J. Beaman - The Magazine

Brad said to me a few weeks ago, “When there’s nothing on the blog I just assume things must be going well.” Not true really. I’m writing here when things are going well. If I write about the shitty things it’s because they’re not shitty anymore. I can only write about them then. Post-shitty. So, here I am, post-shitty. Post the shittiest I’ve been in years. Probably 5 five years. It was dark. I was hanging out with the dark friends in that cramped and moldy dark place they like so much. I don’t really like it there but I spent most of my early 20’s there so it’s not entirely uncomfortable. But, thankfully, the more time I spend in the light, the less I like the dark. But, sometimes, you just have to sit in your own shit.

In portuguese the verb, to stay, is ficar. As in, “Eu estou indo ficar no Brasil” (literally i am going to stay in the brazil). But it’s also used as a verb, to hook-up, as in with a tall, gorgeous, fashion designy, Bikini Kill listening broads. Anyway. Eu fiquei (the past tense of ficar) com ela duas vezes. That’s it. Two times. And she blew me off. I went all mopey mcgee about for about a week. It really surprised me but it shouldn’t have. Surprised me. Must crush the oppressive burden of high expectations. Plus this fucking place is littered with girls to ficar with. It was made for it.

It was also slightly more complicated than that. Something about vulnerability and a person’s innate desire to be good at things. Maybe I want to be good at things more than the average person. It’s hard to be the charming and hilarious wordsmith when you don’t speak the language. And with that vulnerability (being blown off, not being able to express my awesomeness) came some old shit. Some old darkness.

Here’s an aside:

Last night, the subject of my mom came up with Marcelo and, god bless his good intentions, he began advise me on how I should not talk about it so casually; how it could/might/will inhibit my ability to ficar with pretty, young girls. He began to share an anecdote about how he told a girl at a party about some trouble he had in high school and how he found out later that she was turned off by his over-share. He, naively and stacked up with good intentions, tried to equate tough high school days with an unspeakable trauma. I like him so I mostly let it go. But I did explain this: I do it, talk about my mom casually, because I have to. Because if I don’t, it just sits there like a puss-filled, festering sore. Besides, I don’t really like secrets. If you’re easy with your secrets, they’re easy on you.

So, the over-share:

I was kicked out of the Navy because I had post-traumatic stress disorder. From the whole dead mom dealio. When I was a little dude and I would have a fever I would have these terrifying waking nightmares that I described to my shrink (Mark) as screaming, screeching, battling clouds. It would only happen when I was sick and, in turn, I fucking hated being sick. I still hate it. I fall apart when I have a fever. Terrified. And it suddenly stopped when I was 10 or 11. Just went away. But, like all awesome things, it came back. When I was 16 or 17 I started having them regularly and not only when I was sick; in class, at the dinner table, with no warning and fucking relentless. They would last for 2 to 10 seconds and the longer they lasted the more debilitating they were. Sometimes, with the longer ones, I would actually drop to my knees and dry heave. The feeling, as I’ve read, is similar to a panic attack.

Well, I got kicked out of the Navy for it. I had no problem with this. I wanted out of the Navy and I even initiated the kick-out (with a shrinks help). A few years later, I wrangled myself a delightful, dirt-worshiping shrink in San Luis Obispo (Nancy) in my early 20’s and through the magical fucking miracle of talk-therapy I pretty much had them under control by the time I was 24. In the last 10 years I typically have 1 or 2 a year and they usually only last 1 to 2 seconds. Not bad. Totally liveable. And not entirely unwelcome. You see, I don’t really want to be “all better”. I crave the memory of what happened and I always want it to hurt. To be terrifying.

Back to vulnerability. Sick as a little kid, adolescence, the navy, my early 20’s. All incredibly vulnerable times for me. Well, it happened four fucking times last week. Four Fucking Times. Twice in one night.

So, that’s why I haven’t been writing.

Everything is fine now. Thanks for asking.

I went on a date on Wednesday with the girl from the wedding. I spent the bulk of the day alternating between trying to think of ways I could get out of it and reassuring myself that it’s the right thing to do: good for me, good for my portuguese and good for the universe. I didn’t want to bail because she wasn’t hot. I didn’t want to bail because I didn’t think it would be fun. We had a crazy good time at the wedding. I wanted to bail because I wouldn’t have control. Bad dates in the U.S. are bad and difficult to expurgate yourself from and up there I have a multitude of tools at my disposal. Handy lies. Well timed and placed incoming phone calls from understanding friends. Language. But here? Tenho nada.

