I woke up this morning, tired, empty, feeling a little sad and low. It was a tough day, the thoughest of days I have had, but I still got up, wrote a little bit, still felt empty, tried to fill a void with pastries and dulce de leche. It was ok, I knew I had a riding lesson today which would make me feel better.
I got ready to go, unsure of how to get there from our new apartment, and went forth into the streets of Buenos Aires. After a lengthy wait for a colectivo, I arrived at the barn early. I got Luchador ready, I got to use my instructor's dressage saddle, silla adiestramiento, and whooshed my worries away. I focused all of my thoughts and energy into performance, needless to say, I am progressing. Apparently muscles and sinews DO have memory. I am regaining my strength and flexibility, even though I am losing some other things in life.
After my lesson, I experiemented with going home. I took a bus that, questionably, no one takes. Even though the other bus stop was full of people, I was alone, or so I thought.
I noticed a mumbling behind my right ear, 'que linda, que hermosa, oye rubia'. In the corner of my right eye, I noticed a man, a chubby, mid-fifties man with a tight top and swimming trunks on. I also noticed that his right hand was up his right thigh, searching for change, perhaps? No. Searching for dough.
I inched away. He followed. 'Que linda, rubia, que linda'. I inched my way to the other bus stop into the haven of the public. He stood on the other side of the divide, peeking in on me, hoping I would run back to him, throw myself in his arms. Delusional man.
Finally, I saw my bus approaching, I was waving it down frantically. I noticed in the corner of my left eye, that old creepy bastard was inching away, away.
Gone.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
an important day
Today, I had my first interview for a job teaching English to old businessmen over dinner. I know it sounds like an escort service, it probably is, but you will be relieved to know that I couldn't find the guy who was to interview me. I feel a sigh of relief for myself, believe you me.
I think I have a good judge of character and would know if I was getting myself tangled into something twisted. It's my blessing and curse, to be so judgmental. Right now, I am unsure which one it is.
For the past couple of days I have been hermitting the hell out of the couch, it was raing, thunderstorming, pathetic fallacy of life, I guess. It was still murky when I went to Patio Bullrich, a designer mall in Recolta, for the interview. Those looming clouds should have told me something. Or maybe I should have worn a better outfit? Anyways, when I emerged from the perpetual dusk of a shopping mall, the sun was out, the humidity was thrashed down by a slight breeze, and I was hungry.
It's good to be feeling better, to see the sunshine of life pushing those dark clouds away. For chrissakes I'm in Argentina. Sometimes, people need to see the dark to snap out of it and realize they don't want to be blind anymore. Slap in the face from Sun. Yeah, he did.
Tonight, I hope to check out some crazy drumming band in an abandoned factory. The Bomb, La Bomba. We will see what the inner Briz wants to do. Ice cream or drumming?
I think I have a good judge of character and would know if I was getting myself tangled into something twisted. It's my blessing and curse, to be so judgmental. Right now, I am unsure which one it is.
For the past couple of days I have been hermitting the hell out of the couch, it was raing, thunderstorming, pathetic fallacy of life, I guess. It was still murky when I went to Patio Bullrich, a designer mall in Recolta, for the interview. Those looming clouds should have told me something. Or maybe I should have worn a better outfit? Anyways, when I emerged from the perpetual dusk of a shopping mall, the sun was out, the humidity was thrashed down by a slight breeze, and I was hungry.
It's good to be feeling better, to see the sunshine of life pushing those dark clouds away. For chrissakes I'm in Argentina. Sometimes, people need to see the dark to snap out of it and realize they don't want to be blind anymore. Slap in the face from Sun. Yeah, he did.
Tonight, I hope to check out some crazy drumming band in an abandoned factory. The Bomb, La Bomba. We will see what the inner Briz wants to do. Ice cream or drumming?
Saturday, December 26, 2009
there goes the neighbourhood
The trinamic trio has officially moved out of San Telmo, a very temporary move. We are now stationed on the cusp of Recoleta (muy affluent-chic) and Once (the incredibly affordable Jewish barrio). The best of both worlds.
Our departamento is on the third-floor of the south-east corner of a 50's-style high rise. The closets take up an entire wall and the couch comfortably fits 3-and-a-half (Benito). However, like most living spaces, there are idiosyncracies you have to learn. The water heater is outside on the balcony. The pilot light gets blown out everytime a hot-water tap is not turned on. The doors do not close all the way, which makes for a very interesting intimacy with roommates. The streets outside both bedroom windows run buses all night. Noises can be muffled by the garage-style shutters that proliferate this city. Nice.
Nevertheless, a different neighbourhood which means a different experience. Out on the balcony, if you look north up the street, there is a cement building almost a block wide and a block long. If the night is right, the moon casts its eerie light, the clouds roll in from the river's edge, the building looks absolutely ominous. It's a sanitorium. All but a few windows are dark, no life seems to escape from its clutches.
Looking south along the street, the apartments, much like our own, are outlined by streetlamps, the glow giving it warmer ambience. Life exists on this side: Christmas firecrackers pop off at all hours, dogs bark from balconies at the freedom of the dogs running through the streets, old Argentine men bantering about life's tribulations at 7am.
We, in the middle, observe it all and call it home. For now.
Our departamento is on the third-floor of the south-east corner of a 50's-style high rise. The closets take up an entire wall and the couch comfortably fits 3-and-a-half (Benito). However, like most living spaces, there are idiosyncracies you have to learn. The water heater is outside on the balcony. The pilot light gets blown out everytime a hot-water tap is not turned on. The doors do not close all the way, which makes for a very interesting intimacy with roommates. The streets outside both bedroom windows run buses all night. Noises can be muffled by the garage-style shutters that proliferate this city. Nice.
Nevertheless, a different neighbourhood which means a different experience. Out on the balcony, if you look north up the street, there is a cement building almost a block wide and a block long. If the night is right, the moon casts its eerie light, the clouds roll in from the river's edge, the building looks absolutely ominous. It's a sanitorium. All but a few windows are dark, no life seems to escape from its clutches.
Looking south along the street, the apartments, much like our own, are outlined by streetlamps, the glow giving it warmer ambience. Life exists on this side: Christmas firecrackers pop off at all hours, dogs bark from balconies at the freedom of the dogs running through the streets, old Argentine men bantering about life's tribulations at 7am.
We, in the middle, observe it all and call it home. For now.
Friday, December 25, 2009
merry christmas
Merry Christmas to all! or, Felices Fiestas! All I can give is what I have been working on:
She remembered the apple tree that grew in her backyard as a child. Then, she would watch her mother and father sit under the tree, napping, reading, biting into the fallen fruit. When she grew older, she desperately wanted a tree, just like the one they used to have. She wanted to sit beneath the tree, feel a slight breeze on her face, and be content.
She procured some seeds from the local nursery, a specific tree, the apple tree. She chose a spot in the middle of the front yard, amidst sunburnt grass, enough sun, perhaps too much, to keep the tree alive and luciously in bloom. She planted the seed and moistened the soil. She envisioned the day when she could sit under the tree, nap, read, and bite ripened fruit.
Every day she took care of the spot where the tree was supposed to grow, but the days turned into weeks and nothing had happened, no sign of life. She decided she would water the spot where the tree was supposed to grow twice a day, sometimes three.
The weeks turned into months.
She didn't understand why the tree was not growing. She grew impatient. She watered the plant more, each time asking it why it wouldn't grow.
I dug the hole for you, I gave you an abundance of water, I put you in the centre of my yard where you could have all the sun you wanted, she said to the spot where the tree was supposed to grow. Why aren't you growing?
She began to cry. At first it was just tears streaming down her face, but she got so angy and started sobbing. She didn't care if the whole world could hear her, she was in pain. That tree was so important to her. It was her life. She wanted it her whole life.
She began digging furiously into the spot where the tree was supposed to grow. The soil was still wet, muddy and thick. Pieces of mulch cut her hands and tore at her fingernails. Hands bloodied and pruned, she kept digging. She needed to see if the seed was alive.
Seconds turned to minutes.
Finally she found the seed, amidst mouldy soil, almost drowning in pools of muddy water. She saw that it had begun to hatch, a vibrant green sprout had formed, roots had begun to descend and anchor the seedling. It was growing, despite almost drowning. All of the water stunted its growth time, but it was still trying, fighting to live.
Then, she realized with a heavy heart, that by digging it up, she just killed it.
Sorry for being depressing and morbid. Merry Christmas.
She remembered the apple tree that grew in her backyard as a child. Then, she would watch her mother and father sit under the tree, napping, reading, biting into the fallen fruit. When she grew older, she desperately wanted a tree, just like the one they used to have. She wanted to sit beneath the tree, feel a slight breeze on her face, and be content.
She procured some seeds from the local nursery, a specific tree, the apple tree. She chose a spot in the middle of the front yard, amidst sunburnt grass, enough sun, perhaps too much, to keep the tree alive and luciously in bloom. She planted the seed and moistened the soil. She envisioned the day when she could sit under the tree, nap, read, and bite ripened fruit.
Every day she took care of the spot where the tree was supposed to grow, but the days turned into weeks and nothing had happened, no sign of life. She decided she would water the spot where the tree was supposed to grow twice a day, sometimes three.
The weeks turned into months.
She didn't understand why the tree was not growing. She grew impatient. She watered the plant more, each time asking it why it wouldn't grow.
I dug the hole for you, I gave you an abundance of water, I put you in the centre of my yard where you could have all the sun you wanted, she said to the spot where the tree was supposed to grow. Why aren't you growing?
She began to cry. At first it was just tears streaming down her face, but she got so angy and started sobbing. She didn't care if the whole world could hear her, she was in pain. That tree was so important to her. It was her life. She wanted it her whole life.
She began digging furiously into the spot where the tree was supposed to grow. The soil was still wet, muddy and thick. Pieces of mulch cut her hands and tore at her fingernails. Hands bloodied and pruned, she kept digging. She needed to see if the seed was alive.
Seconds turned to minutes.
Finally she found the seed, amidst mouldy soil, almost drowning in pools of muddy water. She saw that it had begun to hatch, a vibrant green sprout had formed, roots had begun to descend and anchor the seedling. It was growing, despite almost drowning. All of the water stunted its growth time, but it was still trying, fighting to live.
Then, she realized with a heavy heart, that by digging it up, she just killed it.
Sorry for being depressing and morbid. Merry Christmas.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
all things are done out of love and fear
Listening to TV on the Radio. I know they will never sound the same again.
I´m starting work on a new project, title listed above. When someone moves away, the person gets a real picture, a real idea of what he or she wants from life. Some want to become something, others just want to live inside life instead of outside it, instead of watching it happen without choosing any of it. The story is going to be about those choices and why we make them. I am relying on my knowledge/wisdome/ignorance of the human condition. From what I´ve observed, there are two main driving forces in life: love and death. Love + death = life. Perhaps.
Tough times are ahead and it is hard to see the light.
I´m starting work on a new project, title listed above. When someone moves away, the person gets a real picture, a real idea of what he or she wants from life. Some want to become something, others just want to live inside life instead of outside it, instead of watching it happen without choosing any of it. The story is going to be about those choices and why we make them. I am relying on my knowledge/wisdome/ignorance of the human condition. From what I´ve observed, there are two main driving forces in life: love and death. Love + death = life. Perhaps.
Tough times are ahead and it is hard to see the light.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
a night of bubbley bubbles.
Last night was supposed to be professional, cordial, but business was supposed to be at hand. The trinamic trio of comrades went over to a potential landlord's apartment for a few drinks to discuss move-in times. Who knew what was to ensue.
We had barely eaten in anticipation of using the parilla, the bbq. I think that our future landlord, Thomas, did not anticipate how long the parilla would take. Five hours after the coal was lit, we finally ate. However, between then we sipped on cervezas and started to draw the hottub. A few hours later, when the bubbles were overflowing in the tub, our minds were overflowing with bubbley beer.
Checking on the chicken kebabs, I turned around to see quite a sight. Jameson, in full gear, shorts and shirt, climbing into the hottub. I turned around for one second and then looked back again. He was sitting down, surrounded by bubbles with his head barely poking out, smoke in hand. You better write about this, Maggy said.
By the end of the night, bellies full, all hottubbed out, light in the head, we decided to go home. I led the way. But, before we left, Thomas stopped Jameson. He said that he was going home to England for a couple of weeks, so if we wanted we could use the place, think of it as our home. He gave Jameson the keys.
All I want for Christmas is a hottub.
We had barely eaten in anticipation of using the parilla, the bbq. I think that our future landlord, Thomas, did not anticipate how long the parilla would take. Five hours after the coal was lit, we finally ate. However, between then we sipped on cervezas and started to draw the hottub. A few hours later, when the bubbles were overflowing in the tub, our minds were overflowing with bubbley beer.
