cow horns are not phallic

Do novu Do novo!!
yeah 3 year old gustavo's favorite phrase after spinning him around, making faces.
equally favorite chant of the gay bloco, hundreds of eyes gazing upward at an apartment balcony where two men lip-smack again, again, again, again

fat black man from the favella is king of carnaval, men are dressed as women (I am swooning from both androgyny and heat), carnaval cannibal, beautiful asses framed by explosive feathers. sacks of beer cans dragged around by children: the top are on the bottom and the bottom on the top but watery beer blurs the line, yeah the interstice, the rev-verve-sals

back to the farm tonight thank the saints of candomble. a hierarchy of skills instead of things. toucans and not fairies have wings.

on the position of the body (oi!)

amid legs, skins, the thick smell of piss, the colors of clothes and street art blend and mix. the rhythm of life is slower here. (waiting in line for a club last night, we began to dance to the rhythm of life--coconut water, metro buses, air conditioning and heat, hills, beaches, portuguese...)
i have further thoughts on the kindness of strangers, negotiating trust and gifts and favors, and the power of coincidence.
for now, off to coffee and the beach.

love from rio.