But I went. Because I do things. That’s one of the secrets to my quality of life. Do shit, dude. Do things reluctantly and with a churny stomach and a chain-smoking desire but do them. She arrived a half hour late (Ela é Brasilera) and I was three cigarettes and two beers in. She looked amazing. Her hair was wavy (she had straightened it for the party where we met) and wet, draped over her slight shoulders, in a little summer dress. How do you describe a brazilian black (mulata? brown? Minera - a girl from Minas Gerais?) girl without sound offensive or like an douche? I’m going to try and avoid the color cliches (nothing about mocha here) but I’ve never seen women like this. The freckles. Jesus.

We talked awkwardly for a few minutes but then hit a flow (and by flow I mean she talked and I pretended to understand) and then the subject of my parents came up. It always comes up and is never uncomfortable for me and always uncomfortable for everyone else. I usually try to put folks at ease by make a joke or emphasizing my comfort with the conversation. And, I’ll admit, at times is my life I’ve been less than forthcoming with my comfort even managing to wrangle a few tears when dropping it on a well placed second date. But what do I do here? A translation:

“My mother is dead.”

“And your father?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Oh.”

“OK”

“No, you don’t have to tell me.”

“No, It’s ok. My father…hang on.”

I pulled out my dictionary. Murder murder murder murder murder. Got it. Assassinar. Conjugate it. Simple past. Assassinou.

“My father murdered my mother.”

Wide-eyed she grabbed the dictionary from me to make sure she heard right. She did.

“Wow.”

“And he’s in prison.”

She teared up a little bit and gave me kiss on the cheek.

I’m never going to be able to get rid of this girl. Maybe I won’t want to. Right.

On the right: Pork with grilled onions. On the left: spaghetti, fries, rice, tomato, romaine, beans.

Cost R$9

Eu gosto Brasil.

Ok, everything’s fine. I got a place to live for the next few months (a chance to get my bearings and learn the language). It’s in a great neighborhood (Sion, close to Savassi, if you’re wondering) with a great guy (Marcelo). It’s actually Eduardo’s room as he is in Angola for four months.

Sorry about yesterday’s post. I think I just had to bleed my vagina out a bit.

As promised, documentation of the paragliding adventure:

Leco, Steve and I arrived, late because this is Brasil and everyone is late, to a flurry of activity and Portuguese chatter. Ten people were standing on a cliff (a ridge, really); some drinking beers, some just watching the majesty of a man floating 300 meters out over the valley. Because we were late, there was little time for introductions and less time for safety instruction (not that I would understand it anyway). Leco gets strapped up and strapped in and I stood there wondering how I was going to communicate when things went bad.

I watched, with mild terror, as Leco abandoned me to the Portuguese gibberish. The Brasilian pilots, noticing my nervousness, kept repeating “Tranquilo” which according my dictionary means calm (duh), clear, easy, or certain. I felt none of those things.

Leco flies away.

Leco flies by. Note how I dropped the camera when they got close to the building. I think I subconsciously didn’t want to film Leco’s death.

They strapped me in and tried reassure me. Calm, clear, easy, certain. The guy in the red shirt in the pic above helped me get clipped and buckled and explained the process to me in rudimentary Portuguese. Hold (segurar) on here. Walk (andar) as the parachute fills with air and lift (levantar) my legs and fly away. Calm, clear, easy, certain. The pilot (Steve and I are sure they were saying bombeiro-firefighter or bombardeio-bombardment but we’re not certian. those don’t sound right) spoke no English. Fala nada. Speak nothing. We were not even on the cliff for more than 12 minutes and I was away.

We zigzagged back and forth along the edge of the ridge and it was marvelous. The wind, heated by the iron in the ground (this is the state of Minas Gerais - literally meaning general mines ) whips along the valley floor and up the slope of the ridge and into our parachute and up we fucking went. Calm, clear, easy, certain. After about 15 minutes of staying near the ridge (remember I have no idea what the fuck is going on - do we land back on the ridge? do we land on the valley floor? how long are we going to be up there?) we began to move out to the wide world; the really real world. 650 meters up and cruising along at about 40km/h. No shit.

