from outside-in to inside-out

the palestine papers

2011-01-23T20:18:00.001-08:00

You don't need to wait until morning to get 'em while they're fresh off the press.

I got an instant message via facebook from a friend, because that is the world we appear to be living in today, about AlJazeera's release of the "Palestine Papers". Nearly 1,700 documents of inter-negotiations between Israel and Palestine.

To be released over the next few days...

real talks.

2010-09-24T08:34:00.001-07:00

theinformalpress.com

monopoly

2010-06-13T06:16:00.000-07:00

Last night, a couple of comrades came over, decided to stay a night as they were making their way to Montreal. Arriving late, I had dinner made and ready to eat, the wine opened, breathing, and sipping on a little of it myself. After dinner, we busted out Monopoly!, a game most everyone enjoys (except myself.) Over rolling dice and mortgaged homes, we talked about more important things like what the couple planned to do in Montreal, where they were staying, when they were coming back. They reminded us that this trip was not for business or pleasure, but necessity. They were headed east in search of something: semi-privatized healthcare.

The husband of the pair is a British citizen married to a Canadian. He has been having knee problems since their engagement, just over a year ago, and surgery after surgery, he still walks with crutches. Residing in Ontario has been relatively kind to the couple, except when it came down to medical attention. Because Ontario is on a public system, the husband cannot receive knee-surgery as he does not have an OHIP card. Instead, because healthcare is a provincial jurisdiction, he and his wife have to travel to Montreal, where, despite being a staunchly socialist province, it has private facilities to perform operations.

Now, I know it's dangerous to say, but it's just something to think about. Personally, I think universal healthcare should be accessible to everyone, no matter his or her income, nationality, beliefs, etc. If you have doctors around, someone's health should not come down to the petty details of tax-brackets and insurance payments. That being said, I know it is not the reality of things.

I find it irritating that, as Canadians, we take pride in our healthcare system -- we proudly proclaim, no one has to pay to see a doctor! Yet, we discriminate upon those that, not only can pay, but need to pay because they do not have Canadian citizenry. What is also frustrating is the bureaucracy of citizenship in this country. It is confusing and extensive. It has been close to a year that this couple has been married and the husband is still "going through the process". I have many migrating friends that have/had been in Canada for close to 15 years and were still considered landed-immigrants.

Having a coffee this morning at the Brazilian Bakery in Little Portugal, we got to talking about the diversity that Toronto offers, especially now that the World Cup is happening. The husband of the couple asked how many different cultures there are in the city, to which my answer was: 285, a random number I picked from the tip of my brain. The point is, there are a lot. It's what defines Toronto and builds its identity, makes it the most culturally beautiful place in the world.

And then, I think about the government and its lackadaisical approach to addressing immigration issues and the difficulty some must face in receiving healthcare. It seems as though politics has shifted from the people to the material -- essentially, the economy. I feel like political platforms used to be built upon core issues, deep-seeded problems that needed to be uprooted and changed. Right now, the focus is on the G20 and the harmonized sales tax (HST), two very superficial and fleeting issues when it comes to the bigger picture. These two controversies are minute, little bumps in the road to the progress of humanity, but are given a lot of attention because it distracts people from pervasive problems, like immigrants' access to necessary healthcare.

Like crows to a silver-spoon, we are caught up in the shininess of it all.

Although superficial developments are interesting to watch -- like quarreling lovers in the street -- we should maintain focus: to change things for the better, not for the instant. Rallying and protesting is good to get a message out there, some publicity to a voice, and, perhaps, to coerce a quick executive decision, but then what?

In reality, change is, and should be, a slow process. It's something that should not happen in an instant. Taking the time to enact change, through letters or secret meetings over monopoly or inspiring one another or creating contesting subject matter, is worth the effort.

However, the youth live in a time of "now", demanding for things to happen instantly. For example, when we need to find out information, we Google or Wikipedia it.

We require immediate satisfaction, yet we are creatures that are never sated.

Personally, satisfaction is a superficial sentiment. One can be satisfied with the way things are, but what about striving for something greater? This "greater" thing may not be realized in our lifetime, or ever, but one can still enjoy the pursuit of it, no? We may not ever see accessible, universal healthcare in the province of Ontario, but wouldn't it be nice if our great-grandchildren could?

Such were my thoughts over our cordial game of Monopoly!, the thoughts that may have distracted me from winning, made me the first one out. Either that or I am just a bad business owner. Probably the latter. Doesn't matter, there are other things on my mind.

BAFICI: Jaffa, The Orange´s Clockwork

2010-04-15T13:23:00.001-07:00

Despite the witty-title, this documentary about the demolition and evolution of the Jaffa Oranges in Palestine/Israel is heart-wrenching. I don´t know if it was using the orange-business as the symbolic/literal axis for dispute between the Palestinians and Israelis or whether it was the old, Palestinian orchard mechanic that began to weep in his interview, but this doc was simply powerful.

Most documentaries following the Middle-Eastern (referred to as the Oriental conflict in the film) have become cliché: Yes, we know about 1948, Zionism, atrocities, extermination, suicide-bombings, etc. These occurrences are devastating to the soul, but people stop paying attention to things that are on repeat. Jaffa, however, told a different side of the story.

It started with scenes of prosperous orange-orchards where Jews and Muslims worked side-by-side cultivating some of the most delicious citrus fruit in the World -- Queen Victoria could attest to it with her order of 3 boxes. After 1948, the life in Jaffa changed. With the Zionist Exodus came an inundation of Europeans, reclaiming land and orchards that had been owned and operated, by Muslims and Jews, for decades. Since the rise in the population, the port-town´s water supply could no longer support keep the people and the oranges hydrated. Most of the groves were levelled.

¨You just don´t do that to a land that you love,¨ said a Palestinian historian and writer.

And so it goes for many living in the divided and occupied territories. It´s something that must be seen with our own eyes to understand the devastating effects the occupation has had.

Not only was the film incredible and informative, the situation was surreal. It was being screened at the Abasto Shopping Centre, in the Jewish-barrio called Almagro in Buenos Aires. Over-generalizing, I thought there might be some scoffing, despite the films balance of Israeli and Palestinian intellectuals discussing the issue. Instead, at the end of the film, there was a round of applause.

rogue

2010-04-12T11:34:00.000-07:00

Watching X-Men: The Last Stand, I got very aggravated with the character Rogue. As a kid, growing up, she was my favourite. I wanted to be her: to have red-hair, to be able to fly, to absorb mutants´powers, to have her boyfriend (the Frenchie named Gambit), etc. She was a very strong character, torn by her past, frustrated by her present (as she could not touch anybody) and terrified of her future. She was tough on the outside, but tender on the inside. Hm, interesting.

Nevertheless, the third movie to the X-men trilogy was a disappointment in that Rogue, who from the get-go was poorly slated, chose the have a procedure so that she would lose her mutant power. I understand why her character did that -- everyone just wants to be loved -- but, really? At such a young age? Maybe Bobby would up and leave her for Kitty, leaving Rogue alone anyways.

It seems as though normalcy is what some people strive for today. Perhaps it´s because there are just too many people in the world for each one to be extraordinary. In the end, I guess what appears as normalcy is just that, superficial.

To me, every person I have ever met has had something extra-ordinary about them. Although some people are deceived, thrown off, by the appearance of things, what lies beneath is that amazing human potential at greatness. I look at many of my friends and think, they are just so wonderful. Even strangers or new acquaintances who have a slight quirk fascinate me. Although we all look alike, for the most part, want to belong to a common group, for the most part, as individuals we are so unique.

I believe that more and more people are beginning to wake up to this reality. Now, what we must consider, is how to make each individual work within a society or community. I do not believe that the North American independent society is a bad thing. Great things have developed and flourished there. However, I do believe that we can combine forces and thoughts with other societies, to learn from, on amore holistic level.

For instance, here in Buenos Aires, I have met extra-ordinary people, however they maintain their sociality (is that a word?). They greet one another with besos on the cheek, they have coffee all afternoon with family, stand in circles and sip mate with friends. The strangest thing I saw at a beach was the way that the families set-up their chairs and blankets. In North America, everyone points their blankets and chairs either towards the water or the sun. In Latin America, they form circles so that they can sit and have conversations all day long. Bizarre, but refreshing.

As I rant and nearly forget where I was going with this, my point is that we can still embrace our differences within and look for those who will accept us back. We are humans and need constant love and attention from others. We need a community because we are social creatures. We are social creatures because we are unique individuals who contribute unique gifts to a group. Normalcy should not be the answer. Pretending you are something you not should not even cross your mind. We shouldn´t try to fix ourselves to be accepted in the opinions of others. If you are everything you want to be, your group will find you.

evolving ideas: private property

2010-04-11T10:32:00.001-07:00

The most important part of philosophy is to put it into practice. This was one of Marx´s biggest criticisms of his inspiration, Hegel. Hegel lived in the mind, in logic, whereas Marx understood that humans are sensient beings who actualize themselves as a species by experiencing and doing things (different from labouring at things). Thus, he took Hegels Idea and evolved it into his own formulation: an Ideation of a universal man, the proletariat, a society of communism. As a result, Marx is followed more than any other Hegelian-philosopher. Obviously.

Howevever, my problem with philosophy, an ideology in fact, is devotion. Although I am a firm supporter, more like understander, of the Marxist Idea, much of the the components of Marxist thought does not apply today. The times have changed -- so must we.

Marx´s ideas on labour and property are outdated. What might have been applicable 150 years ago is no longer relevant. Instead, we need to take these ideas, change them and make them adapt to our situation.

Let´s take private property. Much of the arguments against private property are relevant for a time where men were subjected and enslaved as pieces of property themselves. Although I have no doubts that some sort of secretive-serf servitude still exists, at times private property can save your livelihood. Take for example the First-Nations´ Land Rights or the Northern-Canadian disputed land claims. In both cases, not only is the State trying to breach contractual agreements, but, with help from multinational corporate interests, also natural-being agreements. Although I am not a devoted fan of Locke, his principles of private property are dead-on.

If you live on the land and work the land to support yourself and your family, what gives the government or business the right to come in and take it away? The most important part of Locke´s idea is the working of land as how one sees fit. It produces a means for one´s self and one´s family, whether you have a small vegetable patch or a corner-store, that land is being worked by the owner so that the owner may live and provide for his or her family.

In today´s society, despite my dreamy hopes of a world where everyone holds hands and shares, the exchange of goods and services is a necessity. Thus, one who grows vegetables on his land should have the right to exchange, or sell, it to the other man working his corner store. The existence of exchange, usually performed through money, is a modern reality. So, for now, property is a reality.

Until we reach that utopia, or eutopia, an indivdual´s property must be protected. [The word ¨individual¨ is highlighted because property should be the right of man, not the right of conglomerates and most certainly not the right of government.] Once an individual enters into the private- (business) or public- (government) sphere, where he or she must oversee other people´s lives and jobs, his or her right to property should only exist in his or her home, not through or where he or she works. The business and government, as a representative of a group with hidden interests, should have no claim to an individual´s property.

Currently, people are being forced -- physically, mentally, financially -- from their homes as a result of disputed State and Corporation land claims. It is for this reason that First Nations protest on the 400-highways, why Caledonia is such a controversial issue, why the people in Parry Sound and Muskoka region are forced from their homes that have been passed down from generations due to rising land-taxes (because the government re-values these families´property according to business development).

In the end, all I am trying to say is that, right now, my dear Marx, an individual needs his or her property as a safe-haven from economic enslavement. Everyone needs a place to call home. Interesting research has pointed out that the homeless who have found a home, a roof over their heads, become better adjusted and are able to become financially independent. They become individuals.

Even Marx believed that society can only function if people are able to be themselves, to be individuals. Therefore, with the rich getting richer, and the State becoming more powerful, and these two forces combining to run humanity into the ground, private property is a necessity. Hopefully, in a better future, things will change and private property will adapt, evolve, into people joining hands and sharing.

evolution, not revolution

2010-04-06T08:55:00.000-07:00

Last night, I experienced the closest thing to the Enlightenment's Parisian-salons, where philosophy and politics were discussed in order to hypothesize about a greater future. Normally, when discussing politics or the philosophy behind it, I find myself talking in circles about what we ought to do, of course drawing from Marx, Nietzsche and JJ Rousseau. The Three Kings.

Then, like a slap in the face, I realized that those kings wrote in a different age with different problems, with different ways of fixing them. Today, we live in a time that was unforseen: the virtual age of the internet.

More and more, people are able to educate themselves through this forum. They are able to search out information, ideas, discussion groups, hilarious YouTube videos and relevant blogs. The potential for intellectual growth is astounding. However, we must be aware of the potential consequences.

