Travel Sketch: From Los Angeles to Brasil

A Plague, A Marriage

I don’t know if I can stand this place anymore, I thought to myself. It was a Thursday. I was sure it was a Thursday. It was, in fact, a Friday. But it mattered none, as the titles of days had lost their significance. Even the hour or minute was no more relevant than the ticking second-hand of a fictional wristwatch. Was I in the very middle of the calamity? It felt that I was.

Not to be too self-centered about it, but the weight of it all was blanketed, enveloped unto every item, every square inch of the floor, the ceiling, the walls, the memories of these things, their futures, their pasts. Everything was made heavier. Everything layered with a coat of iron. The physicality of all knick-knacks, thingamabobs, my paintings—everything was at risk.

In a sense, because of the drama of the plague, the disease, that coronavirus nonsense—because of the lockdowns, the closures, the riots, the fires, the smoke, the broken glass, the thuggery, the roaring, the silence—because of these things I could see clearly then. Everything was clear. It was all these things that would eventually tip myself over to the edge of escape, across the threshold, to a movement onward. I would leave this country! Finally, I would be up and out of the United States! Didn’t feel I had a choice. Perhaps it made it easier. You’d lose one hell of an artist, I would say. But, with all the struggling I had done, no use in making a big thing about it. I would leave quietly. No parties, no lingering goodbyes. No big hoopla.

I had been through all that before. Or, I should say, I had NOT been through all that before and I was not going to start now. I’m not the type of person one would throw a birthday or going away party for. I think when someone throws you a party, deep down, they feel sorry for you. Oh, never mind.

Studio/Loft in Los Angeles.

The large loft where I lived, creaked and swelled, dampened and raged in heat, decay, stains, history. I had finally found out where those goddamn rats (big as cats I tell ya, big as cats!) were getting in. I boarded up the hole, had dismantled an entire built-in wooden cabinet—busted it up with a hammer. Hauled the wood out piece by piece, full of hard jagged daggers, rusty nails, pebbles of rat droppings, shreds of chewed paper. I didn’t know how to tell the landlord. She’d be furious I had torn up the kitchen. Well, Fuck Her. No, no, she was nice, usually. No, fuck her—no more rats!

My paintings stacked up by the dozens, hundreds, millions, were infinite. Collecting dust, getting scratched, multiplying in their weight, their bulkiness. Sculptures and assemblages lay inside antique glass latrines, furniture that had been collected through the years, old lamps, frames of all sorts, books, my god, my books! My instruments—my guitars! But alas! These things had to be done. Had to be taken care of. Pots and pans, serving trays, chairs, silver shelves, more jackets than any man should own. For Yasmin. All for Yasmin. For myself. For Yasmin!

Someday soon we would meet! Face to face! I had not touched a woman in years in Los Angeles. Couldn’t be helped. A man must have his lulls! I had tried, goddamnit, I had tried. In the stand-up mirror, I look over my entire bodily form. I had lost weight. Must have been all those walks, up and down Pico, sweating like a pig in a desert caravan. Sweating like a hungover pastor. And the cocaine. Oh, the cocaine. Had I forgotten to eat? Yes…for six months I had forgotten to eat.

In that dreadful summer, it was impossible to get drunk just as it was impossible to sleep. I would commence my beer drinking early in the day but the heat and broil of it all wouldn’t produce a proper buzz. Now to find some chop! Now to find some weed to take the edge off. In the ballad of 2020, chop my lyrics, cannabis my melody. Forgetting to eat—needed to. For Yasmin. Couldn’t show up looking like a bear. Couldn’t show up and let her see me like every woman in Los Angeles had—keep walkin’, hobo!

How had I survived this long? Opportunities! The opportunity to be an artist! To finally sell a painting or two, or three, or the lot of them, all at once! Maybe some millionaire would come over, decide I was a genius, cut me a check, and poof—I could say it had all been worth it. Four years in, no such luck. Every painting, another pile on the stack. A private stack, a private collection of dust. A physical manifestation of my life, my work, hard work (!!), done late into the night. No guarantees. No income. No promises. Only the pleasure of being an isolated, celibate, worn out man at the age of just 32. Or was it 33? I lose count…but the paintings, though! I could not have been happier, truly. If I had sold them all I would have no clue what I was doing it for. Money. A god-awful reason to paint. Now, at the very most of it, I know I would have done it anyways. I had always done it anyways. I will do it again, anyways.

