[Imperative Statement: If you are skipping to this blog because you have some attachment to the archaic, sick idea of "chronology," cease this nonsense and go up and read the first one. This blog is meaningless if you don't read the first one.]
So... sickness. Yes, this subject was prompted by something happening in reality and not just a random occurrence in my confused head. I am sick. No, this isn't an epitaph - it's just a cold. A specific kind of cold that I have developed and mastered over the years - I know the ins and outs of this particular affliction like the back of my hand. This particular cold, which I've come to fondly call Old Coldy, develops over a period of three or four days that are marked by a certain lack of sleep. That's when I realize that I am legitimately sick and start laying down the welcome mat. It'll feel mild for the first day or so of being a real cold, but it has yet to reach it's zenith. The climax will last for maybe a day or so, and slowly subside for the next few days. All in all, Old Coldy will usually stay for about a week at a time, assuming of course, that one takes all the sensible steps in treating a cold - lots of rest, water, showering and nose-blowing, which I always take special pleasure in doing. You see, I like to make Old Coldy feel right at home when he comes to visit (I don't see him for months at a time, you see), make him feel appreciated and wanted. For, unlike all these people who feel "trapped" or "alone" or some such nonsense when they're bed-ridden, I relish my time spent sick. I only just realized it yesterday, but I really enjoy sickness. The occassional unstoppable bouts of coughing are of course unpleasant, but the overall experience I find to be so calm and wonderful. Recently I realized that I seek, more than anything else, old age. All these excitements and sensations and abilities and stresses associated with youth and capability just aren't for me; oh sure, I enjoy futebol and rollercoasters and will cut a rug from time to time, but all the while I secretly wish I had an excuse to slip away and take a walk through some woods and eat an apple. And although there aren't any woods here, I also recently discovered that a darkened, empty house is quite a magical thing, and I was content to shuffle about in the dark, carefully pouring myself a glass of water and groping about for door handles. The only problem is that I am still young, and I will soon tire of this lifestyle and heal, and will have to reenter the world running. But these past few days, and perhaps the next couple as well, have been wonderful practice for that great day when I officially turn old.
And now for my sublime and truly marvelous transition to my next subject, stadiums. Three nights ago, as Old Coldy was knocking more persistently, I, perhaps unwisely, went to a stadium to see a futebol match. And though my transition may not have lived up to expectations, I must say my first Brazilian futebol match did. I went with Estevao (you may remember him from a blog about religion), who was also becoming a man in terms of futebol. Our arrival at the stadium was most intimidating. We did not know which entrance to take, or indeed, where to buy tickets, and with security performing searches at intervals around the complex, we were searched several times. And I tell you, I hadn't expected to be asked to spread my legs, and even after I understood what I was asked, it still took me until a few moments after it happened to understand why I needed to. In any case though, we made it in, and found relatively isolated seats so that we wouldn't be too pressured to take part in whatever hooliganizing that might take place. But from the moment we walked in, the atmosphere was oppressively festive; we were about 25 yards to the left of a group of drummers who drummed for the entire 90 minutes, pausing only every 10 minutes or so to decide what beat they should switch to. And then, to our right, there was the overpowering presence of the rippling mass of fans that filled the bleachers overlooking the field from the side (in Brazil, they don't really have bleachers - they have levels of concrete; it gives the stadium a feeling akin to an amphitheater - one feels connected to the sport in a very esoteric and meaningful way). The most striking thing about the behavior of the mass, though, was its exact mirroring of what happened on the field, even the subtle aspects that you'd never expect an American crowd to react to. The mass recognizes when its team is putting together a particularly promising set of passes, and it can feel when the other team seems to be coming on stronger than they'd like. I think it's because Brazilians can somehow feel the energy of the game in a unique way, and that also probably has something to do with the 5 world cups that Brazil keeps in some glass cabinet somewhere. At any rate, another particularly striking thing about the experience was the sheer volume - I think it's one of the mysterious blessings of life that an oval happens be both the most convenient shape to arrange bleachers and an amazing acoustic device. When Guarani (the local club) scored a goal, it was like some prankster had snuck an enormous amplifier over to my proximity and placed a few quality microphones amongst the huge crowd over to the right - it is uniquely moving and powerful. And in between these explosions there is the steady beat of drums, and when the crowd senses that everything is going well, it will sing songs; after the second goal, it sang and sang for what must have been about 15 minutes, the same song over and over (and the song was only about 5 lines long too). If watching a futebol match on TV is like listening to a CD, goin
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