Checking on the chicken kebabs, I turned around to see quite a sight. Jameson, in full gear, shorts and shirt, climbing into the hottub. I turned around for one second and then looked back again. He was sitting down, surrounded by bubbles with his head barely poking out, smoke in hand. You better write about this, Maggy said.
By the end of the night, bellies full, all hottubbed out, light in the head, we decided to go home. I led the way. But, before we left, Thomas stopped Jameson. He said that he was going home to England for a couple of weeks, so if we wanted we could use the place, think of it as our home. He gave Jameson the keys.
All I want for Christmas is a hottub.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
a good kind of pain
Talking Heads - Road to Nowhere
| MySpace Video
If you love something enough, you deal with whatever pain it dishes out. Today, I am nursing busted blisters and sore spots. Legs are barely working and it is very uncomfortable for me to sit down. It's worth it, though. It's a good kind of pain, one that makes you feel, oh and I'm feeling it, like you worked really hard for it.
Yesterday, riding around in a 20m circle, I noticed a burning sensation in my hands. I looked down and noticed that the reins had completely chewed through my soft, delicate, unused hands. How did I forget about gloves? Maybe because I calloused my hands slowly but surely when I rode everyday of my pre-teen and adolescent years. Being off a horse for 6 years definitely has its price.
The horse I am riding is named Luchador, Fighter. He's not that stubborn and I think he's rather sweet. Small, a little hard to get going, definitely not the most beautiful horse in the barnyard, dare I say, endearing? All I know is that he puts up with me. A knowledgable, yet floppy sack of jelly. Poor guy.
It was worth every moment of pain that I am experiencing today. The thing that got me through it was singing Road to Nowhere in my head. I felt like a cowboy, haaaagh!
Nursing some wounds today, but it seems like a very small price to pay.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Café San Juan
Absolutely, mind-bendingly delicious. A little on the pricey side, for Argentina that is, but worth every centavo. Cafe San Juan, rightfully named as it is on Calle San Juan, was a hit. After a late excursion to Recoleta, the comrades and I went out for dinner to the famous spot, labeled an institution in the eyes of some portenos.
A little lost is translation, we ordered way too much food. Queso de cabra con portobello (goat cheese and portobello tostadas), chorizo al vino (sausage in wine), ñoquis con gambas (that potato/pasta thing with shrimp), and a bife de chorizo (no interpretation needed). Two entradas can usually feed three people. As you can see, we ordered enough to feed a small army or a gaucho's medium-sized family.
Nonetheless, the food was the closest I will get to heaven. Melt in your mouth fantastical. If any comrades dare to venture this way, eating there will be a moment you will never forget.
Bellies full, a little vino-buzz, we waddled the two blocks home. I slept belly-up for reasons of comfort. It is almost noon, today. Time to go for my riding lesson, and I'm still not hungry.
A little lost is translation, we ordered way too much food. Queso de cabra con portobello (goat cheese and portobello tostadas), chorizo al vino (sausage in wine), ñoquis con gambas (that potato/pasta thing with shrimp), and a bife de chorizo (no interpretation needed). Two entradas can usually feed three people. As you can see, we ordered enough to feed a small army or a gaucho's medium-sized family.
Nonetheless, the food was the closest I will get to heaven. Melt in your mouth fantastical. If any comrades dare to venture this way, eating there will be a moment you will never forget.
Bellies full, a little vino-buzz, we waddled the two blocks home. I slept belly-up for reasons of comfort. It is almost noon, today. Time to go for my riding lesson, and I'm still not hungry.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
just an existential thought
Tired and broken, my body aches all over. I can walk, barely, but I cannot make sharp movements like turning around to talk to somebody or lifting my arm to grab something. It's a good pain, a pain worth every second of my 15-minute ride.
Nevertheless, I have been computer bound as a result of my condition. I have been writing and cruising the interwebs, stumbling across things that are funny, things that are sad, being consumed into lives of people I have never met. One particular person is this baby in a picture: it's supposed to be my baby picture.
I don't know about most people, but I never really grew up with seeing baby pictures of myself. I was a little saddened, but mostly curious about my origins as a child. Did I appear out of nowhere? Was I found on the street? Was I adopted? Much to my parents' discontent. Undoubtedly, they were saddened by my attitude about the whole thing.
I saw many adorable pictures of my big sister, I got it. She was the first, everything is new and exciting. However, I still became existential. I saw some pictures, but those were minute snapshots of an entire life I had led up until now. I never really saw what I was like as a baby. Then, technology happened and my mom started developing her negatives on the computer. What she found was a hidden abundance of baby pictures, pictures of me. She started sending them to me and even posted some on her facebook. I don't think she understood the effect it truly had on me.
There I was. I didn't remember doing any of these things that there is proof of me doing. Isn't that what pictures are for: to preserve memories. I started seeing myself from a very pure viewpoint. Even a complete stranger could tell that I was analyzing the hell out the camera. Rarely smiling as a baby, but in laughing hysterics as a toddler. This was the key to everything I have ever wondered about myself.
Was I a neurotic mess because of nature or nurture? Why do I seem to laugh at almost everything? There it was. Proof of my personality. It may not have preserved my memories, but it showed my adult self that I haven't changed very much. Just a little older, a little bit wiser, but the same neurotic, hypercritical jokester I have always been.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
back in the saddle again
Yes. It happened. I got back on a horse, or shall I say mule? It was a stubborn, stable staple for youngin's and people who are taking pruebas to demonstrate to the instructor what level of equine prowess one has. The memory was there, but the muscolos were not. I definitely need some musculacion. I was delighted when Naty, my future riding-instructor, could see past the soft veneer into my equitational soul.
Fifteen minutes later, after a rising-trot, sitting-trot, sitting-trot sin estripos and a mule to boot, I got off elated. My left calf was instantly burning, my seat was already pining pain, and my face felt like it was a boiling over kettle. I am sure steam was pouring from my ears, eyes, and mouth. In the end, it was worth it.
From now on, Fridays at 1pm with Naty.
Right now, shower time.
Fifteen minutes later, after a rising-trot, sitting-trot, sitting-trot sin estripos and a mule to boot, I got off elated. My left calf was instantly burning, my seat was already pining pain, and my face felt like it was a boiling over kettle. I am sure steam was pouring from my ears, eyes, and mouth. In the end, it was worth it.
From now on, Fridays at 1pm with Naty.
Right now, shower time.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Retiro: the tracks
[Photo taken from this place]
Yesterday was an interesting day. I planned to go to the barrio, Belgrano, to pick up some riding pants, some breech. I figured I would take a different route, mix things up a bit. I decided to jump on the colectivo and head for Retiro station. I had heard some things, not so good, about it. But, my comrade, Maggy, just took it the other day, saying it was fine by day.
Upon arriving at Retiro station, a slight sadness came over me. There was no doubt that, once upon a time, this station welcomed travelers with grandiose elegance, the arches, the metalwork, the sculpted columns and doorway detail. Unhappily ever after. I overcame my sadness when I realized that this main station was bustling and alive, people going to and from work and home, running errands, living life as usual. There is nothing to feel sad about when you see that life goes on.
I found the boleteria, made my 0.80 centavo purchase to Belgano C station, found the platform, boarded the train. As the train emerged from the station, I remember someone telling me that Retiro is a bizarre area, the epitome of juxtaposition. On the South side of the tracks the buildings are not smaller than 10-floors. Architectural detail adorns the rooves, the balconies, their French-doors, reminents of European grandeur. On the other side, to the North, one-level shanties proliferate the space, some even have a second level with terraces that holdup drying laundry, sheets, rags, remeras. Some may think that, when there is not a train passing, the shanties look at the towering taunts of the bourgeoise. I see kids running along the tracks, little girls playing in the mud. I wonder what the kids on the South side are doing.
I was told that Retiro became an interesting barrio because the workers established their settlement on the North side of the tracks to be closer to their workplace, the rich, South side. Carpenters, housekeepers, nannies, electricians for the rich made their orange-brick and plywood homes there. All I can say is: interesting. I don't know what living on either side of the tracks is like, I can't have an opinion on the matter. I am not going to say that the poor deserve more or the rich deserve less. For all I know, some of the rich were once poor and vice versa. It's a dilemma that I think any globally-conscious person deals with: what is justice when it comes to class status? Difficult question. However, my comrade, Jameson, explained something very poignant to me the other night, something his dad had told him:
Never feel sorry for people. Empathize, understand them, but never feel sorry. The minute you feel sorry for someone is the minute you marginalize that person. You are basically saying, "I feel sorry for you because you can't live the way I do, because my way of life is so much better". You can help someone, listen to him, but never feel sorry him.
I wonder if the British felt sorry for the First Nations, living in matriarchal societies, having their own way of doing things, focusing on community and non-instiutionized spirituality.
Instead of feeling sorry for people, maybe people should do what they love, succeed at it, not feel guilty, not be spoiled by wanting more, then, without pity, extend a hand and help others. Care about people, feel compassion, but never pity.
I arrived in Belgrano to find out that the talabarteria was closed. I decided I would go back on Monday. I bought a medialuna, a croissant, just one, and rode the bus home, all the while thinking about what I saw, feeling ashamed that I pitied a group of people. Most of all, resigned to never feel sorry for myself, to do what I want without being spoiled. Help out when and where I can, lose the self-righteousness, the martyrdom of living on frugality, not to judge others, and never expect for one minute that more money would make anyone more happy. It doesn't make the rich happy. Powerfully pompous, but not happy.
What tangible things we have in life will never amount to the stories that we have lived through. In the end, we all go to the same place, whatever that place is. We end up persevering through whatever life throws at us. Such is the beauty of human strength. That is nothing to pity.
Friday, December 11, 2009
it's been years
It hurts, constricted around my ankles, they can barely breathe. I point my toes towards the ground and up towards my knees. Ground. Knees. Even though they are tight, they are not as heavy as the chains that I freed myself from. Shackles swaying and clanging, I walked, Oprah-walked, to a talabarteria about 20 blocks away from my house. It's a store packed with riding apparel, pungent leathers, thick cotton breeches.
I had to stop off at the bank to change some money, heart racing, I pondered if I was doing the right thing. It occurred to me that it wasn't a question of right or wrong, true or false, want or need. It became a question of whether I would regret this purchase or not. Today, I wanted riding boots so that I can train horses for combat. Adiestramiento. In a month or two, when I can't pay rent, I might regret choosing the leather, but how could I ever regret getting back on a horse? It's what I do (or did, and plan to do), it's what I love. Not to quote MasterCard, but it's priceless. One day, I will have the opportunity to look back and say: I got these boots to ride horses when I sojourned in Argentina. Truthfully, I think I would regret not being able to say that to myself. I was so excited I forgot how to get on a bus, dazed, kind of high from the experience. I walked the 20 blocks back, box-in-bag-in-arms.
So, here I am, my monetary-chains left at a talabarteria, in shiny, new boots, ankles constricted, but free.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
The voice within
I always had a bit of a sore spot for my post-secondary education. It took five years, not four, to obtain a Bachelor of Arts. I thought all it got me was a low self-esteem and indoctrination into the workforce so that I could pay back an astronomical accumulation of debt. However, thinking back to my days of intellectual prowress, I did learn a thing or two: Karl Marx is one that sticks out in my mind. Weird.
He was a true inspiration when I was feverishly studying texts or fequently analyzing life. The most prfound thing I ever learned from him was about alienation. People who enter the machine, who become just another cog in the wheel, feel alienated from their jobs, their creativity, and most importantly, their selves. He taught me to do what I want to do because it will make me happy. Before now, it was working as a server to save up some extra travel cash (tax-free, under the table stuff). Now that I am here, I have dabbled a bit into writing (thus, also learning how to live sin trabajo). Being here (without a job) has allowed me to explore the city, to do with my day whatever I want, and that is how today happened. As I said earlier, I was on a mission to explore some equestrian centres. Great success: I found two.
These hipicos are minutes away by colectivo, which picks me up right outside our front door. I arrived at the corner of Dorrego and Lugones with the sweet smell of hay, manure piles and sweaty beasts. It was so nostalgic. I visited the first, El Hipico de Buenos Aires. Pleasant staff, beautiful horses, a bar... The second was the one was just up the street, El Centro Aleman de Equitacion. I talked with the staff, equally pleasant, and noticed that the centre was holding a competition. It was an equitation class. The judges look for posture and seat of the rider. For the horse, they look at movement and temperament. I moved closer.
Standing there, sun shining in my eyes, snorts, snuffles, whinnies and neighs transported me back. Why couldn't I just do this? Why did I need school? I missed out on 6 years, I could have become something. Tears welled up. I started heading home, continuously asking, why, why, why.
I looked up, saw the grandiose architecture, the sun, the warmth, this new place and I said to myself, so you could get here. A city in love with horses. Me, too.
