The Sun grins a neglected rotten tooth smile, nonetheless proudly displayed and adored. The men congregate, presumably to work, thought at this time of year on this side of the equator, appeasing the ultraviolet halitosis of our flaming celestial Cheshire Cat takes priority to any task at hand. Our congregation (and the entire population of Brazil) seems to have developed a simple system of success for maintaining some semblence of sanity in such a severe climate: 1) expose as much skin as possible (this includes elbows, thighs, neck napes, pregnant navels and the little piggy who went wee-wee-wee all the way home), and 2) take frequent - if neccessary, permanent - breaks from whatever it is you are cooking, selling, sewing, digging, sweeping, saying, screwing, whatever.

In the case of our obedient aforementioned gathering: building. A half built wall, one of many across the thick tropical jungle side (like countryside but with a lot less soybeans and a lot more cocos), yes, another half built wall lies before the middle aged, half clothed crowd. The stack of bricks on the ground are the color of oven roasted persimmons, dry as Phoenix sidewalks, and I can't help but wonder if this epidemic of unfinished walls is not an expression of poverty or short attention span, but in reality, unconscious altars to an unrecognized god whose power urges life to remain incomplete...ever in progress.

As our bus speeds down yet another expanse of `ever-progressing` road, sending my back seat cranium through the ceiling, I see stars and a little boy trotting away from said group of liesurely men (how magically writing and a good noggin knock can transform a fleeting moment into a profound experience). I wonder if the shoeless 14 year old will choose to hitch hike this forever bumpy road, and if a car stops, will he actually get inside or would his hitching digit prove yet another jesture of jest, another postponed project, another act of symbolism honoring the Sun god who insists on doing Ever Less.

I wonder also if he were to loose his bare footing, entertain me with a display of physical comedy and fall into the dirt, would his sweaty body, standing up give off the luminessence of South American red, like a pumpkin chalk angel, like everything I see here that has not been devoured by the jungle, glowing orange like the builders´ half stacked bricks, like the terra cotta Jesus at every other road side stand, like the tiles on my modest hotel roofs, like the soil bursting with coco palms, indeed, like the little boy's skin itself. No, he already glows with the orange of a fiery culture. He keeps trotting, the Sun keeps grinning, my bus keeps bumping and I keep seeing red.

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Last nite was my first taste of Carnaval, the party of earthly parties making Mardi Gras and Burning Man look like Mr. Roger;s neighborhood. We, the innocent American travelers of which there are very few, thought we were only getting a bite to eat and exploring a new block in Salavador. We were immediately overwhelmed by mile high puppets, absurd costumes and marching bands that bust through, squeeze through, push through the narrow streets like an optimistic clogged artery. People singing and dancing on the brick pavement, up and down hills - whoa to the pedestrian who thought they had their own agenda, like hunger. There is no personal choice of direction or conversation when it comes to the parading bands. They are stalkers, though not discreet, sneeking up and mugging you from behind.

To procure treats, I had to make change. The shop owner complied only after I agreed to marry him and we performed an impromptu though nonetheless romantic wedding ceremony (sorry about the rush, Momma!) complete with singing, berimbau instrumentation and a kiss to seal the deal. Americana loca is what they call me, pointing to my piercings. Rastafarian is what they yell down to me, leaning from their second story windows, pointing out my locks.

Finally, food. Regina, Heidi and I asked if there was an english menu only to be joined to my delight and surprise by the owner herself, a Brazilian Lebonese woman who moved to the States for seventeen years, living in yes, my very home state, Michigan, of all places. I thought her accent genuinely midwestern and her green lecttuce genuinely hydroponic - this was in sum, THE BEST mediterranian food I have ever tasted, the best salad we have gotten in south america, and the best dinner company our trio could have asked for. I kept thinking how much my grampy would be appreciating this moment. Then I would go ahead and appreciate it for myself.

There were two men sleeping in the hall outside their open door hotel room, who knows the reason for evacuation and all I can say is :here comes Carnaval!: Today I type at one of many popular internet cafes where they are djing Nirvana~s Unplugged album and I hear a Japanese accent singing every lyric from behind another screen. :I~m on my time with everyone. I have very bad posture. I sit and drink Penyroyal Tea.: AFternoons of aloe vera on this sunburn, acai indulgence, and music again proving less fallable than language.

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Isn~t it werid to discover that you are just exactly what you are? Regina, Heidi and I balance the scales with our personalities so well, we are the three muses, the tripple-goddess, the scales in balance ruled by spirit. I think we should start a travelers club, meeting only in remote places of the world, wearing satin pink jacket with our nick names embroidered on the chest and presiding over drag races, though there are none of the sort here on Morro de Se Paulo - not an automobile on this paradise island. only three americans. wearing satin jackets over our thong bathing suits. I will call us the Pink Laides.

