This is what happens when you tell us to smile after we've eaten a LOT of food and are being forced to listen to really loud forro music...

The one in which Jenna becomes a suburban homemaker...

I made lunch for fifteen people today, in between sorting clothes and ordering people around, shooing cats out of the kitchen, ordering the kids to behave, keeping an eye on the heart attack victim and trying desperately to think of some way to hygenically store eighteen toothbrushes.

Welcome to clean-up at Projeto Vidinha.

I have no idea how many trash bags went out to the curb today. When I left, they were talking about calling one of the city's dump trucks to come make a special run. I pray you never have to see this kind of mess. I'm still kicking myself for not wearing gloves all day. I'm beginning to think of myself as a clean freak, but I think it's just relative to what we've been working with.

To give you an idea:

Socks without pairs: more than five POUNDS, mostly unwashed and some with the amazing ability to stand upright while attacking me with their armies of fleas

Clothing to give away: Almost done. Somewhere in the vicinity of 5 big blue garbage bags. 30 pounds? Probably more.

Weirdest thing found: It's a tie between the acupuncture needles stored with old Christmas cards or the pile of old rice (cooked, I think) hidden under some shoes and hairbrushes in the unused upstairs bathroom.

Nastiest thing found: The cats don't have a litter box. And there is a trap for "gordura," fat, in the kitchen that someone needs to clean out. Not me.

We've got two more days to go...I hope they're much more uneventful! One of the volunteers at the project (a good friend of mine) had three episodes of heart attack precursors on Monday. She could use your prayers. So could her 13 year old super rebellious daughter, who freaked out and tried to throw herself into oncoming traffic and whom I had to physically restrain in the street as she kicked at pedestrians and let forth a torrent of gorgeously filthy words. It took us an hour to convince her mother to go to the hospital. In a taxi. Where she waited over an hour to be attended. (Don't ask about the ambulance situation. It's complicated, it's privatized, and as far as I can tell, you'd never want to actually take one. Besides, how woud you know who to call in an emergency???) I'm trying to keep her from working this week, but it's difficult because this woman doesn't know the meaning of "rest." Arghhh!!!

I'm not sure I'm cut out to be a house mom. I'm not sure I want any more kids!

Church Hopping

We're in the market, Tiago and I. One of my New Year's resolution, among many, was to find a church. Where I didn't fall asleep because the sermon wandered off into the desert for forty days and forty nights before coming up for air. Where people were challenged to be honest and open with one another and not a place where we close our eyes and turn our heads when confronted with the ugly things in ours, or our neighbor's, lives. So I'm still "frequenting" the Manguinhos church, but am actively searching for somewhere else.

So far, we've kind of struck out. 0 for 0. January isn't a good month to go looking. All the pastors are on vacation. I haven't understood a single sermon in the last three weeks, and I've been to at least five services!

Tiago's requirements include:
A) order in the service (he's not such a fan of little kids and adults having full conversations in normal voice levels during the sermon)
B) one bus or metro ride from where we both live
C) a functioning and not cheesy young adult group, which we can mine for friends and social activities
D) a pastor who preaches simply, clearly, and a service that stays under the 3 hour mark

Mine run over two pages in my journal but can be summed up here:
A) Diversity in racial, social class, and age groups
B) Doesn't badmouth Catholicism. Or anyone else, for that matter.
C) Won't force me to: "convert," be re-baptized, swear off cards, chocolate, high heels, or pants
D) God/Jesus/Holy Spirit is the focus, not miracles/financial prosperity/blessings. I'm tired of seeing people flock to these places that fleece them of their cash in exchange for promises of complete freedom from headaches, rebellious children, deficient love life, marital problems, unemployment, etc...all if you have enough faith. And put your money where your faith is. It's a sweet scam scheme.

Oh. And I'd love it if it had good music. Is it too much to ask for violins, organ, piano, an occasional saxophone...in addition to a rock band???

Where I've been

create your own visited countries map

I found this on my blog friend Ali's website this week. I still have a ways to go...and didn't realize that I could count the Vatican City as a separate country. I'm up to 20 when I only thought I was at 18 or so...

But Africa and Asia are notably absent of red. I hope to do something about that in the next few years...

Retraction: Last Post

Redeeming oneself is necessary when one is "in the wrong."