Now is the time to do what I want to do and succeed at it. Nothing can stand in the way of my will.
He was a true inspiration when I was feverishly studying texts or fequently analyzing life. The most prfound thing I ever learned from him was about alienation. People who enter the machine, who become just another cog in the wheel, feel alienated from their jobs, their creativity, and most importantly, their selves. He taught me to do what I want to do because it will make me happy. Before now, it was working as a server to save up some extra travel cash (tax-free, under the table stuff). Now that I am here, I have dabbled a bit into writing (thus, also learning how to live sin trabajo). Being here (without a job) has allowed me to explore the city, to do with my day whatever I want, and that is how today happened. As I said earlier, I was on a mission to explore some equestrian centres. Great success: I found two.
These hipicos are minutes away by colectivo, which picks me up right outside our front door. I arrived at the corner of Dorrego and Lugones with the sweet smell of hay, manure piles and sweaty beasts. It was so nostalgic. I visited the first, El Hipico de Buenos Aires. Pleasant staff, beautiful horses, a bar... The second was the one was just up the street, El Centro Aleman de Equitacion. I talked with the staff, equally pleasant, and noticed that the centre was holding a competition. It was an equitation class. The judges look for posture and seat of the rider. For the horse, they look at movement and temperament. I moved closer.
Standing there, sun shining in my eyes, snorts, snuffles, whinnies and neighs transported me back. Why couldn't I just do this? Why did I need school? I missed out on 6 years, I could have become something. Tears welled up. I started heading home, continuously asking, why, why, why.
I looked up, saw the grandiose architecture, the sun, the warmth, this new place and I said to myself, so you could get here. A city in love with horses. Me, too.
Now is the time to do what I want to do and succeed at it. Nothing can stand in the way of my will.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
...
That's all I have to say right now. I can barely write let alone contain my excitement for the news I have for all of my dearest comrades. I... found... an equestrian centre, downtown Buenos Aires. It's the Centro Aleman de Equitacion, elite club but willing to give affordable lessons for the common worker.
One step closer to revolution. Scripts in hand, horse rearing atop a hill, Border Collies, German Shepherds and, fine, Golden Retreivers to lead the workers against the current facist regimes!
Unfortunately, it was a holiday today, yes, a Tuesday. Immaculate Conception Day. So, the centre might have been closed, I don't know, I tried calling and I got the answer machine. Or, it's just the name of the Argentine game. Nevertheless, dear comrades, tomorrow, tomorrow...
One step closer to revolution. Scripts in hand, horse rearing atop a hill, Border Collies, German Shepherds and, fine, Golden Retreivers to lead the workers against the current facist regimes!
Unfortunately, it was a holiday today, yes, a Tuesday. Immaculate Conception Day. So, the centre might have been closed, I don't know, I tried calling and I got the answer machine. Or, it's just the name of the Argentine game. Nevertheless, dear comrades, tomorrow, tomorrow...
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Vida Acuática: película extranjera
So I got my date with Bill, at long last. I was terrified what people, the portenos, would think of this solitary, blonde gringa meeting up with a 60-something, eccentric comedian. Despite the utter fear of being in public by myself, I persevered, I waited, and there he was, a complete inspiration.
It took me a great deal of courage to venture on my own to the cultural centre that has a microcine, libre y gratuita, open to all and free. This early eve, they were showing Life Aquatic by Wes Anderson, spanish subtitles. As I arrived at the centre, heart racing, clammy hands, I almost turned back. I couldn't try and watch this movie on my own without a posse of peeps to discuss it. What was I thinking? Then, I thought, what the hell did I come to Argentina for? The beef? Ok, the beef was a major contributing factor when it came down to a final decision, but the point of traveling was to join in and blend, absorb, live a little. In through the door.
Up the stairs there was a nice older couple waiting for the doors to open. Instantly, they greeted me,
Buenas tardes, que tal?
La pelicula esta aca?
Si, si, pero las puertas estan cerradas hasta las 5.
Well, the foot in the door, wide open, I started asking them if they had seen this movie before. They said they never even heard of Wes Anderson, but Owen Wilson was in it, so it's supposed to be funny. Don't forget Bill Murray, I said. Oh, si, si, el comico canadiense? Sure, I said. I would like to think he's Canadian, at least.
As the minutes progressed, more and more people showed up. Everyone was excited to see a pelicula extranjera, a foreign film. I was stoked to see Bill. I don't know what it is about the older generation, but I relate to them so well. Maybe it's the soul, maybe it's because they drink scotch and fine wine, wear buffed, leather shoes and knit sweaters, maybe none of the above. We entered the open doors together, pasa pasa, laughed with heartiness, my heart was fluttering every time was on screen.
When the foreign film was done, we all left and kept the door wide open.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
porteños
Last night, we three comrades went on a mission: to leave the comfort and ease of 'the pad', get out there, beautiful Buenos Aires, experience nightlife, porteño stlye.
We started the night right with a luscious bife de chorizo and mouthwatering, 'unbelievable', papas fritas provenzal at a local hotspot, Desnivel. As we sipped our Quilmes and let the beef melt in our mouths, the boistrous bistro bosted its own lady crooner, projection was not difficult for her. Her voice reverberated Rebekah del Rio, made famous for her Spanish version of "Crying", the essence of Mulholland Drive. It made us think, once upon a time this dishevlled diva was probably a show stopper. There she was, collecting pesos for her powerful presence.
After our meal, we headed out towards the plaza, searching for our evening's entertainment. The first place we stumbled upon was Mitos (myths). But, what seemed cute and quaint on the outside had much more to offer. The venue extended back by two more rooms and an upstairs to top it off. A centre stage with a backdrop projection put the local Ska-rock band, Yeti (pronounced she-tee), on display. Two more litres of beer. On to the next spot.
Reggae is big in San Telmo, a barrio rich in hippies and rastas. Passing by el Balcón, the smooth sound of saxophone and rythmic guitars seize our attention. Up we went to see a local reggae band perfom for the small gathering. From baritone to tenor to alto to soprano saxophones. All lined up in a row. Played by the main saxophonist. All in a row. After first intermission, the main saxophonist stayed in the limelight as the drummer and guitarist switched. Diversity. Two more litres of beer. Switch.
The nightcap ended at Nerfertiti, where the ground level was chill and sparse, but the 2nd floor (they call it the 1st floor) was packed with people enjoying the comedic band, Restos de Hollywood. A guitarist, bango player and puppeteer comprised this one-man show. Although the musicians demonstrated superb musical talent, the vulgarity and charisma of the puppet-wielding comedian is the reason this trio gets booked over and over. Absolutely gut-twisting. I had no idea what he was saying. After another 2 litres of beer, I proposed calling it a night. It was, afterall, 3am. Nevermind that the couple next to us just ordered a litre of beer and a menu.
Time to go. Time to sleep.
How I do porteño, Canadian-style.
We started the night right with a luscious bife de chorizo and mouthwatering, 'unbelievable', papas fritas provenzal at a local hotspot, Desnivel. As we sipped our Quilmes and let the beef melt in our mouths, the boistrous bistro bosted its own lady crooner, projection was not difficult for her. Her voice reverberated Rebekah del Rio, made famous for her Spanish version of "Crying", the essence of Mulholland Drive. It made us think, once upon a time this dishevlled diva was probably a show stopper. There she was, collecting pesos for her powerful presence.
After our meal, we headed out towards the plaza, searching for our evening's entertainment. The first place we stumbled upon was Mitos (myths). But, what seemed cute and quaint on the outside had much more to offer. The venue extended back by two more rooms and an upstairs to top it off. A centre stage with a backdrop projection put the local Ska-rock band, Yeti (pronounced she-tee), on display. Two more litres of beer. On to the next spot.
Reggae is big in San Telmo, a barrio rich in hippies and rastas. Passing by el Balcón, the smooth sound of saxophone and rythmic guitars seize our attention. Up we went to see a local reggae band perfom for the small gathering. From baritone to tenor to alto to soprano saxophones. All lined up in a row. Played by the main saxophonist. All in a row. After first intermission, the main saxophonist stayed in the limelight as the drummer and guitarist switched. Diversity. Two more litres of beer. Switch.
The nightcap ended at Nerfertiti, where the ground level was chill and sparse, but the 2nd floor (they call it the 1st floor) was packed with people enjoying the comedic band, Restos de Hollywood. A guitarist, bango player and puppeteer comprised this one-man show. Although the musicians demonstrated superb musical talent, the vulgarity and charisma of the puppet-wielding comedian is the reason this trio gets booked over and over. Absolutely gut-twisting. I had no idea what he was saying. After another 2 litres of beer, I proposed calling it a night. It was, afterall, 3am. Nevermind that the couple next to us just ordered a litre of beer and a menu.
Time to go. Time to sleep.
How I do porteño, Canadian-style.
Friday, December 4, 2009
the struggle
Recently, I have been captivated by authors who decide to share their subjective experiences of objective occurences. Two particular authors that have swept me away most recently are Joan Didion and Guillermo Rosales. Whether it is a compilation of existential essays or a fictional-autobiography, each author recounts his or her struggle in coming to terms with the tumultuous turns of life.
Captivatingly simple, Joan Didion's, The White Album, is a collection of her essays about the 1960's. The topics range from the Manson trial to the Black Panther movement to her experiences with migraines. With a grace I have never encountered in non-fiction before, she measures her own feelings against the strength of Doris Lessing and the Women's Movement. Her intimate account of this and other significant historical shifts leaves the reader feeling a greater sense of humanity. That's what Didion is: humanity. Although she got a job at Vogue fresh out of college, her writing doesn't resonate an ounce of righteousness. Instead, more often than not, she witstands her humility. She is considered under the realm of new journalism, prose for the daily paper. Utterly inspirational.
On the darker side of the eclipse is Guillermo Rosales. A diagnosed schizophrenic who was exiled from Cuba during the early dictatorship of Castro. He spent his time in homes and institutions in Miami which gave him the inspiration to write his fictional biographical novela, The Halfway House. Published posthumously, the novela describes the main character's, William Figueras, experiences in a halfway home. Always on the edge of sanity, William falls in love with another tenant of the home, Frances. They plan to move out of the home and get married. As the story unfolds, the reader finds Rosales' interpetation of beauty in his descriptions of destruction. He uses disturbing images of the squalor and insanity in the home as an ode to the strength of the human spirit. Humanity is perseverence. That's what Rosales is: humanity. Although tough at times, one can persevere these shocking details because the writing is simple. Simple because it needs to be. The graphic nature is the context and would be lost in literary jargon. Just knowing that Rosales experienced a similar degradation is heart-breaking. He committed suicide at the age of 47 after attempting to burn all his works. The Halfway House survived.
Although different genres, these two authors have struck an emotional chord. Decay, beauty, destruction, love, change, hope, and ultimately, death: the very fibres of human life. The struggle.
Captivatingly simple, Joan Didion's, The White Album, is a collection of her essays about the 1960's. The topics range from the Manson trial to the Black Panther movement to her experiences with migraines. With a grace I have never encountered in non-fiction before, she measures her own feelings against the strength of Doris Lessing and the Women's Movement. Her intimate account of this and other significant historical shifts leaves the reader feeling a greater sense of humanity. That's what Didion is: humanity. Although she got a job at Vogue fresh out of college, her writing doesn't resonate an ounce of righteousness. Instead, more often than not, she witstands her humility. She is considered under the realm of new journalism, prose for the daily paper. Utterly inspirational.
On the darker side of the eclipse is Guillermo Rosales. A diagnosed schizophrenic who was exiled from Cuba during the early dictatorship of Castro. He spent his time in homes and institutions in Miami which gave him the inspiration to write his fictional biographical novela, The Halfway House. Published posthumously, the novela describes the main character's, William Figueras, experiences in a halfway home. Always on the edge of sanity, William falls in love with another tenant of the home, Frances. They plan to move out of the home and get married. As the story unfolds, the reader finds Rosales' interpetation of beauty in his descriptions of destruction. He uses disturbing images of the squalor and insanity in the home as an ode to the strength of the human spirit. Humanity is perseverence. That's what Rosales is: humanity. Although tough at times, one can persevere these shocking details because the writing is simple. Simple because it needs to be. The graphic nature is the context and would be lost in literary jargon. Just knowing that Rosales experienced a similar degradation is heart-breaking. He committed suicide at the age of 47 after attempting to burn all his works. The Halfway House survived.
Although different genres, these two authors have struck an emotional chord. Decay, beauty, destruction, love, change, hope, and ultimately, death: the very fibres of human life. The struggle.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Beautiful Belgrano and same same but different
[I saw this sign, but did not take the picture. The two little white sticks are a pictogram's legs. Pedestrian sign. Obviously.]
Tired, bruised, swollen, and ready for the next day. How many days can one really spend exploring the 3rd largest city in Latin America? I know I don't have any right to complain, especially to my dear Canadian comrades, but didn't I already suggest that problems are subjective?