The Industrial Revolution was supposed to open doors for the people (according to Marx). It was supposed to leave menial labour up the machines so that people would have more free-time to do whatever truly made them happy. Art, writing, riding, hilarious YouTube videos, there is a market for it all.

Nevertheless, as forseen by Marx, the IR enslaved the working-class because of the increased interest in consumption. Instead of machines freeing the worker, they compelled the worker to create more in less time to feed hungry consumers. Instead of the machine releasing man from obligation, it incorporated him, made them into cogs of the wheel.

The virtual revolution is no different.

In a discussion last night, I realized that revolution means to start at one point, typically a low-point, commence a change, rotate, pivot and come full circle, back to the low-point. What we need to learn from all of history's revolutions is the need to change, to move forward, to evolve. We can do this by taking ideas of great philosophers, from Kings and common folk, changing them, adapting them to fit our environment. The only way we can do this is through free-speech, liberdad de expresion, through discussion and critical analysis of opinions and ideas. We need to synthesize thoughts and create relative theories of our own.

Hopefully, the people, especially in Canada, will see the need to step away from the hindrance of censorship. No good can come of the State telling you what to say or what to think. How could our thoughts ever evolve if they are not subjected to criticism and discussion?

That is what the internet should provide: a forum to discuss and criticize Ideas. We do not have to revolve into darkness, reading online gossip magazines or corporate-bought media, whose only job is to spread fear of Swine Flu or market-crashes.

These things, this spreading of fear, endenture man as the worker, makes him think that the only reason to live is just to coast through life, to follow the straight path of complacency.

The inernet has that potential to tear man's soul away from him. However, it also has to potential to show him the light, change him, and allow him to evolve.

the question of god and free speech

2010-04-01T07:10:00.000-07:00

Recently, an article in The Toronto Star has exposed the controversial banners (advertisements?) posted along the side of TTC streetcars. The banners provoke passer-bys to deal with common questions surrounding religion and to procede to a website, a discussion forum, to read and contribute to the questions at hand. The most recent polemic question posed: "Does God care if I'm gay?" The "answers" were removed from the website.

Toronto has the most homosexuals per capita than any other city in the world, so I understand when the banners border on offensive. I also do not think that the "answers" provided by "God" are legitimate markers of logic or reason: Instead, it should be looked at as an opinion, a very mighty opinion, mind you.

However, Canada is one of those "forward-thinking" countries who believe in censoring hateful comments. Like an overprotective mother, it cuddles and cradles all those who are "defenseless". In all seriousness, I think it's more offensive for the State to think that a woman, a gay, an ethnic minority, or a religious minority as "defenseless" creatures who need protection. That just sends out the wrong message.

In order to defend these weak, sub-sections of humans, the government, of all levels, has taken it upon itself to form our society's opinions. This is outrageous. I have been reading some of Marx's thoughts on freedom of the press and freedom of speech, and not even J.S. Mills could put it so eloquently:

We can answer this question only by criticizing it.

- [The Leading Article in No. 179 of the Kolnische Zeitung: Religion, Free Press and Philosophy]

Although this sentence was referring to philosophy as an idea, the same applies to thoughts and ideas, which in themselves are a form of informal philosphy. Not only does the question "Does God care if I'm gay?" bring to the public's attention the ever-current tension between homosexuality and the Church, it brings about thoughts about the validity of God's opinion: Why should a homosexual care what God thinks? Why should anyone care about insuring their place in God's good books if we aren't even sure he exists? Why not, like the banners of before questioned, just enjoy the life we have now?

This is what debate forums and chat groups should be about, as long as relevancy prevails. Personal attacks and emotionally driven anger have no place in rounds of discussion in the search of truth, but if the "answers" are rlevant, and we can question those answers, then question those questions, why are they being removed?

This is a tough spot for me because, as I begin to get the ball rolling, I would like TIP to become a debate forum without censorship. It will remain respectful and anything that is not relevant, especially personal attacks, would be removed (more because it's a waste of time to read something uneducated and unintelligent). I want it to become a forum for people to discuss relevant issues, like the elite did in salons during the Enlightenment, but current and accessible to all.

Freedom of Speech is one of those ideas, at the same time practical, that pushes and compels humanity to move forward: To rise against the oppression that is now verbalized which, before, was just a latent feeling lashed out in passive-agreesive manners. Without free speech, we cannot see nor understand nor comprehend the other side's view. We cannot fight back because we do not know their ammunition. We cannot take their "facts" or opinions, research them and then find them false. Without free speech, we live in a war with loaded guns and blindfolds.

can't get off the "ought"

2010-03-30T07:31:00.000-07:00

We are always torn between our want and ought, the bad and good, emotion and reason, impulse and restraint, desire and duty, selfishness and obligation.

It leads to an overall feeling of discontent and sacrifice, compromising our lives for the benefit of others, negotiating terms with god and the devil, existing in the opinion of others, created in their image.

I wonder what a world of want would look like?

We do what we ought to do because we do all things out of love and fear, we rationalize these emotions by acting for and through them, when in truth, the only love and fear one ought to want is for oneself. If you love and fear only yourself, you can choose actions based on an internal sense of well-being.

For example, I ride horses becasue I love to. I love calling some freinds and not others. I fear that I would love cocaine, so I never tried it. I fear not being in love with myself so I try to be the best peron I can be -- although mistakes are rampant in my life, but that's how I have learned the things I never want to do or say again.

The attachment to things outside of yourself, love and fear of others and other things, will tear your soul apart.

To paraphrase Marx, once we restore human dignity, only then can we truly abolish the class-system and become universally equal.

In order to restore human dignity, we should be able to work and create the things we want to.
(As long as it does not infringe on another person's freedom or life.)

REVITALIZE HUMAN DIGNITY.

bookstore basics

2010-03-29T07:00:00.000-07:00

My mind is watering, salivating, to digest the new-to-me used books that I purchased at my local bookstore, here in San Telmo. Walrus Bookstore, run by an American named Geoffrey and his wife, whom I have not met. Quaint and perfect.

The two books I picked up were none other than the Early Political Writings of Karl Marx and a couple of combo-shorts by Nietzsche. What before seemed like a task, an obligation for school, now feels like an opportunity. Already delving into Marx, making my heart swell with admiration, and hoping to draw from his ideas even more now than before.

Reading the Introduction was a moment of enlightenment -- an epiphanic eureka-moment. For so long, I have been trying to explain to people how Marx was not a Communist, invoking quotes from Capital and Political Economy. When reading Easton and Guddat's intro, who summarize the three earliest periods of Marx's pensive dialectic, I noticed that Marx often uses the term universal when explaining his Idea. As he describes: "the capacity of the universal class to be actually universal, that is, to be the class of every citizen", meaning removing the fictitious value of money, the value as an ends as opposed to a means, which would eliminate the current class-system. Marx's argument is that the obsession with money, materialism, alienates man from his potential, almost endenturing him as a slave to the system. He calls for a revitalization of human dignity. My heart swells and my eyes well-up.

Can he be considered a universalist? No. In all honesty, I don't even think he would have considered himself a Marxist -- ideologies act as a form of religion, alienating man from his true purpose. Eureka!

Do you ever have excitement bubble in your belly for sudden realizations? Perhaps not the belly, perhaps a flutter in the heart or a bounce in the step, a patter of a foot or a fist-pump in the air.

This fine piece of political prose has not only gained a permanent place on my bookshelf, but in my heart, a swell. Such is the importance of a basic bookstore principles.

dill & pb, iron & rotisserie

2010-03-27T08:02:00.000-07:00

Traveling to a new country is all about the give and take. You miss out on luxuries from back home, but you gain new luxuries in whatever place you land. A basic trade-off would be expensive fast food, but cheap steak. In all honesty, I prefer the latter option and I don't know one person that wouldn't agree.

Good coffee and bicycles for fresh fruit and cheap, comprehensive transit.

Dark music for tango.

Etc.

For these reasons, the information I am about to share is necessary for any North American who wants to venture to Argentina for any prolonged period: I have never craved dill nor peanut butter the way I do now. The reason for my cravings is because I can't have it, or it is difficult to have it. Back home, I would occassionally nibble on some dill, usually satisfied by the odd Vlask, but here, here, I need it. As if a mission for pickles, or some sort of dill by-product, makes me travel to the ends of the universe -- being the other side of the city -- in search for a tiny bushel of eneldo. The Chinatown market sold-out. Of course. Because it's dillicious.

Peanut butter is also a rarity. Back home, maybe once a week, I would dip a spoon into an extra-crunchy and satisfy the craving until the next weekly dip. The peanut butter sweet and smooth, one spoon fills as a semi-meal. Here, nada mucho. In health foodstores they sell pb that is purely pureed peanuts. Although it has been sustaining me for the past 5 months, I still crave Kraft, despite the company's notorious reputation. In Bariloche, a girl had a jar of peanut butter that she got in Chile. I grabbed a spoon and for a moment was, as my comrade Maggy would say, "talking to God".

Nevertheless, these are minor luxuries when it comes to things that, ethically, account for more. Walking into a pharmacy, you don't need a prescription from a doctor for some pills. Now, I'm not talking about hard stuff, but I wanted pills of iron and it was the easiest thing to purchase. It did frighten me, slightly, reading the "Method of Dosage". It said to consult a physician, which is almost impossible to do quickly here, because you can overdose. Obvio, tonta, smacking my head. It's a metal. So, although I was impressed with the lack of bureaucracy around pharmaceuticals, I still need to see a doctor to be recommended a dosage. In Argentina: First prescription, then medical consultation. I see.

Another luxuriant mentionable is the way people do business here, for the most part. It is a rarity to find big-box stores and major corporations, although there are some. When you go to a rotiseria for some chicken, odds are that it won't be Swiss Chalet. What is amazing about small mom&pop shops is that they are usually run by mom&pop, not some pissed-off, hormonal teenager who wants to go home and hang-out with friends.

Last night, we ventured to the rotiseria to grab some chicken (because we are having beef tonight). The spot was closed, protective grate down, but the door was still open with the owner looking out onto the street. Maggy asked the man what times he closed at. He had been closed for nearly half-an-hour. Nevertheless, he asked what we wanted and we told him, "a whole chicken". Well, he had half a chicken but would throw in two chicken breasts. Come in, come in.

He unlocked the grate's tiny door and we ducked in. He closed the Alice In Wonderland-sized door and locked it, then loaded up a tray full of chicken, then came back around, unlocked the grate-door, wished as well and "No, no. Gracias a vos", and locked the rabbit-hole back up. If this was back home, this would not have happened.

Point of the many stories is I traded dill and pb for iron and chicken. It was the give and take that goes with changing cultures and countries. Some may enjoy their native culture so much and wish to stay. That I understand. For example, getting a doctor's appointment would be nice and, maybe at times, necessary. But, when it comes to the litte things, the food and drink things, the shopping and transport things, one shouldn't be bothered.

Instead, if it is truly an issue, stock-up or get boxes delievered. Noted.

when you start thinking about home

2010-03-26T11:38:00.000-07:00

It sucks to be thinking about it, but rather than be stressed, I am going to flow. In fact, I tried to stress myself out, just to see if I could, and I couldn´t.

Checking for flights with the realization that I am on my last leg of life in Buenos Aires. At least for now. What is exciting is that I am not sad, mad, or happy. I have come to accept it as an ¨is¨, living where my hands are, in the present with an awareness of the past and what is to come.

The other day, I picked up Paulo Coehlo´s, The Valkyries. Despite my consideration to become a born-again atheist, I am swept with Coehlo´s fascination and romanticization of magic and God. The story is a semi-non-fiction, which means he merely embellishes his experiences with his wife in the Mojave Desert. The couple journeys through the desert to find a band of lesbians who call themselves the Valkyries so that the women can help Coehlo and his wife meet their resprective angels. Throughtout the process, they feel their ¨souls grow¨.

The growth of the soul coincides with the ability to be in the present and to be in the present, one must look to the horizon, look outside one´s immediate space. Perhaps in the past I would have laughed, cynically, at such nonsense. You can´t even see the horizon in a city. But, then I thought to myself: This change of mood, my elation, it happened in the South. Maybe I saw the horizon. Maybe my soul has grown.

Recommended read.

where to go for health

2010-03-20T08:30:00.000-07:00

Now that some personal health issues have arised, which do not need to be stressed about but need to be confronted, I have been on a mission to discover the Argentine health system. I am fortunate to have an Argentine friend who hooks me up with information whenever I am in need. She is a saviour.

