One can dig one's past and run empirical tests to objectively determine where one was at a given moment in life. That is, one can find rational data points that evidence one's modus operandi and one's routine precisely preceding an existential breaking point. See actions precisely preceding one of those monumental moments when we have the audacity to claim: "that moment or that event changed me."
When I seek these data points, I first look at past financial statements and see trends in spending. These indicate choices made and form of living. I then opt to open past journals. These indicate state of mind and form of feeling. These tests often reveal me as an unaware and stupidly ignorant being. A being living without knowing what destiny has in store for it.
I am now reliving that past. I am now running those empirical tests and looking at what happened during the six months preceding that morning of December 23rd.
Six months before my grandmother's passing, I had arrived back to my homeland from the United States. While all the lovely achalasia events occurred in the background, I was focused on one mission. That was: experimenting, first hand, an intellectual "construct" I picked up in a book I read during my transition away from New York.
I am prone to ADD so it is rare that I pick such a thing from reading. I am active. And need to "produce." The trading floor and New York aggravated this condition. If I did Yoga, it was to work out. If I read a book, it had to have a finite purpose. Learn Portuguese? Okay, read. Learn about a new market? Okay, read. Travelling to a new country? Okay, read! So it was rare that I would engage in reading as a hobby or for pleasure. There was no time.
However, a bomb had landed on my hands years ago. It was a package that Lady Y had given me in lieu of my 25th birthday. I recall the moment perfectly. She looked beautiful. In a black designer dress. Picked up from the hip joints in Nolita. The music blasted away in my 14th floor Tribeca apartment. Friends, artists, bankers, lovers, frolicked in corridors and the tiny kitchen. All sipped drinks away in the vast balcony. While the party rocked, Lady Y brought me aside, and said: "these are for you. X, let these bring you all I have to say to you, happy birthday! These are for your own time. For your own silence. Enjoy the ride."
At 8:00am in the morning when the majority of guests had left, I brought her into my room. I kissed her. I looked into her eyes. I thanked her. The muggy June New York summer heat came through the window. We heard the chanting to memory ballads from drunken guests partying away in the balcony. Cars sped away in the West Side highway. The Hudson river flowed through it all. I proceeded to open the package in front of her. "The Razor's Edge", "Fountainhead", "Demian", "And thus spoke Zaratustra" and "Liquidation" were in paperback and hard cover. They starred at me. Lady Y did too. I thought, Lady Y is my life. These are to become ceremonial objects to me. I need to save them for the right moment. I need to dedicate them the time that these authors dedicated in writing them. The time she dedicated to pick them and dedicate them to this moment. All of this meant falling further in love with Lady Y. It meant marrying her, instantly, without her knowing, of course. It meant I would finally understand how she felt about me. What she thought I needed to hear from her but she had not said out loud. She is such an important being in my existence.
The party ended. The books remained. Work started on Monday. The trading floor waited. The books, did as well. And they waited for 24 months for me to open them. When I left Goldman Sachs, it was the first piece of reading I picked up. Time. Time. Time. I finally had time.
Thus, the ceremonies began. I gulped " The Razors Edge" in a weekend. Away at a beach I imagined the story parallels and the main character and I fused. I thought myself living in a similar world. Colonial America was modern China. A vast land awaiting for exploration. I was to become a new coloniser of that world post my Masters. I was to lead my career to this vast land and economy. I was to grow in this unique moment in the history of the world as this economy transformed. I worked on my Masters applications, I was inspired.
Applications submitted and then, Herman Hesse, Demian, came. Second is always best. He emerged onto my hands in a flight that took me back to my homeland. In the very critical logistical movement of me leaving that island of Manhattan that housed me, bred me, and gave me birth again. As the pages turned, my mind and spirit shook. Is it possible that I am writing this? Is it possible that Hesse knows me? I shut the book down. It had to be re-started. Man, I had a bomb in my hands. And I sought a bomb. I sought lightning. I sought some awakening and this very book seemed to be it.
So I installed myself back in the homeland. And started painting. Canvases. I often escaped the city to the country house my parents had built over a span of 13 years. This house was their fifth child. It was brought up with love, room by room, terrazes, porsches of perfection, all built through stages. I loved it like a sibling. When I abandoned my cup of tea and my easel, it was to read Demian. I paused to delight, at every page, delight turn it. And I would hide myself. at the age of 27 mind you [how embarrassing] somewhere in the gardens, which our entire family planted over a span of 20 years. This place was paradise. It was fitting for the purpose of reading this book. To unearthing this bomb. Because reading Demian felt as though my own self had been transported to childhood and puberty. It felt as though it was me who started narrating a story without from within. This house evoked precisely that: childhood.
On page 101, it finally arrived. It said:
"I do not consider myself less ignorant than most people. I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books; I have begun to listen to the teachings my blood whispers to me. My story is not a pleasant one; it is neither sweet nor harmonious, as invented stories are; it has the taste of nonsense and chaos, of madness and dreams — like the lives of all men who stop deceiving themselves. Each man's life represents the road toward himself, and attempt at such a road, the intimation of a path. No man has ever been entirely and completely himself. Yet each one strives to become that — one in an awkward, the other in a more intelligent way, each as best he can."
My mandate was clear: to attempt. I gave myself instructions: from now and until you leave for your Masters, you are to apply ourself to one thing only, with full rigour, to live this "construct" thoroughly, daily. The concept landed on me like a bomb. It dropped within and like a mushroom of vapour that spread across my mind and spirit. It is precisely this idea of "walking the path to self." As an unfulfilled destiny. As the ultimate and only goal that fuelled me. Powerful as living hell.
And I remembered. This was a construct that was introduced to me by lady Y. And I remain eternally grateful. Little did she know, her gift would single handedly change many parameters, standards. And, at embark onto an entirely new journey in life.
And so, there I was. In my homeland, criss-crossing it, painting it, when Hesse slowly started finding its way into me. Soon after he told me this, I see myself picking up a pen on a grand balcony, with the Andes mountains around, and jotting down random thoughts.
"What the world needs now is love sweet love. NOPE! What I NEED NOW is love sweet love. What a couple months. Feel myself dislocated in body, mind, clothes, organs, pieces all over. All around and arming together. This shattering seems to be uncontrollable. I grow again, put together, organically. No one, not me, affects this process. More than once things have felt out of hand. Happening one after another all because of exogenous events. Maybe not. Maybe not with words. Across me, shaken it all up at no command. Dreaming of another place seems uncalled for. We can all be free. Maybe not with words. Maybe with looks. Minding the gap of the ocean, wandering, wondering too. Who do I listen to? Should I? And how? We all have "a thing" Where is the one I look for? We can all be fee! I really don't mind the gap. We got to choose. I got to wish. Not command. I just don't know right now what to remember. There is so much room right now to continue. Just one space. After another. Enough space to discover. Discover with all. With it all."
And I stand back. And just wonder: what!? This is no clear conclusion nor data point.
Fittingly, the Chinese Medicine man asked me [without knowing this was happening] to jot down a transcript of my dreams so we would unearth all the stones of my mind. And look at all sources to find the genesis of the discomfort and blockage. And so, I wrote, "Curating my Dreams." Unsorted bullets came up:
- Introduction: Recently, the pattern of my dreams has been affected. Rest is superficial. The level of activity is constant and feels revolutionary. It is not evolutionary. It is chaotic. And anarchic.
- Bullet 1: I cannot remember what I dream in detail. I cannot recall specific images. I have not trained my mind or applied it for such a thing. The volume and range of possible revelations and my incapacity to want to face them is limiting my success.
- Bullet 2: My dreams occur in all kinds of places. I can see corn fields filled with water and a dear friend pulling rabbits under her crotch and throwing them back into the water. I walk across high mountain ranges covered with green grass, urban plazas spread below. In these places are people who normally have a human defined form. In this sense, my dreams are "rational." I am not inventing beings or shapes for people from fantasy. I dream, instead, with people and events that are quite literate, yet off tempo, and off place. The irrationality lays in the actual succession of events.
- Bullet 3: The most common place are situations that are actually taking place in my life but need some sort of resolution. When I dream like this, I cannot remember having a voice. I do not recall speaking. It is more as though I am looking at myself from a telecopy or looking glass. In this sense, I do see a pattern. And that is that my dreams evoke irrational outcomes of the pending.
- Bullet 4: I have not seen a manageable metaphysical construct in my dreams. Where my destiny is manifested. Rather, I dream of situations are actual, real, sober, and from present tense.
- Bullet 5: My dreams seem to often revolve around love or lack of it. The latter is more prevalent. The lack of intimate relationships is a grave conscious issue I face and seems to persuade me to limit myself to not look for love freely. It comes from an early age and instead I seem to be a private being in this aspect. It is an auto-impossed celibate in all that has to do with my personal life. Frequently, therefore, in my dreams come with moments from past encounters that were random. I cannot recall the dialogue in those interactions.
- Bullet 6: I am not clear if this is about seeking or searching. Or if these conversations derive from something profound and existential or sexual and carnal and silent. It is not recognisable to me. The detail. It cannot be extracted. But it is palpable in its repetition that there is a void.
- Bullet 7: Since I returned to Ecuador, the actual physical position in which I sleep has also changed. I wake up always, in one of three positions. First, facing the mattress, with my arms completely asleep, dead almost, trapped under my torso. Second, with my face facing the mattress but this time instead with my hands linked tightly under my forehead, almost is protecting it. And lastly, and this is the highlight of my nights, I have woken up kneeling, in ninja pose, ready for combat. Obviously I wake up, and think, "you are ridiculous" why are you kneeling in your sleep." I sense there is trouble breathing properly. I am not resting. My stomach is also constantly burning and I feel choked. It is often a combination of these factors that wake me up at night. I think the combat positions owe to being pointed with a gun and have my skull open by thieves. And the protective forehead owes to the falling of two metal shelves on my face while I slept due to my obstinate need to place my entire college career, in shapes of books and binders, on these shelfs which were loosely nailed to the wall atop my bed.
- Conclusion: The abrupt adjustment to my dreaming activity started since I returned to Ecuador. Since I started giving myself the opportunity to walk the path to my own "normality" and not operate under a routine that was so intense as my prior eras. I realize that I see myself jumping from mountain to mountain.
I work with images of complex pasts that I am not willing to share. I convince myself that these are un-important data points for my doctor. And for me. I decide not to show him the notes. I break the notion of the pattern and instead think of these as isolated events. It is clear, in the back of my mind, that I am searching, for something, that I often face an abysm, literal or constructed. And that I often want to help. Others. Not me.
I keep the note to myself. I do not share. I go back to the path. Solitary exploration. Off I go. Again. To myself.
These data points become un-analyzable often. They are not good. But, then, my diary, five days prior to my grandmother's passing, finally reveals a testimony that is one workable data point. It went:
I was told while experiencing a grave cough and penetrable fever, recently, by a friend, who I found late in life, that my astral life prescribes a new era in life. The judgment or prescription does not seem all too wrong. In this moment of my life, now that I prefer to wrap up the year 2009, my 27 years mid-point, I feel something is about to change.
There is nothing other than the sense of self-expansion. An expansion that is more complex than all superficiality put together. All of it. Than all the walking on surfaces. Now, something has attached itself to a degree of profoundness. And the cost has been charged. The price paid. Emotional and rational recognitions.
There is no more other than put a list together, and to deal, to deal, with what is left pending. It all has to be resolved, concluded, closed. Simple but will be extensive labor. I am in profound concsiousness of my soul's void. And I am not victim outwardly. But internally, crippled. Wake up. You been sleeping.
Already there are so many urgencies and suddenly flowing, like an aimless river, is not an option. There are urgent priorities. Time is indeed happening. Time already has happened. I ought to become more punctual, more directed, more intentional. Yet, directed where? To houses with white fences? To spacial moments of out of body trips? To global office interiors where I can reach impact? Where?
What to do?
How to get there? How to get it?
How many scales?
To what platform?
Reason or soul?
Is there a meeting point?
Permit revelations?
Create revelations?
Who should be filtered?
Continuous solitude?
Dreams of self-delivery?
Is self-delivery possible?
To whom?
How?
With whom?
Ego or happy life?
Is there a difference?
I should resist answering each of these question at some point. These are weaknesses. I should rather explore with a clean soul, clear, and thinking soul. Capable of hikling, traversing. exploring with an open front. Tender eyes open to light. And thespirit smiling only due to the possibility of living. This is enough.
