Buenos Aires welcomes with open arms and holds leaves and the dying like a spider web, breaking in the wind and under the weight of too many swept in by last nights rain storm, but quickly repaired in the dawn, spun with new threads, ready to collect again.
this city and all of argentina apparently never sleeps .
however, despite my open eyes at this hour, this is all i want to do.
there is no way to describe the way that people stroll home at 6 am,
like itīs no thang. There is no way to describe the steak and sandwiches
and vendors selling everything over and over again... like it will go out of style as slowly as it became fashionable here... or like we are in a state of natural disaster and itīs sane to sell the same thing on every corner and to sell everything youīve got....that dollar for dinner isnīt cheap here.
The time zone is not so important and the dawn not so meaningful as the sun rises and tells us nothing here but that the sun has risen. There is no reason to sleep but for to wake again and find that there is no thing other than the skin and hair that sent you off to sleep to greet you smelling of the soot of the street due the absence of a shower the night before.
so often there seems to be no option but to stop from thinking in order to continue with the rapid motion of living and the stimulation but then there is the question later what have you been doing? and it is disconcerning then when you cannot answer the question and you find that there is no way to describe the way youīve been affected because itīs as if the mud of your mind has lost its grit and has become clay- so malliable, so soft, and without the strength to withstand the heat of the world.
You can throw your yoga mat out the window,
but then you have to make sure you are down the stairs
and out the door in time to get the mat before the kids do.
And then, once you have it you offer it to the kids anyhow,
because after all, who needs it? But they decline your offer
and so you crumple it up and keep walking.
PRIMARY STATE...disbelief.
Why is it that the French that was so hard to learn is all I want to remember now? This discovery is not as important as my next: In times of desperate need it is always possible to throw your yoga mat out the window. And I do mean this literally.
they find the time to call out,
wanting to find out if maybe there is something within the grasp of the hands you hold that the hands they do not posess cannot find alone.
And there is the desire to hold.
Hand in hand maybe walking together the ground feels firmer beneath our feet.
Or maybe the sound of the voice of another is soothing to the mind sick and tired of listening to itself.
the same?
and the keys don't work so well,
pounding on the space bar and smoking someone else's cigarettes.
good evening...
i am so sorry you are not with me here where le tigre
still plays in the local bars.
it is all local i suppose.
Last night the pillow I sewed late at night from an old sweater to leave in case I do not return was soothing to me in my sleep, the activity put my mind at ease with it's familiarity and smallness, the stitching and sounds of the sewing machine. I finally slept last night, anticipatory anxiety is on the decline... the closer I get getting on the plane the closer I feel to stress relief... relief from the stress of loving and knowing and feeling too much at times to think.
So, we have how many days in this place?
This space?
Only as many days as we want...
to have...
And waiting and anticipating are hopeless endeavors...
only eating up energy
making the present moment more empty
than it could be...
I know there is only now.
This is no revelation.
But this is constant.
This is living,
and to remember this day in day out,
to remember....
this is all there is now.
This is all there ever will be.
This is all there is.
...or home is where the heart is.
...or home is where you rest your head?
Regardless, it is easy to cling to the idea of home like wet napkins do after you've spilled your beer all over the table and soaked it through... and it clings and sticks to everything- the table,
the glass, your fingers...
but serves no purpose other than to irritate the hell out of you and make you wonder why you're drinking beer here anyhow.
note to reader:
Once the sloppy spilling begins it is time to leave.
(and I do not mean go home.)
2nd note:
I don't drink beer.
It's odd to me the way the face changes from day to day
as though the changing weather pattern that is mood is printed on the face
from the inside,
coming from somewhere in the back of the mind,
at the base of the skull,
top of the spinal column,
creeping forward on the inside of the skull and leaking out the eye sockets.
Last night I finally found all that I have been looking for for atleast 4 days.
This morning, my hands were not numb from being curled inward against my chest as they have been most mornings past. I was splayed out on the mattress in the attic, only my underwear on, but warm as I watched the sky grow light, the moon jagged and cut in half, the clouds moving quickly, running.
This morning my eyes were soft and sad- but clear,
heavy lidded, sleepy eyes- but not tired.
And I wanted to apologize to Sean and my Mom, not because I am sorry for anything, but because I have not been here in my mind as I am now.
There were some things I needed to let go.