dear chekhov,

How’s the weather down there? It’s been raining here. I should be used to it, but after six years here I take my umbrella when they call for rain. When I moved here from Seattle I remember I was amused at the aquaphobia. That’s what I called it, you know. Stupid word. I remembered it this morning. And now I’m in a funk, have been all day.

Funk, there’s another stupid word. It isn’t right, really. Soudade is the right word, but try explaining that to someone who doesn’t speak Portuguese. To anyone here, for that matter. I always call it ‘longing’ but that isn’t quite right, and no one knows what longing is, either. What a fucking useless language, English. It’s so big, and no one knows what to do with it. It’s not something you feel in your blood. It’s my native tongue and it’s turned on me. The politicians and the advertisements and all the fuckbrained pointless small talk. I want to speak something else. I want to live in Brazil or Portugual or Argentina until I will stop thinking in English, until i forget.

I probably sound nuts, and I’m not going to make it worse by trying to explain it. Because you know what I mean right off and anyone who doesn’t probably never will. But you see what I mean. The words are beside the point, it doesn’t matter what I say. Or it only matters if you’re from Portugual, too. If you always knew what the sea and its dreams meant.

Ah, but today was a gorgeous day. A gorgeous day for soudade, but that isn’t so bad. I heard it raining when I woke up. I cursed myself for leaving my umbrella at work, and called myself an aquaphobic, and with that stupid, stupid word…well, it’s been a strange day. I walked to work. Towards work, mind you. Now I know why they sell umbrellas and cars and all that stuff. You get enough rain in your hair, you feel enough on your face, oh man, you can’t work a stitch. The buildings look too damn solemn, and everyone looks too ridiculous, trying not to get wet. I didn’t know if I was in a graveyard or a vaudeville show.

I just walked around. I watched the people walking around. I made random turns. I waited at the intersections (for a change) and watched the cars going by. I found a bakery (near one of the art colleges) and bought a scone and a big ol’ cup of coffee. I walked around some more. There was a woman who smiled at me. I must have looked happy. Or just soaked.

I try to us these moods when I get them. I walked to North Beach, went into Vesuvio, and talked to that waitress I told you about for about an hour. Told her about rehearsal, tried to make her understand what it means, making music.

No luck. I can be patient, I guess. The last few years I settled for physical love when it’s offered. But there is something about this one, I tell you. And my words are… The only thing they do is tell me that there’s something in her I can’t get to.

I hope I haven’t depressed you. It really is amazing, being alive. After 30 years, even. And sooner or later i’ll see you.

johnny