It is that this stage has been about solstices and silent rewards that are difficult to place. Existing from a point so contracted yet vast, existing with the gusto for privacy and the freaking choosing. With masochism for subtle trues that do not shine when exposed. Negating the impossible overreaction and instead choose for decisions that seem to no longer be as strategic and tactical as they truly are.
Listening to myself saying this is almost as terrible as feeling it. There is a point where the strategy-zing has to end. Its presence is necessary for now but it must end. Or it will end my life. Its worth is not up for debate. And it is pertinent to acknowledge that this respond to the public persona created.
Feelings one cannot organise. Feelings one shan't not prioritise. Feelings are not to be controlled.
Feelings are reventing. Exploiting. In millions of centesimal seconds. And that is precisely when a fury appears and why this whole astrological change is needed and makes sense. Because too much time has been lost. Too much strategy has been delivered.
So, now, constructive, X, mister constructive you are to be. To look for that point of awakening and self-realization. To find the point of fury and not let it dawn again. Discover again the tranquility that is absolute and focuses in one and no one other than one. Only then are you there.To give yourself capably, fully. All point to become visible and all option to exist. To live light. Unchained. Complete. Ready for any event to come. For any moment. For any viscicitude. Then you can list whatever you want to list. For now, the list is clear. What really is happening is pending."
I finally, unaware, have a data point. I did not acknowledge it. My grandmother died. Chamomile had spread across the skies. I realised, though, my path had not been walked and experienced. It was a mental construct. Nothing else. I decided, quietly, I am to leave in the New Year to go off to the depths of the ocean and see it for myself, to the depths of India and survive it for myself, to the depths of China and learn it for myself, to the depths of Brazil and penetrate it for myself. And that was resolved.
My grandmother's passing felt as a tragedy. She was ready to leave. I knew she kept herself alive for us. But one is never prepared for death. Death lingers but attacks. It waits. And always, attacks. Death attacks. Death attacks.
9/17/2011
9/16/2011
Chapter 4: Chamomile
Somehow, I managed over the span of three years, to get degree #4 [the tamest form of them all] of achalasia, also known in hospital corridor lingo as "mega-esophagus". When I receive the verdict, the doctor disappeared into the hospital's interior for at least forty minutes. He was gleaming when he came back. He said, "everyone at the hospital cannot believe it, this is something that is so rare, and even when it occurs, it is rarely caught... you my dear son are the popular guy around." Oh the joy.
We leave his office understanding the following:
- Achalasia is a rare disease. When it arises in its "pure form," meaning that it is not caused by an external factor [enter tropical mosquitoes!] it has no known cause and no known cure. Woohoo!
- Achalasia, in this form, happens to 0.5 among 300,000 people. Half of me, or better yet, one full me got this among 600,000 people. That is just great. What else?
- It starts with a subtle closure of the lower part of the esophagus. The affected start experiencing choking [check!], difficulty swallowing liquids [check!] and solids [check!] and quite often painstaking pains in the stomach. Burning sensations [preaching to the choir] across the digestive system and most often lead to mal-nutrition.
- When un-treated for a long time, affected Achalasians develop a second stomach on the esophagus. Because of now swallowing food properly, one stores food in the upper digestive system and so the esophagus expands to the extent that it looses its function as a passage way. It no longer performs its contracting sphincter function and becomes a dead muscle.
- There are a few options to treating these. The old way consisted of inflating a balloon up the oesophagus and expanding the lower section so the passage function is enabled. The solution is temporary, it creates damage and it has to be reverted, done again every six months, and eventually will require surgery. The new option consists of surgery. This part was a bit unclear in Ecuador. No cases of Achalasia had been registered across the main hospitals. And this meant no real expertise was around.
We start consulting with doctors left and right. I did not have time for it. Most of my research was done by my caretakers. We start meeting specialists in gastro surgery. most of whom had become popular doctors as the obesity surgeries and the gastric bypass became popular among the high class in Ecuador. In quick fashion, we short-list two doctors. Their costs were similar. This factor was important as I forewent my insurance since leaving New York and was uncovered. In any event, my parents are not allowing anything but the best and these were the best. We are told be each of them, that they were the specialists on the theme. Both had performed hundreds of reflux fundouplication procedures, an operation a Dutch had devised to fix reflux problems, and then they described the actual needed procedure, a Dhor-something surgery, was something they had not per-se done but were in full confidence to do it.
The process is outlined. We are told that this would be a simple surgery overall. I would be admitted early morning on a Monday, and then admitted to the surgery room that day, be surgerized, and then be interned for two days. A liquid diet should follow for four days. After that, a semi-liquid only diet for 10 days. And then the process would follow with a semi-solid diet for three weeks. I would be able to work in a week's time. I would not be able to drive for seven days following the operation. But after that, it should all go swimingly.
My parents are concerned. My grandfather opens old encyclopaedias. He learns about the described procedures but also learns further about the disease. I am asked to take ownership and do so superficially. I start learning that the expertise world-wide is quite limited. This seemed in line with the doctors' verdict. I also learn that in Brazil, this is a frequent disease. Not achalasia itself, but the mega-esophagus reference. Apparently there is a lovely tiny mosquito, living and frolicking in tropical climates, called Shagas. When this beast of a fly bits you, you might as well relinquish all territory and expire. Flews, dissiness, even death occur. All of this with the major luck of also receiving the dormant, lazy, uncooperative oesophagus. We learn this but somehow remain convinced the treatment I would receive is fair and positive. In my rushed, let's-just-deal-with-this, mode, we decide to schedule a surgery for Monday, December 8th. A few days after the Fiestas de Quito. The crazy partying that my city ensues around bull-fighting. With the notice ahead. we proceed.
But life turns. My "madrina," godmother, and grandmother, falls sick. A woman whose legacy had been the prime source of inspiration for our family, who has combated the inability to listen to the world, falls sick. We think twice. The timing does not suit. We post-pone the surgery for the new year. I remain. She, however, one day, greets the day unconscious. What followed was unthinkable. Days of details I shant relay ensue. And in the gleaming sunny morning of December 23rd, with her entire family around her, at 8:15 in the morning, with all of us, husband, children, grandchildren, around her, covered in tears, sobbing, gives us the honor of her final breathe. My mother shant revover. My grandfather shant recover. Me shant recover. No one in that room shant. I thought this. We shant. We shant. We shant.
I did not any of us to forget. To give way to anything other than praising her memory. Instant recalls come back. My green eyes, in ages two to eight, sensitive as hell, and running around the fields in our farm hose, felt prey to the sun and allergies. And there she is wrapping my eyes, forehead, with medicine water. Chamomile. In scented handkerchiefs that seemed brought by her from ancient queens. To cure her grandson, her godson. Twirls in hospital rooms. We smiled inside. Her example was one of the deepest equanimity, of absolute love, and compassion. She had grown in privilege and then endured a life that quickly turned as life ensued and fortunes changed. Through it all, wisdom. And love. Her pinches to correct our table manners, always followed by a grin from the heart. Her support, intergallactic and present, while away in the world, or by her side. She was murmurs of flowers. I think we still live them. Hear them loudly. That damn December 23rd presenting us to a departure and a void that was a defining point and a turning event. Chamomile. Chamomile.
We all retreated. To a Christmas that did not have her present. But had her omnipresent.
We all retreated. To a beach house that had overflowing water. Currents. Infinite water currents.
We all retreated. To a place of pride. Of deeper inner pride. Knowing. She is. In us.
Her chamomile bathes my throat. My mega throat. Aching. For the presence.
We leave his office understanding the following:
- Achalasia is a rare disease. When it arises in its "pure form," meaning that it is not caused by an external factor [enter tropical mosquitoes!] it has no known cause and no known cure. Woohoo!
- Achalasia, in this form, happens to 0.5 among 300,000 people. Half of me, or better yet, one full me got this among 600,000 people. That is just great. What else?
- It starts with a subtle closure of the lower part of the esophagus. The affected start experiencing choking [check!], difficulty swallowing liquids [check!] and solids [check!] and quite often painstaking pains in the stomach. Burning sensations [preaching to the choir] across the digestive system and most often lead to mal-nutrition.
- When un-treated for a long time, affected Achalasians develop a second stomach on the esophagus. Because of now swallowing food properly, one stores food in the upper digestive system and so the esophagus expands to the extent that it looses its function as a passage way. It no longer performs its contracting sphincter function and becomes a dead muscle.
- There are a few options to treating these. The old way consisted of inflating a balloon up the oesophagus and expanding the lower section so the passage function is enabled. The solution is temporary, it creates damage and it has to be reverted, done again every six months, and eventually will require surgery. The new option consists of surgery. This part was a bit unclear in Ecuador. No cases of Achalasia had been registered across the main hospitals. And this meant no real expertise was around.
We start consulting with doctors left and right. I did not have time for it. Most of my research was done by my caretakers. We start meeting specialists in gastro surgery. most of whom had become popular doctors as the obesity surgeries and the gastric bypass became popular among the high class in Ecuador. In quick fashion, we short-list two doctors. Their costs were similar. This factor was important as I forewent my insurance since leaving New York and was uncovered. In any event, my parents are not allowing anything but the best and these were the best. We are told be each of them, that they were the specialists on the theme. Both had performed hundreds of reflux fundouplication procedures, an operation a Dutch had devised to fix reflux problems, and then they described the actual needed procedure, a Dhor-something surgery, was something they had not per-se done but were in full confidence to do it.
The process is outlined. We are told that this would be a simple surgery overall. I would be admitted early morning on a Monday, and then admitted to the surgery room that day, be surgerized, and then be interned for two days. A liquid diet should follow for four days. After that, a semi-liquid only diet for 10 days. And then the process would follow with a semi-solid diet for three weeks. I would be able to work in a week's time. I would not be able to drive for seven days following the operation. But after that, it should all go swimingly.
My parents are concerned. My grandfather opens old encyclopaedias. He learns about the described procedures but also learns further about the disease. I am asked to take ownership and do so superficially. I start learning that the expertise world-wide is quite limited. This seemed in line with the doctors' verdict. I also learn that in Brazil, this is a frequent disease. Not achalasia itself, but the mega-esophagus reference. Apparently there is a lovely tiny mosquito, living and frolicking in tropical climates, called Shagas. When this beast of a fly bits you, you might as well relinquish all territory and expire. Flews, dissiness, even death occur. All of this with the major luck of also receiving the dormant, lazy, uncooperative oesophagus. We learn this but somehow remain convinced the treatment I would receive is fair and positive. In my rushed, let's-just-deal-with-this, mode, we decide to schedule a surgery for Monday, December 8th. A few days after the Fiestas de Quito. The crazy partying that my city ensues around bull-fighting. With the notice ahead. we proceed.
But life turns. My "madrina," godmother, and grandmother, falls sick. A woman whose legacy had been the prime source of inspiration for our family, who has combated the inability to listen to the world, falls sick. We think twice. The timing does not suit. We post-pone the surgery for the new year. I remain. She, however, one day, greets the day unconscious. What followed was unthinkable. Days of details I shant relay ensue. And in the gleaming sunny morning of December 23rd, with her entire family around her, at 8:15 in the morning, with all of us, husband, children, grandchildren, around her, covered in tears, sobbing, gives us the honor of her final breathe. My mother shant revover. My grandfather shant recover. Me shant recover. No one in that room shant. I thought this. We shant. We shant. We shant.
I did not any of us to forget. To give way to anything other than praising her memory. Instant recalls come back. My green eyes, in ages two to eight, sensitive as hell, and running around the fields in our farm hose, felt prey to the sun and allergies. And there she is wrapping my eyes, forehead, with medicine water. Chamomile. In scented handkerchiefs that seemed brought by her from ancient queens. To cure her grandson, her godson. Twirls in hospital rooms. We smiled inside. Her example was one of the deepest equanimity, of absolute love, and compassion. She had grown in privilege and then endured a life that quickly turned as life ensued and fortunes changed. Through it all, wisdom. And love. Her pinches to correct our table manners, always followed by a grin from the heart. Her support, intergallactic and present, while away in the world, or by her side. She was murmurs of flowers. I think we still live them. Hear them loudly. That damn December 23rd presenting us to a departure and a void that was a defining point and a turning event. Chamomile. Chamomile.