I'm interested in knowing how those men and women who write the "what my boyfriend says" and "crazy things my girlfriend does" blogs actually manage to keep them going without losing sight of reality.

Because when you read over the reports, inevitably, they're um, one-sided. And as my dear, wonderful, sweet, and equally obstinate (praise God for this!) boyfriend has pointed out, redeeming himself was NOT part of his plan for our last date. Nor was it necessary, as communication problems would indicate issues on both sides. So if I want to write about it on the internet, I ought to make sure I'm not painting him with a cynical brush. Ouch. Point taken! He's right...

And I'm extremely thankful for a man that won't let me walk all over him! Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with this very handsome Brazilian man named Tiago...

:)

Of hideouts and men

There are hidden gems all over the city that only locals and lucky tourists will ever know about. Hideouts. Places like my favorite little café tucked away in an ancient mansion in the middle of a park known primarily as a fun place to take kids in strollers...but has a spectacular view of the mountains, live music on the weekends, and low tables, couches, and pillows to lounge on while you sip a cup of tea or exotic soup. A special little beach with almost no crime and monkeys in the nearby trees, where the full moon rises from the water. Or the booklover's haven under Rio Branco, where Berinjela and Leonardo da Vinci compete for book sales and browsers...but I'm stopping there. Because these are secret places, places that are wonderful because they fly under the radar and aren't spoiled by too much publicity. I save these places for my visitors. Curious? Come visit.

Tiago gained serious points today, in the boyfriend point-rating scale...he took me to a place that is hands-down better than any of the other "secret" places I'd found in the city. I'm not telling you where it was, but suffice to say...

-there was water and a view overlooking the sunset.
-there were painted capibaras (how DO you spell that?), some sort of tailless squirrel creature, casting their shadows onto the sidewalk.
-the food was really expensive (we only had juice!) and exotic, full of Amazonian specialties and a menu with a full page just devoted to explaining what everything was...funky fish and "marble" seeds, gourd dishes and jabuticaba caipirinhas...
-there were these bamboo loft sofa things about five feet off the ground, stacked with colorful pillows...where we most definitely sat!
-I got to take my shoes off and lay down in public in Rio, put my head in Tiago's lap and watch the sun set...surrounded by hot pink pillows and the delicious scent of bamboo mats.

Gorgeous. He's more than redeemed himself for the confusions of the past week. Not that I talk about them on the blog; suffice to say that cross-cultural relationships are difficult. Worthwhile and thrilling and life-enriching, but sometimes give you cause to binge on all your stashed American snack food, call home crying, stomp around the house tearing your hair out or sit around fighting a great desire to throw your cellphone against the wall. Or maybe it's just me. And not that I'm saying that I did all (or any) of those things simultaneously in the last few weeks. I can't speak for Tiago.

!

We're getting better at communication; speaking each other's language is rather difficult when we're expecting the other person to read our mind. Now that we've established that neither one of us is cut out for telepathy, we seem to be on a much better wavelength!

It is hot here. The rain has finally broken and I spent the day kicking myself for having forgotten to bring my swimsuit down to the Zona Sul. I got some advice from a lawyer acquaintance about visas and will be checking out some possibilities in the next week...maybe I'll be taking the entrace examinations after all. Let's hope they're more interested in my ability to pay for the course than my knowledge of obscure Portuguese grammar, physics or Brazilian history. I'll ace the foreign language section though, no doubts about that!

Good evening, have a great weekend, God bless each and every one of you. Avoid mosquitos if you live in the tropics. They're out in droves tonight!

Back to the Daily Grind

Yesterday was the first day back. And after twelve or fourteen hours, I found myself draped over the sofa, sleeping with my Bible cracked open on my stomach, trying to process the events of the day.

I went to the place I always go on Tuesdays. The President was supposed to meet with me to discuss the kids going on vacation outside the city, and our terms for paying for transportation. The house is a mess and needs serious spring cleaning. That's not going to happen unless all the kids are gone, so we thought that vacation would be the perfect time. But no. She stood me up. So...I helped sort donations, covered in cat pee because we still need to put a wall up in the office and the cats snuck in through the cracks. The donations were mostly worthless, and I'm probably going to get in trouble with the Packrat President because I threw away broken toys and bloody t-shirts. We can't get anyone to come in and do something about the termite problem upstairs because there is a mountain of plastic bag encased stuff as HIGH AS MY HEAD all through the corridor and the back corner. Now I know part of this is due to Christmas, where people think it's really generous to give bags of used underwear, and stained tee-shirts, broken toys, and stinky, unwashed old hosiery to the poor...but part of this is simply a refusal to ever throw anything away. Ever. Even if it's a ripped up rag of a t-shirt because someday "I might use that as a pattern for making new shirts."

