la mañana volviendose tarde

sentados bajo el quincho, en la mesa amarilla. èl esta metiendo el rollo nuevo en su cámara automática que había subido con él a Machu Pichu, una foto tremenda de double exposure, una llama radiando del pirámide, que había sacado fotos preciosas de su niña de niña, y ahora la prepara para el cumple, pasado mañana, de su nieta.

ella toma un descanso de su lectura para sorber el mate y hablar de su chico de bélgica que en lugar de hacer su servicio militar hizo su servicio social tomando fotos en un hospital de las emergencias, de los accidentes, haciendo campañas contra conducir ebria.

y él sorbiendo su café instantáneo comentando de su servicio militar obligatorio de joven cuando los militares trataron a los universitarios peor que al jugador de fútbol. los cuatro universitarios a recoger la basura, el jugador a conducir, y que no baje a ayudar.

risas. mira como somos.

él recoge la mesa, ella vuelve a su lectura, al silencio entre los dos.

el sol cae en el jardín, una maquina ruge cortando el césped del colegio al lado. los pajaros. la mañana volviéndose tarde. y todo porque no hubo electricidad para ir al ciber.

the beginning 2

this evening, i go to see a room. to see, if i can live there for a time. light. light is my requirement. light, a good price, light. a place where i can paint the walls yellow with a red bicycle. light for the plants to clean the air, moisturize the air.
and the other inhabitants? to think of the unknown other sickens my stomach.
on the other hand, it is titilating to be unsure of the future. will i sit on the bus tonight imaginging the arrangment of the room, or will i sulk in the blue, plastic seat, stare out at the passing night and plan the continuation of the search?

the beginning

today, i begin work...offering services to another for pay. three classes, a meeting, some planning, bus rides and walking. out at 8:20, in at 21:20. lentil soup for breakfast. an apple, yogurt, and trail mix in the bag. surely, i will snack an empanada or two, and when i arrive "home" they may have saved some asado for me. and i will eat it gratefully wondering if and when i will decide to not eat meat again.

las dudas

empanadas árabes y criollas con limón
vino
viento
levantando papeles pegados a las paredes
mensajes
y yo
en un rincón
con un grano en el hombro el tamaño de un tumor
leo
por la primera vez: le monde diplomatique
leo
en español
después de cada articulo
aproximo mi comprehensión y me pregunto:
¿sigo en mi auto-engaño?
¿seré capaz?

córdoba, 2009

first impressions

there is no ocean, no river, no mountain to strangle or retain its growth in one direction or another. it stretches on a plane block by block with subtle assents and descents reminding one of the mountains that lie farther west, a range running diagonal to the Andes, but independent of them, on the surface. these slight hills are a tease. i want mountain, river, ocean...that drastic stop. the excuse. the reason. the because.

i lied. there is a river and steel that bridges across concrete, grass, an inner concrete funnel guiding the waters of the .....along. think LA with its multiple concrete rivers. think the Thames, and know: that is not what i see.

there is also a stream, i should mention. it also rolls over a concrete bed, but it has the privelege of passing under a canopy of trees and high rise apartments. this is the Cañada in the city's center. it is the little sister with a grand title and placement unaware of the expectations surrounding her. there might be seasons of flooding causing her to rise as her tall cage of white brick evidences. but, her, a threat? it is as if the city planners in their looking to the great cities of Buenos Aires, Vienna, Paris and their cooresponding water ways (Río de La Plata, the Danube, and the Seine)and felt obliged to encase their waters, al biet a stream, in rock and line it with trees whose roots can not drink of the waters it shadows.

i sit at a café along its "banks" and i sense that i might be some where, somewhere known with out explanation, but no. this is is a city growing up in the image of many other cities. maybe if i hadn´t come through buenos aires, i would have identified the tall, red brick apartments as endemic to córdoba. if i had come from Sao Paulo, i would have deemed them borrowed from the brazilians. maybe, if i hadn't lived in Río Dulce, I would not interpret the green as dim.

the arquitecture is layered. the colonial era preserves alongside art deco(the first and the second wave) and all that comes between. one plaza is a world heritage site while the city park has a man-made lake, ducks, geese, burnt grass, the norm.

but my question: why here? why a city here with little water, a dry climate in the interior of the country without extraordinary soil or mining? I asked, the one question i allowed myself before writing this. Answer: a stopping place between Lima, Potosi and Buenos Aires, between one coast and another, between silver and port. and so, this stopping place has become the American Capital of Culture, thus named in 2006, but nobody talks of that.

i walked the city today from the west end of the center where i had lunch with cecilia and her grandfather to the southern end near the university where the municiple theatre rests. on this 35 minute jaunt, i jotted down only two free cultural events (western philosophy courses and an introduction to chinese thought at different venues) when i could have made note of 13 free seminars, conferences, talks, workshops, etc.. and for a small price there are more.

