Them Carnival People. Part 2

I came to the Carnival searching for beauty and found it here, in a cul-de-sac, lying on a pile of garbage, far away from the crowds and there, dancing her heart out, feather wings and body covered in oil.

I saw her drunk, flirting with a female police officer. I watched her until she got sucked in by the current of bodies. I followed her through the crowd, found her, then lost her again.

I saw her covered in melted chocolate and took a sniff of her scent: vanilla.

I saw her wearing plastic flamingos in her hair.

I saw her without make up and she was still ravishing.

I bought an overpriced coke can from her and later spilled it, also because of her.

I saw deep into her eyes and her cleavage.

I saw her front teeth gap extending in the widest, most innocent smiles and her ass, shaking frantically to the rhythm.

We almost had a fight because she kept stepping on my foot.

I saw her eating and talking at the same time.

She would have kissed me if I hadn’t stopped her.

She came to me in dreams, after.

 

During these past two days I’ve seen beauty taking many forms.

Now I know it can be anyone, anywhere.

It can be as sticky as a toddler who’s eating melted ice-cream with his whole face or as wrinkled as a eighty-year-old Rasta man who’s been attending the Carnival since he was a kid, in the 60’s and doesn’t get the point of it all anymore – he’ll try to convince you by listing all the reasons why it had so much more meaning back in the day. He’s never cut his hair and his dreads are so long, they keep dangling heavy and rugged against the ground.

 

And it can be as discreet as this woman who’s maybe a little too old to prove her dancing skills to any of these young, horny people, so she is watching the caravans pass by from some stairs on the side of the street – the same place I stopped to unbend – and our eyes make contact for just one moment in time but it is more than enough. In that one moment, we both realize we are one and the same. She allows me in and I can read her soul. It is open, warm and radiant. Oh, such radiance! I tell her she is stunning and she allows me to take a picture. I take back all previous statements: THIS is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

 

It can be as ballsy as a shorty with a whole lot of attitude or as sweet as this tall, Amazonian creature with a tattoo of a geisha on her back and a smile that would make Mona Lisa jealous.

And it can be as wonderful as you.

  

  

  

You’ll get to stare beauty right in it’s hypnotizing almond shaped eyes many times during the Carnival, but it will still surprise you on a random street where she’ll be hiding for awhile, trying to escape the noisy crowd and really breathe for a moment. You can even talk to her, ask for her name and where she is from – most of the times she will be happy to tell you. Ask if you may take a photo of her but before you’ve set your camera, she has already morphed into this wild creature you couldn’t have possibly guessed existed, a Jungle goddess who oozes sexuality and is already in character, posing for you like there’s no tomorrow.

But when it comes to African men…well, there is not much to say. Yes, they have perfectly sculpted bodies, yes, they’re all rough and tough and look like they could lift you up with one hand and protect you from anyone who could try to hurt you with the other, yes, they easily stand out from the rest of men, yes, whatever they do, you know they mean bussiness, yes, their amazing dancing skills are amazing, yes, their lips, yes, their abs, yes, they’re the ultimate studs, yes, yes, yes – but to me, their aggressiveness is a little bit too intimidating and not very attractive.

 

And yes, I’m sure they make great and unforgettable lovers and I’m sure that, after all this display of exceptional, some might even say perfect – specimens, most women would find it hard not to fantasize about them in the privacy and comfort of their abodes, but I myself, feel that subtlety, refinement and gentleness are bigger turn-ons than, let’s say, six packs and…the cholcolate skin guys haven’t convinced me of mastering any of the above just yet (besides the machines at the gym).

On the other hand, there are the women. Strong, self confident, loud, fierce goddesses with pitch black eyes and unearthly figures who could easily rule the world if they’d set their minds to.

   

   

 I must have been a black woman in a past life or perhaps the Universe is trying to prepare me for the next – I don’t know what it is that makes them absolutely irresistible to me. Every once in a while during the Carnival I would find myself staring uncontrolably, thinking “If this is what a woman is supposed to look like, than I don’t know what the rest of us are.”

And I’m sorry, but I simply can’t understand why we, as women, don’t stand up for each other more. I know we’re supposed to be permanently competing for something, be it men, a better paid job, or some great clothes on sale, but why can’t we just stop for moment and bow down in silent admiration for beauty instead of starting looking for flaws?

Ladies, let us quiet down the ego from time to time. It is unhealthy and I honestly see no point for ugly gazes and jealousies between us anymore. We have grown up. We are who we are. We cannot change it unless we decide to cut, remove, add, scratch or implant something. And is it really worth it?

 

 

We cannot make all beautiful women disappear (believe me, I’ve thought about it). They will always be here, there, taking the spotlight and making us feel like we don’t exist.

But why not work on our personalities and nourish our souls for a change, why not respect ourselves and others more; why not learn about who we could become instead of judging who others already are? Maybe then we wouldn’t need to cover ourselves in make up and accessories in order to prove anything to anyone.

And we’d be beautiful…by default.

I promise you.

Later edit: by an absolute mistake, I just found out that there is actually a name for people like us – white people, to be more exact – who become fascinated with black culture (it was a commentary to “Get out” where the same attitude is portrayed and we all how it goes) and the name is NEGROPHILIACS. So, yeah, I very much am a negrophiliac – and loving every minute of it. Just to let everyone (and myself) know.

Green Eyed Kisses,