rabiscar

We are driving through Minas when I look up from methodically drawing hearts in the back seat and all I see are hills laid out, stretching and lazy, gigantic limbs gross, fat and beautiful.

I am com fome com fome com fome recalling my first lessons in the audio room in the the basement of the NYPL
with the large head phones on
tu-do bom?
A sen-hor-a quer co-mer al-gu-ma coi-sa?
A men-in-a é mui-to lin-da.
muito linda mesmo.

I want those headphones back on right now because there is nothing worse than a discoteque in a foreign country. Bad music just loud enough to make conversation a struggle. Lips directly to ear canal type of loud where you don't actually hear the sound come out. The other person nods whether they've heard what was said or not. Because you can't actually hear the words come out of your mouth, and because the cachaça is thinning your blood, because you don't really like who you're talking to, because the lights—or is it the music—are distracting. I feel a pain in my knee like water or some other stagnation, I keep thinking, ligar com cartão é ruim. I live so deep inside my head that basic communication becomes a shock. Everything is news to me. Oblivion is a habit. How disappointing to find out that I put everything on the table and you didn't even pull up a chair. You, suddenly afflicted with spontaneous amnesia. O que você não disse virou o que você esqueceu. That night i almost gashed my flesh on the iron park fence. All for a dip in the fountain at three in the morning on my way home that stifling summer night. But how foolish of me.