Not only did I want to check out the hospitals or sanitarios but I wanted to see what "natural" options Buenos Aires offered as well. The truth is, not much for the latter. Compared to Toronto, with its crazy black-market for FDA-banned natural products, Buenos Aires is a little behind in the health revolution. Toronto has a natural practioner on every corner and for everything from muscle spasms to pinky toe pains to toxin reduction. It's almost epidemic for the GTA.

Buenos Aires has its barrio chino, Chinatown, that has no homeopathic doctors, a couple reflexologists, and 3 supermarkets where you can buy herbs and sweet bread. The kind of sweet bread that reminds me of the ones you could buy in Taiwan and Chinatown in Toronto. The supermarkets carry some herbs but not enough to constitute an adequate movement towards healthier living. They carry a lot of anti-celulite pills and intestinal-balancing teas for this carnivorous culture, but lacking in pretty much every other aspect of health. I wonder if the treatments don't exist because there are no ailments to address or if those ailments are best treated with modern medicine. I have met a lot of students in school for medicine (and why not? It's free.)

I was given a bunch of links for hospitals and sanitarios by my friend and was happy to see that it costs between $100AR and $180AR ($27CA - $50CA) for private healthcare, depending on where you go. Of course, health insurance can reimburse you, but it's good to know that a consultation won't cost one an arm and a leg, literally, at the desk. My friend also explained that you can go to the University's clinic, which is free, but you will be attended by a student (who is supervised by a licensed practioner). She also said that any emergencies are treated as so, without the harrassment of signing papers to get health insurance information or if the comatose, perhaps fatally wounded, person will be able to pay for treatment.

This country is a lot more advanced than most Western countries when it comes to social programming, -- despite government corruption being pervasive, as it is everywhere. At least here, they know about it. It's a model Canada can truly learn from, the only obstacle is, what they call here, la plata (cash).

The only problem with the Canadian Health Care System is the greediness of our most gifted, usually opting to move south to make more money. Money, money, money. What we are left with are some lengthy waiting times, but not as bad as people think they are, and half-present doctors who dispense prescriptions like candy-machines so that they can get more plata from the system. (Pharma gives them compensation for every prescription filled.) Instead of wanting to heal a patient, with my lengthy experience with healthcare professionals, they are brainwashed to just perform treatments, of no fault of their own. Treatments mean more visits to the doctor which means more plata but less healthy people.

Looks like this is a battle for Briz Wevera, taking what she has learned from the outside and using it inside-out.

dilemma drama

2010-03-19T08:03:00.001-07:00

The most important thing to note about learning a language is that you will never know it all.

The other day it hit me, kind of hard, that I will be leaving Argentina in just over a month. Tears kind of welled up, not just because the weather is great or that I have met some pretty wonderful people that I will miss dearly, but because I won't get to keep talking Spanish everyday. Actually, I don't even talk Spanish now, it's porteno castellano with funny accents and lisps. I love it.

Moving back means regressing into the habit of speaking English with everyone. It means that, not only will my vocabulary not be expanding, but from the lack of use I will lose it. It makes wells of water under my eyes just thinking about it.

Some people have suggested that I stay here and keep learning more of the language, keep practising until I am fluent, can dream in castellano, involuntarily count in castellano. In all seriousness, I gave this idea a lot of thought. I bounced it around, corner to corner in my brain, wishing an easy answer would come. I have had moments where I said to myself,
"No. Not going back." Then, I would have moments of nostalgia for delicious coffee and bike rides with friends, Vietnamese subs and Kensington Market's natural-food selection. Will that stuff always be there? Will it wait for me?

Probably not. Like any modern city, changes happen quickly. Independent bookstores and run-down cafes disappear. New ones take their place. Perhaps I can return for a short while, stock on supplies and bring them with me.

My dilemma has been resolved, for now. I have compromised the decision in my mind, a little give and take between two wants. What is most comforting is knowing I can always get back to Buenos Aires. I have had a little taste, know the neighbourhoods well enough, know where to look for places to stay, know where to look for jobs. If the burning desire to return ignites, then I will know for sure where my home is and what language it speaks.

st patty in baires

2010-03-18T12:53:00.001-07:00

Neat night in Buenos Aires with the comrades. Since on of my comrades is or Irish decent, Irish-Canadian to be politically correct, we headed to a St. Patty´s street party located in B.A.´s Microcentro.

The roads were blocked off, steel gates sectioning off the drunks, cops standing around chain-smoking, porteños dressed in green, none of who had the faintest glimmer of Irish-blood. So neat to see others celebrating for others. Kind of like Canada. Kind of like Christman, actually.

We arrived around 2AM to commence beer-drinking. That´s how it goes here, and we don´t do it often, but when we do, I take a nap at 11PM in order to prepare.

All in all, the experience was interesting to see because the area was highly policed, yet people were obviously publicly intoxicated and still drinking on the streets. And it was approaching 4AM.

Why not?

Pure happy beer buzzes.

change

2010-03-15T07:31:00.000-07:00

The other day I sipped some mate with a friend whom I hadn't seen in a couple of months. Both of us have been busy and found it difficult to find a common time to meet. She had gotten a new number not too long ago which also made it difficult to arrange a get together, as some poor pibe was receiving my texts for a little while.

My friend is from Louisianna. She moved to Buenos Aires a couple of years ago and has made a very good life for herself here. She speaks Spanish fluently and has picked up on porteno preferences like mate and Fernet - a stronger, medicinal Argentine Jagremeister made from artichoke hearts.

We were chatting about whether I would consider moving here permanently, if I could find some work, expand my Spanish, get a Master's at the University of Buenos Aires, all things that I have considered over the past month. This moved us onto discussing the difference between people who can adapt to a new place and those who cannot. She brought up the question of whether those who cannot adapt to a new place were just not given the opportunity to live like the locals.

In particular, we were discussing a group of ladies she had recently met that have been living in Buenos Aires for up to 3 years. They are stay-at-home moms and mothers whose husbands were transferred from the U.S. to Buenos Aires for a limited contract. After 3 years of living in an area in the city set-up by the company, where all the families are from the States supporting the husbands on contract work, the ladies barely speak any Spanish. On top of that, their children who take Spanish lessons in private, English-speaking schools, do not speak Spanish.

How, my friend asked, can a kid, a sponge, soak up another language, a language that is the native-tongue of the city the family lives in?

She then suggested, maybe it's because the families are put into these compounds, suburbs with no Argentine culture. The suburb is more like a little America, away and secluded from the real life of the city. Perhaps, if the families were better integrated they would like the city more.

Apparently, when my friend asked the ladies if they liked Buenos Aires, they said "no". Essentially, they were counting down the days until they could return to their American suburbs. They looked at their time in Buenos Aires more as a prison sentence, their luxuries taken from them, as opposed to a neat experience. The question we asked each other was, could they adapt if they were forced to? If they were put in the middle of a downtown barrio with an indefinite time-period, could they fall in love with this city, the same way her and I have.

My answer is this: In all honesty, the first 3 months here was hell. I would compare everything that I lacked here to the things I had at home. However, eventually I discovered that there were things I had here that I could never get at home. I realized that things that held me back from fully experiencing this place were the strings that I never thought I could cut. Strings are dangerous things if you are living abroad. I have a friend who went to Asia to teach English. He had some attachments to a life once lived at home. He even went back after a couple of months because the change in culture was so shocking. When he went back, he realized that the knots, the basis of his relationships with family and friends would always be there, even if the strings were cut: They can always be retied. So, he traveled back to Asia where he has since been living for 2 years, learning Mandarin and has a lovely lady.

The short answer is, yes, I do think everyone can adapt and fall in love with a place wherever they are, warzones excluded. You may always call one place home, but can be able to enjoy the experience given to you. The amazing thing about people is their ability to change, not only their selves, but their perception of the space around them. Everyone can do it, but not everyone has the desire to cut strings. It doesn't make one better over the other. It just makes different outcomes.

my first encounter with a thief

2010-03-13T07:33:00.000-08:00

It has been almost 5 months since being in Argentina and, despite being repeatedly warned, I have yet to experience any danger. I travelled to Patagonia on my own, walk the streets solo at 3AM, enter the "roughest" neighbourhoods and do not feel frightened.

Danger, here, means something different. When someone tells you to keep an eye, it means that you might be robbed. There is a very small rate of violent crimes, despite Buenos Aires being one of the top-ten largest cities in the world. As I previously stated, since being here I have not need to keep-an-eye. Until Saturday night.

I was waiting for a friend on the corner of the Plaza Dorrego in San Telmo, the barrio we are currently living in. A drunked local approached me and tried chatting me up: asked me if I like Argentine boys, asked me for a kiss. The men are very forward even when sober. I laughed and turned away, telling him I was waiting for a friend. He moved on a little up the street, so I took my phone out and, jokingly, told my friend to hurry up because there were shady characters about the plaza. As I was texting, the drunken local jogged towards me and, in a half-fluid, half-drunken motion, tried to jack my phone. He failed miserably at the task, mumbled mierda and continued to jog away and down the street. I laughed and yelled en serio, seriously? What a joke. He should change his profession. A couple sitting on the wall asked if I was ok, and that they saw everything, and that the guy was an asshole. I just kept chuckling and saying it was fine, the whole time thinking to myself, that was a half-assed robbery.

righteous rant, or something to think about?

2010-03-11T05:10:00.000-08:00

With the world borders becoming increasingly porous, some are questioning what will happen to culture. More specifically, the other night I discussed this issue over asado and vino tinto with my friend.

She is an Argentine from Santa Fe, currently living in Buenos Aires and has been for the past 5 years. She wants to learn how to cook typical Argentine-cuisine and decided to take some classes. She called up a spot in her barrio, neighbourhood, that had a good reputation from many foreigners who had taken classes there. The instructor was an American guy who taught classes out of his home. He told my friend that she had to speak English in the class and that he couldn't teach her in Spanish. My friend was slightly flabbergasted at the pre-requisites to enter a cooking class to learn Argentine cuisine in Buenos Aires in English. She did not have the proper requirements for that class.

She told me it, not only frustrated her, but that it hurt to have someone enter her country, teach classes in a foreign language, and tell her that she couldn't take classes on how to cook her own country's food. I agreed that there was something wrong about that picture.

With people ebbing and flowing through borders, usually the middle- to upper-middle class of the West, people are becoming frustrated. For Argentines, who were once referred to as the richest people in the world, it is tough to see one's country and culture torn away from their hands. Now, especially since 2001, it is tough for Argentines to travel as they don't have that luxury the way Westerners do. Instead, they hold onto their country with pride and a little bit of contempt.

Is it not a little crazy for people to enter a country, impose only the things that they know, not accomodate to the best of their ability the very people who call the place home? Is it not ignorant and selfish to think that we, as Westerners, are the only ones who have anything to contribute? In all honesty, I have learned much more about life from the Argentines than I have taught them. That's why I came here: to learn.

We moved onto the topic of tourism in Argentina and how backwards it can be. This country is beautiful, not unlike Canada in landscape, and many want to see all the sights: Iguazu Falls, the red deserts of Salta, the Perito Moreno glacier, the end of the world in Ushuaia... the list is endless. I also wanted to see some of these sights, which I got to do just over a week ago. I can say, without a flutter, that this country is beautiful. However, I revel in my experience, my journey through Patagonia as opposed to the postcard places I saw.

I traveled by bus, which was tedious and exhausting, but I met some really fascinating Argentines on the bus. An old man who had never left the province of Santa Cruz, a young man in his last year of free-med school, a seatmate from La Plata who had the thickest accent I have heard since being here... 95% of the people riding the bus were from Argentina. The flights to anywhere are just too expensive for them.

Whilst in my various tourist hot-spots, I hung out with Argentines and Chileans, speaking in choppy Spanish the entire time. The Argentines would correct me, "no, pozsho" for chicken, then the Chileans would, later, correct me, "no, poyo". Why couldn't I just say pollo the way it was spelled? A member of the entourage was French whose Spanish was better than his English and my Spanish better than my French. So, when in Argentina...

The trip was a humbling experience that I hold dearly because of the people. The places were more of a let-down than I had anticipated. I got to see a beautiful things, but I met even more beautiful people. We talked about politics and art and music while grilling fresh trout from the stream. Que lindo.

At the Perito Moreno Glacier, there were a lot of Dutch and French tourists. Most of them who I talked to had just taken a flight from Ushuaia or Buenos Aires, were staying a few days and then flying onto wherever else. They just kept bouncing and hopping, seeing the things but not knowing the people. To top it off, a lot of the older tourists, which is the majority in El Calafate where the glacier lays, stay in the hotels. The very hotels owned by the very corrupt Argentine government. It's what they call a barbara, here. Hypocritical. A double-intentioned joke.