Anyways, Yasmin. Flew in like a good-luck bird. Like a good luck charm. Not sure why. Could it have been a design from some time ago? A destiny type thing, if you will? Was I being duped, set up, taken for a ride?

Listen here, Cupid, or God of Love, or whatever the hell it is you want to call yourself, I tell ya, that if you are messing with me, if I pack up all this shit, throw my things out, if I uproot myself from everything I know, as goddamn pathetic as it is, if I do all this and you are just messin’ with me, you’ll hear from me! First from my mouth, then from my barrel!

Yasmin. She had come in like a piercing beam of phosphorescent light in the dark nature of all things falling apart. All at once, in my own bleakness, an extension of a wing, a voice, if you will, that said “Here, now, everything is ok. Of course, you sick man, of course you are sick. Look at where you are. Look at where you live—get out of there! You are no man of Los Angeles. You are cannon fodder for such a depraved, miasmic town.”

In fact, I think it had been around March when things had not fully realized themselves, where I could still take full breaths, where I could still get some goddamn sleep. But not for the true reality of my status then, not because my lowly state had not been personally stamped with the mark of failure, depression, never-ending solitude (even among people, close friends, rollicking parties, etc.). It was not that these things were not present in March. It is that only until April the true nature of things revealed themselves. In March, I was simply a man of my own nature, living clumsily, stupidly, still putting effort into digging my own grave in that city. In April, I was a man in trouble. April was realization, birth, death.

Throughout April, May and June, there were little moments of separation between us. There was no separation, in fact, only space. Only space and time. SPACE and TIME! Only?

There were mornings I could wake and I swear she was in the bed next to me. Ah, no, it is just the television. Scattered bottles across the bed, improvised ash trays fashioned from the carcasses of apple cores and banana peels. Those nights where I managed to eat, knock myself out with melatonin or Dramamine, zombify myself in front of the television, I would wake up at noon with the sun blaring in like a bomb only to find the scattered evidence of my own filthy nature, buried in a bevy of paraphernalia fit for a sloppy king. Sometime in the night, my bed had transformed itself into a dumpster. The tv still on. One movie after the next. I had gone to bed with the voice of Clint Eastwood. Awakened to the sound of a commercial selling the world’s sharpest knife.

But still there was Yasmin! A message! A voice from beyond. Further than beyond! From Brasil...

Yasmin was erudite. An art lover. Better yet, an artist lover. A woman who only cussed and cursed at exactly the right time. That is, all the time. She knew painting, too. Knew painting damn well, I would say. We felt similarly about the world—that most people live like lice, cared little for art, or even worse, their own existence. That even if a human lived in a gutter or a trash bin or a rat-infested studio, on the brink of falling in, that if the human could see and make some form of beauty, that if the person could dig up the inner resolve, to move along the cosmos with a fiery temper, while also laughing at their own plight, then they were not only of the gods, but better, they were of the poets. Yasmin made me feel like a poet. Hell, I knew I was a poet. But she made me feel like one. There is a difference. A big one. As different as a speck of dust and an elephant. A leaf slowly falling, an atomic bomb.

In the life span of my Los Angeles existence, I had entered into the twilight years, my last gasp, my cold winter with no Fall nor Spring to be bring me back. It was out or bust. I could say she talked me down from the ledge, but I knew of no ledge, how close to the ledge I was. It was Yasmin that said, look—there is a ledge. Now come this way. The Ledge of America. Well now, don’t just stand there looking stupid and fat, JUMP!