at the municiple theatre i will see another film by john cassavetes. 5 pesos (US$1.25) per film. "Culture" is cheap here. Pop culture is the more expensive alternative.

it is culture of "advanced civilizations" where stray dogs lay their fat bodies in the middle of sidewalks undazed by the foot traffic stepping over or around them. they do not cower nor do they whimper. here, (most) humans are not so beaten down so they do not beat down upon other beings who have been taught silence is survival. here there is lots of writing, filming, designing of buildings, buying and selling of leather and land and boxed caverns in the air. there is little weaving, little sanding of coconut shells or sawing of bamboo stalks.

here, i am not impressed witht the exotic, with the abundance of bodies buzzing in the informal market economy. here, the busses beep out an automated ticket for you. they don't take your money. they take tokens. they are a public service so they have no need to race performing hare kare manouvers with your life aboard to get one more customer, to do one more run before night fall. here, if you are not at the bus stop, they won't pick you up. here, at the bus stops, people for lines and do not push to board. however, neither here nor there do schedules exist for these inner city drivers.

what i have been impressed with most since i have been in argentina, is the friendliness and sense of saftey. los argentinos son encantadores (argintineans are enchanting)is my new slogan. i say it so often to explain simple expressions of kindness that it has taken an ironic tone. Yesterday I joked, los argentinos son encantadores, they are going to find me the New York Times supplement and bring it to my doorstep with out charge. They do it,supposedly, for a gentleman in the neighboorhood, why not for me? A remnant of the small town life of old spain and rural italy that emanates even in the closing of downtown shops from early, saturday afternoon until late, monday morning. only to be shut again, in many areas, for the afternoon siesta. supposedly the workers of the Disco, a chain of supermarkets open on sundays, run add campaigns saying that they too have the right to spend sunday`s with their families. however, if they do work they are well compensated: paid as a holiday and given a paid day off when they desire.

my narrow experience, less than a month in the country, has revealed a people not so initially guarded as guatemaleans and mexicans can be. neither a recent history of civil war nor an inferiority complex toward north americans and europeans plagues them.

to some of the older generation, seeing the policeman or woman on the bus not patrolling, but going to or from work like the others, can cause tension for the memories of dictators and military uprisings. to others, the police are to be spat on while entering soccer games or to insult if they even try to assert control over them. their force is laughable, some opine.

the movie ended at 8:30 and i thought that on this night of a sunday, easter holiday, a day when most of the center slept, i would be released to empty night streets and i would walk briskly to the bus station fretting until safe on the bus. but no, the closed bars were now filled with drinkers of espressos and quilsmer. the internet spots, closed for days were now welcoming people to reconnect. the night is to live.

here, nightfall does not force its citizen off the streets into their homes.

here, i am beginning to make my/another home.

cordoba
april 2009

these are my actions

I arrive to shutters closed and empty streets: a town taking its siesta. I roam. Think a hostel is the cheapest lodging. Alarmed at prices. Taken in red truck to another. Don´t like Carlos, the driver, the owner. Must go to this rock structure and that hidden river, he urges. The center isn´t worth anything, he informs me. Look at the pool, you could sunbathe...here is your room with out a window. thanks, will decide after... Chao. Chao.

More roaming. Closed hotel number 1. Closed hotel number 2. Finally Los 3 Gomez (a hostel, but clasified as hospedaje) come to the door, show me the patio with real grapes hanging from the terrace and i take bed number 2. Go to the bathroom, make my bed, pay, finish The Diary by the author of Fight Club and go off to wander and explore, to practice with out knowing what the french call flaner (the a with a dart above it). I become a flaneur (the a with a dart above it) who searches, looks, examines, goes forward, sweetly circling and arriving finally....and that is how it has been explained to me by a young argentine visiting paris in 1846. I think I might find a zen monastery or a sunny rock with a view. I happen upon the later greeted by a man bent at the waste walking. Hola linda, haces bien, haces bien, he yells after me, waving, animating me.

Sunset, cold, hungry, must go. On the way back I keep my eye on the man up high posed like Zorro on top of a red boulder with his horse. Lose him to the sun, stop to buy goat´s cheese for my hike tomorrow, but no. Not now. Not until November. November to March is the season for goats cheese. Even during mating season the sign is up to entice the ignorant. So instead, I buy some yoguhrt and water and sit to care for my stomach that seems to be cured.

After an apple as I walk and an espresso as I read, I shop for dinner and tomorrow´s supplies. And now,
now that all have gone out in the cool, evening breeze, i have come in to cook sipping wine, listen to calexico, and read cortázar.

these are my actions.

capilla del monte, argentina
april, 2009