I don't want to sound preachy, nor come off as righteous. I think travel is important, but important to learn from. A lot of people travel to find themselves, or love, or a new home, and they bounce around borders, chasing after some ideal. They may change their scenery, but does it change anything inside, whatever lies in their chest, their gut, their mind?

Hopefully.

worth considering

2010-03-09T07:05:00.000-08:00

Alright, I bite my tongue. Yesterday's post about the fear of getting teeth done in Argentina was an impulsive move, mostly driven by the pain in my lower left jaw.

Last night I had the pleasure of chatting with my Argentine friend about education and healthcare here, in Buenos Aires. What an eye-opener.

Although Argentina is rifed with corrupt politicians and thieving presidents, it does have two of the most important tools any society should not be without: free education and free medical care. The free education includes everything up to and including one's doctorate as long as you attend a State University like UBA or Universidad de Cordoba. You literally pay nothing, other than for books and materials, for as long as you are in school. I have met students studying architecture, law and medicine who are in school for 6 to 7 years with no tuition costs. Not only will they leave school with a skill, but debt-free, able to save whatever scrimpings they can to buy a home (with money, not with credit) or have a family (with money, not with credit).

Free medical costs cover everything as well, up to and including dentistry, a huge oversight in Canada's healthcare system. A healthy mouth is a healthy body. If you get into an accident, you are treated. If you are sick, you are treated. I have a friend who knows someone with HIV and he just walks into a hospital, they run tests, give him his medication and he goes home within an hour. For some reason, despite this public-system, there are no ardurous wait times. If you want to get a "cosmetic", dental surgery, like removing painful wisdom-teeth, it costs nothing if you go to the Dentistry School and, literally, a fraction of one's earnings if you don't. Here, in Argentina, there are options.

What was more impressive was being told that foreigners can have these "luxuries" (Iprefer to call them basic human rights) as well. I am looking at Master's programs here at UBA which could entitle me to a little piece of the basic-human-rights-pie. It is an affordable post-grad program and, if I am a student, as I was told, I could get access to the social programs offered here.

And I say to myself, what a wonderful world.

pain in the ear

2010-03-08T06:33:00.000-08:00

Last night I woke with a sudden urge to dig out my ear. It wasn't an offensive urge, merely annoyance at the fact that my lower wisdom-teeth are growing in. Or tying to.

My lower jaw has become a bit swollen from their valiant effort to rise and mash up some delicious, Argentine steak, and the pain is bearable. Nonetheless, I know they need to come out and the question isn't when, but where?

I have just under two months that I have allotted myself in beautiful Buenos Aires, and I could stay longer if I wanted. However, I want to see my family and friends, share some good coffee and hop on my bike, Blue Velvet, whom I miss terribly. Within this two-month allotment, I have the option of getting my teeth pulled, instantly relieving the discomfort and allowing my gums to heal before I go home. In Buenos Aires, it is an affordable procedure but I still have some concerns: would the procedure be done to my Canadian standards?

Since moving here, I have noticed similarities between Argentina and Canada. These countries share similar terrain, the people are nice, they are multicultural (in a European-mix sense), they have MTV, hipsters and corrupt politicians, eating disorders and big slabs of beef. Nonetheless, I have noticed one pervasive difference: half-assedness. If such a word exists.

Don't get me wrong. I believe that some things don't need to be done to perfection, especially when you have bigger problems like a thieving president. However, the streets are dirty, there is dog-shit everywhere, the people litter, and have a general air of "je ne care pas". Although rates of plastic surgery are high - boob jobs and botox - I am a little concerned when it comes to my teeth. I had been told by some Argentine friends that I should just go for it, but my overall concern isn't my mouth getting messed up. The repercussions that make me hesitant. Having to deal with the half-assed aftermath dental surgery is manageable in Canada. I am a citizen there and HealthCare can save me. Although travel insurance can covers costs here, the convenience of having a system dedicated to its citizens is a bonus (if we could straighten out the administration of our taxes and make the system more transparent, well, that would be utopia).

So, I will see how it goes, weigh some more pros and cons, see where the pain goes and, as always, keep you posted.

the difference between "ought" and "want"

2010-03-05T07:28:00.001-08:00

As Westerners, we are trained and encouraged to act, and then feel, based on what we "ought" to do. We ought to be good to our neighbours, we ought to volunteer at the local shelter, we ought to be selfless and altruistic. In the same stroke, when we feel compelled to ought to do something, we are eliminating our capacity to want, a word we have learned is synonomous with greed and selfishness. This is what we are taught, but it is not how humans actually think.

I would argue that we focus on the wrong kind of want - I want that new Fall jacket, I want that mansion, I want that Ferrari - instead of truly digging deeper and discovering what we really want in life - like love, meaningful relationships, freedom from tyrrany, fulfilling our inherent potential. To counter balance our materialistic, superficial wants, we beign to perform acts of "ought", feeling socially and morally compelled to do so. This has, at least on a personal level, been the struggle. After feeling guilty for doing these acts of materialistic-want, we pay penitence through acts of ought. We feel good about these acts of ought and treat ourselves, reward ourselves, with more acts of materialistic-want. And so the cycle continues.

But, what would happen if everyone was able to do what they truly wanted to do? Would we step into the dark realms of a Hobbesian society where life is nasty, cruel, brutish and short? Or, could we, as human beings, transcend into the utopia of Marx's dreams? Before we can even begin to imagine what could be, we have to look at what is.

I would argue that what people truly want is a prescribed fiction of the State, the Corporation and the Church: to live as tax-paying, consuming, God-fearing creatures. To live just above sustenance in order to live as long as possible in a life of mediocrity. The only benefactors of this system are the Leviathans listed above. They have created this world, one where the individual is barely living, so that you can live longer, not better, making you pay taxes longer, but not better, making you consume more things, not better things, and prolong your inevitable meeting with a rathful God, but not a better God. They have created these false idols of want which alienate people from their souls. In the end, for penitence, people "choose" an altruistic output to deflect the shame of their imposed selfishness.

However, I believe that, inherently, people are good. In general, we want to help those in been because, one day, we will need to be helped, too. We enjoy seeing people succeed because it inspires us to do the same. Just below the superficial skin, we want everyone to experience freedom from oppression and disease because it is part of our species survival.

In the end, it turns out, what we ought to do is exactly what we want to do, we have just been fooling ourselves into thinking that we are independent creatures who do not want, nor require, anybody else. Our creativity is individual, yet our evolution is a group effort. The truth is, we do not have fur to keep us warm, nor sharp teeth to rip hyde from our prey. We move on two legs, disabling our speed to hunt. Some of us are great at math whilst others excel at drawing. Some of us have an aptitude for cooking whilst others are better drivers. If we could being to see our personal strengths, make them better, and bring them to the community, people could start working as a team, each player a valuable asset. We would want to help those in need or want to teach others because it would benefit the whole. Instead of many cogs in a machine, we could develop a living, breathing, growing organism of progress.

In the end, what I am trying to say is: the difference between "ought" and "want" is that "ought" ought not exist.

off topic

2010-03-04T07:42:00.000-08:00

One of the most difficult questions I have had to answer, more frequently due to my travels south, is: "what do you do?" In all seriousness, I have no idea how to answer the question. I even started making things up like, "I'm studying Spanish" (which is partially true), or "I write for a magazine" (also, partially true).

Nevertheless, there is still a sense of grittiness I get from stretching the truth. In truth, I do nothing, which, at times, can be just as pressing as doing everything.

One Californian named Ryan asked me how it was possible to live in Buenos Aires for 6 months without working or going to school. Those were the words he used, but deep down I knew he was asking how much money I was worth. This was a rather forward question, as well as embarrassing as I was sitting next to an Argentine (most really don't have any money and are quite aware of this fact), but I bucked-up and tried to answer as appropriately as possible, given the circumstances. I casually explained that I had worked my ass off saving money for a year and that I lived on a very tight budget (ok, also partially true). The reality is that Buenos Aires, when you rent an apartment, cook at home and not travel, is very affordable by North American standards. But, how could I say that sitting next to an Argentine guy from the bustling city who just told me that 50 pesos (U$S15) was way too much to pay for dinner.

The resounding conclusion is that Argentina has poverty, as most Argentines keep telling me. Most of the people from the country have told me it is impossible for them to travel as it is so expensive. When there is a girl working at a hostel 6 graveyard shifts a week for $2000AR pesos (U$S600) a month, I can believe it. Life does not have luxuries here, in Argentina, but the people's spirits are admirable. They seem to take the state-imposed poverty with a graceful frustration. For example, in El Calafate I saw Kirchner's hotel and mansion, built with whose money no one knows. But there is no vandalism, no graffiti on the buildings (probably from fear of disappearing), and there seems to be a quiet acceptance.

So, needless to say, I felt a sting. Here I am, doing nothing because I can and Argentines working relentlessly hoping for a change to come. Do I feel sorry? Hell no. Now, I can spend some time stirring the pot, enacting a change. I am grateful to be where I am and how I am living. Now, all I need is to choose to spend my time wisely instead of frivolously.

In the end, I believe this is the way Argentina will go until the people realize that they are the many and the corrupt politicians are the few. After all, this is Che Guevara's country.

contraband ibuprofen

2010-02-14T14:28:00.000-08:00

I had my list of purchases that I needed to make for the day: film, toothpaste, a small towel and ibuprofeno (Buscapina gave me an allergic reaction last time).

I forgot that it was Sunday in San Telmo, as I often tend to forget what day it is, but today was definitely Sunday as the streets were packed for the fair. Vendors and artists lined the streets which meant that most businesses would be closed. I couldn´t buy film or a towel. I found toothpaste at the supermarket, but, for some reason, the supermarket did not carry ibuprofene. I went to a kiosco to buy some pain-killers and the guy told me it didn´t sell them anymore. That was fine, so I went to another kiosco that I knew sold them because I had bought them there before.

I went into the kiosco and asked for 10 capsules, the worker waited for the other customers to pay and leave. Once it was just the two of use, he shuffled behind the counter and presented my with a tiny, brown-paper baggy with 10 pills inside. Confused and a little nervous, I asked why the pain-killers were so hard to find. He could sense that I didn´t know yet. He looked around and explained that a law had been passed 2 weeks ago that disallowed the sale of ibuprofeno. I wanted to ask if the law applied to every business including pharmacies. However, some customers came in to buy some pop and water. The worker wished me a good day with an edge in his manner and I took that as a sign to get my contraband drugs out of the dealer´s backyard as quickly as possible.

Strange to think that a North American staple, for headache and cramp sufferers, could become the next item of prohibition. What are all the hungover porteños going to do?

theory of relativity

2010-02-14T14:04:00.000-08:00

I´m not exactly knowledgable about this theory but I do want to use it in a general point. Einstein´s theory, that had something to do with equal gravitational forces on different points of something that was a result of space and time and math, can be applied to all aspects of life, including politics.

Not unlike physics, politics reflects the social, emotive phenomena of relativity. Yesterday, whilst nibbling on miga, sitting under a shady tree in a park in Buenos Aires, my friend and I tried to compare political structures. He, a native of Buenos Aires, tried to argue that the Argentine government is the worst government in the world (a lot of Argentines tell me this all the time). I told him, being a Canadian, and thus, neighbour with the US, that America had the worst government in the world. After arguing back and forth, pros and cons, English an dSpanish, we settled on the American government being the second worst in the world right behind Argentina.

The reason was this: America´s middle-class is bigger which means more people can afford a step-above necessities. However, I pointed out that the gap between the rich and poor in America was larger in the US where there exist bajillionaires (a term he didn´t understand) and pervasive poverty issues. When asked how much a poor person would make, I shrugged my shoulders and guessed $10,000 to $15,000 per year. My friend laughed and said that is ow much the clase medio makes per year in Buenos Aires.

I tried explaining that the cost of living is so much more expensive and that people could barely eat on that, let alone pay rent. However, it did make me curious on whether someone from Argentina, if he saw the cities and the ¨ghettos¨, would persistenly claim that America is better off. If he sawNew Orleans, post-Katrina, or the Harlem-side of Central Park at night, Compton of Mexican-border towns, would he be so quick in his generalizations?

What is portayed in the media to the world is a glamourous fabulousness of middle-class life contentment, where most of our problems consist of whether we feel actualized or skinny or lazy or heartbroken. Unfortunately, this is not the case for some in America who are, instead, concerned of where to live of how to eat.

