|
The Void Where Life Lives |
 |
 |
 |
|
It is the chasm in the beggar's mouth where the bread spews out,
the Monday church, a winter pool,
the stalemate of the jury in deliberation
of a dilemma that knows no rule--
a cleft in the face of the law.
The crescent beneath your fingernails, forgotten cells,
dilapidated cars of rust and sun bleached pastels,
skin between freckles...
and the place in the window where the ball passed.
It is the unmade, empty bed,
the permanent indent on his pillow,
the hollow between her collarbones,
a missing rib.
Abandoned wells,
incorrectly witched and drilled,
the singing cave inside a shell
and cracks where rodents dwell.
Retired subway tunnels.
Translation stutters...
it does not exist -
the word.
Dancers suspended in a sweaty step,
festering in tension 'till the lead takes the next
--it's the space between their chests.
Vacuous eyes in the man who forgets:
forgets a name,
forgets his brother,
forgets that he is living.
It's the loss of religion
like an auctioned off, foreclosed home,
ready to be filled again.
The depressed, the forsaken, the condemned.
The innards of the flute,
the void inside the noose,
the rests in the battering of the snare.
The nook between heavy breasts
or a set of elevated legs.
It's in the room of a child, grown and gone: a museum, gathering dust.
The room of the baby never born, play things dangling, decorations untouched.
And a middle child,
happily making a tent of his bed sheets,
while the oldest is applauded for his achievement
and the youngest is fed.
The square of pavement at an intersection when every light is red.
The standoff of armies on barren land
eyes flying across the pasture,
flitting from face to face.
The porous places in salt and spices,
gravel and worm-ridden grains,
hollow hearts and phantom pains,
missing limbs
and keyholes.
The distance between ants, connected through an invisible synapse.
Blank pieces of canvas.
Closed restaurants with chairs stacked on tables and shining, checkered floors.
The anticipation in the atmosphere just before it pours,
and sure,
it's the silence before the comment on the weather.
Cisco town, where nobody lives no more for a 100 miles 'round--
just an old general store, looks like it's been to war
bullet holes in the front door.
Stretches of long, dusty desert in every direction,
sandstone and sky,
without interruption--
just the quiet pause in conversation
between my mate
and me. |
|
"How's my Spanish coming?" you might ask. |
|
|
|
|
After being in Argentina for about a week, we taped this interview, hoping with all our glass-half-full-hearts that I'll speak fluently later, and look back at this to laugh. At the point of this taping I've figured out the words empanada and tango. By now I've added cabeza and borracho as well. Oh yeah, and cebolla (onion), which I confuse, from time to time at the grocery store, for caballo (horse.)
|
|
01.11.10 Studying Spanish is a tremendous joy for me. I am quite shy about it, but simultaneously enthralled. Putting together a sentence in another language, real-time, with a waiting, finger-tapping stranger raising their eyes in bored anticipation is a tremendous thrill. I am flushed and blushing and flooded with adrenalin, invigorated when I successfully say something as simple as "I'd like some coffee with cream, please."
Yesterday Chris and I walked around a craft fair market and had a picnic in the park. All the while, I'm clutching the dictionary like an "Oh Shit" handle and practicing a few important, rudimentary phrases. "The dogs run." "The cat swims." "I am hot," or "I am cold." Thank God they teach you how to regulate your body temperature right from the get go. This is imperative. Forget about asking where I can buy a sedative to calm myself down. I don't know those words.
Two nights ago our new roommate, Adrien, came home long after we'd gone to bed (we called it quits at 2 am!) with six Colombians in tow. They hollered and drank and generally made themselves merry on the terrace outside our bedroom window. I layed awake in a mixed state of infuriation for the inconsideration and, I must confess, some sort of envy. I jotted down a few lyric ideas in my journal as the light fully disrobed itself in front of the window, and the Spanish-speaking voices continued to gain volume and momentum with the beginning of the day.