What at once started as a correspondence, for whatever reason—well, she initially respected my paintings—had evolved into a relationship of sorts. From the depths of spiritual starvation, depression, isolation, a realization that the world had gone mad, we had formed a spectacular correspondence. We formed our own tribe through words. Invented new worlds, religions. We had discussed genocide, race relations, the films of Stanley Kubrick. De Kooning, Picasso, Rauschenberg, Nelson Rodrigues, Tom Jobim, Robert Plant, Robert De Niro, Keith Richards and his excellent autobiography LIFE. Willie Nelson, Pablo Neruda, Anais Nin, Bukowski, Rothko, Jack Nicholson! Here’s to you, Jack! Here’s to you, Johnny!

Attitudes—everything can be walked away from. Everything was temporary should you deem it be. The world was for strolling, exploring. Not for “traveling”. Traveling is a farce. Made up by people who really just like hotels and those silver tops that keep the food warm, concierge clerks, make-up service. Traveling was foolish, but wandering? Now we are talking! Also, that art is better left to those who know how to vomit. How to vomit precisely, that is—but vomit all the same.

If someone is good for a laugh, they have already made themselves more useful than most people. Dogs are fine, but not to be worshipped. I had dropped out of high school and had no money, but these things were to be expected—when I said I had no money, Yasmin was relieved. “Thank god”, she said. Also, speaking of god, we were atheists. We didn’t pray. Didn’t like church. Nor did we like big, trendy gyms. I used to go. Gyms are just another form of church. Carpets and drapes should be bright red. Your home should be a disheveled type of oasis. Beautiful things can come and go. No place where an automobile is a necessity is a good place.

So, in the twilight, the nightmarish winter, which was a nightmarish summer, there was a woman. A woman who soared through technological streams, unlikely technological apparatus, pierced through the vanity and flim-flam bullshit of a town that invented flim and flam and bullshit and now had left a remarkable, indelible, undeniable impression on myself, my existence, and perhaps my future. One day I would meet her, I thought. No, I knew. It had to be. There was no other way.

In the time between April and November, my job was to become an assassin. I would commence to kill off as much of my former self as I could, preserving only what was for the good, only what had not decayed beyond its usefulness. Only what could be sturdied, strengthened and put to good use. Yasmin had lit the way out of the cavern. I, alone, would have to dig myself out of this hell. Would have done it sooner. Only if I had known. Only if I had known what a hell it was that I was living.

I was also going to need to become a collector. Not an amateur collector who collected everything he could get his hands on, no! A professional. A professional collector. A professional backwards collector. A professional backwards collector that had the simple task of collecting backwards his own things, his own art. How does one collect backwards? By throwing most of what he has away, and learning to keep only what is necessary.

I don’t know if I can stand this place, anymore. Is it still a Friday? It didn’t matter. I had ceased to exist in this town. Every reflection, shadow, movement of my own self was a preamble now. All other movements had been assassinated. Killed off, one by one. No more cocaine! No more benders, damnit! I had professed my love! By god, I was going to meet Yasmin. If it was the last thing I ever did I would meet this woman and marry her on the spot.

Cleaning up. Throwing out whatever I can. Ignoring phone calls. The bar. That goddamn place. Wants me to come back and bartend. Inside a plague? Inside some virus flying through the air? I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind the virus, I mean. But the bar? I had had enough. No, I won’t be coming back. No more work. Last job I hope to ever have. Last paycheck, last time clock, last boss, last coworker, last goddamn glass I ever polish unless its my own goddamn glass. Last lime I ever cut a lime unless its my own lime or that of a friendly drinking companion.

That is right. No more work, no more bosses, no more big rat infested loft. No more loft. No more Los Angeles. No more me. I am sick of it. I am merely trying to get as far away from myself as I can. Into the arms of Yasmin. That’ll be the day! And it went on like this for months. My own thoughts: Tripled, quadrupled, multiplied by atomic exponentiality. Reared up, busted through the frontal cortex, bounced around the room like a ping-pong ball. The daily news, the columns, the web, all of it—an invitation to the loony bin! A one way ticket. The election! The protests! The Virus! The End Of Times! Spewing psychopaths, racist monsters with torches, fuming white foam, charging the gates! The Black fly femalia with her torn off flesh, lungs pumping hot silver, a golden tinted scarf around her throat, holding a bow and arrow, lifts her weightless self above everything. A spirit, a demonic entity snarling and exhaling smoke, influenza, panic, green, putrid vomit! It went on like this for months…