We all retreated. To a Christmas that did not have her present. But had her omnipresent.
We all retreated. To a beach house that had overflowing water. Currents. Infinite water currents.
We all retreated. To a place of pride. Of deeper inner pride. Knowing. She is. In us.
Her chamomile bathes my throat. My mega throat. Aching. For the presence.
Chapter Three: Acha-What?
I could not let go of Manhattan. I set myself on applying to Masters and lifting up a banana trading company. A first entrepreneurial experience linking me back to the worse story of mercantilism of my home country. It was fitting. It was an extreme. I invested funds I should not have in sponsoring my own work Visa. I worked with a visionary, in exchange. A mentor who was led me through ups and ups. Eventually, I let go. The bridge of Manhattan I closed. And had no regret. The era had finished.
My business school applications flourished and were successful. I received offers and the focus paid off. I went back to Ecuador focused in deferring my degree by a year. It made no sense to study while the criss happened. It made sense to reconnect with the mother land I had left ten years prior vowing to come back to end its poverty, its under-development, its suffering. Somehow, priorities shifted. I became a banker in New York. And I wanted to rekindle the kindle. I wanted to reconnect with those principles of commitment. So I came back and focused in developing innovative entrepreneurial ventures. A social movement and creative arts incubator was born. Projects were capitalised in the third largest city of Ecuador. The environment was rich around me. Artists/professionals who knew nothing of my world surrounded me. I had a lot of value to add. Structure. Funding requests. It all flowed. A boutique interior design company flourished. I reconnected with a darling sister of the soul who was seeking structure. We both collided in the need for expression. For challenging the status-quo. In all, distant fields, so far removed from the past era. And projects mounted.
As I went back to Ecuador, family dinners I sorely missed started occurring. By now, since leaving Goldman, I had lost about 25 pounds. I loved it. And attributed that to the healthy diet of cereal and vanilla yogurt breakfasts coupled with white wine bottles for lunch/dinner I adhered to for a few months. I started thinking "not so much."
These dinners seemed scripted. I would take a bite. The food went in. I timed such bites strategically when the conversation was happening away from me. When someone asked inadvertently a question, I would look at them, waiting for the food to allow air to create voice, and then I would speak. My voice turned from Darth Vader, to Chipmunk, to hanging man on chord in every bite. People on the table just observed patiently. If I was in silence, I would extend my neck backwards, the old technique I inadvertently learned over the two years past, and then speak. I thought no one noticed. Eventually, I would just say, "excuse me" in my best Darth Vader style, and retreat quietly to the bathroom, vomit, and be back for more. I would not eat of course. Serve myself scatter food around my plate. And carry on. Happy to be there.
It takes a parent to speak up. A week of this and my mother said: "Are you choking." My answer: "No.. well... yes, I think.. not sure. When I eat the food does not go down but it is not a big deal." NOT A BIG DEAL? I think I heard her react. I downplayed it. Little by little people around the table started adopting tones. Overtime, these evolved. There was the compassionate "Oh, no, you are choking again?" There was the judgemental "Oh, here we go, you are choking again!" There was the concered, "he is choking again, we need to get this fixed." And there was the savvy predictor: "he is choking again! caught it first!"
I thought it was hilarious. A non-issue really. But, parents being parents, this eventually evolved. Aunts would see me at family meetings and Ecuador being public, they were informed. So, I hear you are choking. Soon afterwards, I had my grandfather pursuing me. Son of a doctor and doctor at heart. Him and my parents started a crusade on getting me checked. I somehow managed to go more than four months without a doctor's visit. Forty pounds down and counting! I loved it. I would just go to dinners and not eat. Drink instead. And it felt like the cleansing I had been looking for. My body looked sharp, thin, fit, but at a compromise. I did not have to let go of everything, I could still drink. At least anything that was non-carbonated. Oh, and I did.
One day, in spite of my rebellion, I finally make it to the endoscopy room of Metropolitano Hospital. I had been assigned to a doctor that was renowned across Ecuador for being the best gastroenterologist in town. I take the sleep again. My induced coma happens again. I liked it not a single bit. It felt like an intrusion to my body's natural operandi. But we go. On my mom's birthday. Early in the morning. What a mother she is. I take it in. Fall asleep. This time, my renowned surgeon specialist uncle is in the room with me, the doctor, and the nurse while the process is done. Whatever magic the anasteseologist performed did not work, I wake up in the middle of the procedure. Tubes in my mouth. I cough desperately. And the tubes remain. The nurse forcefully tells me to chill the hell out. Yeah, easy to say, "biatch", I thought. I blame the country. The inefficiencies. The lack of professionalism. My uncle and the doctor talk. Gladly my uncle is there. He cares.
I leave feeling as if someone blew cold air into every pore within my throat. Lovely. The flew that ensues was great. My mom's birthday dinner turns into wattery nostrils. I felt like crap. Was back to self the next day when we go visit the careless doctor. He looks at the results and says: "you have acid imbalance" and the fool prescribes the same medicine than the New York doctor had years before. He proceeds to small-talk with my mum. I tell the man, "I am choking and that is why I am here." He dismisses the information. And continues. We leave. I am happy. Done.
Not so much. My grandfather is relentless. And he sends me to the Chinese medicine man in Ecuador. He lives in the valley of Cumbaya. Very fitting indeed. He is neither Chinese. Nor a medicine man. He is a wise, well spoken, soft spoken too, doctor from Ecuador, who has specialised in Chinese medicine. He performs acupuncuture and has done wonders with my grandparents and friends of theirs. They blindly believe in his powers and an appointment is booked. This, I like. Alternative. No hospital. I go and become a semi-frequent visitor. He tells me about his practice, he also is a psychoanalyst. He is a smart man. We connect. Formerly living in Chicago and trained across the world. His library is where we meet. And I feel "I can be here as long as you want". We discuss in lengthy detail his philosophy of treatment. Then we delve into my symptoms. I explain them in broad strokes. And I love what I heard, well, at least beyond the long list of exams with "Western medicine" that he needed me to get done [urine, blood, etc] to define my current state.
He said that a reason behind this could be me bottling a truth inside. That he had a patient who had a persistent and very grave laryngitis and who could not be cured for the hell of him with any treatment. He had apparently pursued all sorts of Western treatment that are thinkable but nothing worked. And when brought to him they spoke, and opted for psychoanalysis. He finally confessed he crashed the family chevy out of oblivion and that led to the destruction of a major family asset and source of income. He did not want to be blamed and thus concealed the information and went on to create an elaborate story of an accident and a street front crashing that entailed no responsibility to him. It was clear he had to confess. He was cured days after he spoke with his family. I thought: "oh my dear medicine man... dangerous territory... If you only knew". A seed was planted. I was convinced. This is the reason for my bottling. I do have some major internal truths to relay. Lovely deepest of secrets. And this is indeed the cause for this. But I just remained equanimous. And pretended to simply understand and look at the explanation with full attention, not showing a single bit of a shade of there being the remote possibility of some inner truth causing this type of blockage. I mean, it has been at least three years since any form of intake, either solid or liquid, went down smoothly. And, I did not think the shape I was in was commendable.
He also said that in Chinese medicine, everything, absolutely everything, is focused on the liver. That the liver resembles spring and that from that very organ is where we emit life, mind sprawls from it, and body follows. If the liver is mis-treated, then, chaos ensues. I loved this idea of Spring within. I was ready to sense how his needles would flow my body in order. I wanted him to cure me with this precept. This was the comfortable one where I had no work to do. Other than receive his needles, and let the curvatures on key nerves penetrate my body. I allowed him, thus, to continue. I saw my liver in abrupt transformation. I wanted my urine to be dark and troubled and after his treatment I envisioned it becoming gold and shining. Neither happened.
My liver was in no Spring. I knew this because Medicine Man enlightened me to the fact that clean healthy livers lead to clean healthy decision making. When the liver is not properly springing or blossoming, then one becomes blocked. Decisions of the smallest kind, become gruesome, time consuming processes. We apparently loose the ability to flow and to decide in time spans that are normal. We instead become painstakingly lethargic and over analyze trends, problems, factors. We are blurred. We are fogged. Nothing flows.
I internally built clarity on this. I was blocked. This blockage on the body simply resembled something deeper, in the mind. But signs of knowing, I showed none. It remained internalized. Nothing to say. Not sure what you are saying. Intellectually, I showed my full understanding. But experientially, no comment.
Amazing, how the body, how every single reaction, "somatizes" [and this is a word that I borrow from Spanish, meaning the delivery of a reaction by the body of a thought or feeling or trouble perceived at the mind/soul level]. Every single thought, generating a reaction. Old adages coming from ancient Oriental medicine. Revealing itself in my body. Or at least the perception of it happening. How powerful. I knew. The only way out: speak. Opted for silence, though. Not because I wanted to remain thin. I was not ready for any of it. I am okay with external solution. The internal ones are being transported to my notebooks, to my painting, to my poetry, to my binary and recent professional decisions to break all past structure and try, for the time being, to express indirectly through other media what I care about, what I rebel against to, what I am.
It was obvious that the "blockage" would not be fixed with this alternative. I was not allowing it.
My grandfather thus becomes more obsessed with my well being and books me an appointment with an "otorino-naringologo." I love this word. It is one of my favourites in Spanish. And it depicts the profession of a doctor who focuses on nostrils and respiratory system. Anything above the lungs. He is also renowned. And I thought, "great, here we go again." Skeptical, with my mast of a mother, I go. My father leaves his investing fund and shows up too. I sit with the doctor who is so kind. And he checks me. He listens attentively to my testimony of chocking and then to the experience with his renowned failure of a colleague who chose not to think beyond the acids. He says to me, "are you nervous?" And I say, defensively, "excuse me?" He repeats the question saying that this may be a mind-induced feeling of getting stuck. And I feel "enough with this... you ain't telling me, after all I have done in my 28 years, I am nervous". So I offer to retrieve him an undigested chicken I had for lunch the day before right then. I literally get ready to stand up and show him on his office's trash can. He thought it unnecessary and starts looking for a solution.
I am to take a test whose name I of course cannot remember. It is almost like a manocardiograma. I surrender. Two days later I am back at the hospital. Greeting nurses. Left and right. I go to a room, asked to take my shirt off, my body, slick, fit, there. I am given a cup with a thick white liquid and given instructions: "when I say swallow, you swallow" and then I will tell you how much to take. "How naughty", I thought. Immature. And so I went onto a large machine, a platform that spun me up, down, and put me in semi vertical positions. I had to be in the room of my own due to the radiation. The nurse and machine operator were behind a glass. I swallowed. Gulped. And when asked to turn, I see a legion of medicine students. Their eyes wide open, their mouths open. I caught a glimpse of the nerd amongst them, she was drawling, in front of her was an image on a screen that she was told is rarely seen, or ever seen. They all murmured and wowed every time I took a gulp. Borderline tennis match when the rally between players reaches amazing heights and the crowd growls loudly. I was there, in display, in 270 degrees, suspended on the machine drinking white cement water. Lovely.
I am given permission to un-platform myself and so I do. Shirtless, I come over behind the glass, the students had been whisked off by the young doctor leading them, and ask the machine operator, "so?" and he says, "brother, you cannot swallow at all!". The nerd pops back into the room. I immediately love her. So anal. So dedicated. She clearly escaped the herd seeking to be a doctor even if for minutes. She engages me: "Hello Mister, can I ask, what seems to be the problem?" Bad start, I think. I answer: "I cannot swallow" She asks: "Solids and liquids?" okay, we are improving.. "Yes, I cannot swallow anything" :Oh, okay... and what does it feel like?" And I think, oh no, by the book you fool. "Like I cannot swallow" I brusquely reply. She takes notes. And thinks into herself. I think she wanted more. She thanks me, disappears into the corridor.
A few days later, I come back to the hospital. We meet the "otorino" and he finally delivers the verdict: you have Achalasia. My mother asks, "acha-what?", he repeats: "achalasia."