I haven't had a wild night in quite some time,
where we drink til the dawn, propose a toast to the sunrise,
Oh I suppose that's really not the mode where I've been living.
And if you're up on the rooftop seeing stars,
not of gas and fire, but the kind you bought at the bar,
forgive me if I'm more accustomed to judging than joining in.
It's true that the Argentines are on a very late schedule. Around ten o'clock most of the businesses have rolled down their cortinas, metal curtains resembling garage doors, over the store fronts. The shops sleep with iron eyelids. There are significantly fewer lights and neon signs, so you don't have the 24 hour honeybee hive buzz of New York, at least not in our neighborhood. At the same time that the stores close, the restaurants open for dinner and several hours after that, the tangos begin.
At midnight last night we went to listen to a concert that featured a dear friend of mine, Tomas, an Argentine drummer. The club was called "Jazz y Pop" and Tomas whispers to me upon our arrival that "Chick Corea has played here!". The downbeat wasn't scheduled to fall until midnight, and by the time they actually started, it was nearly one am. A flock of open umbrellas swung from the ceiling and low hanging lights illuminated the stage. We ordered a bottle of wine while the band banged a brand of adrenalin-induced jazz and the wide-eyed audience members collided their hands in applause.
A new friend of mine, Lian, joined us at the table with her roommate, Branden. Both American, but indefinitely living in Buenos Aires, they have offered to trade Spanish lessons for guitar lessons. Lian is petite and brunette with focused eyes and an easy smile. She has one brown freckle on the tip of her nose that I adore. She is instantly comfortable to be around, and extremely excited to be living. Branden might be in love with her, and in my quick judgments they appear a perfect pair, but she is a bit coy and happily afloat in this new country. They call each other "B" and "Lee."
After the concert they invited us to share a cup of coffee in their nearby apartment. Not knowing what to expect, we accepted, and were led through a maze of stairs to their bizarre abode. Let me explain that the place is actually an office. Branden moved here four years ago to start up a grant funded company that gives loans to cooperatively run factories in and around Buenos Aires. When the economy collapsed here in 2001, many of these factories couldn't afford to continue operating, and the head honchos would declare bankruptcy and board up. In some cases, the workers returned in the following weeks, tearing down the boards and firing up the machines, beginning a new trend in worker-owned production facilities.Where Branden steps in is this: helping these co-op operations create long-term management goals, and offering available funds to achieve them. He and his colleagues, maybe six of them, operate out of his apartment and also travel to each location to offer their council. If the projects fail, the loans need not be returned. In this way, everybody has incentive to make it work.
We sat in the pool of yellow kitchen light and laughed for hours. To begin with, the combination of coffee and water is a dangerous one. I had to pee within minutes of arriving, and Branden gestured in the general direction of the restroom. Stepping over naked piles of mattresses and wandering into the dark abyss of an unknown apartment, I located the restroom using mostly my hands. Once I successfully illuminated the space I noticed an extra funny looking toilet next to the regular version. I chose the one I recognized, sans the funny spout which threatens to impale a person, and went about my business. When I was finished I examined the toilet in an increasingly frantic and confused state, seeking a way to flush it. Finding nothing resembling a handle, I thought, "perhaps these toilets share a flushing button?," and bending over, staring into the porcelain, pressed the button on what I deduced, a bit too late, to be a bidet. A volcanic eruption of incredible force sprayed me in my confused face, and stepping back in awe, I watched the high spray reach every corner of the restroom. I walked back out to the kitchen like an ashamed soaked cat. I'd heard of these contraptions, bidets, but I can assure you, they are no longer a mystery to me. I know exactly what they can do. Powerful creatures, they are. At the right pressure, I'm quite certain they could be a cheap alternative to a colonic. I have to pay homage to the bidet gods, however, for giving me my second wind and finally keeping me up until the sunrise.