Today, my fellow adventurous comrade, Maggy, and I decided we would go the thousand blocks north-west to the barrio Belgrano. We live in the south-east barrio, San Telmo. Seven hours later we returned with battered feet and baggy eyes, but dignity in tact. The trip started out with eagerness and empty stomachs. Word on the street is that there is an authentic Mexican restaurant in Belgrano. The way to a woman's heart is through her stomach. At least these two women.
Even though the barrio is quite a distance, we decided that taking the colectivo would be a great way to see some spots aboveground. The bus twisted and turned through the winding streets heading north, then west, then west-north-west, or was it north-west-north? Shops fill the streets of Buenos Aires. The architecture provides for perfect store space on the ground-floor and departamentos on the upper-floors. Not unlike Soho in NYC or, as Maggy described Barcelona's downtown. Unfortunately, not all the stores have been able to withstand the IMF and World Bank deals ex-presidente Menem sold his soul for over a decade ago.
Arriving in a pleasant sidestreet in Belgrano, we follow our noses towards our destination. The first building we see is an ominous, egg-shell white mansion that is atop a tree-lined hill. The sign reads: Albert Einstein lived here.
He lived there for a year in the 1920's. Now it stands as the Australian Embassy. I guess we were in the poltico-money district because we walked pass embassy after embassy. I wonder if they will mind that we took some pictures?
We finally arrived at the Mexican place where we learned it doesn't open until 8pm. All day siesta is my guess. To kill some more time we decided to walk the 10 blocks to the barrio chino. That's right, Buenos Aires' own Chinatown. As a spoiled Chinatown-Torontonian, I can say it was quaint. It had the ornate arch to signify to passerbys that you are entering a different district. Also, to signify that if you blink, you might miss it. A couple of grocery stores not unlike Toronto (a couple), sushi spots (obviously?), and trinket shops (the cheap stuff to clutter one's house). Ok, I get it. I'm a snob when it comes to Chinatowns. How could you not be when the ethereal fumes of dried mushrooms and prawns, bootleg Chinese operas and the ubiquitous 10-tees-for-10 deals used to pour into one's former home?
Nonetheless, got some Mexican hot sauce, goji berries, and moisturizer made from (or for, I'm unsure) cow-udders in barrio chino. Overall success.
Seven hours later, we got home. Tired, bruised, swollen and ready for the next day.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Reality Bites
I woke up this morning with a pounding headache and an itchy knee-pit. What happened last night? Well, celebrations were in order for our emancipation from ¨the Loft¨. That´s what happened.
We dined, wined, and pined into the wee hours of the morn. We discussed politics, philosophy, and the perpetual pendulum shift We chatted about what/who we want to be when we grow up, potential business endeavours, ans how strawberry champagne tastes like strawberries. We were reacquainted with our terrace, a missed luxury, and our annoying, blood-thirsty friends.
How do I reiterate our discussions when the topics varied from toe-jam to existential properties of Quantum mechanics?
Let me just summarize our discussion by saying that I came to the conclusion that reality is not that bad. Each person´s reality is a subjective experience. From the very rich to the very poor, life seems to be full of problems. Even for the average bear, hard times can range from not having enough to pay back one´s credit card to missing one´s morning coffee. I can´t help but hope that this could be something positive.
I was watching Serenity the other night (yes, with Spanish subtitles) and the Reavers were one of the bad guys in the plot: Ravenous, tortuous, sub-human beings with a flavour for pilaging and killing. The creation of Reavers was not spontaneous evolution. Instead, this type of sub-human was created by other humans thinking they could change people. These pompous sub-deities pumped a type of chemical into a community´s air-system that was meant to weed out aggression in the population. It worked and the people stopped fighting. Everything. They stopped fighting the urge to eat, the necessity to procreate, the want to live. The other half had the reverse effect and became super aggressive Reavers. But, Joss Whedon had a point. What does complacency do to a population? How could contentment be blissful? Problems, whether it´s fighting one´s conscience or with one´s best friend, has been the driving force of our own creativity.
We are naturally tortured souls because we have souls. Life is not about the four F´s, there´s something more to humans that borders the divine. So, those with truly trivial problems, should embrace them and realize that they are there to help motivate us, in some way or another. I'm not going to get high and mighty by saying that there are those out there with real problems, like feeding their families. Every person's problems stir an emotion inside for legitimate reasons, whether vanity or neuroticism. I guess it´s easier to proclaim that we should all embrace our lows, but, as Tobin said to me, ´the good times never last, but neither do the bad times. The bad times are there to show you how good the good times really are.´
Even those that don´t have a lot of money are able to appreciate decadence in the simplest form, because that is also subjective. The rich splurge on yachts and the poor splurge on meat. I´m not saying that it´s a perfect world, I´m just telling you how I have seen it. As you know me, I am hopeful for a day when everything basic would be provided so that society's individuals can focus on true creativity and innovation. Sometimes, though, I question if we would be motivated to do what we want to do if we didn´t have problems nipping at our heels.
I think we would. We would get bored of being bored.
Cheers to my trivial tribulations.
We dined, wined, and pined into the wee hours of the morn. We discussed politics, philosophy, and the perpetual pendulum shift We chatted about what/who we want to be when we grow up, potential business endeavours, ans how strawberry champagne tastes like strawberries. We were reacquainted with our terrace, a missed luxury, and our annoying, blood-thirsty friends.
How do I reiterate our discussions when the topics varied from toe-jam to existential properties of Quantum mechanics?
Let me just summarize our discussion by saying that I came to the conclusion that reality is not that bad. Each person´s reality is a subjective experience. From the very rich to the very poor, life seems to be full of problems. Even for the average bear, hard times can range from not having enough to pay back one´s credit card to missing one´s morning coffee. I can´t help but hope that this could be something positive.
I was watching Serenity the other night (yes, with Spanish subtitles) and the Reavers were one of the bad guys in the plot: Ravenous, tortuous, sub-human beings with a flavour for pilaging and killing. The creation of Reavers was not spontaneous evolution. Instead, this type of sub-human was created by other humans thinking they could change people. These pompous sub-deities pumped a type of chemical into a community´s air-system that was meant to weed out aggression in the population. It worked and the people stopped fighting. Everything. They stopped fighting the urge to eat, the necessity to procreate, the want to live. The other half had the reverse effect and became super aggressive Reavers. But, Joss Whedon had a point. What does complacency do to a population? How could contentment be blissful? Problems, whether it´s fighting one´s conscience or with one´s best friend, has been the driving force of our own creativity.
We are naturally tortured souls because we have souls. Life is not about the four F´s, there´s something more to humans that borders the divine. So, those with truly trivial problems, should embrace them and realize that they are there to help motivate us, in some way or another. I'm not going to get high and mighty by saying that there are those out there with real problems, like feeding their families. Every person's problems stir an emotion inside for legitimate reasons, whether vanity or neuroticism. I guess it´s easier to proclaim that we should all embrace our lows, but, as Tobin said to me, ´the good times never last, but neither do the bad times. The bad times are there to show you how good the good times really are.´
Even those that don´t have a lot of money are able to appreciate decadence in the simplest form, because that is also subjective. The rich splurge on yachts and the poor splurge on meat. I´m not saying that it´s a perfect world, I´m just telling you how I have seen it. As you know me, I am hopeful for a day when everything basic would be provided so that society's individuals can focus on true creativity and innovation. Sometimes, though, I question if we would be motivated to do what we want to do if we didn´t have problems nipping at our heels.
I think we would. We would get bored of being bored.
Cheers to my trivial tribulations.
Monday, November 30, 2009
there and back again: an adventure to the edge of the world
Finally, the long wait has ended. I got to go back to my tower, my very own space with my very own bed.
For the past week and a half, the trynamic trio has been held hostage in ¨The Loft¨. As the name suggests, it was one space where we ate, watched t.v., slept, siestaed, drank, etc. Just one. I have had roommates before, but living in this kind of atmosphere was intimidation to my very core. And look at us now, we are still breathing.
Even though the space was a bit too small for 3 and a half people (don´t forget Benito, the cat), we persevered. The delicate balance of life was simultaneously in and out of our hands. We lived in the moment, but always waiting for the next. While boistrous by day, a sneeze at the wrong hour of night could have been catastrophe. And, so it goes.
So it went for 12 days. Always on the ground, then looking down and realizing you are on the edge. Don´t get dizzy, a fall would mean instant death. Space was in short supply, as was the Scotch. Why didn´t we plan for this? We knew it was coming, the least we could have done was stockpile some downers.
Needless to say, it wasn´t that bad. I got to experience living with two of the most patient and understanding human beings I have ever met. They have gained a new place in my heart reserved for family, saints and ponies. They even let me go on a tirade one night about a whole lot of nothing. I think I just wanted to talk because for the first 8 days of our unified experience, I had been feeling ill. I started feeling better. I needed to celebrate. I felt a bit ill the next day. The countdown continued.
Like Tobin had said, living without one´s space feels like you are constantly holding your breath. How true? Crawling into my tower last night, I let out the biggest sigh a Hobbit-sized pipsqueak like me could muster. The result was a glorified hiccup, but I instantly expanded into the folds of my double bed. I rolled around a bit, read until my heart´s desire (which ended up being a whole of 2o minutes), and slumbered so deeply I forgot to dream.
So, yes, it wasn´t that bad. Let´s never do it again.
For the past week and a half, the trynamic trio has been held hostage in ¨The Loft¨. As the name suggests, it was one space where we ate, watched t.v., slept, siestaed, drank, etc. Just one. I have had roommates before, but living in this kind of atmosphere was intimidation to my very core. And look at us now, we are still breathing.
Even though the space was a bit too small for 3 and a half people (don´t forget Benito, the cat), we persevered. The delicate balance of life was simultaneously in and out of our hands. We lived in the moment, but always waiting for the next. While boistrous by day, a sneeze at the wrong hour of night could have been catastrophe. And, so it goes.
So it went for 12 days. Always on the ground, then looking down and realizing you are on the edge. Don´t get dizzy, a fall would mean instant death. Space was in short supply, as was the Scotch. Why didn´t we plan for this? We knew it was coming, the least we could have done was stockpile some downers.
Needless to say, it wasn´t that bad. I got to experience living with two of the most patient and understanding human beings I have ever met. They have gained a new place in my heart reserved for family, saints and ponies. They even let me go on a tirade one night about a whole lot of nothing. I think I just wanted to talk because for the first 8 days of our unified experience, I had been feeling ill. I started feeling better. I needed to celebrate. I felt a bit ill the next day. The countdown continued.
Like Tobin had said, living without one´s space feels like you are constantly holding your breath. How true? Crawling into my tower last night, I let out the biggest sigh a Hobbit-sized pipsqueak like me could muster. The result was a glorified hiccup, but I instantly expanded into the folds of my double bed. I rolled around a bit, read until my heart´s desire (which ended up being a whole of 2o minutes), and slumbered so deeply I forgot to dream.
So, yes, it wasn´t that bad. Let´s never do it again.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
What a bookstore means to me
[Photo from another blog]
Yesterday, I decided to take advantage of the gloriously torrential weather and check out some bookstores that I've had my eyes on.
El Ateneo is supposed to be Latin America's biggest bookstore found on the famously designer street, Santa Fe in the prestigious neighbourhood of Recoleta. It is a converted theatre (the old kind where plays were hosted) that has not lost any of its lustre. Gold-encrusted railings lining three floors of viewing balconies. Ivory adornements throughout and a voluminously red, velvet curtain framing the former stage. As I got closer to the stage, I realized that it was a cafe. Someone can drink a coffee and read her favourite Shakespeare on centre-stage, imagining how the scenes must have been performed so long ago.
Every edition of every novel was pristinely new. The spines never cracked, even by the respectfully toting tourists and out of towners. A spiral column of Dan Brown's newest release guarded (or beaconed in front of, depending on your tastes) the entrance. To me, it appeared to be set up as a warning for lovers of literature to turn heel. Obviously, I persevered a bit, but I read between the lines. This is a bookstore not unlike a Chapters: Organized yet unknowledgable, beautiful yet sterile, busy yet uninviting. I left after 15 minutes.
I decided to walk south on Callao to Av. Corrientes. On this street was another bookstore I looked up called Gandhi. Some hippie-gobbley goop, no doubt. Apparently, they have live bands play in the frontal cafe during nighttime hours. Mish-mash o' mediums.
The bookstore in the back was the complete opposite of El Ateneo. The sections were small and it smelled of used, dirty pages. Too many hands, too many watermarks. It was beautiful.
There were whole tables of books on sale for $10AR, which is about $3CA, each. Three for $25AR. The staff were so helpful, especially with my broken castellano. The eccentric cashier had to explain why the price listed inside the book was not the real price and how the book cost more.