My business school applications flourished and were successful. I received offers and the focus paid off. I went back to Ecuador focused in deferring my degree by a year. It made no sense to study while the criss happened. It made sense to reconnect with the mother land I had left ten years prior vowing to come back to end its poverty, its under-development, its suffering. Somehow, priorities shifted. I became a banker in New York. And I wanted to rekindle the kindle. I wanted to reconnect with those principles of commitment. So I came back and focused in developing innovative entrepreneurial ventures. A social movement and creative arts incubator was born. Projects were capitalised in the third largest city of Ecuador. The environment was rich around me. Artists/professionals who knew nothing of my world surrounded me. I had a lot of value to add. Structure. Funding requests. It all flowed. A boutique interior design company flourished. I reconnected with a darling sister of the soul who was seeking structure. We both collided in the need for expression. For challenging the status-quo. In all, distant fields, so far removed from the past era. And projects mounted.
As I went back to Ecuador, family dinners I sorely missed started occurring. By now, since leaving Goldman, I had lost about 25 pounds. I loved it. And attributed that to the healthy diet of cereal and vanilla yogurt breakfasts coupled with white wine bottles for lunch/dinner I adhered to for a few months. I started thinking "not so much."
These dinners seemed scripted. I would take a bite. The food went in. I timed such bites strategically when the conversation was happening away from me. When someone asked inadvertently a question, I would look at them, waiting for the food to allow air to create voice, and then I would speak. My voice turned from Darth Vader, to Chipmunk, to hanging man on chord in every bite. People on the table just observed patiently. If I was in silence, I would extend my neck backwards, the old technique I inadvertently learned over the two years past, and then speak. I thought no one noticed. Eventually, I would just say, "excuse me" in my best Darth Vader style, and retreat quietly to the bathroom, vomit, and be back for more. I would not eat of course. Serve myself scatter food around my plate. And carry on. Happy to be there.
It takes a parent to speak up. A week of this and my mother said: "Are you choking." My answer: "No.. well... yes, I think.. not sure. When I eat the food does not go down but it is not a big deal." NOT A BIG DEAL? I think I heard her react. I downplayed it. Little by little people around the table started adopting tones. Overtime, these evolved. There was the compassionate "Oh, no, you are choking again?" There was the judgemental "Oh, here we go, you are choking again!" There was the concered, "he is choking again, we need to get this fixed." And there was the savvy predictor: "he is choking again! caught it first!"
I thought it was hilarious. A non-issue really. But, parents being parents, this eventually evolved. Aunts would see me at family meetings and Ecuador being public, they were informed. So, I hear you are choking. Soon afterwards, I had my grandfather pursuing me. Son of a doctor and doctor at heart. Him and my parents started a crusade on getting me checked. I somehow managed to go more than four months without a doctor's visit. Forty pounds down and counting! I loved it. I would just go to dinners and not eat. Drink instead. And it felt like the cleansing I had been looking for. My body looked sharp, thin, fit, but at a compromise. I did not have to let go of everything, I could still drink. At least anything that was non-carbonated. Oh, and I did.
One day, in spite of my rebellion, I finally make it to the endoscopy room of Metropolitano Hospital. I had been assigned to a doctor that was renowned across Ecuador for being the best gastroenterologist in town. I take the sleep again. My induced coma happens again. I liked it not a single bit. It felt like an intrusion to my body's natural operandi. But we go. On my mom's birthday. Early in the morning. What a mother she is. I take it in. Fall asleep. This time, my renowned surgeon specialist uncle is in the room with me, the doctor, and the nurse while the process is done. Whatever magic the anasteseologist performed did not work, I wake up in the middle of the procedure. Tubes in my mouth. I cough desperately. And the tubes remain. The nurse forcefully tells me to chill the hell out. Yeah, easy to say, "biatch", I thought. I blame the country. The inefficiencies. The lack of professionalism. My uncle and the doctor talk. Gladly my uncle is there. He cares.
I leave feeling as if someone blew cold air into every pore within my throat. Lovely. The flew that ensues was great. My mom's birthday dinner turns into wattery nostrils. I felt like crap. Was back to self the next day when we go visit the careless doctor. He looks at the results and says: "you have acid imbalance" and the fool prescribes the same medicine than the New York doctor had years before. He proceeds to small-talk with my mum. I tell the man, "I am choking and that is why I am here." He dismisses the information. And continues. We leave. I am happy. Done.
Not so much. My grandfather is relentless. And he sends me to the Chinese medicine man in Ecuador. He lives in the valley of Cumbaya. Very fitting indeed. He is neither Chinese. Nor a medicine man. He is a wise, well spoken, soft spoken too, doctor from Ecuador, who has specialised in Chinese medicine. He performs acupuncuture and has done wonders with my grandparents and friends of theirs. They blindly believe in his powers and an appointment is booked. This, I like. Alternative. No hospital. I go and become a semi-frequent visitor. He tells me about his practice, he also is a psychoanalyst. He is a smart man. We connect. Formerly living in Chicago and trained across the world. His library is where we meet. And I feel "I can be here as long as you want". We discuss in lengthy detail his philosophy of treatment. Then we delve into my symptoms. I explain them in broad strokes. And I love what I heard, well, at least beyond the long list of exams with "Western medicine" that he needed me to get done [urine, blood, etc] to define my current state.
He said that a reason behind this could be me bottling a truth inside. That he had a patient who had a persistent and very grave laryngitis and who could not be cured for the hell of him with any treatment. He had apparently pursued all sorts of Western treatment that are thinkable but nothing worked. And when brought to him they spoke, and opted for psychoanalysis. He finally confessed he crashed the family chevy out of oblivion and that led to the destruction of a major family asset and source of income. He did not want to be blamed and thus concealed the information and went on to create an elaborate story of an accident and a street front crashing that entailed no responsibility to him. It was clear he had to confess. He was cured days after he spoke with his family. I thought: "oh my dear medicine man... dangerous territory... If you only knew". A seed was planted. I was convinced. This is the reason for my bottling. I do have some major internal truths to relay. Lovely deepest of secrets. And this is indeed the cause for this. But I just remained equanimous. And pretended to simply understand and look at the explanation with full attention, not showing a single bit of a shade of there being the remote possibility of some inner truth causing this type of blockage. I mean, it has been at least three years since any form of intake, either solid or liquid, went down smoothly. And, I did not think the shape I was in was commendable.
He also said that in Chinese medicine, everything, absolutely everything, is focused on the liver. That the liver resembles spring and that from that very organ is where we emit life, mind sprawls from it, and body follows. If the liver is mis-treated, then, chaos ensues. I loved this idea of Spring within. I was ready to sense how his needles would flow my body in order. I wanted him to cure me with this precept. This was the comfortable one where I had no work to do. Other than receive his needles, and let the curvatures on key nerves penetrate my body. I allowed him, thus, to continue. I saw my liver in abrupt transformation. I wanted my urine to be dark and troubled and after his treatment I envisioned it becoming gold and shining. Neither happened.
My liver was in no Spring. I knew this because Medicine Man enlightened me to the fact that clean healthy livers lead to clean healthy decision making. When the liver is not properly springing or blossoming, then one becomes blocked. Decisions of the smallest kind, become gruesome, time consuming processes. We apparently loose the ability to flow and to decide in time spans that are normal. We instead become painstakingly lethargic and over analyze trends, problems, factors. We are blurred. We are fogged. Nothing flows.
I internally built clarity on this. I was blocked. This blockage on the body simply resembled something deeper, in the mind. But signs of knowing, I showed none. It remained internalized. Nothing to say. Not sure what you are saying. Intellectually, I showed my full understanding. But experientially, no comment.
Amazing, how the body, how every single reaction, "somatizes" [and this is a word that I borrow from Spanish, meaning the delivery of a reaction by the body of a thought or feeling or trouble perceived at the mind/soul level]. Every single thought, generating a reaction. Old adages coming from ancient Oriental medicine. Revealing itself in my body. Or at least the perception of it happening. How powerful. I knew. The only way out: speak. Opted for silence, though. Not because I wanted to remain thin. I was not ready for any of it. I am okay with external solution. The internal ones are being transported to my notebooks, to my painting, to my poetry, to my binary and recent professional decisions to break all past structure and try, for the time being, to express indirectly through other media what I care about, what I rebel against to, what I am.
It was obvious that the "blockage" would not be fixed with this alternative. I was not allowing it.
My grandfather thus becomes more obsessed with my well being and books me an appointment with an "otorino-naringologo." I love this word. It is one of my favourites in Spanish. And it depicts the profession of a doctor who focuses on nostrils and respiratory system. Anything above the lungs. He is also renowned. And I thought, "great, here we go again." Skeptical, with my mast of a mother, I go. My father leaves his investing fund and shows up too. I sit with the doctor who is so kind. And he checks me. He listens attentively to my testimony of chocking and then to the experience with his renowned failure of a colleague who chose not to think beyond the acids. He says to me, "are you nervous?" And I say, defensively, "excuse me?" He repeats the question saying that this may be a mind-induced feeling of getting stuck. And I feel "enough with this... you ain't telling me, after all I have done in my 28 years, I am nervous". So I offer to retrieve him an undigested chicken I had for lunch the day before right then. I literally get ready to stand up and show him on his office's trash can. He thought it unnecessary and starts looking for a solution.
I am to take a test whose name I of course cannot remember. It is almost like a manocardiograma. I surrender. Two days later I am back at the hospital. Greeting nurses. Left and right. I go to a room, asked to take my shirt off, my body, slick, fit, there. I am given a cup with a thick white liquid and given instructions: "when I say swallow, you swallow" and then I will tell you how much to take. "How naughty", I thought. Immature. And so I went onto a large machine, a platform that spun me up, down, and put me in semi vertical positions. I had to be in the room of my own due to the radiation. The nurse and machine operator were behind a glass. I swallowed. Gulped. And when asked to turn, I see a legion of medicine students. Their eyes wide open, their mouths open. I caught a glimpse of the nerd amongst them, she was drawling, in front of her was an image on a screen that she was told is rarely seen, or ever seen. They all murmured and wowed every time I took a gulp. Borderline tennis match when the rally between players reaches amazing heights and the crowd growls loudly. I was there, in display, in 270 degrees, suspended on the machine drinking white cement water. Lovely.
I am given permission to un-platform myself and so I do. Shirtless, I come over behind the glass, the students had been whisked off by the young doctor leading them, and ask the machine operator, "so?" and he says, "brother, you cannot swallow at all!". The nerd pops back into the room. I immediately love her. So anal. So dedicated. She clearly escaped the herd seeking to be a doctor even if for minutes. She engages me: "Hello Mister, can I ask, what seems to be the problem?" Bad start, I think. I answer: "I cannot swallow" She asks: "Solids and liquids?" okay, we are improving.. "Yes, I cannot swallow anything" :Oh, okay... and what does it feel like?" And I think, oh no, by the book you fool. "Like I cannot swallow" I brusquely reply. She takes notes. And thinks into herself. I think she wanted more. She thanks me, disappears into the corridor.
A few days later, I come back to the hospital. We meet the "otorino" and he finally delivers the verdict: you have Achalasia. My mother asks, "acha-what?", he repeats: "achalasia."
Chapter 2: Let me Clear My Throat
When I graduated from a small liberal arts college in distant and frigid Maine [North East USA], I had somehow managed to make my way away from the hands of the "ivy leaguers" and "target school" focused recruiters. I, the 22 year old Ecuadorian who managed to get a scholarship to attend school abroad, was recruited by no other than top investment bank Goldman Sachs. Goldman freaking Sachs.
I was recruited into the New York office. Into the very 50th floor of 1 New York Plaza. The very first first building at the very tip of the Manhattan borough. My glorified start entailed being at the office at 5:00am daily to kick off trading activity for the Pan European Equities team. It was lovely. Up at 4:30am every day, milking the markets before my team made it in. I did not know anything about finance. Worse even, about trading floor culture. I was never told, "behave like you are in a produce market back at home." No. To me, this entailed working with the top of the top. I treated people with reverence. Overtime, it paid off. Character came through. Respect prevailed. Professionalism in the form of humbleness prevailed. But in the short term, my senior colleagues wondered why I treated them like the pope. Why I tip toed when a phone call arrived. "He is not shark enough to prevail" I can hear my peers thinking. My hair was slicked back. In true Latin American style, my button-up shirt was open to half my chest. Oh yes, full hair action showing off. And I obliviously worked. Day in. Day out. And dedicated fully, to learn.