My friend continued to tell me that poverty, la pobreza, is not the same in America as it is here, in Bs. As. He said, ¨we have villas (slums and shanty-towns) and people without homes, people sleeping on the streets under overhangs with only a mattress and some basic belongings. You don´t have that in America.¨

Although I am not American, I have seen some of its cities and believe that Canadian cities are much the same. I explained to my friend that there are homeless people and they don´t even have mattresses, just cardboard, if they are ¨lucky¨. I added that violence in a Toronto or New York ¨ghetto¨ seems to be more ruthless. Guns, knives, drugs, gangs, theft, murder are everyday realities that we have, too.

Even on the news here, La Plata, one of the more violent villas, experiences robbaries and kidnappings regularly, but more on the side of neighbourhood and family disputes. A guy will kidnap his kids from his in-laws but he hangs out with them at his own house until the polic show up. A man in a wheelchair slams into someone else and steals her bag, wheeling away. There are also moments that seem, to me, markers of a higher community standard as opposed to the way ghettos are portrayed back home. For example, a man in La Plata was molesting local children. Once a few neighbours found out, they rallied, pulled him out of his house, beat the shit out of him and launched rocks through his windows, sending a message to him and any other pervs thinking about touching little children. Recently, I was told that a villa in La Boca, close to where we live now, acts more like a commune. Everyone chips in their earnings to purchase food and basic necessities for the community. Now, I do know that Toronto´s Regent Park has a weekend market where residents can sell food or crafts, but I don´t know if they share the profits.

With all of this information backing up my points, my friend still looked at me a bit sideways with a twinkle of doubt in his eyes. I told him that if he ever goes to Toronto I would show him our version of villas, just to understand it better.

I guess he has to see it to believe it.

why argentines are not getting into bar brawls

2010-01-30T18:33:00.000-08:00

Last weekend, the comrades and I headed out to 'interview' an Irish pub in Buenos Aires. We need to check out all the candidates before St. Patty's day falls upon us. We must be ready.

We decided to check out The Shamrock, relatively closeby, about 10 blocks or 1 kilometre away. We left FOR the bar at 2. In the the morning.

When we arrived the bar was pretty full and people were casually standing around sipping on Imperial or Quilmes. A lot of people were foreigners, like us, just wanting to have a decent pub at hand. I guess it might have been the amount of time we have been here, or maybe it's the overall Argentine vibe, but nothing felt out of the ordinary. People, even the Irish, were calmly drinking and chatting to one another. Comrade to comrade.

The 4 of us sat down at a table and decided to chat amongst ourselves. The entire time, or at least until 5:30AM when we decided to leave, the bar was steady and there was no ruckus. Why?

We finished off the night with some pizza for dinner, eating amongst the working-men, having their morning coffee before they went to their jobs. We watched the sunrise over some grapefruit pop and cheese pizza, grande. Still, no ruckus. I don't even know how to spell ruckus.
Why?

Well, we discussed the answer the following day: because no one needs to make a ruckus. They are not forced to get wasted before a certain time, thus, proceeding to the bar to order round after round of shots. There is no need to have a good time fast because you want to go all night. No need for last call. No need to cut people off. No need for unnecessary police force to keep the peace. Just people, living, having a good time, doing what they want to do without imposing on anyone else. Always thought it was a possibility. Never thought I would live to see it.

Well, I lived to see it, had a good time, did what I wanted to do without imposing on anyone else.

so what do you do?

2010-01-26T10:36:00.000-08:00

The battle, the struggle, is for the many. On the student-debt note, I would like to share some tips of how to live of the radar. In the end, even if you don't want to live off the radar, it can truly save a lot of calls from collection agencies, and, therefore, a lot of headaches.

There is a credit card that you can get from Money Mart that acts like an American debit account. So, you put money on it, and whenever you use your Visa, it just takes the money off the balance. By doing this, you alleviate any falsely-created debt. Wouldn't it be liberating to know that you don't have to pay a credit card bill every month, but you get all the "luxuries" of having a credit card. You can book plane tickets, hotel rooms, or if you don't have the cash on you, buy a new piece of techmology.

Some may find this hard to pursue as they don't have the funds to put anything onto the "credit card" anyways. My thoughts are, why wouldn't you try to? There is instant freedom when you do not have to pay another bill. One thing I learned, here in Argentina, is that North Americans are obsessed with debt. It's the "buy now, pay later" effect that is encouraged, not only when buying a house, or a car, but furniture and even clothing. I think you have to be able to step out of that box, eliminate your debt, and live the free life. Once you discover the innerworkings of the system, I won't say it is easy, but it is a relief to step away from.

A very close comrade of mine has set-up a MetaWealth website where you can go and figure out some help on how we look at money. I, myself, am a recovering money-oholic. I am still trying to take the baby steps to expand my obsessive-compulsive, North-American, hoarding and consuming syndrome (OCNAHCS). The website is a forum in which to expand one's thoughts about the ebb and flow of energy in the form of money. It may just open one's sleepy eyes a little, or it may be the very spark one needs to ignite a change.

baby steps

2010-01-23T14:36:00.001-08:00

Today has been a eyes-wide opener. When you realize that some of the most important people around are making those steps toward a complete paradigm shift, you can't help but glow a little. Recently, I read my friend's blog about the steps she and her husband are taking to ensure that their child does not grow up in the same world we are living in. She is expecting in a few months, and the steps she has taken on her research of products is inspiring. She has truly bloomed into a grounded, educated, soon-to-be-mama.

The big issue was diapers. She and her husband have just put a deposit on a diaper-cleaning service so that they do not have to use disposable ones. What a savvy pair. They found that, although the downpayment is a lot up front, the total money saved, in the long term, outweighed the current cost. Cost included the diapers and the environmental factors. Apparently, as she wrote, it takes 250+ years for disposable diapers to break down. Not so good for this fragile planet of ours. They took it upon temselves to do the necessary research and penny-saving in order to benefit their child, not to mention their grandchildren down the line.

I am always fascinated and moved when people close to me choose to take the path that may be right, but a little more difficult. Of course, buying Pampers would be easier in the short term, just a quick step away to your nearest cornerstore for some diapers, but these two actually researched their options and made the decision to do it differently. Well, differently to modern standards as even I grew up on cloth diapers.

We can change things, the course of the world, if we all took these baby steps. Little by little, things can change I have friends that boycott Nestle based on the company's unethical practice of bottling a town's water, running the town dry, then selling them bottles of their own natural water. Whatever we can all do to help in this slow, but sure, process of change.

Kudos to all those that may not be ready to make a whole life change, but are taking the necessary steps in educating themselves in hopes for a brighter future.

these people do exist

2010-01-19T14:08:00.000-08:00

One of the common questions I get asked is: if this is an option, why don't more people know about it? The answer is that many people already know about it and live it. The person who passed you on the street, or who sold you your last used-book, or the Minsiter of Finance himself, already all know about it. However, like any good working machine, it tries to get rid of the jam in the wheel.

Now, I'm not talking about secret, covert operations where they whisk you away to some forlorn interogation cell. There would be an uproar and the media would/could be all over it. But, in addition to the above answer is: just because you don't hear about it doesn't mean it's not happening. Remember, secrets happen aall over the world and throughout history. All that matters is what's written in the books. I never thought I would say this, but thanks to the internet, the victors can be your everyday man, woman, even child.

My thoughts are to get online and start looking. Start to become aware of what is really going on. There are some key words you can look into like Admiral Law, Occupied Territories, Economic Apartheid. The list is truly endless. I'm not saying that you have to do anything or accept what some of these theories throw out there. However, I believe upon reading anything, even if you don't agree with it, provides some useful, intellectual ammunition.

There are people who live in Canada, mostly on the West coast, those hippies, who have been living as free-, natural-persons for some time. They now take the time to share the information they have discovered on this fascinating forum the internet.

So, when people wonder why they haven't heard anything about this stuff all I have to say is: you weren't listening. It would be like people denying that apartheid or racism doesn't exist, or that people are unlawfully evicted from their homelands in order to create naval bases. People in the 1930s and 40s didn't believe that millions of people were being sent to gas chambers. Boy, were they wrong.

I think we are coming upon an age where the people are getting educated and, as a result, getting restless. They are tired of putting up with the same crap the State has not offered and the Corporation has taken away. I think the most recent financial crisis is a key marker in these two bodies trying to hold onto what power they have left.

They are beginning to realize that "we are the many, they are the few".

fight it

2010-01-17T13:45:00.000-08:00

As promised, I have reserved this space as an outlet, functioning forum, for the free trade of thought on how to fight the man. As an endentured slave of the State, through high tuition costs and student loans, I have been doing a little research on the topic. You must be forewarned that the following information is not for everyone, it is merely an introduction to the things I have come across in a butt-ton of reading. I still have a butt-ton more to read.

As I have already stated, the man is trying to keep me (and others) down by making them into cogs of a complex, hierarchical wheel. Even though most of us believe that we are a part of a middle class, I would beg to differ. We think we have medicare, welfare, and minimum wages when in reality all we have is complacency. We are taught from a very young age to work hard to get to university or college and then work hard to pay off our loans and then work hard to contribute as much as possible to consuming or accumulating. This is the lifeline which we tacitly subscribed to. Therefore, what I am about to write is for those who don't want to follow a formula, but to live without the shackles of the oppressor. It is completely your choice to do what is right or what is easy.

When a student has $40,000 of student loan debt, what is he or she supposed to do? I was told many times not to worry and that everyone has debt. This is false. People all over the world may not live in half-a-million dollar houses, they may not have brand-name clothing, but they get by, save their money, and buy the things they need. Some people I have met in Buenos Aires are absolutely shocked that people take out hundreds of thousands of dollars just to buy houses or cars or to pay off even more debt. I tried to explain to them that it's because everything is so expensive (comparatively) and that some everyday things just cost too much. What is interesting is that they were also shocked that North Americans work 40+ hours per week and that they don't really get to enjoy the things that they bought. I kept wondering how on Earth can people work only 25 hours a week, doing things they love like painting, interior design, drawing, teaching yoga, and still be able to afford multiple apartments and cars? I guess the answer is relativity.

Living in Argentina, in the 10th largest city in the world, has put some things into perspective. It's true it is hard for a foreigner to find work here, but if you can find a job that is portable - like art, writing, music, design - you could comfortably live here on the equivalent of minimum wage back home. So, why is Canada so expensive?

Well, like all governments, including the Argentine government, they have linked up with the Corporation to borrow money from the population without any intention of ever giving it back. Despite what it says, the government is stinking rich. The problem is that it has a hoarding problem. For generations, Canadians have paid taxes on everything in order for the State to pay off its own debt. It should be giving back to its people, right? Herein lies the problem: it doesn't give back, not proportionately anyways. It creates the population's debt, puts people into near poverty, to try and put itself back in the black. The thing is, it never will, and, as a result, Canadians have to endure some humbling experiences. This is not the way a government is supposed to work. Civil servants are supposed to do everything in their power to serve the people. It should not be a glamorous life with designer suits, 23-chamber mansions, and multiple estates, but one of altruistic selflessness.

Let's use the example of student debt to see the crumbling corruption. In 1967, Canada signed and ratified the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights, entry into force as of January 3rd, 1976. In it, Article 13 specifically stipulates that primary education is a right and should be provided free of charge. That we have, although sometimes the ethical nature of the educational institution can be called into question. Thank whatever-it-is that there are some good teachers out there. Article 13 also stipulates that secondary education - in this case university, college and trade schools - should be subsidized, which we also have. However, it also says that the government will ensure that fees for secondary education will eventually be reduced to nothing. That, the State has not done. Instead, it has increased tuition by 1000%. It explains that the hike is to cover inflation. If inflation was this exponential, the cost of bread should be, approximately, $250.

As tuition increased, student loans increased, not only in monetary significance, but in dispension. Some people attest that the increase in loans was due to the growing middle class. In fact, it was the working class that was growing. People were ripped from convocation to be thrown into the immediate pit of the workforce, made to work their loans off as quickly as possible. I have felt the tension and apprehension when in the classroom. Students in their last year of school are terrified of graduation because they may not get a good enough job to pay back their loans. Usually, these people were the ones who were unable to volunteer at career-oriented placements to improve their resume or able to wholly focus on academics because they needed a part-time job just to survive. The fear ends up making us animals: we will grab any opportunity we can no matter what happens or who gets hurt. It's the fear of surviving.

