a brighter path. 

remind me of all this, someday, because it is too often that i so easily forget. 

This is love.

I wake up and shave every morning before I see her, pluck every stray whisker poking out from my cheeks. I douse on the essential oil that I bought at the cornerstore back home so that maybe one day she’ll notice and ask something more about me. I’m afraid to touch her, even a handshake. I’m afraid what that touch will tell me about any sort of future between us; a slight brush of the fingertips as she takes the turmeric roots from my palms is all I can handle. 

I gift her two mangosteens from the Sunday market and she cuts them open right there, right then, and shares half of them with me. She smiles as we cheers together the two shells housing its white fleshy center. She tells me the tips of the bananas I'm buying are black because they were angry at the way they were cut from the tree, and thinks it’s cute when I stop mid-sentence to dip into my pocket dictionary to find the right word, because between us, every word counts. She laughs when I use “sabor” instead of “gosto” when I tell her she has good taste in music, and gets why I chuckle to myself when I watch her speak to other people; she knows it's not out of mockery, but because it’s the only way I can express my awe at the way that she interacts with the world. 

She is fierce beyond words, strength in every part of her body, even her hair. Especially her hair. She hardly blinks when I tell her about the time I saw death, when its icy grip coursed a morbid fear through my veins; she only looks at me with compassion and understanding, hoping I didn't let its lessons pass me by. There is a softness to her, the way she touches the dust of her chin. Her embrace of a small child still shares in his wonder, and tells me that she has a kind heart, a gentle soul. 

I’m scared of her, terrified actually. We once spoke about swimming and I told her that I’m scared of the water because it could kill me. The things in life that can kill should scare, but they should also incite a wild curiosity, because that is where fire burns. That’s where love hides. She’s my water, my lifeforce. I already know it.  

Notes from my 3rd trip

As a fighter, you are trained to hit back when hit, but this is like boxing your own shadow, a faint spirit that never was.

If I don't like you, there's a damn good reason why, even if I am not yet aware of it.

I am a bit sad because I know my body is going to be battered by the impending storm.

When you find your warrior type, respect it above all else.

I am seeing fucking up Shit.







                         Right now, the trip is heavy.

                                                               I know this seems like a big fucking joke, I know, but it all HURTS.

Sometimes, reluctantly, you leave the sentences behind, like abandoned children at the pit stop gas station, like the fallen brethren on the shores of a blood soaked battlefield. You leave them, the words, because you must. At one point, the world needed them to be said aloud, but now, they can die.

For the Writers:
find your hill, climb it, and shout your story from its peak. 

I need someone to share a glance with me.







                  Please?

Just don't let me lose my shit right now.

This is why we train. We train to go to war. And if we survive, we keept fighting...until it ends. Because that's all there is for people like us. Can't you see that?

Is none of that really not meant for me? Or does that small space of writing our own story really exist?

It is like being shown the table of the main feast, then being told you will never eat.

I am seeing some real dark, fucked up shit this time around.







                                                                Fuck. I still don't understand my own potential.









I laugh at my own misery. I laugh at myself, a lot. Even when you can't see it.








George got your back.

Just when you think you don't need to write about it...

The fight...I don't know, it just calls me.

Marcella, we just need to fuck our ex's out of each other.

Buy the present for John. Committed here on paper. You can trust him.

At the end of the day, we're fucking animals. Don't lose touch with our nature.

V, my fellow guerrara, I see you, I feel you. I celebrate in our strength, share the pain of our vulnerability. I dedicated an entire dance to you. I stomped until the heel of my foot turned red with bloodthorn blisters. But it is our summons. The call of the Guerrero.

I don't make any of this up. I am far too fucking lazy for any of that shit.

I like finding new pockets.

   If I had to choose between hurting you and knowing you, I might hope we never meet.

                 Everytime I return to this world, I am always a bit disappointed.

Dance is a Prayer

                                 For all those wondering, I came to Brazil for training, not for

 fun. I am not on vacation here. 

                                                                                      I take my work more seriously than I ever 

have 

before.

I guess I'm just the sort of guy that thinks he'll fuck it all up sooner or later

Counting every rhythm, hitting every beat, it's all part of it, baby. 

It's all poetry. It's all the fight is about.

                       Soon I'll be working on my first book

 so this will be just the dog scraps. 

Sorry for that. 

                                           But at the same time,

buy the fucking book you cheap bastards.

Sometimes I forget how ridiculous I am. Thank you for having patience.