Time flowed by. And the challenges and responsibilities mounted. The culture was outstanding. People I worked with were well rounded individuals. No "I' in our teams. No actual respect or allowance for bright stars. We merged. My colour bright shirts at some point became light blue. I merged gradually with the wholly business principles on top. I loved the principles. And often checked in with the privilege of having such ample responsibility at such early age. I transitioned from Equities to Commodities. A hot seat. Fast track indicator. Everyone wanted to trade derivatives. And commodities were in the upswing. There was simply no better opportunity. Goldman Sachs. New York. Commodities. Still, these things did not land. I remained focused on my duties. On building a career.
In the process of this, at some ridiculous point after a promotion, I lost my best friend to an accident. Off he went. A soul that touched me fully in a tragic accident. A moment that changed me to the deepest levels. I was the being he was on his way to pick up when his death occurred. And without me noticing, life started changing. My nights became random walks across Manhattan. Supposedly reading Commodities reports, I ended up frolicking to midnight establishments. My work continued to flourish. The responsibilities grew. And I was leading regional initiatives and became responsible for significant chunks of P&L for the team. No better focus than work. No better distractor than the interior based life of a trading floor. Where I could leash out and lash out any aggressiveness in a simple request for a quote to a colleague trader. Or feel immense at any given glass office conversation. With my managers. With the firm's partners. Or with the clients that came from the highest offices of the Ministries across Latin America.
I was there. X, in the making.
Through this process, I discovered one day an ample, vast, and overwhelming burning of my stomach. If I had a drink the night before. Burn. If I had tomatoes. Burn. If I had orange juice. Oh baby, BURN! And so i did, I lived my days with stomach burning. I remained alone. No significant other by my side. Just me. And my burning. At Goldman Sachs, I did not permit myself to think of the doctor. That entailed time off the desk. Book the doctor. Find the doctor. Research a doctor compatible with an insurance policy I did not understand. And simply chose not to. At one point, after my promotion, and three years after joining the firm, I felt it was time to request a physical. First time to the doctor in three years. The physical visit was sponsored by the firm. And so it meant at most 30-45 minutes off the trading floor. To X's ethical commitment, this was okay.
And so I went, and in general strokes detailed my stomach burning. The doctor told me it sounded like I needed an endoschopy and smoothly scheduled it. After much thought, I delivered the news to my team via email. "Team, on July 23rd, I will be going to a doctors appointment at 4:00pm. The procedure advises I go home to rest but seeing how it goes, the doctor may allow me to come back. Please let me know if there are any issues." I was oblivious. My managers of course told me go and take the afternoon off.
And so I went. The doctor had recommended to go with someone. My friends were plenty. But I could not think I could disturb anyone else from their days. We were all working our asses off. And so I went to the clinic. A private clinic in 40th street. The doctor was male, Jewish, and kind. He must have been in his 50's. It was a very quick visit. I was shown to a room that resembled a studio apartment by the nurse. She talked to me in script. Told me to lay to my side. And put me to asleep. No one knew I was there. My parents were in Ecuador. I did not want to worry them. My younger sister at Yale, I did not want to frighten her. My friends were there, working. I provided emergency numbers as my two roommates. But then erased that. And then jot down my father's name. The nurse asked, is he in New York, "No" I replied. "He is in Ecuador". What good is that? I felt she asked. That was my reality. Sister take it. And leave me be.
And so I felt into anaesthetic coma. First time I am thrown into black-out mode ever. Waking up was, therefore, awkward. The doctor did not say goodbye. They would call me with the results. I was dissy and felt naughty by missing work. I went back to the floor at 7:30pm. No one was there. I sent a couple emails. I was yelled at by my dear Associate, a woman would who would become integral in my life. She was also from Ecuador. She also worked in Commodities. She also was a free spirit.
And so I went home. Days later, I received the news. I was told I had an "acid misbalance", gastric acid that is. Nothing serious. Just a misbalance. i was then prescribed some lovely pill to have every night and day. Of course, it was had for three weeks. And it did nothing. I was glad to know I had no ulcer. Or no gastritis. I did not think it serious. And so life went on. And on I drank. And on I worked. And on I explored New York. The city never let me rest. It gave me as much as I took. And I took a lot. I have myself fully to it. It was there to receive it. And throw me some change in return.
Those were the hidden pleasures of my New York. It offered everything.
In response to no subsiding to the burning, I recoursed to the alley I best new in China town. An alley never flocked by tourists and with a very eventual and random Western face. I went there, to the Fish Herb Centre, a massage dungeon where what felt like hundreds of mainland chinese worked and gave cheap massages. Forty dollars for the hour. This would have been a sin to pay back at home but here in New York, it was THE deal. And so I became a regular of the centre. The Chinese lady that knew me, and assigned herself to me, knew that my stomach needed her. And so she massaged my face, body, and legs but saved the real deal for the stomach. She would lift it out of my body, and concentrically touch it, pressed in the right spots. It felt as if water dropped on the top of my skull and slowly melted throughout. She had me at hello. It all went away. Orgasmic relaxation of stomach meant more than running by the West Side highway, than endless loft dinners, than visits to the MOMA or the Chelsea galleries. No relaxation matched that moment.
I allowed myself this orgasmic experience once a week. The other days I would simply go back home, sit at the edge of the bed, and stretch my body as far as I could. For a bit, that made the trick. Then, I would start rolling a crystal bottle of Perrier water up and down my stomach. Volcanoes within. Volcanic activity that felt, oh, so good.
And so the months went on. Unrealised the issue. I gulped water at the gym one night in an evening work out and did not go down. I looked around when no one looked I vomited the water in the nearest trash can. "Damn, I thought." I am in terrible shape. Man, come on, fatso, that is what you get for eating like this! And I went on to run. Never mind I was in okay shape. Next I know is that on the trading floor I am eating breakfast, and it would not go down. The food stayed. So I stretched my head back patiently and eventually it went down. Next bite. Conversation with a client while eating. Taking notes. Closing a trade. Next bite Speaking to the boss. Discuss bonus. Negotiate pay. Next bite. Breakfast issues started populating lunch time. I could not swallow. I just continued eating.
Memorably, one fine day, during lunch, post a big night out with clients the night before, I ate our beloved Indian lunch. X and Y closed trades, fine performance by us both. And the food simply did not go down. It stayed. I waited my usual forty seconds but no sign of swallowing. I could not breathe. I stood up, not showing panic, and went to the nearest office room where I normally would find a trash can and force myself to vomit but all the rooms were taken. And so I tried frantically to make it to the bathroom. It felt as though I did not breathe for a month. I felt like I would collapse. And as I made my way to the bathroom, the food finally came out. I had to vomit in my hands. And as I left, Partner Managing Director, Power woman, with none other than a senior client are walking in. I rushed by them, she caught a glimpsee, and seeing my rushedness prefered not to ask. I made it to the bathroom. My eyes were red. I bathed my mouth. Looked at myself in the mirror and got back to my desk. She never asked what happened.
In this process, I woke up one fine October morning. I had been promoted to a dream job. I rose in the fast track. I had not made it to the shower. I was about to face my daily routine. And my shoulders dropped. Life felt incomplete. Vomit aside. Not swallowing was a non issue. Life, as itself, felt uneasy. Sad Rushed. Indoors. Un-emancipated. Un-free. I needed a change. I loved the company. I saw myself for years and years surrounded by those people. But something within was clapping for attention. When my shoulders dropped, I knew, it was time for change.
Bear Sterns collapsed a few months later. And then off went Lehman Brothers. The sign was clear. I was to leave. Not endure the crisis. Grateful for all the opportunities. The amazing growth. And leave to become a Masters student. The MBA was my victim degree of choice. I was to leave transparently. Openly. Leaving all open doors at Goldman Sachs. And in spite of most people at the trading floor not respecting much the MBA credential, and questioning why I left, I decided to go off and make my way into becoming a youth once again. Into allowing adventure, uncertainty, and risk into my life. I made the transition smooth. My team was incredibly supportive. My departure was reality. It was all it could be. It was managed well.
New York, also, became the other factor. I felt ready to leave the city. I had started drawing my face and concrete emerging from it. I wrote poetry, broken poetry, about asphalt raining on my face, and skyscrappers falling on me. This felt romantic but to an extent felt as though my body and mind were ready for change. I envisioned London. Asia. Brazil. As places where I would be born again. Away from this city that had become so pervasive in my notion of reality. I also saw that I had become hopelessly impatient. That I had lost my ability to touch humanity. To connect with reality away from the Manhattan reality. From the island where windows rained on me, and it was okay. Where roads frolicked into my ear, traversed my brain, and it was okay. Where my shoulders, one fine day, dropped. It was unacceptable.
And so, getting solid, liquids, and all kinds of food stuck in my chest, and not noticing, I made up my mind. I am to become a student. And I left.
I was recruited into the New York office. Into the very 50th floor of 1 New York Plaza. The very first first building at the very tip of the Manhattan borough. My glorified start entailed being at the office at 5:00am daily to kick off trading activity for the Pan European Equities team. It was lovely. Up at 4:30am every day, milking the markets before my team made it in. I did not know anything about finance. Worse even, about trading floor culture. I was never told, "behave like you are in a produce market back at home." No. To me, this entailed working with the top of the top. I treated people with reverence. Overtime, it paid off. Character came through. Respect prevailed. Professionalism in the form of humbleness prevailed. But in the short term, my senior colleagues wondered why I treated them like the pope. Why I tip toed when a phone call arrived. "He is not shark enough to prevail" I can hear my peers thinking. My hair was slicked back. In true Latin American style, my button-up shirt was open to half my chest. Oh yes, full hair action showing off. And I obliviously worked. Day in. Day out. And dedicated fully, to learn.
Time flowed by. And the challenges and responsibilities mounted. The culture was outstanding. People I worked with were well rounded individuals. No "I' in our teams. No actual respect or allowance for bright stars. We merged. My colour bright shirts at some point became light blue. I merged gradually with the wholly business principles on top. I loved the principles. And often checked in with the privilege of having such ample responsibility at such early age. I transitioned from Equities to Commodities. A hot seat. Fast track indicator. Everyone wanted to trade derivatives. And commodities were in the upswing. There was simply no better opportunity. Goldman Sachs. New York. Commodities. Still, these things did not land. I remained focused on my duties. On building a career.
In the process of this, at some ridiculous point after a promotion, I lost my best friend to an accident. Off he went. A soul that touched me fully in a tragic accident. A moment that changed me to the deepest levels. I was the being he was on his way to pick up when his death occurred. And without me noticing, life started changing. My nights became random walks across Manhattan. Supposedly reading Commodities reports, I ended up frolicking to midnight establishments. My work continued to flourish. The responsibilities grew. And I was leading regional initiatives and became responsible for significant chunks of P&L for the team. No better focus than work. No better distractor than the interior based life of a trading floor. Where I could leash out and lash out any aggressiveness in a simple request for a quote to a colleague trader. Or feel immense at any given glass office conversation. With my managers. With the firm's partners. Or with the clients that came from the highest offices of the Ministries across Latin America.
I was there. X, in the making.
Through this process, I discovered one day an ample, vast, and overwhelming burning of my stomach. If I had a drink the night before. Burn. If I had tomatoes. Burn. If I had orange juice. Oh baby, BURN! And so i did, I lived my days with stomach burning. I remained alone. No significant other by my side. Just me. And my burning. At Goldman Sachs, I did not permit myself to think of the doctor. That entailed time off the desk. Book the doctor. Find the doctor. Research a doctor compatible with an insurance policy I did not understand. And simply chose not to. At one point, after my promotion, and three years after joining the firm, I felt it was time to request a physical. First time to the doctor in three years. The physical visit was sponsored by the firm. And so it meant at most 30-45 minutes off the trading floor. To X's ethical commitment, this was okay.
And so I went, and in general strokes detailed my stomach burning. The doctor told me it sounded like I needed an endoschopy and smoothly scheduled it. After much thought, I delivered the news to my team via email. "Team, on July 23rd, I will be going to a doctors appointment at 4:00pm. The procedure advises I go home to rest but seeing how it goes, the doctor may allow me to come back. Please let me know if there are any issues." I was oblivious. My managers of course told me go and take the afternoon off.
And so I went. The doctor had recommended to go with someone. My friends were plenty. But I could not think I could disturb anyone else from their days. We were all working our asses off. And so I went to the clinic. A private clinic in 40th street. The doctor was male, Jewish, and kind. He must have been in his 50's. It was a very quick visit. I was shown to a room that resembled a studio apartment by the nurse. She talked to me in script. Told me to lay to my side. And put me to asleep. No one knew I was there. My parents were in Ecuador. I did not want to worry them. My younger sister at Yale, I did not want to frighten her. My friends were there, working. I provided emergency numbers as my two roommates. But then erased that. And then jot down my father's name. The nurse asked, is he in New York, "No" I replied. "He is in Ecuador". What good is that? I felt she asked. That was my reality. Sister take it. And leave me be.