So, the State increased tuition. What are we supposed to do about it? Well, we fight it. There is a process of writing letters to your MP, MPP, Minister of Finance, the head of the National Student Loans... the list is endless, to raise awareness of this issue. It's a lot of work. It's overwhelming at times. Again, it's your choice to continue. If you want more information, I suggest that you look some stuff up first. For example, an impertinent thing to read, although tedious and tiresome, is The Canada Student Financial Assistance Act. Article 16.1 explicitly states that there is a limitation period of 6 years to which, at the end of the 6 years, the State may not go after you for your student loans. There is an unknown catch: the 6 year limitation period 'resets' itself everytime you contact the student loan services, even if you call them to tell them you cannot make payments. That's why they call you all the time, to keep resetting the clock, hoping, in the end, that you will pay the loan back, plus years of accumulated interest. It's a pretty sound investment for them and absolutely debilitating for us.

So, now, you have to think about whether it is worth it. To flee, fight, or fall on your knees and beg for mercy. What they don't tell you is that the choice is yours. You may not end up living the 'normal' life, but I think that a life of working a thousand hours at a thankless job, the stress of even more debt, the shere misery of being considered a powerless subject is no life at all.

If the idea of living an abnormal life freaks anyone out, I understand. I had/have those moments all the time. But, if you truly think about the consequences to not doing something, not enacting some sort of change, then you not only relinquish your power as a human being with the right to live, you perpetuate the machine, you roll the wheel into the future where it ruins the lives of our children and grandchildren.

It most definitely will not be easy, but I wouldn't mind devoting myself to a life worth fighting for. The question is: would you?

To Mari Marcel: the conscience is the hands of the people

2010-01-11T16:35:00.000-08:00

A couple of months go, I read Raging Against The Machine, the New Internationalist's compilation of shorts and essays that have been published over the past 30-years in its thought-provoking, politically-charged, independent magazine. The content is emotional and at times, disturbing, because it is all true: the Man working against the people, leaving them in financial and physical ruin.

One article that stood out was written by Mari Marcel Thekaekara called, Where has all he conscience gone? In it, she questions the path that international development has taken. She argues that what once was barely recognized as a reputable profession has become a career of glamorous travel and 5-star hotels. I don't disagree. The ID students that I met in university wore 5-inch heels to class and sported the latest Dior sunglasses, their $3,000 word-processors in hand, cruising facebook between boring interjections of intellect.

Indeed, what did happen to international development?

Well, it became a business. The Corporations capitalized on the human condition of compassion. We no longer have bare-foot basic-essentialists running through "Third World" countries, nails torn, hair dirty, with a smile plastered over their faces. No. There seems to be more money in it than we thought. Now, development is about pushing papers, bureaucratic meetings, deals being dealt between unauthorized representatives of 'the cause'.

The reason it happened is simple: the game changed, but not the paradigm. The illusion of change came from a re-focusing of fiscal flow. Instead of investing in sweatshops, the almight and powerful invested in World Vision and Habitat For Humanity. With a facetious facade of altruism, the business and state were able to extract charitable donations to feed its never ending hunger of economic prosperity. This paradism did not change: it is still all about accumulation.

For development to have any actual effect, the paradigm needs to shift, permanently, from a culture of consuming and hoarding to a community of holistic sharing. We all need to realize that an individual's unique talents is a gift to the group. He or she should not be forced to do that which he or she is not good at. But, you are thinking, that person should work hard in order to reap any rewards. You see, you are not changing. Why does someone have to work his or her self to the ground in order to live? Is living really a privilege? If so, that we would have the absolute right to take it away from anyone who did not fall in line with a prescribed way of living. You only work 20 hours a week? Dead.

What is good for the individual is good for society, the only problem is that the current paradigm dictates that what is good is big houses, with a bank account to match and fast cars. If we shift those thoughts to a more organice, genuine sense of goodness, then we can change the system.

However, it is a two-way street. What is good for the group is also good for the individual. If everyone is healthy, educated and able to perform his or her specific task, how is the individual not benefitted?

Humans have created a parasictic ecosystem where they believe that success is measured from how well one person is doing. That person takes and takes, leeches resources from his or her surroundings, from the environment, from animals, from other PEOPLE, just to grow bigger and stronger. It kills its environment in the process. No sustainable ecosystem can exist like that.

Change the paradigm. Think about circles, the Kreb cycle, unity of body and mind, the cycle of rain, the circle of life, anything, really, to change the way you think.

Give, take, share, live. For the greater good.

Briz Wevera returns: KV saved my life.

2010-01-08T17:00:00.000-08:00

Here is a link for all, to venture into the inner workings of my other half, a more personal side, a more creative side.

This site will be used, hence here to fore, as a personal battle against tyranny page. Please enjoy both.

http://thebubblesaredead.wordpress.com/

a beautiful day in buenos aires

2010-01-08T11:24:00.000-08:00

How can someone stay in bed, stay inside when the sky is blue and the temerature a healthy mid-twenties? I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself and to finally go out and do something, take advantage of my second summer. Recently, I have been a little homebound, writing furiously with pen-and-paper, researching Canadian laws, and eating ice cream. I think I got a shot of endorphines from yesterday's riding lesson, so I decided to take to the streets today.

I meandered to Belgrano to buy some shampoo and to walk around a little bit. It was nice to feel the sun on my skin, the breeze through my hair. But, I still couldn't keep my head, my mind from whirring. There seems to be a constant sound in my head, like that of a computer buzzing, trying to process too many things at one time. The reasons: existential, quater-life crisis, wondering about whether the past was a waste, the present is worth it, or if the future will be kind.

I started experiencing a slight feeling of anxiousness. I have not been this volatile since high school, unsureness just scaring the shit out of me. Consistency is something humans strive for, whether it is to be constantly happy, sad, neurotic... And, so it goes. We also always desire to change the way we are feeling. We always think happiness is just on the other side, but when you get there, you realize that it's the same everywhere. I think the reason is because people are always looking for external justifications to be happy. We want our parents to be proud of us, we want others to appreciate whatever we have created, and we need others to tell us they love us, even if we already know it. The reason people never find happiness in different places is because true happiness radiates from within. Once someone discovers what it is like to be happy with oneself, then no matter where you go, happiness will follow.

Am I having a great time in Buenos Aires? Hell, yes. The weather is sublime, although the days are getting shorter. Would I do this all over again knowing the outcome of my actions? Truthfully, yes. Because we all need time to get comfortable with ourselves. Once we feel a little more peace and a little more happiness in our own skin, we can begin to honestly share it with others.

So, as a footnote, as of next week I will be starting personal reflections on another blog I have created. I will post the link later, but The Informal Press is going to start getting a little more serious. Briz Wevera's eco-socio-political writings will be posted on this blogspot, sharing information with all, uniting students, workers, even businessmen in a fight against the man.

viva la vida! ... no reference to Coldplay intended.

a case of the mondays

2010-01-06T07:56:00.000-08:00

Post-New Year's recuperation was a slow, but great success. The Eve to remember was a hoop-la of hilarity and wonder. The trinamic trio rung in the New Year at our apartment, trying to keep in mind that Argentines have a thing for going out late.

We left for a club, Museum, at 1-ish AM and arrived half-an-hour later, too early. We got in, a respectable $15CA cover + one free drink, and the floor was barely half-covered. We took this 'tranquil' opportunity to scope the place out. Floor to ceiling must have been 4 to 5 stories, straight up. Along the sides, balcony-like overhangs allowed those VIPs to look down on the crowd. On the ground-level, was a confusion of senses, young kids dancing and girating alongside senior citizens. I guess Argentines just love to dance. We decided to pull up some patio furniture, that's right, green plastic chairs, to sit, drink and observe. Beer was still only $3CA, even in the club. Muy nice.

We met some new friends, partied and danced the night away. Eventually, I had an epiphany of fatigue. I told the room-comrades that it was time to go, they obligingly agreeing. Obviously, there are no windows in clubs, but the fact that the bar was still serving fooled my sense into believing we were only at Museum for a couple of hours. When we emerged from the cavernous depths of clubland, mine eyes beheld daylight. Not dawn, daylight. So this is how they are able to party all night. I felt like a porteño, even though it was just for a night. Nevertheless, I needed a whole weekend to achieve some sort of alkaline balance.

Thus, for Monday, I arragned a big day. A few weeks ago I had met a guy on a bus who does walking-tours of the city-centre. Over the weekend of detox, I arranged to meet him for one of these walking tours, free of charge. The tour was a three-hour walk around the Plaza De Mayo, then down Paseo Colon towards the CGT, the Worker's Union building where they have a small museum dedicated to Eva Peron. Although both guides were young, they had a lot of knowledge shared between them. Nicolas, animated and detail oriented. Nacho (nickname for Ignacio), informal and comforting. We ended the tour with some lunch, me splitting a pitcher of beer with some other tourists. When it came time to pay, I was shocked and appalled. The tour guides had already left and paid their share, but when the two girls from Finland and the lady from Barcelona handed money over to pay, I was disturbed. No one knows how to tip. On a $62AR bill, the equivalent of $30CA for the two girls from Finland, they left $2AR pesos, 50 cents. The lady from Barcelona didn't do any better. It was rather embarrassing and insulting. Here these people are, experiencing cities to the farthest corners of the world. Traveling, living, eating, not working. Their appreciation is given in meagre pennies.

Nevertheless, I was still content that I got to see the city, although slightly exhausted from the heat and humidity. Poor Canadian can't hack it. I got home and decided I was going to chill for the night, take it easy, read, watch t.v. However, it was not in the cards. A new friend I had met on Christmas Eve message me saying they were going to hit up a Milonga, a place to dance tango. The room-comrades were hanging out with their Benito-kitty, so I decided I would love to see it. Wow, Argentines DO love to dance. Since arriving in this beautiful country, I have seen tango dances on every street corner, I guess that's how they busk here. Nevertheless, I just can't wrap my head around the moves, the rhythm, the style. It's impulsive, but it flows. At the Milonga, one that was a legitimate, non-tourist trap, everyone was dancing tango. The dancefloor filled with the young, middle-aged, old, it didn't matter. What a spectacle.

My friends and I decided to end the night with a pitcher at a bar down the street. We chatted and tried to get to know each other whilst sipping on some semi-delicious Brahma Chopp. Now, I have know people who have experienced life never being shit on by a bird. Unfortunately, my experience makes up for all of them. Sitting there, at 3AM, talking, sipping, nibbling, I got shat on. Twice. Since being in Argentina, my shit-count is up to 3, 2 being on Monday night. People keep telling me it's a sign of goodluck.

The only luck I have had so far is nothing bad has happened. I guess that counts. I love Mondays.

troubling times lay ahead

2010-01-03T13:23:00.001-08:00

Some, or all, of you may know who I am, where I am and what I'm doing. I have been on emotional rollercoaster, riding the curves and twists of life in Buenos Aires. I am an opinionated person, almost to a fault, but at least I have principles and stand by them.

Life has thrown me another curve-ball, in the form of a gnarling beast we call the student-loan man. He's a despicable creature, out for blood, drooling venomous secretions, always thirsty, always looking for prey.

The predatory structure of banks and state-centred institutions is coniving and scary, they have your money, they have your life, or do they? Recently, I was struck by this two-headed sea-monster, threatening my very existence of doing exactly what I want to do: nothing in Buenos Aires. A little stressed, but relatively unscathed, I am declaring war. I must find strength and channel my complete frustration that I have with NSLS. I will fight. I will not go gently into the night.

what did mine eyes see?

2009-12-30T16:30:00.001-08:00

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

2009-12-28T15:07:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-26T16:25:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-25T09:47:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-23T08:34:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-12-20T06:57:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-19T05:37:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-18T06:47:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-16T12:47:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-15T13:32:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-13T13:45:00.000-08:00

[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

2009-12-11T14:18:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-09T13:08:00.000-08:00

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.

...

2009-12-08T14:03:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-06T15:05:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-05T11:31:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-04T10:18:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-02T18:05:00.000-08:00

[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

2009-12-01T10:01:00.000-08:00

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.

there and back again: an adventure to the edge of the world

2009-11-30T08:20:00.000-08:00

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.

What a bookstore means to me

2009-11-28T10:44:00.000-08:00

[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.

Abasto: the Jewish barrio

2009-11-25T06:34:00.000-08:00

[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.

Space:

2009-11-22T11:47:00.000-08:00

[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.

A Canadian Girl in Baires

2009-11-21T12:35:00.000-08:00

[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.

Coffee, Bikes and Burn

2009-11-20T12:56:00.000-08:00

[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.

WWYD?

2009-11-18T13:40:00.000-08:00

[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.)

All caught up... THE ART OF BEING

2009-11-17T12:21:00.000-08:00

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.

Part 3

2009-11-17T11:40:00.000-08:00

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.