Inflation, you know. The economic crisis means we had to raise our prices.
The book was still only $15CA. Nonetheless, I didn't have that kind of money on me.
Next time, I said, I will be back.
What a bizarre twist of events. Here was this bookstore that had no books that I wanted, but everything I needed. To me, that's what a bookstore, any store, is supposed to be. However, we have grown up in a culture where we get what we want. It's all about options, which is nice, but during the course of obtaining want, we forgot what we need. For example, things we need as social creatures: human interaction and multiple opinions.
Not only have we become so focused on want, but we cannot even decipher the difference between want and need anymore. I want, therefore I need. Thanks to socially- and politically-constructed institutions like Oprah, people feel like they need the most prisitine copy of 50 year-old classics because those books have the Book Club stamp on them. Our only human interaction about what to read is suggested through a television personality at 3pm everyday. Our only opinion we rely on, is that same person's.
Obviously this does not apply to everyone. There are still people who rely on their local bookstores for interaction and opinion. However, I would just like to point out relics like Pages in Toronto. After over a quater-century in the business, it goes under. A block away, Chapters is packed.
Why? Because it's got what we want.
This is a very personal version of what a bookstore means to me. So, I am going for the kidneys: I think bookstores should be havens of knowledge. Places where you can smell aged paper and and ink-sodden hands. Places that don't have what you want, but will get it for you because the people are what you need.
Hopeully, with El Ateneo being only a few blocks away, Gandhi will live on. From what I've seen, the people in Argentina are not willing to go down without a fight, even if they take the route of passive resistance.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Abasto: the Jewish barrio
[Photo from this website.]
After a couple of days of feeling under the weather, the comrades decided to take me to the Jewish barrio in Buenos Aires. It's called Abasto and it's massive.
Argentina holds the highest Jewish population in all of Latin America and fourth in the world. Initially, when coming to the city I would have been surprised. But, as I learned, this city is a hub for immigrants. Immigration is what gives this city it's diverse range of accents and architecture.
Nonetheless, back to Abasto. The comrades and I thought it was going to be a massive flea market indoors: Vendors, traders, buyers, outlets... My dear comrades, very far from.
Upon approaching the Abasto, ominous arches rose towards the sky. It was intimidating. The steel, the concrete, the sheer presence and power of this mountanous skulpture. Did I mention it was intimidating? I didn't want to go shopping anymore. I persevered.
Nonetheless, inside it was sparkling. The marble floors combined with the twinkling, ambient lights gave this 5-storey decadence a cozier feel. Store up on store up on store. It was exhausting just looking at it.
At the top is where we found a haven. The food court. However, right beside it was a children's interactive-park-mueseum. I daren't enter. The clowns, let alone the snot and drool, were terrifying.
Within the foodcourt, the options are endless. Everything kosher of course. Even the MacDonald's. Absolutely the MacD's. It said so right on the sign. Well, my darling comrade Maggy needed to take a picture of that. Oh, and the ebony-steel arches that spidered above us. That's when we were stopped. A security guard approached.
No, ma'am, you can't do that (en castellano).
Por que?
Because we have to limit our potential terrorist threats. (Essentially).
Shocked and dismayed, we obviously obeyed. A shopping centre? A Jewish shopping centre. Once aware of our potential threat, we walked around and observed. There were security guards everywhere. I thought this was just a bit too much. But, never judge a situation by it's sparkling marble.
Apparently, the upped security is not for no reason. (Did that make sense?) In 1992 the Israeli embassy was bombed killing 32 people. In '94 the Jewish community centre, AMIA, was bombed as well, killing 85 and wounding over 200. Whoa. Even though it was 15+ years ago, I can understand the jumpiness.
This city has so much interesting history to offer. Some of the events, albeit, quite unsettling. Nonetheless, a trip worth taking to see. Easy shopping. Kosher meals. Polished eggshells.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Space:
[Photo of shop, cine si, from www.welcomesantelmo.com]Sometimes it's something you need so you know what you are missing.
The void that shows you how much you have. The darkness to see the light. Space creates a tunnel. It guides us to the end, where wide open we find that in which was lacking.
As I sit here in the hall, with the light above me, I can't help but wonder all that I've left behind and everything that I am moving towards.
The rain falls so gently as a reminder that I don't like to get wet.
The delicate strings of a guitar are plucked behind this wall to remind me to keep dancing.
Dip my toes in the water. Let my feet tap to the beat. And, remember: la hora mas oscura es justo antes el almenecer.
Is it dawn yet?
Walking through the Sunday market, I turn down a side street. It's quiet here. Not as many feet nor boothes. I walked by an entrance where I heard a familiar tune. Don't Love You. I go inside, and what do I behold with mine eyes?
Just as I was beginning to think that I couldn't grasp this Argentine life, one of my favourite bands is playing inside an independent music/movie/literature store. So it does exist. It always does in a city. You can always find it. It might just take a little time learning your own space.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
A Canadian Girl in Baires
[An American Girl in Italy, Ruth Orkin, 1951]Many of you are probably familiar with the photograph, "An American Girl in Italy". It portrays an uncomfortable divide, not only between the sexes, but the culture as well. The Italian men gawk and (undoubtedly) catcall the hurried, assumedly frightened, American girl. In Buenos Aires, it happens too.
In North America, women tend to forget how far they have come. Sure, there are some ladies who have brought us back a few generations like PamAn and Ms. Lewinski. Nonetheless, there is a resilience in North American women. We tend to fight our way back to equality. Or at least know it is our right to try.
In Buenos Aires, it's common practice for the men to whisper sweet-nothings into your ear as you pass. Here, it's all about beauty on the outside and that beauty is just being a woman. Period. If you dig into the countless travel brochures, they assure you that the incessant catcalling is harmless.
Being beautiful also seems to be a personality, for some at least. Beauty equals charming and pleasant. One travel magazine even goes as far to suggest how to be a porteno(a): "if you got it flaunt it. If you don't, get a surgeon". That's the personality here. Apparently.
As a Canadian lady, the catcalling definitely takes you back. I've never been one to blush at crude remarks. I have always been the one to burn red with anger: "You don't know me! Why you talking to me when you don't even know what I'm like!" Rest assured, you do get used to it (although it shouldn't be something you have to get used to). You even start figuring out ways that make the men feel uncomfortable. Stare them in the eyes. Keep your head up and proud. Make fun of the way they talk to women: "hey handsome, you need a friend?"
There is no way to single-handedly stop them. It's an issue of David vs. Goliath. But, you can make sure it doesn't get to you. You can control your reaction (exactly what they are looking for). Or, you can always go out in a paper bag (my personal favourite).
As well, the whole mentality and culture of the women here would have to change. Not all, but some ladies take pride in the attention. It makes them feel beautiful and desirable. Whatever works for them. Hey, I'm Canadian. That is my home.
All I know is that I miss the attention I got at home. A snuggle here, a sandwich there. Someone telling me I look beautiful, even in my pyjamas.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Coffee, Bikes and Burn
[Picture not mine. Just what I saw. Picture is from this website.]The past couple of days have been exhaustingly fulfilling. As a fan of informal lifestyles, I seem to have found my niche here, in Buenos Aires. As an active anti-state, anti-coporation, and anti-religion population, the people have the will to find many different ways to do things.
For example, here they have no recycling programs. It's not really at the top of their priority list right now. Thus, they have guys riding around throughout all hours of the night rooting through garbage just to find glass and plastic. After, they take their loot to the recycling plants. No corporation or municipality pays them. It pays itself. The will to do something seems to occur everywhere.
Yesterday, Jameson and I met up with Naty, one of the ladies who owns our apartment. She lives in a barrio called Las Canitas, just north of Palermo. Naty wants to learn English. Jameson and I need to learn Spanish, or castellano as they call it here. So, the three of us met for coffee at El Clasico. She told us that she was paying native English speakers to teach her the language. Apparently, when they got the amount of money needed, they just stopped showing up to teach her. What better way to informally learn than to exchange language for language. She has a skill we need and we have a skill she wants. Barter and trade.
Almost 3 hours later, we realize it's going to be dark soon and we still have to meet up with Maggy. Three hours of listening to Spanish, doing internal translating (I was told that's bad), and no food made for a bad headache. So we said our farewells and see-you-soons and walked just south of Las Canitas to Palermo Hollywood. It was dark when we got home and the pastel de papas (essentially, sheperd's pie) was sitting heavy. In a good way. So we all went to bed early so that we could wake up early to rent some bikes to tour the city with.
Thus, being the first to rise at the break of 10am, I went and did some errands. Got back, grabbed the comrades and went around the corner to get the bikes. Ten pesos (around $2.50CA) an hour per bike. Not bad. I guess the inexpensiveness is what you get when you go to a bike shop instead of a tourist centre. At the tourist centre, the people actually organize a tour. You have to do what they recommend for you to do. How about an informally paid business man giving us 3 bikes and saying "I close at 7pm"? Not bad.
To Puerto Madero we rode, at 2 in the afternoon. UV index of 11. Didn't I say I learned my lessons about siestas? Nonetheless, we checked out an ecological reserve located in Puerto Madero and it was beautiful. We rode straight across to reach the water, the massive river-delta where Bs. As. shares its shore. I have never seen anything like it before. Brown as far as the eye can see. Acting much like an ocean with waves and wind and dead-fowl stench. But, not. It looked more like a bigger version of the Mekong: a giant mud puddle. Although it wasn't magical or serene, it was definitely interesting. Especially looking towards the city. Trees, marsh, cranes, grass, condos, skyscrapers, cranes, a dirty haze.
Arriving back home, it is time for my afternoon coffee. I think I need a little pick-me-up after the sun charred my body. Until next time, comrades.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
WWYD?
[The island of Diego Garcia. A pleasant and beautiful place that experiences perfect climate. The islanders who have been there for 3 to 4 generations were exiled to Mauritius to make room for an American military base in the Indian Ocean. Photo taken by J. David Rogers. Website for his military service here.]WWYD? A question that I love posing to myself when I am deep in thought about how messed up the world is.
My dear comrade, Jameson, has given me a book to read called Freedom Next Time. So far, it's a powerful expose of 5 different countries (not necessarily states) that the author, John Pilger, has researched for the past 50 years. Diego Garcia, Palestine, India, South Africa, Afghanistan. All located in different geographical locations. All experiencing a similar battle for freedom from neo-colonial powers.
I have rested on Chapter 2, The Last Taboo, because of the graphic nature of the content. Innocent Israeli civilians killed by suicide bombers. One young Israeli girl who studied hard to become a doctor went to the mall after school. She never went home. Young Palestinian boys of 10, 11, 12 years of age becoming suicide bombers because they watched as their fathers were shot whilst trying to take their grandmothers to the hospital. They feel helpless, hopeless. Die today, freedom tomorrow. Maybe.
That's not my overall point. I don't know who is right or wrong. I don't even think that terminology can exist in this man-made tragedy. Throughout the horrific stories, I tried to remain objective, rational and logical. No, no. Don't use violence to retaliate. Educate the masses. On the other shoulder: kill that asshole soldier! I was conflicted. I'm not even from a war-torn country.
On my book-breather, feeling utterly helpless and tears welling in my eyes, I got into a good discussion with my comrades Jameson and Maggy. Borders, protection, sovereignty. What do all these terms mean and how would you defend them? As a Canadian, who identifies with complacency, it's easy for me to say "educate people" or "fight with pens, not with swords". Most Palestinians in the Occupied Territories don't even have running water. They are just trying to survive. So, how would you protect youself and your family? What Would You Do?
As my comrades pointed out, it's easy to say "be calm". They posed the question: If someone came into our apartment right now, grabbed Maggy and stabbed Jameson, and there was a gun sitting on the counter, what would you do? My automatic response: shoot the bastards.
It's so primal, but in a situation of threat, sometimes someone has to listen to his/her instincts. The only problem is, the family on the other side of things is listening to its instincts too. And so the pendulum swings.
So, how does it stop? Not an easy question.
The hardest question yet: What would you do? Hypothetically?
(You don't have to really answer, it's just something to think about. Hypothetically. Because that's all we have. Unless you are being raided right now. Knock on wood that you aren't.)
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
All caught up... THE ART OF BEING
Slow nights with nothing but time and beer equals a night of good conversation.
Did you know that Type A personalities are not genetic? Instead, they are nourished and cultivated through one´s childhood. Type A probably breeds Type A because of the demands the parents make of the child. The result is not creativity, but a productive workforce. Now, that is not to say that Type A´s are not creative. We are just not giving ourselves enough time to allow creativity to flow because we are very concerned with working, being productive. We are those who stress for deadlines and to enter the hubub rush of a time-conscious world. We have mastered the art of doing, but doing what?
