what did mine eyes see?

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

...

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.