Rules. Those fucking rules. I've thought of the most obscene + grotesque ways to tell rules off. But I think the best one is for them to go home. Just go the fuck home, rules. You need some-time to yourself.








                       Oh GOD, here it goes again.








This time around, it's much colder.

This is why we live, to travel. Never stay in one place.

I have nearly nothing left for you, you blood sucking leech. How does it feel? How does it feel to taste your own Blood?

We are like a pack of ghouls, brought to a gray cemetery wasteland to be slaughtered.

I need it all right now, so I don't remain lost, in the dark.








                                                          I am seeing some fucked up sounds.
                                                                                                     Help me...

We are different animal warriors, Thiago. But we will play well together.

Fuck all those that wish us harm.

clowns of the most fucked up color.

only some of you will get this. 

The ones that do, I am in your debt.

             I was the one meant to bear witness to this slaughter.








I see you once again Dear brother, Jonathan. Poking through the letters, as you always have.







This sinister pirate. We all have the stench. You can never run from it.

Don't you get it? It's all about work. Even in between.

Right now, the warriors kneel.








               What if they all die?

I've spoken with the elders in the trees, and whether or not I like it, I was given a pen.

I can't stop laughing at the comedy of all of this.

White pants are meant to be dirtied.

I'm turning into this old dude, who just appreciates the small jokes that still get it.

                                old coyote warrior, taking a rest, wondering if the next one isn't his last ride.

There is still work to be done.

You have no choice in happiness. You are just meant to feel it.

Now it's making sense why these sports have chosen me. There is something noble within all the fucked up sheen. Something manages to prevail thru it all.

                                                                                                                                Back to work.

He was this singer who didn't have enough to be consumed by the life sucking hoards, but just the right amount, to bring the hymns of angels. To bring comfort to this world.







         God bless you Cynthia. I hope the world have been treating you fairly.






                  we both laughed cuz we both knew it was I who farted.

Speaking of which, with all this smoke, now is the perfect time to fart.

I'm sorry Desireé, but you're pretty much stuck with me, in some miserable form or another.

We are all just characters in a story that has already been written.

The heart BEATS for the mother.

I was just never meant to be that kind of fighter. Cheese sandwiches + cigarettes were just written in there.







                      I am probably getting the words: "cheese sandwich + cigarettes" tattooed somewhere on my body.

I owe you an apology Elvis, for my comportment. Thanks for being a strong friend.

Luis Cajero, those mid-afternoon conversations we had in Colombia, 
I carry them with me, still.

                 To all those I may not return a message to, just know, I love you all.

No coincidences

Marcella, honestly, I think we'll ruin each other's lives. But you know what? It's already too late. Contact has already been made. Let's make the best of it. Let's have FUN.

I think I'm starting to make peace with my old man.

Sometimes you laugh until the painful shrills start making sense.








                Claire, I see you now. Be kind to yourself, girl.

Stuart, you're one of the realest people I know.

Now I understand why moths are drawn to flames.







             I've been laughing a lot this whole time, but none of this is actually funny.








We all need a place to deposit our hate.

The logical part always has a place, just not the driver's seat.

Give me two boxes and I will fuck shit up.

We are all meant to be where we are, as fucking dementedly twisted as that may sound.






The only thing that is somewhat within our control is the ability to withstand.







Desireé, I still remember, most vividly in my mind, that one night you could not stop dancing, bobbing your lovely red curls like a teenager with excitement of the unknown. Let that person come out to play once in a while.

The slightest acknowledgement from an elderly woman will make me smile at myself with shame and embarrassment.

Deep buried within each of us, no matter what we have done, there is a human being.

Maybe me being Asian is meant to bring some Zen Buddhist peace nonsense to someone who needs it. If that's the case, I'm fine with that.






                I have tanlines from my sandals. THIS is how much            
                      I walk.

Oh god. Did I see some fucked up things this time around.

Sometimes I forget that I have tattoos. No really. I do.

I so want to fuck you again Kaia.








                                                                      It's almost painful how perfect the rigidness fits.

Those nights where you feel like you didn't do enough, they happen for a reason. Just so you understand that feeling. That's it.

I get it. All the musicians are chasing that perfect song, that they can see but not hear.

Guacamole Dip, Zoe. It meant the world to me.

Ok next time someone asks me if I see shit during one of these, the answer is YES.

This might be the episode where I need to be carried off.

Frigid spirits are trying to speak, only the pen comes thru.








                        This frigid spirit is a prison, but the pen is my savior

At this point, I've lost track of the wins. I stopped keeping track long ago.