We are forced away from the things that we love to do in order to become well-rounded. In fact, only well-rounded in keeping one´s job options open. And so the system of doing perpetuates. Waste is the fuel is the waste.
What if we could live in a world of ´being´ instead of ´doing´? Being whatever makes one happiest and finding fulfillment in life instead of a treacherous path.
This is the point that my comrade, Jameson, brought up. Human beings have forgot how to live. We have become obsessed with quantifying one´s success by logging 40-80 hour work weeks instead of looking at the quality of our time spent.
We have truly become alienated from our products because they never even got the chance to exist.
Think about this for a minute:
"How little do we think of ourselves that we believe we need to work a 40+ hour work week just to earn the right to live?" - Croft
Now, I know what a typical, cynical person would say. I am one. "It seems nice to think about, but it´s not possible".
Never give up ourselves to the possibility of change.
Another quote:
"The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don´t have any." - Alice Walker
(it´s also the easier way out)
If one does everything he/she feels happiest at, things will work out for the best. Even if you have nothing, at least you will have your happiness.
Did you know that Type A personalities are not genetic? Instead, they are nourished and cultivated through one´s childhood. Type A probably breeds Type A because of the demands the parents make of the child. The result is not creativity, but a productive workforce. Now, that is not to say that Type A´s are not creative. We are just not giving ourselves enough time to allow creativity to flow because we are very concerned with working, being productive. We are those who stress for deadlines and to enter the hubub rush of a time-conscious world. We have mastered the art of doing, but doing what?
We are forced away from the things that we love to do in order to become well-rounded. In fact, only well-rounded in keeping one´s job options open. And so the system of doing perpetuates. Waste is the fuel is the waste.
What if we could live in a world of ´being´ instead of ´doing´? Being whatever makes one happiest and finding fulfillment in life instead of a treacherous path.
This is the point that my comrade, Jameson, brought up. Human beings have forgot how to live. We have become obsessed with quantifying one´s success by logging 40-80 hour work weeks instead of looking at the quality of our time spent.
We have truly become alienated from our products because they never even got the chance to exist.
Think about this for a minute:
"How little do we think of ourselves that we believe we need to work a 40+ hour work week just to earn the right to live?" - Croft
Now, I know what a typical, cynical person would say. I am one. "It seems nice to think about, but it´s not possible".
Never give up ourselves to the possibility of change.
Another quote:
"The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don´t have any." - Alice Walker
(it´s also the easier way out)
If one does everything he/she feels happiest at, things will work out for the best. Even if you have nothing, at least you will have your happiness.
Part 3
November 13th, 2009 - THE POWER OF SIESTA
When North Americans think of Latin culture 3 important things come to mind: food, dance and siestas.
Yesterday, we have never been so sure about the power of a siesta. A sizzling 26ºC plus humidity to top it around 32ºC is really nothing. Ontarians in Canada are probably laughing at such a pitifully temperate attempt at summer heat. What if I told you that the UV index was 10?
It felt like the sun had puked hot oil all over our bodies. Walking around La Boca and Puerto Madero felt like all the energy we got from our morning coffees was being evaporated. Most shops and restaurants were closed for their siestas.
Lesson learned.
The flop and crash that we experienced when we got home was only followed by a barely conscious dinner. Lids closing all over the place. Heat-exhaustion slumber ensued.
Lesson learned.
November 14th, 2009 - FRIDAY THE 13TH
Yesterday was Jameson´s birthday so we decided to do the night right by eaeting laste and staying out even later. We really are trying to integrate into the culture. And, of course, it was Friday the 13th. A day that superstitious older people fear and the young revere.
We kept it pretty low key throughout the day. A little t.v. here, a little siesta there (lesson learned). It was muy nice. We built up our energy for the night.
Come 11.30pm, we headed out for dinner and beer. We decided on a place in La Plaza Dorrego. It was still bustling. The plaza was filled with patios and lined with people drinking on the small wall that encloses it. We decided to go the spendier route and get a patio table. We sat, we ordered, we sipped the first sip of beer then looked upward. An interesting observation was the light pollution. For a city of 16 million, one owuld think that the sky would be an electric orange. Three times bigger than Toronto, which has a healthy glow. No. The light pollution was white. A city raised among the clouds.
After dinner and a drink, we (Maggy and I) decided that we needed to go dancing. We were directed to a couple of places where, at 2am, had line-ups around the corner. I know, right? So, the next best bet was this place up the street where beats were pumping.
Inside, it was smokey and old. I killed the dance floor, as in it completely died as soon as I busted out my flaily, no-flow moves. The only one that seemed half interested was this 50-something year old man with bad breath and who, apparently, had a soft spot for 20-somethings who don´t know any better. Well, I did.
As soon as he went to the bar to order us a round, we torpedoed outta there. Phewm!
To finish off the evening, we night-capped at a bar beside the plaza. A jug of Quilmes con tres vasos, por favor.
Head buzzing and room swaying we conversed until 3am. Then home. Then pillow. Then passout.
November 16th, 2009 - BUSY DOESN´T REALLY MEAN YOU´RE BUSY
What a past couple of days it has been. Post-birthday partying madness has finally opened a window. Again, the days have become longer only because I am experiencing more sun, not less sleep.
Saturday was a slow day in a good way. Hangovers are easy to recover from but still not pleasant. Saturday night, Angela and her boyfriend John invited the trio out for la noche de museos, a night at the mueseums, which is an event where the mueseums of Bs. As. keep their doors open until 2am-ish and it´s free.
We started off in Puerto Madero, an easy 2 blocks from where we live and the hub of Buenos Aires´universities. We were on the way to the Frigata when we stopped in at the Christian college´s gallery. Tobin would have been in Heaven looking at all those etches and drawing of Satan and Hell. Every image seemed to be from the 17th-18th Century. All dark, all sinister, all really detailed. So cool.
We moved onto (quite literally) the Frigata, a comande ship based out of Bs.As. that sailed up until the 1920s. When I say an assault vessel, I don´t mean a steel tanker. This was nothing like that. It looked like a well-kept pirate ship. A white bird that would glide on the sea of blue.
Inside the hold, it was hot, stuffy and cramped. I couldn´t imagine being a crew member aboard one of the 40,000 mile (yes, miles) expeditions. But, oh the wonders you would have seen! Planes are easy (unless you are flying them). Picture being a part of a crew, having the sea swing you to sleep. Experiencing land-sickness because your heart and feet belong on water. Walking on water.
I think I was a pirate in a past life. One that couldn´t swim.
Sunday was a differect pace. We went to the street market where the thousands met. Street vendors, samba, a man on stilts, shoppers, viewers, eaters. All meeting on Defensa just because of the festival. That and all other barrios are probably closed on Sundays. Oh, but the samba. I wanted to bust loose. The heavy drums. Tha-thud-thud-thud. Pitter-patting of the feet. The hips begin to move of their own accord.
I think I was a dancer in a past life. One that never got lessons.
Movie night. Spanish subtitles for those learning. Cheesey potatoes and a snuggle with Kongito.
When North Americans think of Latin culture 3 important things come to mind: food, dance and siestas.
Yesterday, we have never been so sure about the power of a siesta. A sizzling 26ºC plus humidity to top it around 32ºC is really nothing. Ontarians in Canada are probably laughing at such a pitifully temperate attempt at summer heat. What if I told you that the UV index was 10?
It felt like the sun had puked hot oil all over our bodies. Walking around La Boca and Puerto Madero felt like all the energy we got from our morning coffees was being evaporated. Most shops and restaurants were closed for their siestas.
Lesson learned.
The flop and crash that we experienced when we got home was only followed by a barely conscious dinner. Lids closing all over the place. Heat-exhaustion slumber ensued.
Lesson learned.
November 14th, 2009 - FRIDAY THE 13TH
Yesterday was Jameson´s birthday so we decided to do the night right by eaeting laste and staying out even later. We really are trying to integrate into the culture. And, of course, it was Friday the 13th. A day that superstitious older people fear and the young revere.
We kept it pretty low key throughout the day. A little t.v. here, a little siesta there (lesson learned). It was muy nice. We built up our energy for the night.
Come 11.30pm, we headed out for dinner and beer. We decided on a place in La Plaza Dorrego. It was still bustling. The plaza was filled with patios and lined with people drinking on the small wall that encloses it. We decided to go the spendier route and get a patio table. We sat, we ordered, we sipped the first sip of beer then looked upward. An interesting observation was the light pollution. For a city of 16 million, one owuld think that the sky would be an electric orange. Three times bigger than Toronto, which has a healthy glow. No. The light pollution was white. A city raised among the clouds.
After dinner and a drink, we (Maggy and I) decided that we needed to go dancing. We were directed to a couple of places where, at 2am, had line-ups around the corner. I know, right? So, the next best bet was this place up the street where beats were pumping.
Inside, it was smokey and old. I killed the dance floor, as in it completely died as soon as I busted out my flaily, no-flow moves. The only one that seemed half interested was this 50-something year old man with bad breath and who, apparently, had a soft spot for 20-somethings who don´t know any better. Well, I did.
As soon as he went to the bar to order us a round, we torpedoed outta there. Phewm!
To finish off the evening, we night-capped at a bar beside the plaza. A jug of Quilmes con tres vasos, por favor.
Head buzzing and room swaying we conversed until 3am. Then home. Then pillow. Then passout.
November 16th, 2009 - BUSY DOESN´T REALLY MEAN YOU´RE BUSY
What a past couple of days it has been. Post-birthday partying madness has finally opened a window. Again, the days have become longer only because I am experiencing more sun, not less sleep.
Saturday was a slow day in a good way. Hangovers are easy to recover from but still not pleasant. Saturday night, Angela and her boyfriend John invited the trio out for la noche de museos, a night at the mueseums, which is an event where the mueseums of Bs. As. keep their doors open until 2am-ish and it´s free.
We started off in Puerto Madero, an easy 2 blocks from where we live and the hub of Buenos Aires´universities. We were on the way to the Frigata when we stopped in at the Christian college´s gallery. Tobin would have been in Heaven looking at all those etches and drawing of Satan and Hell. Every image seemed to be from the 17th-18th Century. All dark, all sinister, all really detailed. So cool.
We moved onto (quite literally) the Frigata, a comande ship based out of Bs.As. that sailed up until the 1920s. When I say an assault vessel, I don´t mean a steel tanker. This was nothing like that. It looked like a well-kept pirate ship. A white bird that would glide on the sea of blue.
Inside the hold, it was hot, stuffy and cramped. I couldn´t imagine being a crew member aboard one of the 40,000 mile (yes, miles) expeditions. But, oh the wonders you would have seen! Planes are easy (unless you are flying them). Picture being a part of a crew, having the sea swing you to sleep. Experiencing land-sickness because your heart and feet belong on water. Walking on water.
I think I was a pirate in a past life. One that couldn´t swim.
Sunday was a differect pace. We went to the street market where the thousands met. Street vendors, samba, a man on stilts, shoppers, viewers, eaters. All meeting on Defensa just because of the festival. That and all other barrios are probably closed on Sundays. Oh, but the samba. I wanted to bust loose. The heavy drums. Tha-thud-thud-thud. Pitter-patting of the feet. The hips begin to move of their own accord.
I think I was a dancer in a past life. One that never got lessons.
Movie night. Spanish subtitles for those learning. Cheesey potatoes and a snuggle with Kongito.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Part 2
November 10th - CHURCH OF SAN TELMO
Every morning I wake up and look across the roof-top terrace to the arches in the sky. Sky blue meets sky blue. Reaching, hoping Dad will put him on His shoulders.
The Church of San Telmo is on Umberto 1º, right around the corner. However, it functions as a mueseum. I think this is because there has been little to no religiosity, at least that I have observed. God does not strike fear as much as the sidewalks scattered with dog shit do.
Architecture of the rich everywhere. The bones of a not so long ago past. Culture, too, thrives everywhere. Proof is just before the mueseum. You can barely see it past the trees and cement wall: the abandoned orphanage, huérfano.
It is massive with 10-ft rod-iron fences that stand guard on the 10-ft high concrete barricade. Keeping purity in and reality out. Or, the other way around?
Angela, our superintendent, told me that a branch of the government bought the building and is investing $9 million in converting it into an Hispanic cultural centre. Art. Mueseums. Film. This is San Telmo.
Nonetheless, I wonder as to how quickly the project will get underway. I saw a bulldozer yesterday taking down some of the external growth, but when is the deadline? Are there deadlines in Bs. As.? It seems that the hush rush of N.A. has not jumped these scaling walls. (I have just recently found out that construction starts this week. Pretty neat.)
Same same but different.
November 11th, 2009 - A DAY IN PALERMO
Yesterday, we decided to check out another neighbourhood that´s supposed to be the hot spot for day-shopping and nightlife. The area is called Palermo, about 45 blocks (ok, exaggeration) from San Telmo. Nonetheless, the subway, or subte, should have been a pretty direct line. It shouldn´t take long.