And so I felt into anaesthetic coma. First time I am thrown into black-out mode ever. Waking up was, therefore, awkward. The doctor did not say goodbye. They would call me with the results. I was dissy and felt naughty by missing work. I went back to the floor at 7:30pm. No one was there. I sent a couple emails. I was yelled at by my dear Associate, a woman would who would become integral in my life. She was also from Ecuador. She also worked in Commodities. She also was a free spirit.
And so I went home. Days later, I received the news. I was told I had an "acid misbalance", gastric acid that is. Nothing serious. Just a misbalance. i was then prescribed some lovely pill to have every night and day. Of course, it was had for three weeks. And it did nothing. I was glad to know I had no ulcer. Or no gastritis. I did not think it serious. And so life went on. And on I drank. And on I worked. And on I explored New York. The city never let me rest. It gave me as much as I took. And I took a lot. I have myself fully to it. It was there to receive it. And throw me some change in return.
Those were the hidden pleasures of my New York. It offered everything.
In response to no subsiding to the burning, I recoursed to the alley I best new in China town. An alley never flocked by tourists and with a very eventual and random Western face. I went there, to the Fish Herb Centre, a massage dungeon where what felt like hundreds of mainland chinese worked and gave cheap massages. Forty dollars for the hour. This would have been a sin to pay back at home but here in New York, it was THE deal. And so I became a regular of the centre. The Chinese lady that knew me, and assigned herself to me, knew that my stomach needed her. And so she massaged my face, body, and legs but saved the real deal for the stomach. She would lift it out of my body, and concentrically touch it, pressed in the right spots. It felt as if water dropped on the top of my skull and slowly melted throughout. She had me at hello. It all went away. Orgasmic relaxation of stomach meant more than running by the West Side highway, than endless loft dinners, than visits to the MOMA or the Chelsea galleries. No relaxation matched that moment.
I allowed myself this orgasmic experience once a week. The other days I would simply go back home, sit at the edge of the bed, and stretch my body as far as I could. For a bit, that made the trick. Then, I would start rolling a crystal bottle of Perrier water up and down my stomach. Volcanoes within. Volcanic activity that felt, oh, so good.
And so the months went on. Unrealised the issue. I gulped water at the gym one night in an evening work out and did not go down. I looked around when no one looked I vomited the water in the nearest trash can. "Damn, I thought." I am in terrible shape. Man, come on, fatso, that is what you get for eating like this! And I went on to run. Never mind I was in okay shape. Next I know is that on the trading floor I am eating breakfast, and it would not go down. The food stayed. So I stretched my head back patiently and eventually it went down. Next bite. Conversation with a client while eating. Taking notes. Closing a trade. Next bite Speaking to the boss. Discuss bonus. Negotiate pay. Next bite. Breakfast issues started populating lunch time. I could not swallow. I just continued eating.
Memorably, one fine day, during lunch, post a big night out with clients the night before, I ate our beloved Indian lunch. X and Y closed trades, fine performance by us both. And the food simply did not go down. It stayed. I waited my usual forty seconds but no sign of swallowing. I could not breathe. I stood up, not showing panic, and went to the nearest office room where I normally would find a trash can and force myself to vomit but all the rooms were taken. And so I tried frantically to make it to the bathroom. It felt as though I did not breathe for a month. I felt like I would collapse. And as I made my way to the bathroom, the food finally came out. I had to vomit in my hands. And as I left, Partner Managing Director, Power woman, with none other than a senior client are walking in. I rushed by them, she caught a glimpsee, and seeing my rushedness prefered not to ask. I made it to the bathroom. My eyes were red. I bathed my mouth. Looked at myself in the mirror and got back to my desk. She never asked what happened.
In this process, I woke up one fine October morning. I had been promoted to a dream job. I rose in the fast track. I had not made it to the shower. I was about to face my daily routine. And my shoulders dropped. Life felt incomplete. Vomit aside. Not swallowing was a non issue. Life, as itself, felt uneasy. Sad Rushed. Indoors. Un-emancipated. Un-free. I needed a change. I loved the company. I saw myself for years and years surrounded by those people. But something within was clapping for attention. When my shoulders dropped, I knew, it was time for change.
Bear Sterns collapsed a few months later. And then off went Lehman Brothers. The sign was clear. I was to leave. Not endure the crisis. Grateful for all the opportunities. The amazing growth. And leave to become a Masters student. The MBA was my victim degree of choice. I was to leave transparently. Openly. Leaving all open doors at Goldman Sachs. And in spite of most people at the trading floor not respecting much the MBA credential, and questioning why I left, I decided to go off and make my way into becoming a youth once again. Into allowing adventure, uncertainty, and risk into my life. I made the transition smooth. My team was incredibly supportive. My departure was reality. It was all it could be. It was managed well.
New York, also, became the other factor. I felt ready to leave the city. I had started drawing my face and concrete emerging from it. I wrote poetry, broken poetry, about asphalt raining on my face, and skyscrappers falling on me. This felt romantic but to an extent felt as though my body and mind were ready for change. I envisioned London. Asia. Brazil. As places where I would be born again. Away from this city that had become so pervasive in my notion of reality. I also saw that I had become hopelessly impatient. That I had lost my ability to touch humanity. To connect with reality away from the Manhattan reality. From the island where windows rained on me, and it was okay. Where roads frolicked into my ear, traversed my brain, and it was okay. Where my shoulders, one fine day, dropped. It was unacceptable.
And so, getting solid, liquids, and all kinds of food stuck in my chest, and not noticing, I made up my mind. I am to become a student. And I left.
Chapter 1: Surrendering to the Hot Nurse
Gabriela was the name of the hot Brazilian nurse, standing sculpturally by me in the bathroom. I rested on my knees. Mouth open. She spoke "cara, voce tem que ter coragem... vamos a fazer algo um pouquinho ruin mais tem que simplemente deixar isto feito oe mesmo e amanha tudo estara bem". In English this read close to: "brother, you have to have courage, we are about to perform a nasty intrusion and tomorrow you will be fine."
The medical procedure advanced. I was monopolizing the room for four that had been assigned to me, Joao Pedro [farmer from the North of Brazil who had some form of cancer his daughters did not want to disclose to me] and the two unoccupied beds. This was the Hospital das Clinicas, top ranked, massive clinical city, in the center of Sao Paolo. This was to be my new home for the coming weeks.
This is the largest public hospital in Latin America. In a country where more than 380million people flock to receive treatment. Unique doctors perform operations day in and night. The very department where I was "surgirized" performed more operations in a day than the comparable hospitals in Ecuador, where I am from. I was privileged to be there. Was told Brazilian doctors are pioneers in the field and their touch is second to none. I surrendered. Fully gave myself away.
The place was unique. Clean as hell. Pristine and shining old marble and tiles. The windows were wired and fenced as if one of us would dare scape this 8th floor hospital room. I was in lock-down. All for a cause that was not known.
Gabriela falaba with the people in the reception. I was by this point wearing the universally stale and light blue robe with a lovely opening in the behind. At least I was given pijama pants. My mother was not allowed in. Visiting hours had ended. The oesophagus scrub I was about to receive was meant to be my first date with lovely Gabi.
And so Gabi proceeded to introduce softly a large tube. Borderline 5cm in diameter, the tube went down my throat and starting pushing my upper stomach. Gagging started. Of course, this was meant to happen. I stupidly kept trying to show off my "pristine Portuguese" to Gabi and show all my "coragem." Courageous I was. Vomiting in between the introductions of some lemon water that shot in, stayed there for a bit, and then was shot out after Gaby moved the tube up and down. In and out. The scene was lovely. She must have been impressed.
After fifteen minutes of intense cleansing, it was proclaimed that I was free to stand up, have some water, and spit it out. X, your oesophagus is clean. We are done.
This moment officially and auspiciously marked the beginning and ending of two journeys. My body felt clean and I was able to tie well my light hospital hipster robe and go back to bed. Joao Pedro starred at me, smilingly. I reciprocated. The television was all white noise and he was blasting it in the hopes of hearing some coverage of the World Cup. It was off hours, the television did not work, him and I had been abandoned. No family member around. No nurse in the room. No other roommates. Only the night. The Brazilian night in a massive public hospital.
Joao Pedro looked at me. And asked questions. He became perplexed. On and off. He would ask frequently, "where are you from?" And then ask "was that your mother and your sister" When I replied yes, he said, they are beautiful. I agreed. He asked, you speak with a suntaqui that I do not understand. I explained patiently, of course me educated former investment banker from Spanish speaking Latin America, the patient privileged idiot, explained "Joao Pedro, eu seu de Ecuador". That did not ring a bell. Sounded like a part of Brazil he did not hear off before. I told him it was remote. There, at that moment, it indeed felt remote.
The night sunk in. The gratitude to be immersed in this process for some reason felt overwhelming. For months and months, I had been looking to retreat. To go into an experience where I had to pay nothing. To go into something without financing an ultimate motive. And I wanted, I craved, I needed the chance to be be cleansed. To be taken away and shown my humanity. To remove the velocity. And this felt like it.
My insides were just violated by the hot nurse. My eyes had watered as in every gagging movement. And I was told that for the coming 10 days I was to observe full fasting. No food. My stomach needed to be cleansed. The oesophagus was just a first start. After that, the Doctor had explained to me and my mother and my sister who flew with me, the patient, that the surgery would take place in that time span, 10-15 days, according to my cleansing. Once the surgery took place, I was to remain in scrutiny, under observation, and fasting. When my body showed signs of recover, I would be allowed to leave the hospital, go to the apartment we had sorted out for our stay, and the sooner I would leave Brazil would be a month or two after the operation. Lovely, I thought. You wanted cleansing, here you mother hellling go brother.
I surrendered to this process. But as usual, there were practicalities in my mind that first night.
First, I realised my mother and sister put their lives on hold. My father, steadfast, pillar, back in Ecuador, waiting. It was not fair to them. What a privilege and how powerful to realise I counted on these beings. On this unconditionality. I had to heal quickly for them. No other recourse. Absolutely no other. Heal by following every instruction. And do so quickly.
Second, I had irresponsibly been travelling before this. I had left Ecuador abruptly six months before and the time to heal was further constrained by the fact that I had left this operation to last minute. I had applied to Masters programmes two years and then deferred that acceptance by a year given the advent of the financial crisis. In that period, I felt supper human. The surgery had not mattered much while I was in a spiritual journey in India; exploring entrepreneurship opportunities in China; or working and volunteering in an orphanage in Northern Brazil. That night, I realised, I had less than 7 weeks to fast, get surgerized, heal, and be let out of Brazil only to go back, apply for a study Visa and make my way to my new Masters student life in London. Anxiety arose. Stupid me. Deep down, I only knew, there was no regret. I surrendered.
Third, weddings of dear ones where happening back at home. I was requested at the side of two brides. Women of the soul. They were to marry without me. For some reason, I felt integral to those ceremonies. I never thought I would miss those. Yet, I surrendered.
Surrendering proved efficient. I had nothing to complain about. Joao Pedro was the one who had it coming. He was the one in real need. He had been waiting for this surgery for years, I believe 4 overall. And his transplant had not been sorted out. He lived in extreme poverty and missed drinking. He drank a bit too much. That is what led him there, his daughters said to me. At some level, I could identify myself with that. I felt that my six year tenure in New York, veered to that often. A dear friend had died. Drink. I felt lonely. Drink. Life was fast. Drink. I had no time. Drink. And drink I did. And it was all financed. It was all paid for. The emotions were needed. The thrill was wanted. The escape was efficient. The hangovers, pre 27, are generous. It was only recently that I started realising how intoxified I felt. And thus, the need for cleansing. For surrendering.
Gabriela did not peak again into our room. We were left to our own devices. I felt asleep. Feeling as though I arrived into my new Ashram. My new healing place.