I am ranting. I know. But where else in the world will you find the following collection of identifiable junk?

antique dentist's chair and compressor, IntelliVision and a Playstation 1, various generations of half-assembled computers, a kit for creating silk flowers, eight partial encyclopedias from the 1980's, a three-inch stack of atlas pages separated from their books but still useful because "someday the kids will need to cut these out for school projects" (never mind that they're maps of the USSR!), a bag of grandma lingerie, 1970's era tile building blocks, stacks of ripped backpacks, a box of old, clogged hairbrushes, Playboy magazines from the 1980's (yes, these were a donation. Nice. They got thrown out yesterday, by me...)...

One of the little boys had a huge open sore on his arm. It's been there for days, according to the other kids. He'd had a temporary tattoo on and wanted it removed, so one of the other boys took a harsh sponge and some water to it...

There is NO skin left on the spot where the tattoo was. I don't understand how the kid didn't take the roof off with his screaming. He should have screamed. He should have cried his eyes out. But nothing. He didn't say anything to us until he came bleeding to ask for help, days later...

So I treated it as best I could. It's somehow more shocking to see an open wound like that on black skin. Because when you can see that much pink and red, it's because there really isn't any skin there...and oh, it was horrid! D- promised to take him to the doctor today. The fact that it didn't heal, that there wasn't a scab or anything worries me. And the silence practically guarantees that he's been abused, because normal children don't keep quiet like that. They wiggle when you pour hydrogen peroxide on their wounds. But he was Mr. Stoic and Silent. At five years of age. Made me want to cry.

He is, however, getting better at occasionally voicing complaints! The kids were eating lunch before me yesterday and were all whining about the food. The rice didn't look particularly good, so I told them they only had to eat their vegetables...and they took forever. As they finished, I picked up my plate and managed to swallow just one bite before putting it down. I don't know what that meat was, but it tasted like manure and dirty feet. The worst thing I've ever put in my mouth. Must have been cow stomach or something. I had to apologize to the kids!

I'm going to the universities today to find out about possible classes. Wish me luck!

Until later...

Well, I tried to buy...

but after FOUR hours of download tries, iTunes 7.0 finally made it through the notoriously unstable Brazilian telephone lines. And then I found out that my purchase order didn't go through. And now iTunes doesn't want to load the TV shows...so maybe that's a sign. Okay, God, I'll not be watching any television tonight!

My mother, from the last comment on the library art post, is insinuating that I am an art thief...that a meager $150 fine would be tempting enough for me not to return a library book. Honestly, no matter how cool the book, I couldn't do it! This is the person who can't keep a lie for more than a day or so without breaking out into a rash. I am compelled to tell the truth. I once found a lovely Patagonia fleece jacket at camp in Colorado. I knew who it had belonged to, but she'd already gone home...and tempted as I was to keep it, my conscience tore my brain to shreds until I found her address and mailed the fleece back to its rightful owner...oh, beautiful red fleece, I still remember our fleeting days together!

On another note, I'm extremely thrilled that Shakira's "Hips Don't Lie" is becoming popular around here. And the Pussycat Dolls...I think I'm going to dance around in my livingroom!

Television in the Mail

I just bought my season pass on iTunes to Lost, season three. After getting addicted to the show over New Years' (a season and a half in about three days), I knew it was either shell out the iTunes price, deal with irrevokable guilt at illegal downloading, wait until it came out on dvd (IMPOSSIBLE!!!) or buy a television. The television option also requires illegal cable...so I decided that I'd go the slow but sure legal route.

The new season starts February 7th, and I'm going to try to get as many friends addicted as possible. That way, I can feel less anti-social when I sit down with my thirty-minute fix of action, confusion, suspense, and really freaky island situations. Selfish, I know.

