Memoirs from Florianopolis #1

Butterflies took over as I boarded the plane, evoking those feelings from that first day at school. Although I have travelled on my own before it is seldom that a trip has the potential to alter my full perspective on life- granted it is not as yet developed much. The time began to drain away and soon the plane was over Sao Paulo. The obvious segregation from the air saddened me. The vividly painted shanty towns stood miles out from the guarded towers of the rich. It becomes ever so clear that such segregation is a harsh truth of life in Brazil.

The world behind the corrugated iron which I have been advised to avoid must surely be subject to the depths of humanity. I do not have to use much imagination in wondering why; a world of crime and drugs but also suffering. Smiles too, no doubt. There is some sort of poetic irony in that it can take having nothing to truly appreciate everything. But this is purely speculation.

Life in Florianopolis is different to say the least. To ride a bus is to have a death wish, as I have just witnessed. Staying only minutes away from the desperately poor but somehow so far. To have clean running water and electricity is considered to only the apartments and houses rich enough. Although, to shower is a bolt from the blue as it is much like ice but sure as hell wakes you up.

Being so far away from England I’ve realised how foreign I am to the Brazilians. Living among people with only a few English words between them, a conversation which would usually only be two minutes takes roughly ten. I have yet to become acquainted with the true culture, though, many of the Brazilians I have met thus far greet with sunny smiles.

I am surrounded by effortlessly beautiful people׃ dark hair, light eyes and olive skin. Voluptuous and sculpted figures strut past, somewhat reminiscent of pages in Vogue; stunning.

Thus far Florianopolis appears to be a dark, wonderful world away from suburbian London, I am oh so used to.

Harmony and bliss at their most righteous.

Unlike any other capital city I have known, Berlin has an unruffled, un-bustled atmosphere that can be attributed to two influential variables: the small population size and of course the vast quantities of ‘grass’ consumed.

The Berlin life I witnessed was almost alien but somewhat refreshing. The pulsations of Berlin were to a different beat than those of London, the dance ever so much more sensual. I have found through extensive research that you can find in many cities a place that never sleeps, unless in a drug-induced state. A world of drugs lies in this place. Not daring to try the intense substances but was ever so tempted, I was drawn in by the scent of sweat-drenched bodies and the sweet smell of summer. Cigarette smoke circled around me like a melody and yet so far away from home but strangely eluding me to feel more at home than I had ever felt.

The echo of laughter hanging on the gentle breeze as it passed through the hazy blissful sunshine. The techno music pounding in my ears, I became submerged in the sounds. Gazing at my reflection in the still lake waters and watching as my toe distorted the images as it became slowly immersed in the tepid wetness.

To think that it is possible for our lifestyles to co-exist baffles me nevertheless I loved the different people and attitudes of this foreign country. This makes me ever more aware of the growing nature of Londoners attitude of survival of fittest, where an underground station becomes a battle field while each journey is a slow dissection of your soul, where if you smile you are considered crazy, god-forbidden laughing. Berlin is so dissimilar to the cold-blooded nature of London.

The German language, although once considered somewhat harsh and abrupt, it now pleases my ears. It is no longer associated in my head with dictatorship but now friendship.

The inevitable explosive nature of our western culture.

There are those in life who think they are superior. These people appear so wrapped up in their worlds that they fail to see they too can be wrong sometimes, like everyone else. By everyone else, I am including myself, naturally. Being far from perfect I realise how boring and mutinous it would be I was.

The quest for perfection is a slice of life. Through numerous images thrust in our faces we are reminded that we are not perfect. These images play on human folk like they should play on the consciences of the people that displayed and portrayed this ever tiresome task.

Marketing techniques are evilly engineered to assault the demographics of society at their most fragile and mouldable spots. This is a tragic result of the 24/7 life style we all, in the western culture, play into. If only we could see past the shallowness of our declining culture and look to the necessities of life. We are no longer truly aware of the passions of life; they are clouded by an ever increasing desire to impress the unimpressed. Desperate for approval we often lose sight of what is real.

We could be inspired by those who actually made a difference in this world, a little drop in the ocean. It is important to not let life go by without a whiff of humanity. I don’t pretend to have done myself but I hope someday to stop and try. Yes, arduous task it may appear to be...but if we are truly concerned about the poignant penetration of the western curse we simply must.

The impact of the media on the young is tragic. We walk amongst 10 year olds smothered in make-up who have skipped huge chucks of their childhood, only to be encouraged to do so. Originating in the Barbie doll, we are now plagued by the ever increasing lust towards perfection. These impossible dimensions are what will eventually make the western world crash and burn- leaving our children in the rubble of this collapsed culture.

The First Chapter

Living in this sweet suburban bubble I realised the need for exploration outside the comforts of life that somehow cannot be escaped. There is nothing sweeter than receiving the old school mixed tape from a guy you dig or seeing the face of that guy when you give one.

The life I’m talking about involves the sweet and the bitter. As a wise man once said: "life ain’t so sweet without the bitter". A life: plagued with alcohol; sex and drugs; non-conventional sex such as threesomes or masturbation. Whilst, sitting in recliners listening to some perpetual dribble smoking weed while the guy next to me snorts his forth line of coke; I even consider for, a moment, taking a hit myself. But reminding myself that I’m better than that, not knowing how I got into this particular position. My head fills with fuzz and I giggle to myself as everyone around me is oblivious.

I eventually convince myself I can walk and then I go and fall down right ban centre in the middle of a pile of shit a horse was kind enough to leave in the road. Coming crashing down gives me a reality check. I feel momentarily jealous of the friend I witnessed having drunken sex; then I reminded myself that I have had my fair share of that and it’s not all really that great.

Considering crying myself to sleep, I curl up into a ball; thinking life is not all that bad in the scheme of things. Whilst, drawing inspiration from songs of love and hurt and movies with the same connotations. The envy I feel of the perfection of the L.A. Hollywood lifestyle which is probably just some distorted mask of a truly fucked up life which somehow makes me more envious. Drinking vast quantities of wine, to make these thoughts of perfection become a blur; directly regretting it.

This is the life I’m talking about.

Listening to jazz, whilst wondering why the friends I’ve chosen do not get the same, tingly, feeling when their ears are plagued with this task. Completely questioning my friendships for a split second but then realise that, yes, sometimes they are a bit damn shitty but recognising and appreciating that they held my hand through thick and thin. People say that it is great to question things but I often wonder if my life has been filled with endless questions and no definitive answers. I suppose that is what my philosophy of life is based on: No definitive answers; in all fairness no one has all the boxes ticked.

Wondering what life would be like if things had been different and shocking myself with drastic thoughts. Stroked and bereaved and working hard, often obliviously to those around me. I feel incredibly lucky not to be worse off. Still praying to nothing, because I don’t believe in an omnipotent being that makes life dandy, not to throw anymore shit my way.