Dear Everyone,
I am living on a mountain outside of a village called Cunha. I am on a small farm or a sitio as they say. The mountain is called: Mountain of The Stars. (for good reason) In the morning when the clouds drift in and fill the valleys below, it appears as though I were standing on a cloud. It is here that I take my morning coffee with angels, who having had to much to drink, either got lost or forgot to go home. So I can tell you first hand that Rilke was right:
WHO if I cried out might hear me-among the ranked Angels? Even if One suddenly clasped me to his heart I would suddenly die from the force of his being. For beauty is only the infant of scarcely endurable terror, and we are amazed when it casually spares us. Every Angel is terror. ...we should be struck down by our hammering hearts. What are you? ...you pour out your beauty but your faces gather it back to yourselves.
These are my mornings. Eventually They meander into the fog and vanish. By seven the sun has burnt off the cloud cover and the roosters begin to crow.
Here on Serra da Estrela, you get up with the sun and by nine pm your lounging by the fire with a glass of red wine ready to fall asleep. There is nothing to do here but work. In my case write. Other activities include, horse back riding, sitting in the sauna, freezing in the pool, masturbating or getting drunk, if you can afford it. (I cant. So the moments of clarity are many and refreshing.) At night it drops to the mid 50s. During the day it can get up to 80 but the breeze keeps it about 70. Its very quiet here. The landscape is so beautiful it looks fake. I may come to resent this. The only down side to the place is there are no whores.
There is no communication here. We have to travel to Cunha for an internet cafe so I will be incommunicado for most of the time. My next time to Cunha will be next monday the 14th. around 3 or 4pm. (that is 4 or 5pm EST.) So rest assured that I have not been Kidnapped, Drugged, or Raped. (Yet.)
Peace n love
Yours,
Love the knife, Sirkowski
P.S.
STILL WITH AN EFFIGY IN HIS CHEST
On a side note. Epiphanies in Brazil, or an epitaph if you will. August, 1996 to August, 2001: I think of those years as a hiccup: the Molly years. Ten in total and the poison lives on. The darkest period of my life. It took me four years to find my way out and even then I could barely function. The memory is like swallowing puke. And when I think of it; it is of no wonder that she couldnt love me. How could she? I didnt even exist.
I knew it was for never on December 31st 1999 when I called you from Ireland to wish you a happy New Year. Maybe just to hear your voice. As if you cared. I knew you werent thinking of me. This was the last time I called you and you didnt even notice. In Ireland theres no place to cry. Thats why they all go abroad.
Here in Brazil, if I could bury my self in these hills, if I thought it would work, I would: Here lies one whose name was writ on water. His lips interred below the Mango tree.
Yours
no more
Sirkowski.