aflutter in maracuja-colored sweatseeds

a ritual of destrangifying strangers..."oi, tutu bem? tutu bom. (nod, smile, smile, nod, shake hands, hug, kiss on one or both cheeks, eye contact, nod, smile) tutu bem, tschau."

after i ate the little pile of black beans with onion and sausage and ooooh scraped up that liquidy proteiny black sauce, i told marcos and kathryn and azya who were sitting around me, "you know? this is the first time i've eaten anything with meat in it in the past 10 years."
time is circling, circling, closing, opening. it's 13:40 now in a little yellow LAN house-internet cafe (minus the cafe, that part always confuses people when i ask) in alto paraiso. in a few moments we may very well be sucked up by a UFO, who knows, this town is sitting on crystals under falling stars and all the signs point to something mystical. if not a UFO, a bomb to the head, a sip of ayuasca that is an unidentified pathway to objective flight...

on thursdayish we took the bus from brasilia to alto paraiso, then another bus to sao jorge, which is a tiny village, and then marcos picked us up and took us to grota funda, which is about 40 minutes outside of sao jorge on roads red like bricks but with huge crevasses left by the rain. the farm is beautiful and quiet-loud with insects and sunsets. there is another wwoofer there, kathryn, from buenos aires/rio/michigan and she speaks portuguese well and we've been singing and speaking of permaculture and cooking, collective living and spirituality, maracuja and the portuguese lilts...then our little farmfamilycrew of five came back to alto paraiso two days ago (sunday?) for a ayuasca ritual (visions of flight and sensations of growth and purging until i found some contentment amid hymns of universal connection and a forest of stars) and
smiling
smiling
place to place,
i'm getting tired of not speaking portuguese,
need some new songs,
forming and reforming my body from opaque skin to vessel, a kind of mediation, i've been thinking about this a lot since the ritual: body as vessel. voice as vessel. giving minimally mediated voice to that which can be eaten or drunk but cannot speak for itself.
also i've been listening to images and awe, encouraging my creativity,
today, missing the baohaus and its inhabitants and cohabitants and the common language of strangeness.