Part 2

2009-11-16T07:05:00.000-08:00

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.

catching up: from paper to screen

2009-11-15T08:58:00.000-08:00

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.

staying connected

2009-11-02T11:56:00.000-08:00

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

Rioja, Gossip Girl and Gauche Caviar

2009-10-10T15:38:00.000-07:00

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.

My Beef with the State

2009-09-26T18:20:00.003-07:00

[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.

RADBUSTERS

2009-09-20T18:06:00.000-07:00

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.

The Bigger Picture

2009-09-14T11:45:00.000-07:00

Daunting, moving, life-changing. These three words describe the time I had last night. Did I go sky-diving? Did I hear the Dalai Lama speak? No. I watched a movie.

Last night, comrades, I decided to test my emotional waters by watching The Cove, a documentary about the whaling and dolphin industry that keeps Japan's economy afloat. The sushi that I had for dinner was churning in my stomach due to the graphic nature of some of the footage.

Ric O'Barry, the man who trained the dolphins for the Flipper TV series, joined forces with Louie Psihoyos to expose the atrocities that occur in a little fishing town in Japan called Taiji. What I like about the movie is that the documentary explores every facet of dolphin exploitation. It goes from animal rights to mercury poisoning in humans to the corruption within the International Whaling Commission (IWC). The horror, the horror.

After the movie ended, it was hard to leave my seat. Here was a perfect piece of education that was not only informative, but also visually stunning. Apres school, I believe we all find it hard to keep learning. We may watch some documentaries or read something provocative. However, it feels as though the information goes in through one eye/ear and out the other. We have lost the spark of our youth that inspired us to absorb ideas and to create change. Formal exhaustion has already set in.

Therefore, if you decide to see this movie, do not hesitate to learn from it. You may not stop eating seafood, but make informed choices about what kind of seafood you eat. Which is the most contaminated? Which has the highest incidence of killing innocent dolphins? Do I really want to take my kids to SeaWorld?

Here is a chart, not unlike many all over the internet, that gives you a list of contaminated seafood.

The bigger picture is this: let's stop watching films, reading books, having active discussions and not do something about it. It's all well and good that now I know what the dolphin industry is like, now let me do my small part to make the change. I'm sick and tired, mostly due to my own guilt, of watching the spark die out. Get informed and stay informed. This is informal education so let's learn from it. Make even the smallest decisions that, like the wings of a butterfly, affect change thousands of miles away.

Right to Privacy

2009-08-19T18:30:00.000-07:00

Recently, very recently, I had to come head to head with my informal landlord. You see comrades, I am moving out of my current residence by the end of the month, however, I partook in a sublet. This meant that I actually had two landlords: one that I paid rent to because they 'owned' the apartment and one informal landlord that had a long-term tenant agreement with the first. Therefore, this end of the month has been a double whammy.

Nevertheless, I am pretty laid-back when it comes to people coming in and out of my space. You need to pick up some things informal-landlord? Of course. You need to do an inspection of spatial fitness formal-landlord? Come right in.

However, I draw the line at bullying and harassment. The confrontation that I alluded to above happened (did I mention quite recently?) when my informal-landlord informed me that she was still 'technically' my landlord and that she had a right to come and go as she pleased. The breaks went on quietly, but not subtly. I calmly informed her that I was still technically her tenant and I still had rights to privacy. If she thought for a nano-second that being a landlord entitled her to come and go as she pleased, then she has been grossly misinformed for the duration of her entire being.

Landlords, whether they rent or sublet, must still obey the private space of the tenant. In actuality, the only person who can (not may, because may connotes permission) enter your property without your consent is the government and its representatives, although that is completely unlawful as well. It does it anyways. Nonetheless, you have every right to set up parameters that your landlord must heed to. Only with an eviction notice can you be forcibly removed from the premises. However, if he/she just wants access to your home, a phone call and letter must be provided to the tenant 24 hours in advance REQUESTING entry into the space. Even then, as the 1997 Tenant Protection Act outlines, the intrusion may happen only if there is: a) an emergency, b) the tenant's consent, and/or c) previous arrangements outlined within a contract.

So, for all of my comrades who are taken advantage of by formal and informal authority, remember that just because you do not 'own' the land, doesn't mean you do not have rights to your own privacy. Although not a fan of Locke, he did make a good point when it comes to property: you claim ownership by proverbially toiling the land. So, for those landlords who just receive rent cheques every month, yet still feel obligated to be a thorn in your side, remind them that they do not clean the house, nor make your meals. They do not live, sleep, or shower in that residence. You are the one who toils within it. It may be their house, but you made it your home.

More information on Tenant Rights.

Informal Exhaustion

2009-08-15T15:12:00.000-07:00

Too much partying.
Too much working to pay for the partying.
Too much of too little.

Be back soon, comrades.

Informal Productivity

2009-07-29T20:40:00.000-07:00

[This image is from theorangecommune.blogspot.com]

Most recently, I have been having dreams... No. More like nightmares about what I am going to do with my life. Like most recent graduates the pressures of student loans, working a thankless job and a lack of intellectual stimuli have left me thinking about potential jobs. No. Careers.

I approached those that I hold in high esteem about this directional dilemma. Of course, they told me that the decision was entirely up to me. However, a dear comrade of mine said this:

"Briz, of all people you should know that you are not what you do in life but what you do for life" ... in so many words. He was right. Stepping back, I saw how the MAN was getting me at such a ripe age. There were so many calculated steps put in place to ensure that I would reach a point in my life where I would sell my soul and work for the MAN every night and day: Debt. A useless degree. Societal pressures.

By getting a formalized job, that means that I would have to work by the bureaucratic rules. For what? To make my parents proud? So that complete strangers would look at me in awe as if I were completely altruistic? Would having a home in suburbia with 2.3 children, a golden retriever and a minivan ever make me content?

If I may, dear comrades, I would like to say that 70% of the developing world's business is the self-employed. Formalized work has become for the elite. It can indenture people to be overworked and overrun. When the formal workers get home, they just want to watch their favourite episode of Blind Date that they captured with TiVo. Most of the formal workers that I have met hate Mondays.

As well, it is important to note that most NGOs and international charities work directly with commercial developers. So, when signing up for Habitat International or the Bill Gates Foundation one should be aware that there are hidden agendas for most of these big-name philanthropists. Not saying that they have not done some good things in the past, but there is always a monetary benefit to the superficial cost.

In the end, after the money has been drained from benefactors and southern African nations have been forced to use genetically-modified crops, people go home feeling like they did their civic duty. In this formalized setting, that's what it will look like, too.

I might just be writing these things to make myself feel better about 'not doing my part', but I believe that we should do things to do good, not just to look like we are doing good. Let's think about ways to better our world through an informal means. Travel, talk with locals, share stories, ride bicycles, spread the word.

You may not gain any recognition from friends and family. You may not be able to go out and get bottle service for a night. You most definitely will not be making six-figures a year (if you do, let other know how to as well). But, by not selling your values and morals (whatever they may be), you might just find peace in the chaos.

a scandalous affair

2009-07-23T12:54:00.000-07:00

If I told you that a bunch of grown men and women started physically brawling in Parliament, what country would you think of? Would you believe me if I told you it was one of the Korea's? North Korea fighting like five-year olds may seem more realistic, but North Korea doesn't have a Parliament. It's a dictatorship.

[Photo by Ahn Young-joon/The Associated Press]

Correct. Members of Parliament in South Korea have resorted to the playground principles of headlocks and noogies over passing bills that would reduce restrictions on the media. The party in power, the Grand National Party, tried to swiftly pass a bill that would allow ultra-conservative, corporate media big-wigs to regain a powerful presence in television and newspapers. The opposition felt that this could lead to the persuasive positive portrayal of the current party in power. As a result, things got heated.

Although this freedom loving cat does not agree with protectionism, I do believe in the state's ability at controlling and being controlled by major corporations. That is why I wanted to post this article: to show how the state and corporation are carnally linked in their lust for power.

L'art pour l'art

2009-07-14T00:05:00.000-07:00

An impressively scaled art project was brought to my attention a year or so ago. It seemed surreal to think of the impact that art can have on a community.... until you see it.

Art is the epitome of evolution. We, as humans, have worked so hard to gain leisure time so that we can express ourselves and create something. This is something I think is worth it all.

To do whatever you need to do to make you happy!

What's in a name?

2009-07-11T23:29:00.000-07:00

Recently, I was informed that my posts on this blog were too abrasive because the terminology I use is too vague. It never occurred to me that some of the words I have been using would seem irrelevant or confusing. Therefore, I am writing this entry to clarify a personally relevant issue.

I use the term comrade intentionally. To me it is a word that connotes friendship, trust and a firm socio-political stance. It is a word from the dark ages of Marxist Russia and Cuba. However, in no way does it mean fascist-Communism on this blog.

Marx is a misunderstood individual. So many people associate him with the sickle and hammer or totalitarian dictators. Despite all of this negative cred, he believed that humanity would come to an age, some point in time after capitalism, where we could do anything that made us happy.

As a quick re-cap of his entire works, Marx believed that the Industrial Revolution was a great idea because machines were supposed to free up our time in order to allow mankind to create art, build houses, weave baskets... whatever you were good at that made you happy! Marx definitely was a firm believer in a communal style of living where every necessity was provided to everyone so that we could live our dreams doing what made us happy. However, like most great thinkers, his ideas were perverted. Most people think of Marx as a lover of the state when he actually abhorred it. He thought that the state was a corrupt facade for major corporations to exploit the worker, the proletariat. Instead, he thought that Civil Society was the perfect social provider and peace enforcer. He hoped for a day when the workers would unite and tear down the capitalist fibres that poison our society. By doing this, each worker, no matter his/her job or skill would be considered an equal member of society and all would be friends (comrades).

So, there you are comrades. The reason why I choose to call each man, woman, child, and animal comrade is because we are all the same. Even though we are animals, our logic and reason can tear down the steps of hierarchy and unite us.

Don't let the machine make you think that you are not worth your natural right to freedom.

Tuesdays without Mitso: Same Same but Different

2009-07-08T12:57:00.000-07:00

Last Tuesday, my dear comrade, Mitso, came into work with a kink in his neck. He went home early and got someone else to close for him. Coincidentally, I was not hungover the next day.

Nonetheless, his vigour has usually been my inspiration to passionately publish posts about the corruption of the state and its formalization processes for workers. Since I have not worked with him in a while, I felt politically deflated.

Yet, some things happen for a reason. If I was hungover, I would not have had the energy to check the news and be reminded of the development occurring at Toronto's Regent Park.

This region of the city is being developed through a PPP, a public-private partnership. The two contributors are Toronto Community Housing, a public sector, and The Daniels Corporation, a private developer of condominiums. This is an interesting partnership because the goal of developing this state-of-the-art-high-rise condominium is to create a multiple-income community. The city and the developers believe that this will give the area an appropriate facelift which would encourage varying socio-economic interactions. Apparently, by doing this the residents of Regent Park will not feel alienated and marginalized.

My question that I would like to pose is: who's standard of facelift is this?

A facelift is gentrification which is a symptom of the globalized, proto-capitalist system that we are enveloped by today. What we believe to be an upgrade is merely a polished facade of what is really going on in a community.

Let's take the example of people. Although each person's body is his or her own, a surgical facelift provides a temporary solution to someone's lack of self-esteem. No matter how much you pull that skin tight, it will never be tight enough unless you really address the issue of aging.

Same thing with a community. Developers see Regent Park as prime real-estate because it is so close to downtown business. People are willing to pay to stay in these 'undesirable' neighbourhoods. Therefore, the private company capitalizes on the demand by creating a false supply of condominiums. This is done all in the name of philanthropy as the developer also supplies the current residents of Regent Park with brand new condos. The problem with this development is not the improved housing, but the way in which it is bureaucratically set into action.

Although the current residents of Regent Park have been asked their thoughts and opinions about the development, there have been no movements on educating them on the potential consequences of living in high rises. Urban developers across the world have tried to promote high rises as a win-win situation: the poor get housing and the commercial developers get to do what they do best.

An example that reminds me of this dilemma is of this can be found in Giridharadas' article on Dharavi, the world's biggest slum that is found in Mumbai, India. The author describes how a community's system for survival is destroyed by moving people into high rises. Placing people on top of one another is not conducive to sustaining a community where informal economies and social networks thrive.

[photo by Giridharadas]

So, what will happen to the community's weekend markets that generate a small income for some of the families?