When most of the paintings were in the truck, the loft emptied out about half way, the knick-knacks all tossed away or packed, the mattress put out on the street, the fridge emptied, the sullied woven rug beaten out of it pounds of dust, the books stacked and boxed, the paper work all rolled up, the chairs put out by the curb, when mostly everything was beyond repair, no going back now, I thought, “Well, maybe I should return to work.” Just for a little while. In fact, Yasmin was not expecting me in Brasil for months. Maybe save up a little dough. And then in that moment of second guessing, I put one foot in front of the other. No—enough of all that.

With the loft all bare, I could see what it truly was. A shit hole. One big shit hole loft with a shit ceiling, shit floor, shit tenant, shit building, and, funny enough, no shitter. Had been using the toilet down the hall for three and half years. With the place bare, music blares. I smoke weed like a champion. I sweep up mounds and mounds of debris. Dirt and dust had accumulated over every square centimeter of that place. Had accumulated silently, slowly. Exactly like decay. It builds up over time. Like crime. Like age. Like dirty snow that just won’t melt.

It was a miracle one could even take a good breath after I saw it all. It was a wonder I was not given a visit and arrested on the spot. I would have to plead guilty out of sheer embarrassment. When I saw the remains of my quarters, I almost turned myself in. One hardly even notices. Until one gets in the light. Until one sees their own belongings in the sunshine, out on the corner, out to the curb. Things were supposed to be different when I got out of living in my car and into that place. The city was supposed to validate my struggles! I couldn’t leave Los Angeles without showing, no proving my talent! I had to show them something! Ah—well, fuck. At least I tried, goddamnit, at least I tried! Mark. Only guy I said good bye to. But it was no real goodbye. Known him for years, always will. Those other bastards though, sayonara! Hasta nunca! Beije suas mães gordas por mim! Mets ton argent dans ton cul!

Finally, everything gone, packed away. Out of sight, out of mind. Out of the earth, into the trash. Everything that was not either art nor clothing nor books was likely tossed. And a good bit of those items, too. No time for a yard sale. No time to look for buyers of such nonsense. Just get the damn place cleared out and get on the road. All packed up. Took me a week. Sweating like a beast. Nighttime. The moving truck is full. I am full of beer. The city is electric. A breeze wafts through the empty loft. I am so tired. Can’t possibly navigate that big truck full of my life’s work in such a depleted state. I must stay one more night in that empty loft. I move to go to bed.

And then it hits me—there is no bed. I had thrown it away. I sleep on the floor. Just me. The floor. The floor of my pitiful old loft. Myself. Myself and Yasmin. Just me on that old wooden floor, the smell of fresh paint that perfected the walls to crystalline white. The smell of paint and soap that washed away all the paint, the smoke, the piss, the snot, the grease, the ejaculate, the blood, the scotch, the dirt, etc. Just me and four years up in smoke! Just Me, the death of Los Angeles, and Yasmin. I slept horribly. Should have bought a bottle of champagne. It was perfect.

Driving through the city for the last time, up and out of Los Angeles in a rental truck. Drove all night, through the night. Stopping once for roast beef sandwiches in a parking lot, filled up the tank. Napped a minute. Could not have been more than an hour. Chain smoking like a nervous locomotive, weaving up the countryside of North California in a bulky truck. Came off to an exit that was shorter than it looked. Big curve to it and I was headed too fast. I pumped the brakes, swerved as graceful as I could. Damn near flipped the entire moving truck over. 20 something feet of paintings and sculptures. Got control of the truck and slammed down quickly in the grass. Heard the loudest thud come from the back of the truck. No use checking in on it now…

Finally, Oregon. Finally Portland.

The home of my mother. A moment of rest. A clearing of the head to sort out the cobwebs, prepare for Brasil. Prepare to meet Yasmin and be done with this theatre.

In those months of intense correspondence, Brasil was magnetized, pulling me from my birth country, expatriating me to its foreign domain. The magnetic pull of Yasmin and her humanity, her life-giving caress, which formed a body of warmth, was no less than had she been there physically. There was no sense in travelling to Brasil. You either go or you don’t. How could I leave if I went? Better to not hem and haw over it. Better to get on with it.