I am not and have had the luck of never have been a hospital animal. Hospitals are places I visited randomly. And luckily, for positive reasons. I had been there to carry my nieces. Perhaps clear, and definable "happiest moments in my life." I also was there to witness my cousin, her mother, her sister survive from a plane accident. But these women were touched with a zest for life that made those days filled with light. In spite of their burns, and them loosing their husband and incredible father, their smiles filled my heart with perpetual reverence and admiration. Hospitals, thanks to these moments, signified places for new, more eternal beginnings. And so I surrendered.
Until... and that is until the nurse visits starting happening hourly. No hot Gabi this time. But furious Gilma. Who did the rounds with a thermometer. Every visit felt like it was inserted up my bum, not my arm. Every visit started descending, and I gradually developed this sense of being cripple, and of being sick. But I did not feel so. I felt reluctant to think I was indeed there because my health was faltering, it felt as though it was for some other reason. But the hospital, wisely, started introducing me to reality. Helping me observe it, for what it was.
Me, at age 27 and thirteen months [I refused to think I was 28] was not invincible. This crazy condition somehow founds its way to me over a span of four years. And I had no other option but to be surgerized. "Bring it on," I thought. I do not think Gilma was impressed.
The medical procedure advanced. I was monopolizing the room for four that had been assigned to me, Joao Pedro [farmer from the North of Brazil who had some form of cancer his daughters did not want to disclose to me] and the two unoccupied beds. This was the Hospital das Clinicas, top ranked, massive clinical city, in the center of Sao Paolo. This was to be my new home for the coming weeks.
This is the largest public hospital in Latin America. In a country where more than 380million people flock to receive treatment. Unique doctors perform operations day in and night. The very department where I was "surgirized" performed more operations in a day than the comparable hospitals in Ecuador, where I am from. I was privileged to be there. Was told Brazilian doctors are pioneers in the field and their touch is second to none. I surrendered. Fully gave myself away.
The place was unique. Clean as hell. Pristine and shining old marble and tiles. The windows were wired and fenced as if one of us would dare scape this 8th floor hospital room. I was in lock-down. All for a cause that was not known.
Gabriela falaba with the people in the reception. I was by this point wearing the universally stale and light blue robe with a lovely opening in the behind. At least I was given pijama pants. My mother was not allowed in. Visiting hours had ended. The oesophagus scrub I was about to receive was meant to be my first date with lovely Gabi.
And so Gabi proceeded to introduce softly a large tube. Borderline 5cm in diameter, the tube went down my throat and starting pushing my upper stomach. Gagging started. Of course, this was meant to happen. I stupidly kept trying to show off my "pristine Portuguese" to Gabi and show all my "coragem." Courageous I was. Vomiting in between the introductions of some lemon water that shot in, stayed there for a bit, and then was shot out after Gaby moved the tube up and down. In and out. The scene was lovely. She must have been impressed.
After fifteen minutes of intense cleansing, it was proclaimed that I was free to stand up, have some water, and spit it out. X, your oesophagus is clean. We are done.
This moment officially and auspiciously marked the beginning and ending of two journeys. My body felt clean and I was able to tie well my light hospital hipster robe and go back to bed. Joao Pedro starred at me, smilingly. I reciprocated. The television was all white noise and he was blasting it in the hopes of hearing some coverage of the World Cup. It was off hours, the television did not work, him and I had been abandoned. No family member around. No nurse in the room. No other roommates. Only the night. The Brazilian night in a massive public hospital.
Joao Pedro looked at me. And asked questions. He became perplexed. On and off. He would ask frequently, "where are you from?" And then ask "was that your mother and your sister" When I replied yes, he said, they are beautiful. I agreed. He asked, you speak with a suntaqui that I do not understand. I explained patiently, of course me educated former investment banker from Spanish speaking Latin America, the patient privileged idiot, explained "Joao Pedro, eu seu de Ecuador". That did not ring a bell. Sounded like a part of Brazil he did not hear off before. I told him it was remote. There, at that moment, it indeed felt remote.
The night sunk in. The gratitude to be immersed in this process for some reason felt overwhelming. For months and months, I had been looking to retreat. To go into an experience where I had to pay nothing. To go into something without financing an ultimate motive. And I wanted, I craved, I needed the chance to be be cleansed. To be taken away and shown my humanity. To remove the velocity. And this felt like it.
My insides were just violated by the hot nurse. My eyes had watered as in every gagging movement. And I was told that for the coming 10 days I was to observe full fasting. No food. My stomach needed to be cleansed. The oesophagus was just a first start. After that, the Doctor had explained to me and my mother and my sister who flew with me, the patient, that the surgery would take place in that time span, 10-15 days, according to my cleansing. Once the surgery took place, I was to remain in scrutiny, under observation, and fasting. When my body showed signs of recover, I would be allowed to leave the hospital, go to the apartment we had sorted out for our stay, and the sooner I would leave Brazil would be a month or two after the operation. Lovely, I thought. You wanted cleansing, here you mother hellling go brother.
I surrendered to this process. But as usual, there were practicalities in my mind that first night.
First, I realised my mother and sister put their lives on hold. My father, steadfast, pillar, back in Ecuador, waiting. It was not fair to them. What a privilege and how powerful to realise I counted on these beings. On this unconditionality. I had to heal quickly for them. No other recourse. Absolutely no other. Heal by following every instruction. And do so quickly.
Second, I had irresponsibly been travelling before this. I had left Ecuador abruptly six months before and the time to heal was further constrained by the fact that I had left this operation to last minute. I had applied to Masters programmes two years and then deferred that acceptance by a year given the advent of the financial crisis. In that period, I felt supper human. The surgery had not mattered much while I was in a spiritual journey in India; exploring entrepreneurship opportunities in China; or working and volunteering in an orphanage in Northern Brazil. That night, I realised, I had less than 7 weeks to fast, get surgerized, heal, and be let out of Brazil only to go back, apply for a study Visa and make my way to my new Masters student life in London. Anxiety arose. Stupid me. Deep down, I only knew, there was no regret. I surrendered.
Third, weddings of dear ones where happening back at home. I was requested at the side of two brides. Women of the soul. They were to marry without me. For some reason, I felt integral to those ceremonies. I never thought I would miss those. Yet, I surrendered.
Surrendering proved efficient. I had nothing to complain about. Joao Pedro was the one who had it coming. He was the one in real need. He had been waiting for this surgery for years, I believe 4 overall. And his transplant had not been sorted out. He lived in extreme poverty and missed drinking. He drank a bit too much. That is what led him there, his daughters said to me. At some level, I could identify myself with that. I felt that my six year tenure in New York, veered to that often. A dear friend had died. Drink. I felt lonely. Drink. Life was fast. Drink. I had no time. Drink. And drink I did. And it was all financed. It was all paid for. The emotions were needed. The thrill was wanted. The escape was efficient. The hangovers, pre 27, are generous. It was only recently that I started realising how intoxified I felt. And thus, the need for cleansing. For surrendering.
Gabriela did not peak again into our room. We were left to our own devices. I felt asleep. Feeling as though I arrived into my new Ashram. My new healing place.
I am not and have had the luck of never have been a hospital animal. Hospitals are places I visited randomly. And luckily, for positive reasons. I had been there to carry my nieces. Perhaps clear, and definable "happiest moments in my life." I also was there to witness my cousin, her mother, her sister survive from a plane accident. But these women were touched with a zest for life that made those days filled with light. In spite of their burns, and them loosing their husband and incredible father, their smiles filled my heart with perpetual reverence and admiration. Hospitals, thanks to these moments, signified places for new, more eternal beginnings. And so I surrendered.
Until... and that is until the nurse visits starting happening hourly. No hot Gabi this time. But furious Gilma. Who did the rounds with a thermometer. Every visit felt like it was inserted up my bum, not my arm. Every visit started descending, and I gradually developed this sense of being cripple, and of being sick. But I did not feel so. I felt reluctant to think I was indeed there because my health was faltering, it felt as though it was for some other reason. But the hospital, wisely, started introducing me to reality. Helping me observe it, for what it was.
Me, at age 27 and thirteen months [I refused to think I was 28] was not invincible. This crazy condition somehow founds its way to me over a span of four years. And I had no other option but to be surgerized. "Bring it on," I thought. I do not think Gilma was impressed.
Habitat: Malleability
You can adjust to any habitat the world has to offer.
Human.
Human is as adaptable as mind permits.
And mind is as infinite as one dears it to be.
Be no immediate limitations.
Wash you underwear by hand.
Hand bathe at the holy river in your underwear.
Among legions of descendants of a historic and millenary culture.
Culture advance and predict without repercussions.
Predict solutions to upcoming movements.
Move the body to follow the mind.
Get used to treating it as savagely as possible. Not in impurities. But in purities.
Respect it.
Respect them.
Yet introduce them to new habitats. Foreva.
Mumbai - Mandwa - 02/28/2010 - Boat to Elephanta
Human.
Human is as adaptable as mind permits.
And mind is as infinite as one dears it to be.
Be no immediate limitations.
Wash you underwear by hand.
Hand bathe at the holy river in your underwear.
Among legions of descendants of a historic and millenary culture.
Culture advance and predict without repercussions.
Predict solutions to upcoming movements.
Move the body to follow the mind.
Get used to treating it as savagely as possible. Not in impurities. But in purities.
Respect it.
Respect them.
Yet introduce them to new habitats. Foreva.
Mumbai - Mandwa - 02/28/2010 - Boat to Elephanta
Not a Single Lament
PREFACE
A twirling electrical sound blasted in my mind. Sun salutations had been completed. Air left my body.
Lost reason. Lost conscience. A myriad of eyes looked at me perplexed. My body dropped. Vertically.
I had an electrollite imbalance and pared from the world for split seconds. Fainting, the first time.
Loosing sign of breathe in altitude. MacLeod Ganj.
Perhaps of all India, all of what has happened over the past decade descended on me. Clearly and brutally.
It is obvious to plummet. Onto my knees first. Then hit the white tile porcelain below. Forward first.
In a strange place, in the distant Himalayas, body finally claiming space, expressing one last need for rest.
That moment, just as much as the gun pointed and then directed to my skull months before led me to this last surrender.
India, this journey, Varanasi: April 3, 2010, Varanasi, India
VARANASI
A whole encounter with existence, life and death, at once. Here. Here too. Here today. My body electrified at the sight of life down current near the Ganga. Sight of life leaving the soul, one "palazo" to the skull, and free it goes. Soul out of body being released. To the distance infinite ahead.
For life, still, it seems like a point forward. Seems like a walk in ever increasing directional options. At last, points that within sober realisation of age acquire much sought after infant wanting and craving. Eternal search for innocence. To be good again. To be new again.
The heat in this city reaches 43 Celsius. Felt it all day. Encountering a short man, with rotten teeth, and a dusty purple scarf around his neck. He led me to the high point near the river, the largest Ghat. To see how bodies incinerate and burn and collapse and explode within the burning heat of the flames below.
Dozens of men, managing dettached and skilfully the fires and ashes that end at last the lives of hundreds of women and men who come to this city, to this river, to this holy place to do nothing other than to die. To give their lives away, to reach Moksha. Complete dettachment from this life, and reach, eternal forgiveness.
Flames burnt at variable levels. Durations. Tempos. Changing. Each pulsated at the rate of light and sound of the body that finished. Flames, hopelessly unique as the life of the body and soul that preceded this burning. To various extents, this moment was unceremonious. Cows and water buffaloes fed themselves in the fields of trash nearby. They also floated in the very waters where human ash soaked. A man relentlessly dipped himself for minutes underwater hoping to recover rings, past gold, past gems, from the river bottom. All bodies die. How simple can I be? Not understanding this.
A youth is feet surfaced near the human ash. Soaked of death water. Impressed I remain. He is relentless. Dips himself further. into the death. He could not find any. And dipped again.
Bamboo sticks at the river bottom. They prior held the ash skeleton. Now they are light as feathers. The scorch is summer hot. Bamboo sticks at the hands of men who grabbed them to accommodate the bodies seem to get stiffer as the body stems limber out and float away.
Not a single lament. Not one tear. Process of life understood fully. Not a single lament could be heard. Ashes and smoke rained above, sparkled above, human past rained on us hundreds.
Death present. And the minute realization and urge: to live! To Live thoroughly!
TO SEEK LIFE.
April 3, 2010, Varanasi, India
A twirling electrical sound blasted in my mind. Sun salutations had been completed. Air left my body.
Lost reason. Lost conscience. A myriad of eyes looked at me perplexed. My body dropped. Vertically.