Regina, the overtly cute and celebratorily sexual sprite with get to fire the starting gun of the drag race as the contenders put their flip flops on and lally gag or not all the way to the end of the fine sand beach, getting extra points to stop and meet other 25 - 35 year old beautiful travelers from all over the world, of which there are only in Morro, on their way to the finish line. Regina will jump, cheer, giggle and determine the winner with a wave of the bikini flag and award the lucky mutilingual man with an offering of acai - our new favorite dessert made of a fruit found fresh only in the amazon. dark purple. watch the satin, buddy.

Heidi will be the classy one, the long cigarette chick who knows how to communicate, forget that she don~t know the language. She will not have children of her own, but travel the world taking care of Regina and Tonya, two handfuls of their own. In fact, Heidi will lead the world in travel, a tour guide to the stars and other exotic fruit trees we have never tasted the spoils of before. We will become better lovers in her presence by learning how to speak, touch and see only Love, and all men will gladly walk the earth with gifts, bringing their best to her maicured feet.

Tonya, last Pink Lady, but not least, will often be wandering alone, happily in merry fantasy land - like last nite on a boat alone from island to island, singing to the stars, feeling the waves jostle my body, imagining myself an innocent child on a search for her lost grandmother in the land of mystery (but really, TK, where do these stories come from?). Tonya will not allow the other muses to be too disuaded by the flirtations of men. Tonya will not be persuaded to do anything ever, not by hurricane or riot, that she does not want to do. She will however, if throw herself in with full abandon to anything that is of interest to her with a gleeful open heart and open mind.

Today, I found a tiny cemetary on Morro de Sao Paulo- one can learn a lot from a culture~s rituals surrounding death. Heidi napped in a hammock called ecstacy and Regina loved and lived harder, spreading that brilliant spark with every eglish, spanish or partial portugese conversation she could. How the days balance for we three women. Pink satin, holding hands, teaching love, learning to be just exactly who we are.

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If I had everything \i ever wanted right now, would \i even want it? Heidi and I riding in the back of some hiccup bus all the way from Rio to Buzio decided that wanting seems much preferable to attaining in the human psyche, and for us, the idea of it being a sure thing, this getting what we want, but with two weeks of waiting seems the most stimulating. \i mean, how great would the next two weeks of your life be if you knew you were getting all you wanted at the end of them? \possibly better than the getting part, i~m brave to say.

They keyboard here in brazil are as elusive as time on the prepay internet without a watch, which is the way \i~m keeping it the entire vacation. So forgive my errors. Time seems to have no quams. \upon arriving in the country, my sensitive system revolted immediately leaving me unable to rise from bed except for vommiting for an entire 36 hours (i think, watch wasn~t doing it~s job-that is to say watch wasn~t watching). Rio was filled with many accents, none english, lots of humidity and heat and felt like \new york subway in july except the stirrings of some otherworldly festivity were poised at the starting line, waiting for the gun to go off. \or not waiting. perhaps the party already started. \heidi found four gentlemen from germany and france who hosted us at Rios finest dining, though salads just don~t cost money, the experience was well worth it. \meeting others and seeing my girls light up with audience. \i pretended \i was a rock star and was being humble, not saying much all nite, or so \i percieved. maybe i still needed to get the traveler~s blues out of my system, so to speak. what do they call it - dysentry or shame on my spelling, something of the like?

\i feel much more at home in Buzio, with music being amplified on the streets before the sun even sets. \\i think it is sunday, but we aren~t watching still. \i~m pretty sure this isn~t the US. \i know \i am not a rock star.

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She eyed me the entire class. I took it to mean I was rocking the combination. After all, I’m used to the professional level classes in New York and Chicago. This hip-hop class in Maui wasn’t quite at that level, though inspiring in enthusiasm nonetheless. In fact, twenty five women, not professional dancers, sweat, spun and smiled joyously with inspiration, thanks to the constant calls of encouragement coming from our two instructors. It is always an honor to attain a teacher’s notice. After class I found out that my two instructors had grown up in Maui, relocated to California where they danced professionally in Los Angeles, and since have returned to live and teach in their home state. Frustrated with the lack of venues for a dancer on the island, they had been considering forming their own project and when they saw me in class, hoped I might be the one to make their duet a trio and get this project under way. We were all a bit disappointed to realize I would not be staying.

Some might say these two talented women had sacrificed a professional career in dance to live in their home state….but I’m not sure.

Later that week I took the first luscious bite of my new favorite fruit, the star apple, picked squishy ripe, fat and deep purple, straight from its mother tree. I savored the same sensual ritual with a papaya, a passion fruit, a silk fig banana. I sat for hours cracking fresh macadamia nuts from their armadillo shells. This tropical orchard, planted and lived on by horticulturist and fellow raw foodist, Stephan Reeve, is so deep in the jungle that one must drive three hours through the rain forest on a pass often not wide enough for two vehicles (Maui’s version of a country road!) to get there. Every day Stephan hikes down to the electric blue ocean for a dip, rinses off in his solar heated outdoor shower, and falls asleep to the sound of massive rains striking his tent.