We got to the subte station Independencia where there was a small gathering of people sitting under the shade next to the entrance. We didn´t even notice the banners as we quizzically stared at the bolted doors.
"Chicos, lo tenes."
Apparently, the subte workers were on strike. Ah, just our luck. Palermo, the unwalkable, needed to be reached by bus. So we walked to find the nearest bus stop to take us there. And we walked. We bought a Guia-T, the map of bus routes, and planned our route. Well, none of the 59, 64, nor 111s were going to Palermo. We walked for blocks trying to find somewhere/one that could tell us something. While we were walking along Avenida 9 de Julio, we were captivated by these massive arboles that centred the median. The trunks were comparable to some of the largest trunks I´ve seen, and I´ve been out West. The roots raised in a sharp, articulated gesture. As if the tree were sitting down and bending its knees. It looked like a tree from The Lion King, or something.
There were fences around the trees but by no means deterring. We could quite clearly see the whole structure of the trees. Shockingly, within the depths of these raised roots, the crevasses of these glacial trunks, were homeless people taking their siestas. You could barely make out the figures within, just the shoes that stuck out the ends. There were so many of these nests. No, more morbid than that. There were so many of these tombs.
Shaking off the eerie thought we finally found an info station. We asked a tourist information kiosko at the obelisk what bus we should take. The 67 on Libertad to Plaza Italia. Gracias.
Palermo was beautiful. Tree-lined streets, parks, shops, restaurants, patios, pet stores, BOOK STORES, cafeterías. Everything.
It was all so overwhelming that we had to stop for a beer rest. While sipping on a litre of Iguana beer, a magician appeared.
He did a this and a that with little applauses here and there from his audience of 3. But, something about it made me uneasy. Another "rival" magician appeared and sat with us. He made gestures for the original magician to show us some more tricks. They both mumbled. Never speaking.
The first magician left, making curious faces. The second left and walked a little ways down the street. He kept looking back at us.
The orginal magician came back and mumbled, "that guy, don´t trust him. Me, you can trust me. Don´t worry about your purse with me."
Ok, Maggy said, I´m paying and we are outta here.
I couldn´t help but wonder if the two were in it together. If one was meant as a distractor and the other the ´trusting, charismatic, quick-handed´front man.
Nonetheless, Palermo, you´re not bad.
Sitting at Lezama for dinner, we found out that we could stay at the ´pad´in San Telmo until Christmas Eve. Relief sunk in.
November 12th, 2009 - LAS ESTRELLAS
Last night and all of yesterday we took it pretty easy. Long days of hot sun and not enough siesta-ing.
Whilst the homies took advantage of a pillow and high noon, I sat on the terrace to enjoy a book, a glass of wine and the sun. It was in that moment that I realized this is what makes me happiest. It became the perfect day all because I didn´t do anything.
Later, after an appetizer we went up to the star-lit terrace with some wine. I looked up and to my right saw Venus, in all her brilliance. Or, so I think. My right-hand lady. She had fallen since I last saw her, but her brilliance was still powerful.
Every morning I wake up and look across the roof-top terrace to the arches in the sky. Sky blue meets sky blue. Reaching, hoping Dad will put him on His shoulders.
The Church of San Telmo is on Umberto 1º, right around the corner. However, it functions as a mueseum. I think this is because there has been little to no religiosity, at least that I have observed. God does not strike fear as much as the sidewalks scattered with dog shit do.
Architecture of the rich everywhere. The bones of a not so long ago past. Culture, too, thrives everywhere. Proof is just before the mueseum. You can barely see it past the trees and cement wall: the abandoned orphanage, huérfano.
It is massive with 10-ft rod-iron fences that stand guard on the 10-ft high concrete barricade. Keeping purity in and reality out. Or, the other way around?
Angela, our superintendent, told me that a branch of the government bought the building and is investing $9 million in converting it into an Hispanic cultural centre. Art. Mueseums. Film. This is San Telmo.
Nonetheless, I wonder as to how quickly the project will get underway. I saw a bulldozer yesterday taking down some of the external growth, but when is the deadline? Are there deadlines in Bs. As.? It seems that the hush rush of N.A. has not jumped these scaling walls. (I have just recently found out that construction starts this week. Pretty neat.)
Same same but different.
November 11th, 2009 - A DAY IN PALERMO
Yesterday, we decided to check out another neighbourhood that´s supposed to be the hot spot for day-shopping and nightlife. The area is called Palermo, about 45 blocks (ok, exaggeration) from San Telmo. Nonetheless, the subway, or subte, should have been a pretty direct line. It shouldn´t take long.
We got to the subte station Independencia where there was a small gathering of people sitting under the shade next to the entrance. We didn´t even notice the banners as we quizzically stared at the bolted doors.
"Chicos, lo tenes."
Apparently, the subte workers were on strike. Ah, just our luck. Palermo, the unwalkable, needed to be reached by bus. So we walked to find the nearest bus stop to take us there. And we walked. We bought a Guia-T, the map of bus routes, and planned our route. Well, none of the 59, 64, nor 111s were going to Palermo. We walked for blocks trying to find somewhere/one that could tell us something. While we were walking along Avenida 9 de Julio, we were captivated by these massive arboles that centred the median. The trunks were comparable to some of the largest trunks I´ve seen, and I´ve been out West. The roots raised in a sharp, articulated gesture. As if the tree were sitting down and bending its knees. It looked like a tree from The Lion King, or something.
There were fences around the trees but by no means deterring. We could quite clearly see the whole structure of the trees. Shockingly, within the depths of these raised roots, the crevasses of these glacial trunks, were homeless people taking their siestas. You could barely make out the figures within, just the shoes that stuck out the ends. There were so many of these nests. No, more morbid than that. There were so many of these tombs.
Shaking off the eerie thought we finally found an info station. We asked a tourist information kiosko at the obelisk what bus we should take. The 67 on Libertad to Plaza Italia. Gracias.
Palermo was beautiful. Tree-lined streets, parks, shops, restaurants, patios, pet stores, BOOK STORES, cafeterías. Everything.
It was all so overwhelming that we had to stop for a beer rest. While sipping on a litre of Iguana beer, a magician appeared.
He did a this and a that with little applauses here and there from his audience of 3. But, something about it made me uneasy. Another "rival" magician appeared and sat with us. He made gestures for the original magician to show us some more tricks. They both mumbled. Never speaking.
The first magician left, making curious faces. The second left and walked a little ways down the street. He kept looking back at us.
The orginal magician came back and mumbled, "that guy, don´t trust him. Me, you can trust me. Don´t worry about your purse with me."
Ok, Maggy said, I´m paying and we are outta here.
I couldn´t help but wonder if the two were in it together. If one was meant as a distractor and the other the ´trusting, charismatic, quick-handed´front man.
Nonetheless, Palermo, you´re not bad.
Sitting at Lezama for dinner, we found out that we could stay at the ´pad´in San Telmo until Christmas Eve. Relief sunk in.
November 12th, 2009 - LAS ESTRELLAS
Last night and all of yesterday we took it pretty easy. Long days of hot sun and not enough siesta-ing.
Whilst the homies took advantage of a pillow and high noon, I sat on the terrace to enjoy a book, a glass of wine and the sun. It was in that moment that I realized this is what makes me happiest. It became the perfect day all because I didn´t do anything.
Later, after an appetizer we went up to the star-lit terrace with some wine. I looked up and to my right saw Venus, in all her brilliance. Or, so I think. My right-hand lady. She had fallen since I last saw her, but her brilliance was still powerful.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
catching up: from paper to screen
Procrastination is getting boring. Nonetheless, I have no need to alarm myself. Although I have been absent from a/the computer, I have still been logging notes to share with you about my experiences in the beautiul city of Buenos Aires. It's quite remarkable how time speeds up without access to the technology that we are so privileged of using. Life goes on. I guess.
So to allow the virtual self to catchup with my experiential/practical self, I will be posting 3 notes per day. They will be dated so that all can keep track, or at least until my selves have congeled.
Enjoy, comrades!
November 7th, 2009 - CAFE @ Bar YRIGOYEN
By night it is a place of meeting. Cervezas, comidas y abrazos. Kisses on the right cheek. Complete amistad, friendship.
Just up the corner, there is a building with its outer wall lined with mattresses and slumbering human bodies. The overhang you pass under, in which they sleep under, insulated the smell of rotting urine and despair.
Around the corner, there is one family that sleeps. A mother, her pre-teen boy and a young girl about 9 years old. This is the divide.
"KIRCHNER ES TRABAJO"
everywhere
By day, the streets are cleaner and the pigeons have replaced the pavement dwellers. Here to feed on the excess.
As everywhere blossoms in Argentina, there seems to be so much beauty by day and anguish by night. This is the divide.
November 8th, 2009 - LAST NIGHT... AT THE END OF THE RAINBOW
Last night was Buenos Aires' Pride Parade. HOMOSEXUAL CON ORGULLO. There were fake breasts on men and women in baggy clothes with faux hawks everywhere. It was awesome.
Outside el Congreso and Senado the people gathered. "Si. ¿Y, qué?" Rainbows and wig. Chanting and kissing. Groping and drinking. What a party.
Maggy, Jameson and I decided that we should join the celebration, not in every way, but at least we could drink. We went to the closest supermercado in search of an ice-cold Quilmes, a cheap lager that all the working class, and thus the trendy kids, drink. It's only good cold. When we got to the beer fridge, the bottles inside were warmer than our hands touching them. It was enough of a deterrent. We were told by a very kind 20-something: "Git wine! Iz de BEST!"
So, we moved towards the back and saw the walls of cheap Argentinian wine, all reasonably priced, all made just a few hundred kilometres away. But none of the them were twist-offs. Not one. I guess that's not how they do. No wine openers either. Nothing. Lost, without a ship, in a sea of booze.
Suddenly, the very kind 20-something emerged from an aisle and said: "Come, come! Cold!"
We followed her to the front of the store and she pointed to the deli section that was tucked away behind the produce.
"There. A la derecha."
Gracias. Muchas gracias.
A la derecha, the beer was so cold it frosted. We picked-up 2 bottles of Quilmes, 970cc, and paid $9.60AR. Approximately $2.25CA. For both.
We left, sat on a kerb with 10,000 people and drank. We talked about what this celebration really meant, especially to us Canadians.
There were no cops. No barricades to close the roads. The crowd informally closed them just by being there. Even the 16-wheeler trucks did not deter them. They had a right to be there. So this is was political freedom can feel like?
After a little buzz started, we decided to get some eats at our local cafe/bar (Bar Yrigoyen). It was packed. People drinking, sleeping and feasting on the sidewalk patio. Nonetheless, we needed their free WiFi (pronounced wee-fee) so that we could try to find a place to live. However, there were no empty tables and no prospects for any. Like I said, some people were sleeping, quite comfortably, at the tables. The owner/manager came out and asked us if we needed a table.
"¿Nesecitan una mesa? Un momento."
Literally, seconds later he had one of his staff grab a folding table and 2 chairs (Jameson grabbed the third) and added us onto the patio. The AGCO from back home would have shit its pants. Extending the patio, not enclosed, drunk people sleeping everywhere. The ERU would have been called in.
It got me thinking, even without the rules, people were still respecting the establishment. No one puked and no one fought. Incredible.
So we ate, we drank and we chatted. Then, we peacefully went back to our hotel where we slumbered.
Viva libertad.
November 9th, 2009 - SAN TELMO PAD @ PASEO COLON
We finally found a week-long stay in Bs.As. We are now located in the barrio San Telmo where tango and the arts live still.
It doesn't feel like back home, where artists are cynical and amazing. Witty and retaliating against some machine. Here, they seem to be optimisic and Bohemian. Free love and "forward-thinking" relationships. Lovers. Apparently. Lots of loving happening on the corners.
But, this is just San Telmo, I guess. There are other barrios that hold a different flavour. We will get to know them in time.
This 'pad' holds a unique but commonly found feel. Most buildings in this barrio are from the vieux riche (rico viejo?). Old money from the European 18th-19th centuries. So large and intricate. In 1871, Bs.As. was hit with the Yellow Fever and the rich moved from San Telmo into Palermo and Recoleta, leaving their servants and the working class behind. Nonetheless, as most people know, some of the biggest art communities are divined in the poorer regions. That is how San Telmo developed its artistic and cultural community. It's a little rough around the edges, but truly interesting.
Cobblestone streets lined with cafés and antique shops. Fruit markets, panaderías, carnecerías, cervecerías. I think I could get used to this.
So to allow the virtual self to catchup with my experiential/practical self, I will be posting 3 notes per day. They will be dated so that all can keep track, or at least until my selves have congeled.
Enjoy, comrades!