After renting a few episodes of Alias some months ago, I got hooked and got my mother to bring down the first season. Tiago and I are now into our fifth Alias dvd, which means that I have to start looking around for season two. Though I've heard the last few seasons weren't as good, Alias is so far one of the best shows I've seen in a long time. And while that does include time in Brazil, which isn't saying much (novellas are just a step above soap operas), it's meant as a compliment. None of the WMF staff in Rio has a television, and we're all pretty much content to stay that way. We just pick up whole seasons of the shows we know we like and then have movie nights when we want. It's like those fancy tv services (TiVo?) that let you record and then replay, only cheaper and we only have to pay for what we honestly want to watch. Alias and Lost will become my contributions to the community entertainment fund! The only problem is deciding if I'd rather download or buy...which requires two sets of postage and handling-one to Indiana, the other to Brazil-and waiting a really long time, hoping that it doesn't get lost or stolen in the mail...

So for my last day of vacation, I'm chillin' at home, downloading Lost episodes, organizing my cd collection, trying my hand at drawing (pitifully), and resisting the temptation to watch the next Alias without my boyfriend. Will Friday never come???

Going back to work tomorrow and looking forward to it!

Altered books

Another hobby of mine is small, hardbound books...first reading them, then turning them into something else with paint, thread, needles, holepunchers, stickers, bits of scrap paper, glue, etc...

This is a popular alternative to scrapbooking for those who don't consider books sacred, but maybe feel bad actually throwing them out. I was googling around today and discovered what may possibly be one of the coolest things around: the Portland Public Library. These two links, which I am unfortunately unable to hyperlink in Safari, give more detailed information:

http://www.freelists.org/archives/booklyn/04-2006/msg00006.html

http://www.portlandlibrary.com/programs/Altered.htm


Basically, instead of having a book sale, the library invited artists to have a ball with books they were going to throw away, and after a certain period of time return them, as art, to be PUT INTO CIRCULATION!!!

Imagine...

"Leaves of Grass" becomes a literal field of waving blades of Whitman's poetry, standing upright from the opened cover of the book.
Another book is entirely cut into mesmerizing, overlapping zigzag pages. Another actually requires that I quote verbatim the library's catalog:
"Altered copy of: Willy the wimp by Anthony Browne. Published by Knopf in 1984. Text and illustrations transferred by photocopy to printmaking stock. Pages bound by handsewing, encased in handmade paper. Select annotation to text. Wintergreen fragrance."

Wintergreen fragrance. I am speechless. I am inspired!

I hereby announce that I will be requesting one of these books via interlibrary loan. Rented art through the mail...

An Obsession Revealed

It is time to admit my obsession. Many internet hours poring over websites, reading other’s accounts of our mutual interest, elation when I discover yet another magazine highlighting this favorite thing, trepidation in the same instant, afraid that this will become another fad and prices will rise...or worse, that demand will exceed supply...

I confess:

I love Moleskine journals.
I love writing implements.

This may sound ridiculous. When I was in sixth or seventh, grade, I remember reading an article and commiserating with a writer who announced, to the derision of colleagues, that his best writing tip was to use a yellow legal pad. I understood what he was talking about. There are some of us, who for an inexplicable and deeply ingrained tactical reason, must rely on specific tools in order to get any writing done. I can tell you from experience. But also...well, we just love these things!

Warning! Technical, somewhat nerdy language to follow. Not for those who think stolen hotel pens are acceptable tools.

In high school, my poetry book was a two or three-subject mid-size notebook without holes but with lightly lined, college-ruled pages, a manila colored pocket in each of the separators, and a sturdy black cover. It was about the size of a paperback book and held up to some of the worst treatment I could offer. I still have those books, tucked away in chests somewhere in Indiana. It’s funny to read through them and see the hideous clichés, the sappy love poems, and some surprisingly lucid thoughts that slip out from the pages.

I only used mechanical leads or black ballpoint pens. Ink must be black. I’m sorry. Blue pens are an abomination unless there is a distinct desire to add color...and then, why not use a fine-tip Sharpie? In adolescence, I fell in love with the Zebra F-301 pen. Other than a green eraser that hails from my mother’s college days (and from the looks of it, going to be passed on to my children someday!), the Zebra pens have been with me through everything. Junior high, high-school, college, now. They wrote me through biology tests, secret love letters, crossword puzzles, entrance essays, music scores, and signing leases. I can’t get them in Brazil and coveted Tiago’s prized pen collection for the two or three I saw hidden in the depths...tried unsuccessfully to get a girlfriend to trade me hers, a gift from some Americans...and finally convinced my mother to bring me down a few when she came at Christmas. Mother, would you believe that those pens were one of the best gifts I got this year??? Not demeaning the camera, but the Zebras and I, well, we have such a long history together...