Leco off in the distance. Again I stopped filming when Leco’s death seemed imminent.

After a bit I figured out that we were going to land way, way far away (3km, it turns out) from where we took off. As we started to descend, my pilot, emphatically repeated, “Levantar! Levantar!” and tapped my legs. I lifted my legs and we glided down and crashed through some bushes and slid our asses along the ground, somewhat ignobly but safely.

I was relived to be on the ground. And I was even more relived that about 100 meters from the landing sight was the coolest, tiny country bar with a few pilots and a few country people hanging out in it drinking beer.

These kids were parked out front in classic youth fashion. Miscreants. Teenagers. With big block Dodge. The world is the same everywhere.

I haven’t mentioned that Steve had been up on the ridge this whole time, patiently waiting his turn. And, not surprisingly, my favorite part of the whole adventure was hanging out down there at that awesome bar, drinking with these crazy Brasilians for hours while Steve and Leco drove up and down the ridge, shuttling the pilots and themselves.

View from the bar to the ridge.

Steve’s flight in.

I was fairly drunk when Steve came in for his landing. Living the dream, right? Right.

Steve’s landing.

So, what have we learned? I’m a big baby. Everything is not going to be ok, everything already is ok. And there could be worse ways to learn a foreign language.
Tchau!

Last night I lay in bed suffering from a mild heart attack flavored something like this: What….the….fuck….is….wrong….with….me…..?

You see, I moved to Brasil and I think i’m going to throw up. I don’t know how any of this shit works. Here are a few of my anxieties in outline form:

1. I don’t speak Portuguese and as smart and good with languages that I think I am, I’m not.
2. I won’t be able to find a place to live.
3. And when I find a place they won’t rent to me.
4. And when they do rent to me it won’t have anything in it. No refrigerator, no stove no nothing.
5. And if I can get that stuff it’ll be in a terrible neighborhood and my neighbor across the hall will kill me.
6. And you will all eulogize me as an adventurous bon vivant but god will know that I’m just a chickenshit.
7. And god’ll be pissed about a bunch of other shit, too.

I know this isn’t the best 2nd Brasil post but it is. It’s unfortunate because I’ve already done some amazing things. Including, but not limited to the following:

• Hung out at a super cool bar until the wee hours of the morning, making new friends and enjoying old ones.
• Jumped off a cliff with a parachute dragging behind me (ok, and a Brasiian dude attached to me) and paragliding way the fuck up. 650 meters they said. It’s hard to say because as you may have heard, I don’t fucking speak the Portuguese (pics and video to follow).
• Was invited to a pasta party by the previously mentioned new friends and talked and drank and smoked until 8 am. I think i met the coolest people in all of Brasil.
• A bike ride (a short one only to evidence that my bike arrived safely).
• A swim (a short one only to evidence that I’m faster than Steve).
• Amazing Feijoada at TiaRe’s.

The other day I tried to explain The Grey Album to a girl (they fucking love the Beatles down here and don’t know who the fuck Jay-Z is). She didn’t get it. Later when I explained that I just packed up and picked up and blasted down here, she gasped and said, “What’s her name?”

I got 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one.

Those of you who know me well know that I actually don’t go home with girls very often. I keep them at arms length, flirty and fun, but going home alone is one of the many keys to my happiness. I love waitresses this way. It’s their job to flirt and I happily indulge. I flirt with my friend Annie. Fuck, I flirt with Oliver and Josh and Henri. It’s harmless and awesome because all of them know that I don’t want to fuck them. And it’s always more fun that way. I also love this about little girls (you can get self righteous about it if you want but you would clearly misunderstand my meaning). They are fun and flirty and charming with no misunderstanding. I have a new best friend and her name is Victoria.

The line of the night: TiaRe (pronounced chia-hey - Tia meaning Aunt and Re short for Regina) shouts from the back room, “Jay! Jay! Victoria wants you to come watch her in the bath!” As much as I may love to hear that from a lover or some random Brasiliera and have a night of passion and lusty nonsense; I would take the simple giggles and games and Portuguese lessons from Victoria anytime.