November 7th, 2009 - CAFE @ Bar YRIGOYEN
By night it is a place of meeting. Cervezas, comidas y abrazos. Kisses on the right cheek. Complete amistad, friendship.
Just up the corner, there is a building with its outer wall lined with mattresses and slumbering human bodies. The overhang you pass under, in which they sleep under, insulated the smell of rotting urine and despair.
Around the corner, there is one family that sleeps. A mother, her pre-teen boy and a young girl about 9 years old. This is the divide.
"KIRCHNER ES TRABAJO"
everywhere
By day, the streets are cleaner and the pigeons have replaced the pavement dwellers. Here to feed on the excess.
As everywhere blossoms in Argentina, there seems to be so much beauty by day and anguish by night. This is the divide.
November 8th, 2009 - LAST NIGHT... AT THE END OF THE RAINBOW
Last night was Buenos Aires' Pride Parade. HOMOSEXUAL CON ORGULLO. There were fake breasts on men and women in baggy clothes with faux hawks everywhere. It was awesome.
Outside el Congreso and Senado the people gathered. "Si. ¿Y, qué?" Rainbows and wig. Chanting and kissing. Groping and drinking. What a party.
Maggy, Jameson and I decided that we should join the celebration, not in every way, but at least we could drink. We went to the closest supermercado in search of an ice-cold Quilmes, a cheap lager that all the working class, and thus the trendy kids, drink. It's only good cold. When we got to the beer fridge, the bottles inside were warmer than our hands touching them. It was enough of a deterrent. We were told by a very kind 20-something: "Git wine! Iz de BEST!"
So, we moved towards the back and saw the walls of cheap Argentinian wine, all reasonably priced, all made just a few hundred kilometres away. But none of the them were twist-offs. Not one. I guess that's not how they do. No wine openers either. Nothing. Lost, without a ship, in a sea of booze.
Suddenly, the very kind 20-something emerged from an aisle and said: "Come, come! Cold!"
We followed her to the front of the store and she pointed to the deli section that was tucked away behind the produce.
"There. A la derecha."
Gracias. Muchas gracias.
A la derecha, the beer was so cold it frosted. We picked-up 2 bottles of Quilmes, 970cc, and paid $9.60AR. Approximately $2.25CA. For both.
We left, sat on a kerb with 10,000 people and drank. We talked about what this celebration really meant, especially to us Canadians.
There were no cops. No barricades to close the roads. The crowd informally closed them just by being there. Even the 16-wheeler trucks did not deter them. They had a right to be there. So this is was political freedom can feel like?
After a little buzz started, we decided to get some eats at our local cafe/bar (Bar Yrigoyen). It was packed. People drinking, sleeping and feasting on the sidewalk patio. Nonetheless, we needed their free WiFi (pronounced wee-fee) so that we could try to find a place to live. However, there were no empty tables and no prospects for any. Like I said, some people were sleeping, quite comfortably, at the tables. The owner/manager came out and asked us if we needed a table.
"¿Nesecitan una mesa? Un momento."
Literally, seconds later he had one of his staff grab a folding table and 2 chairs (Jameson grabbed the third) and added us onto the patio. The AGCO from back home would have shit its pants. Extending the patio, not enclosed, drunk people sleeping everywhere. The ERU would have been called in.
It got me thinking, even without the rules, people were still respecting the establishment. No one puked and no one fought. Incredible.
So we ate, we drank and we chatted. Then, we peacefully went back to our hotel where we slumbered.
Viva libertad.
November 9th, 2009 - SAN TELMO PAD @ PASEO COLON
We finally found a week-long stay in Bs.As. We are now located in the barrio San Telmo where tango and the arts live still.
It doesn't feel like back home, where artists are cynical and amazing. Witty and retaliating against some machine. Here, they seem to be optimisic and Bohemian. Free love and "forward-thinking" relationships. Lovers. Apparently. Lots of loving happening on the corners.
But, this is just San Telmo, I guess. There are other barrios that hold a different flavour. We will get to know them in time.
This 'pad' holds a unique but commonly found feel. Most buildings in this barrio are from the vieux riche (rico viejo?). Old money from the European 18th-19th centuries. So large and intricate. In 1871, Bs.As. was hit with the Yellow Fever and the rich moved from San Telmo into Palermo and Recoleta, leaving their servants and the working class behind. Nonetheless, as most people know, some of the biggest art communities are divined in the poorer regions. That is how San Telmo developed its artistic and cultural community. It's a little rough around the edges, but truly interesting.
Cobblestone streets lined with cafés and antique shops. Fruit markets, panaderías, carnecerías, cervecerías. I think I could get used to this.
Monday, November 2, 2009
staying connected
I am of the privileged few who has access to the internet, although the service that the Rogers Corporation provides is questionable. Therefore, my dear comrades, I ask you to follow my adventures as I dive deep into Latin America.
That's right. This Marx-sympathizer is fulfilling my dreams by visiting Che's native land. Although I have been absent from the keyboard, I hope to keep everybody up-to-date with my revolutionary road in Buenos Aires. I got my clothes, books, pen, paper and thoughts packed up and ready to go for Thursday. Oh yeah! And, of course, my camera. I hope to be doing weekly posts on life in B.A. I also hope that you will keep reading.
The writer may very well serve a movement of history as its mouthpiece, but he cannot of course create it. - KM
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Rioja, Gossip Girl and Gauche Caviar
I crumbled. I twisted. I folded faster than a Starburst wrapper in the hands of a 12-year-old girl learning origami. Last night, I regret to inform you my dear comrades, I watched the pilot, the second and third show of the first season of Gossip Girl. I also regret to admit that I liked it.
Although the show's writers have an uncanny understanding of how to reel-us-in, the thing I liked the most was that the show started an interesting conversation (like, totally). One of my dearest comrades introduced, or rather used a bottle of 2004 Rioja and coerced me to watch, the infamous CW series last night. My comrade initiated me with the premise of the series: teenagers of the rich, elite, white-collar, pencil-pushers that reside in the Upper East Side in Manhattan. Then, my comrade commented that it was interesting to see how rich kids have got problems too. Although I have never doubted that the rich and famous have their miseries (studies have shown that the majority of abnormal disorders are found in the very rich and the very poor margins of society), I was intrigued about how it would be illustrated on mainstream media.
As it turned out, the show portrayed the trials and tribulations of affluent, Twittering teens to be much the same as the adolescents of middle-class North America. However, my comrade brought up an excellent point: Can you imagine the kind of power that these rich, hormonal, confused, melodramatic kids actually have? And, the abuses that would ensue! With great power comes great responsibility. The only problem is that their power is in the form of money and status, which comes easy to those who know the right people. I am not going to go on about Blair slandering Serena as a drug-addict, or how Nate is an idiot for not taking a hold of an opportunity like being an usher for Dartmouth at Ivy Week. However, I will talk about the overarching themes in the series that our society appears to thrive on.
Money, power, an education at an Ivy-league school, an appropriately time- (and pocket-) consuming career, a big house in the city, a small house in the Hamptons, and a mistress/or(?). C'est la vie. And everyone wants one. Even this morning, whilst having coffee, my comrade and I stumbled upon a Toronto Life magazine. Inside, there was an article about two ladies who started a Social Club in the city. In this non-exclusive club, you learn how to play polo, eat with chopsticks, have Yogart classes, and a bunch of other elite activities that earn you a spotlight in Toronto's most exclusive social scenes (because apparently they exist). OMFG.
Last time I checked, a social scene was something that you did with friends, family, partners and common dog-lovers. I thought it was about socializing, not networking. These people no longer want to be just another cog in the wheel, they want to be the crank, the piston, the nuts, the bolts, even the coal. We appear to be building a bigger machine when we should be tearing it down.
I think we, in general, have not realized that to stay on top, there are sacrifices on the bottom. To ensure that one Upper East Sider succeeds means hundreds, probably thousands, of others flounder. But, I wonder if we could ever find a balance? What of the Gauche Caviar, as my comrade coins them? What of these left-leaning, beluga-baby-eating (is it a life yet?), tree-hugging, Chanel-wearing demographic of city dwellers? Has a balance been achieved if they pull from either end of the spectrum, or are they just faking it?
Quite honestly, I don't know. I understand about living the good life and being globally conscious simultaneously, but does that perpetuate the machine? Or, are we so mechanical that we need a machine, a driving force, to sustain us? Perhaps, the machine should change and shift from indenturing people to promoting creation. In the wise paraphrase of Mary Elizabeth Croft, how little do we have to think of ourselves that we believe we need to work a 40+ hour work-week just to earn the right to live?
Who knows and who knew that Gossip Girl could be so intellectually stimulating.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
My Beef with the State
[Photo from the documentary, Food, Inc.]Illegitimate by-laws, the false image of protocols and lazy bureaucracy. To me, it is one of the evil triplets in the pervasive pyramid of power. However, upon closer inspection, I have come to understand that the siblings do not exist. In fact, the same entity chooses different hats to wear: The State equals the Corporation equals the Church.
This observation cannot be suitably summarized enough than in the documentary, Food, Inc. This is a film dedicated to exposing the food industry in the United States (and the world). Using the narrative of Eric Schlosser, author of Fast Food Nation, and Michael Pollan, author of The Omnivore's Dilemma, the book-based movie shows the intricacies of the how, when, where and why our food is processed the way it is.
The doc begins by explaining how the atrocities of mass-produced meat started because of the fast-food movement. This movement was a direct symptom of the American Dream: 'faster, fatter, bigger, cheaper' or quantity over quality. As a result of the increasing demand of burgers-on-the-go, the corporations increased the supply. At the same time, this spike was a great business opportunity so the major corporations started buying the little ones. In the 1970's, the top 5 Corporate meat-suppliers owned 25% of the business. Today, the top 4 own over 80%. Monopoly was a very popular American-based board game.
Obviously the film forages through the inhumanity of the industry, the science of a contemporary cow's diet, and some hill-billy hippie who has an all-natural, traditional farm. But, what caught me off guard the most was the lengthy look at Monsanto.
Many people (including myself, until my dear comrade devoted her lunch hour to me) have not heard of the bio-tech company that planted its roots in chemical engineering. As the creator of Agent Orange, Monsanto's infamy blossomed through its pesticide RoundUp and the RoundUp-ready, genetically-modified soybean called Agracetus. Due to the genetic-modifications, Monsanto was actually able to patent the seed and, thus, lay claim to any of the crops the seeds produced. It put a lot of farmers and farm-support technicians out of jobs.
Now, to come full-circle: Many of Monsanto's consultants, lawyers and PRs have become advisors and regulators to the Clinton, Bush, Jr. and, quite probably, Obama Administrations. They merely replaced their Corporate caps with their State-official caps. The same people who made millions on poisoning our food are now advisors for the FDA. The State is supposed to merely serve and protect the people through its regulations and laws. But, what happens when the regulators have a conflict of interest? Well, it means that regulations are not made for the safety of the people but for the safety of the business. How is this even legal? How is it not protested and petitioned?
Well, with every push there is a pull. The 'organic' movement is a direct retaliation to our rBST-ridden meat. It just goes to show that the few can impact the many. It also shows that if you push people too far, they will pull themselves up again. People are truly incredible creatures.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
RADBUSTERS
Foot in mouth. That is an action that I have had to come to terms with. Considering that this blog started with my negative thoughts about a certain zine, I now present you with Issue #85 of the infamous Adbusters.
As previously noted, Adbusters is a West-coast based magazine that focuses all of its energy on regurgitating left-wing propaganda. However, Thought Control in Economics has hit the Corporate nail on the head.
This issue is a compilation of essays and shorts about our current economic state: a complete monopoly. Unlike previous issues, the stories range from mini-bios on the 'mavericks' of forward-thinking economic thought to the definition of our 'autistic economy'. It also questions where our youth have gone. Today, we no longer see the passionate, persistent, inquisitive nature that has been so definitive of the young of yore. Our stream-lined 'education' system doesn't help and the writers makes note of it.
So, what Adbusters delivers is a prescriptive antidote to Corporate takeover. Instead of going to school and regurgitating ancient theory, the students must become provacateurs. Question the prof. Question the meaning of grades. Question what one is really learning.
Nonetheless, I was sad to see that the only solution that Adbusters provides for our Capitalist economy is State intervention. Again, as I mentioned in the blog's first post, I hope that the readers question this answer and not take it too seriously. I said it before, and I'll say it again, the State is the Corporation and if you don't believe me, they are least in tandem with one another. ('They both share the same interests and they protect one another'. - Can't recall book name.)
The answer is not to look towards the State but to the people. Whether it is on the right or the left, corruption ensues where power is given to the few. Let's spread it out. Take ownership of your place in this world and make that change. Most people do not need a dictator breathing down their backs to tell them right from wrong. Life is not nasty, cruel, brutish and short. It's worth it, so let's take it.
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