At seven we walked out onto the balcony and, hands on our hips, watched the empty streets start to stir. Looking down, a buttoned up businessman stops in the center of an intersection to scratch his shins, a young woman with long hair quietly lets herself into an apartment, a taxi driver lazily patrols the block. Looking up into the rooftops, as if from the deck of a giant ship, the cell towers rise like masts, and tangled electrical wires are strung from building to building like thick ropes. The humidity seeps in from the sea, and I feel myself to be a porteña |
|
Buenos Aires Arrival 2010 |
|
|
|
Lazing on a linen couch,
watching a fan blow the paper lantern in a steady sway
and the sweaty day is underway without me.
The morning we left, David arranged his paintbrushes
in a colorful bouquet on the table, and leaning over
like a near-sighted old maid
picked out the one with which he'd stain
a canvas into shards of kaleidoscope color.
"Buena Suerte, and be well!"--we departed,
sharpening our eyes and hunting summer.
Leaving slumber and winter wood stoves, holiday treasure troves
and snow crusted dirt roads to find another kind of inspiration.
To empty the landfill in my soul, the spare coins and plastic toys,
the advertising campaigns and slogans of late--
give them back to the pirates of mental space.
and in the void, I rejoice.
In South America I find myself a stranger.
and it is lovely, no?
to find oneself a stranger.
January 5th, 2010.
Adrien oils his bicycle, Christopher peels his orange into citrus petals that our elbows knock accidentally to the floor. Coffee sounds like a delight, so we put the Italian espresso maker on the burner, and wait for it to boil. Soon we are cleaning up from an explosion. Tiny ink blots and henna dots of espresso grinds tattoo the kitchen walls, the stack of drying dishes, our skin, hair, clothing, our basket of fruit and onions. I listen to the sloshing of the last of the dishwashing as I journal and attack my many bug bites with my claws.
Indian music dances though the air, and the sun is lazy today. That's OK with me, it's been a bit too hot, and we don't have air conditioning here. Adrian told me that the city was having a bit of an air conditioning crisis. Too many units in use, and blackouts began to occur. Prices were raised to purchase them, and the problem has been, at least temporarily, addressed.
This time of year, Buenos Aires is a jungle trying to overtake the city. The mosquitoes are mutilating me. Our apartment is partly indoors, but mostly out--the living space is open to the night sky, and the flesh-colored walls are crawling with possessive vines. A steep stair with an iron railing climbs to our little room on a second story, and a terrace, perfect for grilling and gardening, on a third. Jasmin del campo bushes, Jasmin of the country, line the encasing walls of the terrace. Adrian says he prefers to keep them "violent" as opposed to trimming them. Small white flowers fall from the branches and litter the floors of every room. The space is very private from neighbors--a true oasis.The master bedroom, dining room, kitchen and bath are all isolated rooms. When it rains you must walk through the downpour to cook, pee, eat, play chess...Our second morning here I woke up early and alone to watch the day yawning over the city scape, the rain clapping down like pattycake onto the patio and living space.
It is unbelievably quiet for a city dwelling. Except the cooing of birds from the neighbor's aviary, and an occasional tom cat duel, it's extremely serene. This is unusual, considering our proximity to a major street--Cordoba. Cordoba is the dividing line between the barrio (neighborhood) of Palermo (a very expensive area) and Villa Crespo (where we live.)
For me, at least for now, even navigating the city is a bit meditative. Speaking practically no Spanish, my mind disregards the orchestra of surround sound conversations and advertisements. I only hear tones and pitches. The soprano speech of a wealthy woman, the baritone bartering at a fruit stand...a string section screeching from bus brakes and timpony thunder closing in on the city at sunset. Since everything scans as background music, it allows each train of thought to come to completion, never rudely interrupted by a billboard ad slogan or catcall.
As I explained, we are one block from Cordoba, and yet, our street is empty. Only one car is parked on the entire block, condemned by a sign, with only the engine, frame, and a single door left hanging sadly from it's broken hinges. Small boutiques and shops are speckled about the neighborhood, and we can do our weekly shopping in about fifteen minutes, for the equivalent of twenty dollars.
|
|
|
