Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Cerebral: Sambalero

This is an experiment in cerebral writing. Is that a thing, you ask? Maybe. Yes? Fuck, I don't know. I got the idea from Rex when he had me look at Pinterest pictures in a specialized order while listening to a Ryan Adams song when the singer/songwriter was all strung out on heroin. It was pretty awesome. So, I decided to do something sort of similar. This first outing is for women. Ladies, did you ever want to disappear to the South American forests of your untamed heart? Well, then find the song "Sambalero" by Stan Getz and Luiz Bonfá, and play it while reading this simultaneously.

"In The Forest Eternal"
a cerebral narrative to the song "sambalero" by jake kilroy.

It is early evening, and you are in a sundress. The sun has just set, it is beloved darkness that sails over you and whispers a sweet breeze into the pores of your skin. You blink madly, finally deceived by life, you think. There is a live band off to your left and a gorgeous dinner party spread with several tables. Your eyes are trying to seduce your brain. Your stomach aches with energy. Your heart slows to a cough, as if pulling on the final ashes of a bourbon-laced cigar. You are happy. You are more than happy. You have reached the precipice of joy, as it puts its fingers around your waist and breathe into your ear, only to let crystalized laughs float through your head like hot air balloons in spring time.

Your dress and your shoes are the color of a well-groomed lover's teeth, so you stand out in the forest where you cannot place the moon. It hangs above you like a chandelier. You look at the settling sky until your neck groans. You look down again. Somehow, you had not noticed the many people before you when you first snuck into wilderness. They are dancing, and they are happy. They are sick with happiness. It has riddled their bodies perfect. The band plays samba for them, and they move like waves against each other, crashing with salty air pluming from their small mouths like slender, dark engines.

A gentleman takes you by the hand. He has skin that looks like coffee with generous helpings of sugar added and stirred. His arms are strong, his jawline is straight, and his smile is soft. He leads you to the dance floor where the people are moving as if they are underwater. The black hair of the women twists and falls with grace like cliff divers at the end of summer, when there is no reason to go home. You sway with the locals and breathe in air that coats your lungs like coconut milk. You watch the band. They treat their instruments like first loves, and you can pick stars out of the glowing brass of their horns. All of their eyes are closed, as they too have disappeared into the great spell of the evening.

You sigh with relief, feeling the dazzling spectacle of music swallowing your insides, and you forget time. You forget places. You forget your name. You forget all that was before this moment, and you are without thought, even now. It is just sounds and sights, and the others agree without words. It is just a dance floor at a dinner party in the middle of a forest somewhere in the depths of summer.

The world is truly beautiful and glorious, and all that exists now is joy.

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