That ability to feel black scorpion grip is a gift.

Battered armor back onto the field.

If I had to sum up this trip, it would be that of a tired soldier looking for a kind death.

The warriors have been beaten back tonight

You give everything you have. That's all that matters in the end.

I wish I could be more Buddha, but I always seem to have the look of a retard when I am meditating.








My life, is really ridiculous. It's a fucking joke.








                       Guitar strings. Come to save me like wings of angels.









Trust yourself more. That's a message for EVERYONE

Harry needs to be shown the shitshow this blog is.

Fuck. It's actually a betting favorite.

I just gotta say, I love all you stupid assholes.

Curse words are funny things.

                            Zoe. Your songs saved me this time









I will buy you a notebook at Centro Geoffry. Signed.

George

That tastes like purple








                     Spiderman Ninja Turtles joke

Sometimes I worry I'll never have a love that stays.

The Kid

There is this chubby black kid with chipmunk cheeks and a goofy smile that always imitates me when I walk into the gym on sparring days. It looks like he’s whipping up a batch of pizza batter with his arms, but he’s actually trying to throw uppercuts. The ritual started ever since he saw me step into the ring with Michel.

Last week, he strapped on a helmet and stepped in himself. He wore checkered shorts with cargo pockets and a long black t-shirt stenciled with a graphic designed for juveniles, pretty much clothes kids his age would wear walking around the street. His opponent, on the other hand, was draped in full uniform - matching red tank-top and shorts, boots that went past the ankle. He was well-trained and visiting from another school. I don’t know why they were matched together. I don’t know what the coaches were trying to prove.

The chubby cheeked kid wasn’t scared, in fact he had a confident stance. He held his hands up near his face, his shoulders relaxed at ease, but he didn’t know what to do. He winged his punches wide, his feet shuffled all over the place. He did full-circle ballerina spins, twirling around like a baby calf learning its first steps. The onlookers snickered and laughed, but the kid was not deterred. He was getting beat pretty badly, but he was still there. I didn’t know what was keeping him up; most kids his age would have gone down much earlier, but not this one. This one had a fire in his eyes. He didn’t even close them when he went in for an exchange. I’ve boxed for 8 years now, and I still blink from time to time. 

The trained fighter began to tire. The exchanges were still uneven, the chubby kid still spun around, but the laughter grew silent. At one point, I don’t know how, the red jersey fighter found himself dusting off his gloves and picking himself up from the canvas. The crowd yelped in surprise, but the kid remained undisturbed. He didn’t stop to admire his glory, didn’t rest on his laurels; his eyes remained focused on the fight. He finished the stanza standing on his feet, may have even won it on most accounts, but the point wasn't winning or losing. The point was that he never stopped throwing. 

As they go to unwrap in their corners, I run up to the kid and say to him, “Boa luta!”. He flashes that same smile that he has always flashed, but this time with a slight tinge of sinister, as if he’s just told a well-kept secret that nobody's ever heard. He is greeted by a sea of congratulations, high-fives given around the table. He goes around to the other corner and embraces his adversary, who only has a look of apology and respect. He spends the rest of the time sitting in a white plastic chair, leaning back with a slight grin of satisfaction on his face. Gloves still on, he rests his chin upon one of them, looking on as the fights continue. 

Notes from my 2nd trip

                 NO QUESTIONS

                 NO ANSWERS

                 JUST

                 THE FREEDOM

THIS ONE, YOU'RE ON YOUR OWN, OLD FRIEND

It all happens for a reason

GOD is the biggest jester of us all. She plays the most JOKES.

If it wants to be written, it'll stay for a little.

New flesh with an old soul; ready for battle.

I asked him to share some of it, the pain, with me, and I cried.

Young Jedi, you are not ready for her.

                    We are slaves to the pen.

We are all just sharing in the pain of the world. Give me some of your pain brother. I can take it for now.

     THIS WHOLE THING IS A NARRATIVE, In case you haven't been paying attention.

I like how there is no correct way to pronounce Moleskine.

I think I figured it out between us Desireé. We are two lions, not meant to mate, but to hunt together.

Fighting with another person is never about the other person.

What is happening to our world is a crime, is a shame, we all need to take a moment to...weep.

    THERE IS A DEMON IN THIS ROOM

Be kind to the demons, They are but gods misunderstood.

You look good in purple, Theo.







                         Barren deserts of Solitude...

I didn't choose this life. I didn't choose it.

Tonico, you're a good person. I saw it the moment I met you.

WITH her there is no rush.