I had an electrollite imbalance and pared from the world for split seconds. Fainting, the first time.
Loosing sign of breathe in altitude. MacLeod Ganj.
Perhaps of all India, all of what has happened over the past decade descended on me. Clearly and brutally.
It is obvious to plummet. Onto my knees first. Then hit the white tile porcelain below. Forward first.
In a strange place, in the distant Himalayas, body finally claiming space, expressing one last need for rest.
That moment, just as much as the gun pointed and then directed to my skull months before led me to this last surrender.
India, this journey, Varanasi: April 3, 2010, Varanasi, India
VARANASI
A whole encounter with existence, life and death, at once. Here. Here too. Here today. My body electrified at the sight of life down current near the Ganga. Sight of life leaving the soul, one "palazo" to the skull, and free it goes. Soul out of body being released. To the distance infinite ahead.
For life, still, it seems like a point forward. Seems like a walk in ever increasing directional options. At last, points that within sober realisation of age acquire much sought after infant wanting and craving. Eternal search for innocence. To be good again. To be new again.
The heat in this city reaches 43 Celsius. Felt it all day. Encountering a short man, with rotten teeth, and a dusty purple scarf around his neck. He led me to the high point near the river, the largest Ghat. To see how bodies incinerate and burn and collapse and explode within the burning heat of the flames below.
Dozens of men, managing dettached and skilfully the fires and ashes that end at last the lives of hundreds of women and men who come to this city, to this river, to this holy place to do nothing other than to die. To give their lives away, to reach Moksha. Complete dettachment from this life, and reach, eternal forgiveness.
Flames burnt at variable levels. Durations. Tempos. Changing. Each pulsated at the rate of light and sound of the body that finished. Flames, hopelessly unique as the life of the body and soul that preceded this burning. To various extents, this moment was unceremonious. Cows and water buffaloes fed themselves in the fields of trash nearby. They also floated in the very waters where human ash soaked. A man relentlessly dipped himself for minutes underwater hoping to recover rings, past gold, past gems, from the river bottom. All bodies die. How simple can I be? Not understanding this.
A youth is feet surfaced near the human ash. Soaked of death water. Impressed I remain. He is relentless. Dips himself further. into the death. He could not find any. And dipped again.
Bamboo sticks at the river bottom. They prior held the ash skeleton. Now they are light as feathers. The scorch is summer hot. Bamboo sticks at the hands of men who grabbed them to accommodate the bodies seem to get stiffer as the body stems limber out and float away.
Not a single lament. Not one tear. Process of life understood fully. Not a single lament could be heard. Ashes and smoke rained above, sparkled above, human past rained on us hundreds.
Death present. And the minute realization and urge: to live! To Live thoroughly!
TO SEEK LIFE.
April 3, 2010, Varanasi, India
Puppet Man
How amazing to see a puppeteer live
How incredible to caress life through artisan heart
He saw under the morning of night
Fragile arms, incandescent muscles
Home schooled tatood, 2nd brother of six
Unaware, unconfessed, unsined
Descent soul, countable being
This pupet controller has seen life one way
Though that is way pure, pure way
It is infinite, infinite it is
It is millions
Cannot remain touching surface
A soil that burns below, not because of heat but because of friction
How amazing to meet a puppet man
Confused with father, confused with figure
Intermingled with every kind of uncertain truth
Manipulator of Thread.
Morro de Sao Paolo - June 2010
Do You Like Coconut Shower: You?
Do you like coconut shower?
Nice.
The people love.
Do you want coconut shower?
I wil.
I will.
I will rain you.
I will coconut you.
Jump in you by raft, by water-falling raft.
Remembrance of giants leaping, from the water to this river
This cold water river
Remolinos, tormentos, dentro de playas y de mares.
Providencia - Jan2011
Nice.
The people love.
Do you want coconut shower?
I wil.
I will.
I will rain you.
I will coconut you.
Jump in you by raft, by water-falling raft.
Remembrance of giants leaping, from the water to this river
This cold water river
Remolinos, tormentos, dentro de playas y de mares.
Providencia - Jan2011
Oh Captain, No Captain
Bali, March 2011
A captain wakes up. Stirringly, lifts his body from the tiny bed in the crew's main room. He walks towards the mirror. Rinses his face with the porcelain base's water. He winks at the ocean. He dresses in minutes, barely disturbed by the ship's rocking. Back and forth it goes. He remains firm. He barely notices.
These waters are his ground. These waters are like firm stone. And so on he walks to the wooden deck. He makes a grand entry at oh-six-hundred. He knows he likes to be there first. Steadfast. Sharp. Caressing the waters below in silence. Before the crew starts the day. Before the seven seas are conquered.
And so, an hours goes by. And no one has step forth. No soul on the deck. Other than his. He thinks to himself "how unacceptable it is that only I stand to wake the day." He blames them. Blames them for all the inefficiencies. For the rom that remains. For the fished uncaught. Drunk they must be.
He dusks off the impatience off of his mind. And decides to lift the sails himself. That a pleasure it was. To get his hands on the ropes, to see his boat, his massive wreck of wood ship, start taking speed. Because, once again, after many years it is him that is setting it in motion. That part of his brain felt unused. Rusty.
As captain, he grew accustomed to giving orders. Yelling orders. And other times, simply starring at the sailors. Starring through them. And that was enough to command discipline. He knew, townspeople, portspeople, commended him, oh captain, for his speed, his natural nautical ability. He knew he was better than the rest. He was humble. Smiled. To the women, specially. With the men, he bonded. No one dare interfere his course.
Nobody was keeping records of mileage. Nods. Distance travelled.
As the morning grew old, nothing distracted him from the chartered way he drafted in the morning. Hours later, he realised "his" hundred men had not woken up. He thought a war must have happened. Had he forgotten it? Were they all dead? And had he not noticed?
Laughing it off, he descended the sails and walked down to the crew's quarters. As he walked in he found thirteen block solid statues in perfect alignment. They were made of rusted marble, seaweeds trapped them, they were no longer white. These sculptures were lying down on the the ground. They had fallen flat. These, he thought, are the the putrifiedsoulds of his wreck. Did he know the sailors had stonified? Was he the culprit? Did he have, indeed, a crew?
Paranoid and concerned, he devised a mirror at the end of the room. A mirror with a gem mozaic at its edges. Diamonds. Emeralds. Saphires. All gleaming life. He saw an image in he mirror. It called him. It spoke directly at him: silently.
Look into your paranoia, it said, look into your eyes. And so he did. At oh-fifteen-hundred.
An hour into this exercise, the boat approached a current. The ends of its days. There was a sign. A large neon sign on the ocean, pointing at the current, blinking, bright, annoyingly bright, saying: "Danger, terminal current ahead" but noone was on deck to read it. Captain startled turned, into the mirror he looked again, his eyes betrayed him. He wondered: "when and how did you grow into this? Into this version of you. Old. Terminated".
It was the first time he recognized himself. At the time, no mirrors existed. His ending. No one there to repproach him.
Solitude enters the oval shaped windows. The breeze, turns into tornadoes of water that wash his body. A seagull comes in and whisks his captain hat off his head. He stops breathing.
The large sail cracked. The mast went down and onto the deck. It crushed it. And went straight into the crew's room. The captain turned, looked up. The mirror broke. A gem killed him. A green emerald into his skull. Unpolished bastard. The one he received many years ago as a gift from his conscience. In signals, for hope. Indicating green: change.
And so, Mister Captain, how can you go off? Killing hope like this? So easy.
Unsatisfied with a crew-less boat?
Is it that you necessitate incestuous company?
Of a crew?
Can you not, Mister Captain, with all your experience charter the course around neon signs?
The water?
How simple do you choose your ending journey to be?
Was it the tanned skin and the wrinkled lines?
Was it the lack of music or the lines of rum all colliding at the perfect hour, to finish you?
Barely capable, collapsing, headless body, surrendering to time, a step ahead of death were you not.
Of time, disparate within the silence.
Little knowledge does man have that souls die to tornadoes in wrecked ships.
Little faith do men have at first gazing into mirrors.
Images will always linger.
You are not allowed to leave loveless, no Captain.
You are not allowed to go into voids, no Captain.
You are not allowed without your body, no Captain.
You are simply not allowed.
A captain wakes up. Stirringly, lifts his body from the tiny bed in the crew's main room. He walks towards the mirror. Rinses his face with the porcelain base's water. He winks at the ocean. He dresses in minutes, barely disturbed by the ship's rocking. Back and forth it goes. He remains firm. He barely notices.
These waters are his ground. These waters are like firm stone. And so on he walks to the wooden deck. He makes a grand entry at oh-six-hundred. He knows he likes to be there first. Steadfast. Sharp. Caressing the waters below in silence. Before the crew starts the day. Before the seven seas are conquered.
And so, an hours goes by. And no one has step forth. No soul on the deck. Other than his. He thinks to himself "how unacceptable it is that only I stand to wake the day." He blames them. Blames them for all the inefficiencies. For the rom that remains. For the fished uncaught. Drunk they must be.
He dusks off the impatience off of his mind. And decides to lift the sails himself. That a pleasure it was. To get his hands on the ropes, to see his boat, his massive wreck of wood ship, start taking speed. Because, once again, after many years it is him that is setting it in motion. That part of his brain felt unused. Rusty.
As captain, he grew accustomed to giving orders. Yelling orders. And other times, simply starring at the sailors. Starring through them. And that was enough to command discipline. He knew, townspeople, portspeople, commended him, oh captain, for his speed, his natural nautical ability. He knew he was better than the rest. He was humble. Smiled. To the women, specially. With the men, he bonded. No one dare interfere his course.
Nobody was keeping records of mileage. Nods. Distance travelled.
As the morning grew old, nothing distracted him from the chartered way he drafted in the morning. Hours later, he realised "his" hundred men had not woken up. He thought a war must have happened. Had he forgotten it? Were they all dead? And had he not noticed?
Laughing it off, he descended the sails and walked down to the crew's quarters. As he walked in he found thirteen block solid statues in perfect alignment. They were made of rusted marble, seaweeds trapped them, they were no longer white. These sculptures were lying down on the the ground. They had fallen flat. These, he thought, are the the putrifiedsoulds of his wreck. Did he know the sailors had stonified? Was he the culprit? Did he have, indeed, a crew?
Paranoid and concerned, he devised a mirror at the end of the room. A mirror with a gem mozaic at its edges. Diamonds. Emeralds. Saphires. All gleaming life. He saw an image in he mirror. It called him. It spoke directly at him: silently.
Look into your paranoia, it said, look into your eyes. And so he did. At oh-fifteen-hundred.
An hour into this exercise, the boat approached a current. The ends of its days. There was a sign. A large neon sign on the ocean, pointing at the current, blinking, bright, annoyingly bright, saying: "Danger, terminal current ahead" but noone was on deck to read it. Captain startled turned, into the mirror he looked again, his eyes betrayed him. He wondered: "when and how did you grow into this? Into this version of you. Old. Terminated".
It was the first time he recognized himself. At the time, no mirrors existed. His ending. No one there to repproach him.
Solitude enters the oval shaped windows. The breeze, turns into tornadoes of water that wash his body. A seagull comes in and whisks his captain hat off his head. He stops breathing.
The large sail cracked. The mast went down and onto the deck. It crushed it. And went straight into the crew's room. The captain turned, looked up. The mirror broke. A gem killed him. A green emerald into his skull. Unpolished bastard. The one he received many years ago as a gift from his conscience. In signals, for hope. Indicating green: change.
And so, Mister Captain, how can you go off? Killing hope like this? So easy.
Unsatisfied with a crew-less boat?
Is it that you necessitate incestuous company?
Of a crew?
Can you not, Mister Captain, with all your experience charter the course around neon signs?
The water?
How simple do you choose your ending journey to be?
Was it the tanned skin and the wrinkled lines?
Was it the lack of music or the lines of rum all colliding at the perfect hour, to finish you?
Barely capable, collapsing, headless body, surrendering to time, a step ahead of death were you not.
Of time, disparate within the silence.
Little knowledge does man have that souls die to tornadoes in wrecked ships.
Little faith do men have at first gazing into mirrors.
Images will always linger.
You are not allowed to leave loveless, no Captain.
You are not allowed to go into voids, no Captain.
You are not allowed without your body, no Captain.
You are simply not allowed.
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