Archive for October, 2009

There was a fenderbender near Av Libertador. Both drivers got out of their vehicles. The man whose car was rear-ended walked back to the other. Two burly men embraced and gave each other a kiss on the cheek in typical Argentine fashion. I was moved to tears. How can you not love this place?

I sent the above observation to my friend in Calgary and this was her reply:

Sounds SOOOOO healthy!  I filled up at the Petro Canada today, and a guy in a huge motherfucker of a truck got out and yelled at an old man who managed to roll into a stall before he was able to. His final words were “JERK!” and then he jumped into his truck and slammed the door. Gotta love our egocentric, break-necked speed society! Up here in redneck land…

There’s no doubt that you can find things to hate about Buenos Aires. Some people find more than others. You will see what you are looking for – here – and anywhere else life takes you. But if you shift your perception just a little you’ll witness more of the grace.

People often express thanks when the bus driver stops for them at the prescribed location and opens the door – as if he’s done them a favor and not just his job. While walking down the sidewalk, if you refuse to accept one of the many small paper advertising fliers being offered to you, either by saying NO or shaking your head or just ignoring the person, you will often be thanked anyway.

Gracias, graciousness, grace.

We had only just met. Autumn’s sun painted heavy shadows behind us and already I was too warm. We sought sanctuary, walking amongst the aisles of the aggrandized in eternal homes, more intent on exploring the inner passages of each other than those of the necropolis.

Angel In Waiting

In the shade we sat upon the steps of the tomb of the family Prat.

“You know nothing about me,” I said.

“I know a lot about you.”

“How so? Did you google me?”

“No.”

“Then you know nothing about me.”

“I know you from your words.”

“From your first message I felt as if you were courting me.”

“I am.”

He pierced me with his gaze as if he might part the veils and strip me of defenses: my nervous laughter; rapid-fire questions to keep him talking. Perhaps the cousins to the words that brought us together could explain why and predict the future. But the air filled with incomplete thoughts, half-formed sentences, jagged phrasing softened by tender possibility. No safety in answers.

We are travelers, walking among the dead, seeking companionship, collaboration for a profound inner journey however brief. We are searching for something to stop us from becoming ashes to dust from the inside out before our time.

Ghost Poet

Wanted. Apply within without reservation. Be willing to travel into the depths of another without a map. Arrive armed only with a compass that points true.

“Who are you?”

“I am the man who wants to be with you.”

He lay his back down on the cool marble, head at my feet, and shifted his gazed toward the sky between the sepulchral structures.

I suppressed the desire to lean over and place my mouth upon his.

From my kitchen window I can see Uruguay. A sliver between an azure sky and the murky sienna Rio de la Plata. Often ocean vessels float by and on weekends sail boats glide across the surface of the river. Planes draw diagonals across the sky – ascending and descending. This view is a welcome change from the previous windows that looked upon little more than cement.

Various shades of green send much needed oxygen up to the 15th floor and I can breathe again. My lungs have eliminated the second hand smoke and exhaust fumes that used to surround me when I lived close to the street where vehicles and pedestrians scurried about in circles.

I like to see people going places. I like to imagine people going further than they’ve been before.

Up here above the world, in all this space, I relax, expand and embrace a new perspective. Up here I can see further. Up here I can see into the future and its limitless possibility.