I really love my parents

HELP HIM

Let is out sweetie, no one here will bring you harm.

True warriors will build their armor for the war.

We are in the midst of fascinating times

The shepard yields power.

What a fucked up drug, consciousness is.

Shaw my dear brother. I see you once again.

                                                                                                      I am sorry you were meant to teach the world that lesson. I promise life will be better to you in the next one.

It won't leave, trust her. When the words are needed, they will come.

You have your own path. Follow it, beloved.

Things will break us, not only love.

Be gentle to the feared; they need it most.

life is a joke. We only need learn to laugh.

                                                                     Peace to her. I understand now








I need to be nicer to my parents

To the Writers:

Your pen is a sword. Remember that.

As boxers, we are choosing to undertake the task of mastering ourselves. There is no greater purpose.

Don't ever limit yourself, Desireé. I love you too much to bear witness to that. 

It would destroy me.

we should do more of where we feel the right vibes.

                        I was once told to find water from an angel. It took me a while to realized it needed to come from tears.

Deal.

No demon, not here.






                                                                       It can't end yet. there is still too much FUN.






Electric Sunshine motorboat.









                                                           Don't ever write for yourself. That hurts.

When you just become part of this, there is no schedule or agenda.

Let go + become. That's It.

Remember Michael, you are a shaman of sound. We are all just waiting to hear your VOZ.

I wish it was more complicated than this, but it isn't.

There is something wild about you Kaia, just look at your name. Don't hold it back. We all need it to save us.









                   Zoe. I'm sorry. But that something will always be there.

Don't you get it Desireé? You're already here with me.

We really wish love for those we love.

Don't live the feelings that aren't meant to be. 
Only learn from those.

I really wish I wasn't a writer.

You're like a girl that would inspire an awesome tattoo.

             Marcella. The tango will be fun.

                                   Just for the future Audience. Enjoy the show. I sure did.

                                                                                                      n't.

I only have messages for those willing to listen

                                                                                                                  tell me brother.

                                                                                               Are you speaking from a place of truth?

At the end. There is no such thing as choice.

People just want a place to escape, to feel understood.

Jourdan, there is royal lion's blood in you.

                                                  It begins + it ends. And so is the story of the Earth.










Sometimes. The reposta is in the name.










I hope you know, you all were/are part of it.

These are notes I don't edit.

The death of a ritual

Fighting. We are ALL...fighting.

You will all laugh one day, with one part humor, one part shame, and say out loud: 'Yes, I once knew the writer NICK WONG."

Don't you see? I hate myself most of the time. I'm just very good at hiding it.

The purpose is found. Now just time to follow it to the end.

To writers, one word makes all the difference.

Ramon. You're gonna be a brother. I saw it in the flames.

                                       Black stallions marching off to war.

                                                                     To be old, is not so bad. You are given a pass to die + write.

I am at the mercy of this earth. Do what you will with me.

Because your mother misses you. And you cannot be selfish.









                              This may sound crazy to some. But trust me. It all makes sense.

Play with that small space of existence that we are given.

Ken Wilber is a piece of shit.

My one concern with hand tattoos: "where will all my notes be written from now on?"

Flora, I will wait. Flowers are always worth the wait.

                                                                                        I never stopped dancing on subways









Text Rachel - "I wish you strength + peace in your fight."

To Briana,

Did we really have cybersex in the CHID writing center?

To Kaitlin: it's probably for the best that you never answered me, years ago.

We are all looking for a voice to Follow.

Stay vigilant

We're near the end...of this page, at least.

Welcome to the world, Thiago De Deus.

There is only truth in the eyes of a savage.










           Be careful of those that can hurt you. But also be very intrigued at the same time.

                               People WITHOUT tattoos are sometimes more                               interesting

                women have this strength that us men will never comprehend. They should do 
            whatever the fuck they wanna do with it.

It is coyotes dancing in the cold deserts of the southwest. It is all the bright vibrancy of tokyo making sense. It is iguanas basking in the glory of the Caribbean sun. It is the purple haze in the sky speaking your tongue. It is her touch that you have not yet felt. It is the closeness of god in that small space of silence. It is knowing when to end a poem.

Holding a pen is in some strange manner similar to holding a stake to a vampire.

               Never kneel to the slayers of dreams.

The poet wields fire in his breath, shines truth in her eyes.

This is home. Brazil is home.

I have more strength to face the darkness

Thiago + Sylvia. That will be a love story

Just so you know, if you choose to enter my life, you've given me free rights to write about you.