It is November. Portland, Oregon. Mother’s house. The paintings are all put away in storage, finally. The knick-knacks and thingamabobs, the trinkets have all found a home or have been tossed to the garbage bin. For weeks, I slept. The first night, best sleep of my life. A quiet street rests among a row of houses. Trees, my god, the bristling trees sway silently. A river just a short walk down. Fishing boats and small yachts float gracefully, peacefully. Sleep! No sirens. No ambulances, no fires. No combustion, no explosions. No rats.

Los Angeles. Did it even happen? Well, of course it did. A faint memory, so close in the distant, yet thousands of miles away and ions ago. Ancient times. In the bedroom it is rounding 2 AM. I cannot decide what to take with me. Clothes. Surely, I will need clothes. Books—which books? No, book. One book. A Season In Hell & Illuminations by Arthur Rimbaud. Packing up for a life? It makes no sense. There is no logic to be found. No planning for expectations. Could have showed up with nothing. Whatever the case, Yasmin is waiting.

I have sold exactly one painting in the interim. A portrait of a man. A big canvas. I have sold exactly one painting and sold it for exactly the price of a one-way ticket to São Paulo. My mother understands. It is how I am—she knows it, still it is hard for her. My brother, he understands, too. Anyway, he’s gonna go be on his own for a while, like one oughta do.

On the runway I want to pay attention. There is an election. A fiery one. Elections are always fiery these days. By the time I land. America will know its next president. But I cannot think on those things. They are too big. Or are they too small? I want to pay close attention. I want to pay close attention to the exact moment the plane lifts off from America. I want to know, in a sense, exactly when I am flying. Exactly when I touch off the land. That is something I will want to remember, I think. It’s in the gut. But I always did this. Paid close attention at take off. Even when I was just a boy…

INTERMISSION

Today is Wednesday. I woke up rather late. Yasmin has made us breakfast, as she always does. She likes to blend fruit with milk and call it breakfast. I type, if I can, in the morning. At some point today, I will work on some paintings in the living room. I may go get some produce at the Mercado Municipal down in Centro. I am alone in the apartment, Yasmin has gone out for some basics; milk, bread, cheese and turkey. In early May, Piracicaba has a strange, unpredictable weather. It is nothing intense, it gets a little warm, the breeze picks up in short blasts, the evenings are pleasant and a little chilly.

How many years has it been? A little more than four. Four years since Los Angeles. We have already lived in the countryside and are now back in the city. We have owned a house, sold it. We have made love thousands of times. We have celebrated our anniversary three times. We were married first in Paraguay. Little dirty street. Two strangers bore witness, signed the documents. Afterwards, we went to get our wedding rings. A store that sold make up, buttons, sunglasses, etc. We bought our rings for R$5.00. The equivalent of one American dollar. When they wear down and lose their luster, we buy more. I think we are on our fifth or sixth pair…

Outside the window of my little writing room, palm trees sway over the city. If I squint my eyes, my mind, you see, it can feel like Los Angeles. Traffic booms in short explosions. Ambulances, a big sky, mountains way off in the horizon. Just for a moment, if I want to, I can return. I can return to Los Angeles and roll the dust at my fingertips. I can see the tails of the rats. I can return for no good reason, for the sport of it, you see. But it is only a day trip of the mind, nothing too serious.

Yasmin and I are still forming our own tribe. Inventing our new language, perfecting our physical correspondence, forming a religion of a kind. Call it a lifestyle, say.

We like our new apartment. Paintings are starting to stack up. Rolls of paper rest on every available surface. Tubes of paint, pencils. I get a good bit of writing done nowadays. Our life has become a collaboration. Up from the ashes, I tell you! Out of the thick of the miasma, out from underneath the shadow of the American wing. We live in a type of disheveled oasis. Oak furniture, ornate area rugs, antique lamps, red curtains, etc.

—Onward!

JSV
5.10.2024

Yasmin and Judson—just outside Paraguay, back in Brasil. First day of marriage.