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RAMBLIN WAYN -- ART
Music- Poetry- Paintings LIVIN' IS AN ART - VIRTUAL GALERY
NÃ, THE MYSTERIOUS INDIAN WOMAN - a short story AS TOLD by Wayn Pieters PART 1 OF 2
I'm in the Brazilian Mato Grosso and longing for the love of an Indian woman. Then I met her: Ná, which in de Tupi language means 'direction of flowing water'. I's afternoon along the Paraquai river. Ná is older then me, ten years. She is fifty-eight, a descendant of the Umotina tribe and her grandparents still have the pure tribal-blood. Her mother is somehow mixed with a 'Cafuz' resulting in negro-blood flowing through her veins. But her Indian look is so magical that it neglected the black influence. Ná is beautiful. Her age does not hurt her appearence, and she have a appeal that only, someone who's attracted to the Indian woman, perceives. Her smell is so strong that no one can refuses her. Never i tell you, never could anyone withstand her, because he will be attracted by a higher atmosphere into space. Her past plays further no role in this concept because it's so immensely sad, that this made her stronger and incouraged her. Ná is lonely. She is a whore. I see her sitting near the water, close to her cabin, and i feel that something in her attracted me like a fly to a carnivorous plant. Ná invited me in to her cabin when the sun allready sets. In the cabin are four hammocks, four parrots and a red-faced monkey. The matress is made of different types of leaves and grass and i smell the sweet scent of flower-oil. I wonna say something but she brings her finger lovely to my lips. Then she strips of her blouse with red lace and little dancing figures, which reminds me of Asian dancers. Her breast are of a colour i've never seen before and they were shining because of the evening sweat. Her hair falls down her oval face, a face without a wrinkle, as polished by forest fairies. Her mouth looks like a carnal pearl. O my God. This is what i thought. Her nipples were swollen like the red colour of the Kaki fruit and clamped on two hills of flesh. When she strip of her dress my world turns in to a paradise, a no longer existing world, a blurring of masses, utopia, a sleep where dreams blossems into enchantment. Her stomach, the valley to the higher spirits and her tights are full of large scarves, they seems like wounds of affliction compared with het beautiful face. Each leg is tattooed with two snakes in vertical form. Her feet are small and on top tattooed with butterflies and hummingbirds. Then she walks to me like a female deer, undressed me and put a penetrating turtle oil on me, so that my penis was a gleaming in the twilight of the cabin. Then she let the monkey and parrots outside into the world of nature. After that Ná is ready for love and i knew that only death can make me forget her. It seems a dream, a long trip with no destination, hoping that the journey will never end. It is the transcendental reality of humanity, surrealism in a naive form, led to positions of full enjoment. It was fate that guide me here, to the woman along the river Paraquai. Just to Love. Outside i hear the sound of falling rain and the river will be ready soon for bathing, as the sun rise again. She makes a herbal thee and I get crushed alligator bones, which are nutritious and against infections. I will never leave Ná. How could I? But she shakes her head and says I must leave her. 'Women are ruthless,' thas what i tought, but it was an important moment in my life, an apotheosis, a huge journey, how could I go? My dream has lived, but now? I look one more time and see her sitting along the river combing her hair. She don't looks back. It's a scourge for me and I know that talk to her again no longer make sense. It's over and i go my way.
I wake up chaotic and my head is hot and dizzy. My mouth is bone dry. The alcohol has swept me away in a dream of bright moments. My subconcious has been so intens it defies reality, even beyond. I lay naked in bed. It's damn hot and the humidity of the unconcious love-act soaked the cloth. There's a sense of longing I never felt. Yes, the woman i can recall, i saw her this morning in the city. It was her. I'm sure of that. She is the woman who called herself Ná in my dream, and this dream continues haunting me, just like those greedy stimulations. I drink a bottle of white rum, which Brazilians call 'cachaça or pinga' and end up in a cheap rotten motel accompained by a young whore. But i'm fuckin' impotent of mind and body and feeling sick, no, this is not real, this is bizarre. Beside lies the young hooker Ximxim and Lord, she's beautifull in her nudity, a girl of the forest, suckled by white and indian blood, a beauty handed over to the cruel world of prostitution. But she does it all for her sick father, only for him, she says. The world is rotten, a filthy shit-hole. I kiss her, be nice to her, but she's motionless, a inexperienced hooker without a will. I think back to Ná and the reason i can't explain. Then Ximxim tells me her short life story. The death of her mother, raped by loggers, hanging from her legs to a tree and chopped in half. Here sisters were raped and beaten to death by drunk men without brains and hearts. Her father was not at home and went crazy of grieve. She maneged to escape te barbarians. It happened one year ago, and now she lies in my arms, damned! Petrified with tick eyes of tears. How must i consider this? Is there a concept for such a life? I stay with the girl untill the first rays of sun came through the dirty window, put my clothes on and thinks of Ná again. I gave Ximxim some money and leave the stinking hotel.
I walk to the river, the one i saw in my dream. The place and the little cabin. Is this a shadow? It's a foggy day and morning mist floating between the trees. Cobalt blue angel ghost. Or they are just fucking bullies, ignorant and desillusionment. I going to doubt myself. I come to the river and my head is empty. I feeling sick and my my heart runs like a pressure hammer. I find the cottage and call her name. No answer. The cabin is still in decline and i see colorful birds fly out and pigs and anteaters running out the frontdoor. Yes i was there. Yesterday afternoon, and everything was like i see it now. The cabin... Ná... why? I sit down beneath a tree and cry. Nobody mourn for me, just the animals on the waterside and a fat sloth in a hig tree-top. As an old fisherman pass by i ask him for Ná.....
VISIT AT THE 'ANTONIO PARREIRAS' MUSEA, NITEROI, RJ BRAZIL 22 SEPT. 2009 PART1
Sept. 22 2009 I re-visited the museum of Parreira in Niteroi, Brazil, which is housed in his old living-house. The museum is maintained by the state of Rio de Janeiro. I was warmly welcomed and had a pleasant conversation with the negro guide. Upon my request i visited the studio and got a sense of 'saudade' to the time Parreiras painted here not far from the Guanabara bay, there where the Indians once had their home.
ANTONIO DIOGO DA SILVA PARREIRA 1860-1937 -BRAZILIAN PAINTER -BORN IN NITEROI, RJ BRASIL part 1 Although his work was quite made up by historical and nude paintings, he expressed himself the best in landscapes, combined brazilian natives influences with certain European. In 1883 he met the german painter George Grimm who thaught him landscape, flora and wildlife painting. Parreiras visit many times Europe. He returned to Brazil permanently in 1914.
PAINTING TRAVIS LOUIE -UNTITLED '... When I was 5 years old I wanted to be King Kong. I wanted to climb the Empire State Building, clutching a beautifull little blond woman, while bi-planes circled around me trying to shoot my hairy ass down...' which five year old boy would'nt be King Kong? thanks Travis, RW
Born in Stoney Fork, Watuaga County, North Carolina 3 march 1923
Together with his grandson (son of Merle) Richard in 2003
Doc & son Merle Make me A Pallet" and "Streamline Cannonball." From the DVD "Doc & Merle Watson In Concert." http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7iMBBmFlrs Merle died tragically as a result of a tractor ent on his farm in Lenoir, Nc in 1985, 36 years old
Together with Merle pickin' at a drugstore near Nashville 1984
Lately I heard that Doc has suffering health problems... all the best Doc!
thanks to the DOCSGUITAR.com
added: Merle Watson Doc at the age of 16 with one of his first guitars Gallagher Doc Watson's signature model (fot courtesy of Gallaghar guitars)