Other than that high school book, I have hated ruled notebooks. Good hearted people, knowing that I loved to write, would give me beautiful journals. Thickly lined, with little doo-dads in the corners. I have a stack of them at home. Tried, unsuccessfully to use them. Some became recipe books, half filled. Others started out as quote books and then were tossed aside until I finally ripped out the written pages and gave the journal to someone less picky. I can’t work with the colored pages and lines. They interrupt my thoughts, impede creativity and line drawings and splashing all over the page.

I also cannot use plain stick pens, other than to chew on with frustration. Or most regular pencils. They make a funny sound on paper and the line’s all wrong. And pens? Well, other than the aforementioned Zebra, its sister, the Zebra F-402 is also sweet, though a little thick of a line for regular journaling and poetry writing. The Pilot BPS Grip works nicely, but because it has a cap, I don’t like to lug it around. Too likely to get lost. When they’re working properly (as in, not exploding on an airplane), the Pilot V5 Precise extra fine is fabulous. But I’ve given up on them, because I hate getting ink all over my fingers. I’m still searching for the perfect, razor-thin, unsmudgeable line...

Back to journals...
In college, my best friend gave me a thin book with thick, recycled paper. Completely blank. I loved it. Carried it around with me for months. It birthed, if I remember right, most of my Servant Team poems. But the best journal ever was an expensive splurge that I’ve never regretted. I found it at a specialty store in Denver, Colorado and had to force myself not to touch it for the weeks leading up to my YWAM trip, as I planned it to be a travel journal. It had smooth hand-made paper, a sewn spine, and was covered in some creamy, silver-striped paper flecked with tiny imperfections. Absolutely gorgeous. I used up every page.

After that perfect journal, there was a unhappy lull when I looked unsuccessfully for blank books that would fill my high standards. Then one day, as I worked at the Christian bookstore in Marion, Indiana, we received a shipment. And my world was forever changed.

They weren’t anything extraordinary to look at, these simple black journals. Bound with an elastic on the right side, the Moleskines were sturdy but otherwise unremarkable. Until you opened them. The pages were cream colored, smooth, substantial. You could write on this paper without bleedthrough. The back cover held a secret little pocket for clippings, scraps, candy wrappers, money, bus tickets. There was a bookmark. I touched the paper and was instantly sold. Some people love their lined ones, or the watercolor/drawing paper, or the grid designs. I go blank. Simple. I just picked up two more from Amazon.com. The little Moleskine has been converted into a weekly planner in the first half and a notes and inspirations diary in the last. The large Moleskine is my current diary and poetry journal. I’ve arranged a little display below:



The five displayed are:
-An old pocket that I carried around during my first times in Rio, whose pages are scattered with names of contacts and street kids and emergency phone numbers.
-The original journal, now filled to capacity.
-A pockets-only, which I use to organize receipts and credit cards.
-A drawing journal, for doing art and collages
-My current pocket planner

I’m sure I have confused a lot of people right now. Three pages on the merits of journals and pens??? I’m in good company, however. There’s the Molskinerie.com website, and a host of other artists and writers who post up their Moleskine designs on the internet. And the company has just come out with a line of travel journals for various cities around the world, which wouldn’t be a bad gift to give someone who’s traveling to London or Rome. Too bad they don’t have a Rio version yet! Did I mention that Chatwin used these notebooks? Not that I know who he is...but it gives cachet to the obsession, no?

Peace, and may you enjoy your hobbies with abandon!

Rain

I arrived back in Rio without incident, other than the small dog who whimpered and ran laps in his carrier above my head for the eight-hour drive, and the freaked out bus driver who cut our travel time down by thirty minutes by his erratic driving. There were several incidents of bus burnings in Rio over the New Year's weekend, and he seemed to be driving in such a way as to avoid ever being stopped. Ever.

Now I'm home, curled up against the rain, enjoying the comforts of my home and spending time with God.

I have a lot on my mind...if you think of me today, pray.

I didn' take a lot of pictures in Sorocaba but I'll post what I have here in a bit...