Some might say Stephan has sacrificed the luxury of indoor plumbing and a bed for this organic jungle orchard….but I wonder.

There were very few people with clothing on at the beach. There were even fewer people who thought anything of it. We were all natural and perfect as we were born, dancing in the sands of Maui’s only public nude shore called Little Beach, temporarily nicknamed Mini Beach due to the recent violent storms washing half the sand out to sea and my dread locks apparently smuggling the other half back to the mainland with me. Noah and I were guests of honor, or at least made to feel so. Was it just me or did all Maui’s best drummers come out just because Noah, master djembe percussionist and beautiful human being was in town? Was it just me or did every dancer make eye contact, offer an exchange, share movement with me within the circle? Whatever it was, it is not every day that I find myself raising arms to the setting sun in praise while musicians climax thick rhythms in honor and whales leap just off shore in elation or whatever it is whales feel leaping around like that. The waxing moon rose bright above our shoulders, I rolled around in the warm nite surf and hugged indiscriminately so many strangers; suddenly friends. But best of all, I witnessed Noah blossom in his element, surrounded by people who appreciate his skills, namely one, myself, in special appreciation of his soul.

Some might say Noah and I have sacrificed a community to tour in STOMP…but that’s not the way I see it.

The way I see it, this concept of sacrifice is an idolization of martyrdom keeping our dreams ever in the distance, like the star apple dangling on the highest branch - fulfillment always just out of reach. “No pain, no gain.” “All things worth having are worth working for.” How many times have we been told that “nothing comes easy”. Is it really so valiant to play victim? While our Judeo-Christian society’s concept of sacrifice certainly has its rewards, like recognizing pain as part of the cycle, pointing out the silver lining and instilling patience (as well as workaholism) in a society, I wish to point out, shout out, and prove that sacrifice is one of the paths to attainment – not the path, and certainly not the ideal path.

Therefore, let us replace this concept of sacrifice with the concept of priority. Struggling artists make sacrifices. Successful artists have priorities. Unhappy housewives have “given something up” for their family. Happy housewives have “chosen” their family. The difference lies in perception, not situation. We always have a choice. What we are choosing is exactly what we are getting in every moment, and with this comes a gigantic responsibility. It means that at any time we could throw that alarm clock out the window, binge on that pint of Ben and Jerry’s, punch our boss in the unibrow or by all means, postpone gratification for as long as we believe fit. It also means we could have everything we desire right now in this very moment simply by placing it in priority. For as soon as we choose something, it is equally choosing us, on its way as magnetically toward us as we it. In essence, with clear enough priorities, our attainment is already ours, rolling at our feet, just waiting for us to open arms.

And herein lies the realization of this responsibility: there is ever only one choice to make. Paradise is not some remote tropical island populated by artists, raw foodists, surfers and laid back Philipinos which we can visit once a year or better yet, move to forever. But it is wherever I open my suitcase…underneath my achy feet…in my best friend’s blue eyes.

Let our favorite fruit be always the one we are eating. Choose no change, and know paradise now.

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The seasons are powerful, unspoken rituals in modern society. The unbridled celebration of summer, when days seem small change, tossed carelessly into a fountain, bubblegum machine, or homeless man’s cup…the inward turning of autumn, when introspect takes hold – even the Sun, like a painter, steps away for a broader perspective… We are humans and in spite of our growing urban infrastructures and forced central heating, we are not separate from the seasons as our opposable thumb vanities might have us believe. Instead, we are humans: of nature and integrally a part of nature. There is no need to align to, praise or worship these cycles – we are the cycles. Through this shared common experience, community is born, whether we choose to acknowledge it or not.

On tour in late January in upstate New York I am doing quite a bit of community birthing as of recent. Staring at midnite snowfall through frost bitten windows, I cover skin with layers of oil and fabrics just to step from parking lot to stage door. Attempting with tea and exercise to “warm up” backstage, I find muscles in protest, joints on strike, and a deep seated shiver preventing me from performing like I know I am capable. There is no more isolating experience than living full-time on the road – I will call it solitary confinement, a spiritual Vow of Shadows. Your friends are long distance, your love life a joke, your family always a thousand miles away. Coupled with the seclusion of winter, loneliness can quite easily push one into the corners of an unfamiliar hotel room, emerging neither for fun nor food, forgetting to change dirty clothes and wondering how your back yard looks in Michigan now, where the photographer you met in New York might be tonite, or if the boy you fell in love with in Chicago remembers you at all.

If the first lesson in power is that we are all alone, these are strong days indeed. I know self-reliance. I am a master of independence. I will persevere and will succeed. Winter has a way of breeding heartiness through hardship. Inescapable and ironic, the exact event that drives an entire population into isolation is the shared ritual that unites that community.

The first lesson in power is that we are all alone.
The last lesson of power is that we are all one.

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