That is a question that I cannot answer nor provide an adequate solution to. All I have learned from seeing and reading about these circumstances is that the solution is never from the top-down. For this exact reason, I do not think I can provide an adequate solution. I do not live in Regent Park and do not know what would be best for the community. I think that people have to get off their high-theoretical horses and start doing things within the community. Ideas can come from above, but the work must be done on the ground.

Let's bring it back to the roots!

TIP: Military Coup de Fact

2009-07-03T18:21:00.001-07:00

As we have heard in the formally owned and operated media, the Honduran president was ousted by a military coup just the other day. How un-Democratic.

Did you also hear that the military operation was actually ordered by the Honduran Congress?

Well, my dear comrade Jameson did.

The removal of the democratically elected president was ordered because after Zelaya was elected, he changed his platform. As a result, a recent popularity census found that less than one-quarter of the Honduran population supported him. As a result, Z pushed for votes on a bill that would change the Constitution. The changes included an extension of his presidency until the year 2013. Therefore, exhausted of all possibilities, the members of the Supreme Court, parliament and Congress decided to tell Z that he had 24 hours to step down. He refused. They gave him an ultimatum: If he did not step down, the military would be called in to help him down off his high horse. He still refused.

We all know how it 'ends'. For now.

This is an instant where the state, not a ruler, had to step in. In the name of protecting the people's right to vote (true democracy, not Democracy) officials decided to take action.

But, Briz! You don't even like the state...

There is nothing wrong with the state being present in order to ensure the protection of the people. It is when the state becomes one power, or one man, that it becomes corrupt. Absolutely.
When the state is so centralized without proper checks and balances it becomes consumed with maintaining and increasing its power. This, the citizens pay for with their rights and cheque-books.

I am not explicitly condoning these practices, but it is something to think about. Naturally, the people who wanted Z out were the political and socio-economic elite of the country. Undoubtedly, there are some not-so-hidden agendas. Nevertheless, let's think about it.

Oh! And CNN, do some research.

- T.I.P., The Informal Press

Tuesdays with Mitso: Informal Tattle-Telling

2009-07-03T17:13:00.001-07:00

This is the third day to my hangover that ensued (post- and post-haste) Tuesday night.

Beaten down and exhausted, not from working, but from discussing the informal sector with one of my most beloved comrades, Mitso. Actually, the pain was my own doing this time. I shot my motor-mouth off to some belligerent neighbours of ours at the establishment in which Mitso and I work.

I was atop the roof, taking a break with another comrade when I saw miniature explosions of water coming up from the ground. One of these spontaneous explosions almost blew off an innocent citizen's shoe-lace. After the third mine had erupted, I realized that these explosions were not mysterious aquifers, but were bombs being launched from above (the top-down!). I looked up at the neighbouring building to see three grinning faces with curved-peak baseball caps. How hilarious.

The next aerial water bomb nearly annihilated a girl's clean-shaven, spray-tanned arm!

No matter how obnoxious or unfortunate the creature, no one deserves to be unknowingly water-bombed.

After a few "HEY!"s and "STOP IT, ASSHOLE!"s, the idea of calling the cops dropped into my mind as quickly as a girl's pinky-toe polish was wiped away by a Molovwater-cocktail. One of my comrades thought calling the cops was a great idea, even though he made it quite apparent that I would have to take the rap for being the rat.

He was right. Even though it was infuriating to see fellow citizens raining on people's parade, the thought of calling the cops made me think of the horrible, authoritarian pomposity that would undoubtedly be released on these ignorant asses. What else could I do? This was a private party, on private condominium property, and security would never let me pass....

Wait! That's it!

These assholes pay their condo fees from which a portion is used to pay a security officer who privately keeps the peace for all of those who live in that condommunity. The security officer's job is not only to prevent assholes from getting into the community, but to ensure that those within the community are living in peace. This includes people being too loud, boisterous, or launching hand-propelled water-grenades from the penthouse suite.

Comrades! Keep watch! I'm going over.

Needless to say, the barrage of bombs ceased within moments of informing the security officer. The point of the story is that social enforcement not only stopped people from misbehaving, it prevented police perversion. Not to label the police as illegitimate actors of peace-enforcement, but we all know how haughty and inappropriate they can be about their 'rights' to power. If I had called the cops, not only would they get to the scene of misdemeanor too late, but they could bully and belittle the party-people for 'wasting their time'.

Too many times the police forget that they are civil servants and that they work for civilians. Too many times have they used their illegitimate authority as a shield to berate and assault the innocent. They usually seem to forget that they are there to serve us, not to intimidate us.

Of course, I explain why and what I had done to my comrade, Mitso. And, of course, I needed another drink.

Workers Unite!

2009-06-29T11:33:00.000-07:00

As previously stated, I am keeping people updated on the CBC documentary, The Take. As a recap, the doc is about the worker's uprising in Argentina. In Argentina, jobs are scarce due to the collapse of the industrial sector which was brought about by contracts and agreements with the IMF.

Now, the labourers of these foreclosed factories are creating workers' assemblies to re-open the buildings and ensure their right to work. The workers refer to these assemblies as co-operatives: everybody has a say and everybody gets to work.

However, since the State and the Corporation are intrinsically linked, the workers are finding it very difficult to escape the bureaucratic process of making the factories 'legitimate'. This obstacle brings up the fundamental difference between the formal and informal markets.

Formal markets are deemed legitimate by the State because they have completed and paid-off an authorized legal process. Informal markets are seen as illegitimate because of, what? Although safety and human rights regulations are benefits to the legitimization process, small businesses and entrepreneurs are failing in the market because they cannot afford legitimacy.

Secondly, those that can afford it are big businesses, major corporations, that also get tax relief and subsidies.

What about this legitimization process is fair?

Legitimacy should come from ownership of one's work and product as long as it does not impede or hurt another person's life.

Well, that is not really worth buying into, is it? How else would the rich get richer?

Tuesdays with Mitso: Why People Are Lazy

2009-06-24T15:12:00.000-07:00

It is another Wednesday which means another long shift of banter has passed with my passionate comrade, Mitso. The topic of last night (or rather this morning) was cynicism and civic responsibility.

He, the cynic, outlined for me that the state is the lesser of all evil when getting people to do the right thing. I, the realist optimist, believe that people have the inherent ability to do the right thing when they are not being watched by Big Brother.

A perfect example of this occurred last night at the establishment where my comrade and I work. Shit was just not done. Chaos laid amidst the anarchy of drunks and half-smoked cigarette butts. It was a long night of cleaning, mopping, scrubbing, emptying, re-stocking and side-line gin&soda-ing, my little drop of poison.

To end the night, my comrade and I sat at the conference table to count money that we collected from patrons of the establishment. The green was tallied and locked away for the big boss to collect the next day. Cha-ching.

My dearest comrade is an impossible motor-mouth. He loves pushing buttons and the sound of his voice. Sometimes, my other comrades and I don't know where he gets his energy. Believe you me, it's not cocaine. Nevertheless, he could tell by my melancholic, pastry-puff face that I was not impressed with the way the evening had gone. Exhaustion had lowered itself as quickly as the gin had traveled up to my head. There were 6 of us to begin the night and only two left to clean and re-organize the place. Not only was this a long and tedious task, but there were additional, unforeseen obstacles (like umbrellas and empty cases just thrown exactly in front of where I needed to get to). It infuriated me: If one person does not do his/her job correctly, then no one can do his/her job correctly. Not only did I have pre-existing responsibilities to perform, I suddenly had the additional task of doing others' jobs properly. It was at this moment that the importance of civic responsibility dawned on me.

I mentioned this epiphany to my dear comrade, Mitso, and he so ever cleverly dropped the S-bomb. He described the Hobbesian state of nature and how, as a result, the people need a strong Leviathan to tell them how to act right.

Hm. Maybe my comrade had a point. Yes, pour me another gin&soda. Extra lime.

This five minute interlude allowed me to slap myself a couple of times in the face and gather my thoughts.

No, my dear Mitso, as he returned, It is because of the state that shit wasn't done. In our little microcosm of proto-capitalism, the state is our 'big boss'. He sits there, shows face, drinks a beer and converses with the staff. He's got charisma. He knows everyone's name. He forks over money to buy us products that we, in turn, sell to others. At the end of the day, he goes to his cushy home while his civilians make him a butt-load of money. Vacations come easy.

For these reasons, sometimes our comrades don't want to do everything perfectly and to the best of their abilities. Sometimes, they are so exhausted from being overrun with stress, hierarchical demands and the fact that they are constantly running, literally. If the state served its people as opposed to dictate to them, our human actions would alter. My fellow comrades would know that this place is their place. They would have a vested interest in the well-being of the establishment, its patrons and staff. Shit would get done.

The reason for this, my dear comrades, is: when power is equal, competition is removed. When competition is annihilated, people don't have to pretend to look good, they just do good. Imagine what a beautiful place we could have!

But, Briz. Life is cruel, nasty, brutish and short.

Only if you keep thinking like that.

"Bubbling Up From Below"

2009-06-17T16:21:00.000-07:00

The Take - CBC documentary about how those in Argentina are rising from the rubble of capitalism and reclaiming their rights to work.

Take that corporate slime!

Just an example of how people can work without the corporation or state over-influencing everything. Not a perfect solution, but it just goes to show how humans are incredible creatures of motivation and perseverance.

Part 1, 2 & 3 of 9. Keep following it on your own or through the Informal Press.

Briz Wevera begins...

2009-06-17T15:04:00.000-07:00

The other night, I had an erratically intense conversation about the relationship between politics and human rights. A comrade and I got into a discussion about freedom of speech which quickly led to fist-to-cuffs about state authoritarianism.

Although his thoughts were expressed with conviction, he did not persuade me to rethink my position on what kinds of "rights" the state has over the people: None.

Whether it is freedom of speech or property ownership, the government has no right to impose its authoritative standards upon any person.

Whose standards are these anyways? Obviously not those that are derived from the poor or middle class. They are generated by the rich through an uncomplicated process of bureaucracy. The result is an impossible guideline for those who run mom-and-pop shops, make and sell papads in Dharavi, or single-mother street vendors in Mexico City to adhere to.

What does a federal state know about the lives of the people who live in the slums of Rio or 'gang' members in Compton? Did growing up with money and networking one's way into office provide an insightful look into the needs of the people?

The only purpose of the state is to serve and protect its people. Workers of the government are civil servants whose job it is to cater to the people. They have no right to waste our time, money, or freedom, all of which are exhausted by 'economic crises' or 'swine flues'.

That long night of drinking, bantering and barraging has shown me that we are not there yet.

However, we are getting there. It requires the youth, perseverance and, of course, freedom of speech.

One day, the revolutionaries will rise again.

Rise.

(Fishy tip: H1N1 outbreak in Manitoba is disproportionately higher in the First Nations community. They blame it on lower health standards, I blame it on a guilty conscience that wants to have a tabla rasa)

Informal Lit

2009-06-11T12:53:00.000-07:00

Big tip: Microcosm Publishing.

FADBUSTERS

2009-06-09T13:15:00.000-07:00

Most eco-friendly, self-aware, free thinkers are generously acquainted with the ultra-left, anti-consumerist magazine based out of Vancouver.

Adbusters is a collection of thoughts, stories, one-liners, bad design and infamous mock-ads that advocate contemporary, 'revolutionary' ideals. Its articles range from Pro-Palestinian tirades to royal proclamations of BNDs (Buy-Nothing-Days). Essentially it is the Reader's Digest for those who have even the slightest inquiring itch of what goes down in our proto-Capitalist machine.

However, as we have seen in the past, a lot of great ideas are destroyed by fanaticism. (Aphorisms, verses, Dan Brown, ... whatever your poison). The masses consume these ideas and pervert them beyond reparation. Instead of discussing and thinking about the issues we have read, we accept the opinions as our own. The ideas in the magazine go with our outfit of forward thinking and damning the man. Having a years subscription of Adbusters has become the new accessory that sits right next to our all-natural, organic roll of toilet paper.

How did I deduce this? The other night I decided to read the issue called "A New Aesthetic", [#83]. What I found were articles that looked, smelled, tasted, and read the same as the controversial stuff of yester-year. It's boring and irrelevant because it's one-sided and extremist.

Not only does it drone on about information that has already been figured out, Adbusters is becoming just another 24K-brick in the wall. Although it is supposed to bust advertisers' balls, it has spreads selling their uber-edgey Red-Dot Sneakers, (Chuck Ts). Personally, Adbusters has become no different than the 'healthy options' provided by the McDonald's around the corner from my apartment.

Instead of consuming the image of being globally conscious and agreeing with everything the magazine spits out, we should question it. Don't take what the zine recommends as a personal proverb.

Open your eyes, open your mind, and your gut will follow.