un poco de porquería...capaz

hemos crecidos todos, es verdad. sin embargo, siempre nos dirigimos hacia la familiaridad. pero cuando nos enteramos de que la familiaridad--los lugares, las relaciones y las conversaciones--nos caen raro, o no tan bien como antes, empezamos a cuestionar a nosotros mismos. en fin, las preguntas que hacemos no pesan tanto como pensábamos porque en el proceso de hacer dichas preguntas cuestionamos mas las cosas que no tienen que ver con nosotros; a traves de este flujo de pensamiento, evitamos lo que mas tememos--la realización que capaz no exista una solución, una respuesta. nuestra generación esta re obsesionada con gratificación inmediata--la satisfacción de poder buscar cualquier información en tu iphone en cualquier momento del dia; el momento que recibas una notificación de facebook porque alguien hizo "like" a tu nuevo foto del perfil. somos culpables. culpables porque deseamos cosas particulares como la gratificación inmediata? no. somos culpables porque nos exigimos una solución para un problema o una respuesta de alguien. no hay que vivir así. aprovecha de esos momentos de incertidumbre porque apenas en esas oportunidades podes vivir sin preocupación, sin limites, sin pensar en las consecuencias. habrán consecuencias, siempre, y no las podremos olvidar. entonces, vivimos. con consecuencias.

saludos!

Pinatroll

Pinatroll is not a place, person, or an idea, and it is neither fabrication or truth. It is plainly and simply, a reality that I discovered during a seaside weekend in Pinamar, Argentina.

"Viniste a Argentina para vacaciones?" 

"Si...pero es más que estoy trabajando acá."

This is how the story, or conversation, rather, has gone with colleagues at work, friends on the frisbee field, and slackliners in the park. With only two weeks left in this summer paradise, I jumped on the bandwagon and made a trip even further south to Pinamar, coastal luxury. 

Everything about the trip was spontaneous: bus tickets purchased the day of, agreeing to stay at a hostel (of sorts) that a friend randomly discovered walking around, eating alone in restaurants and being approached by men in their 30s and 40s asking me if I was Japanese and would be open to "chatting". Yes, actually, I was definitely open to chatting. Honestly, I would rather prefer to have a decent, engaging conversation with a stranger than lounge on the beach from sun-up to sun-down.  I have never spent sufficient time in warm climates to fully appreciate warm weather culture, I think, and growing up, annual getaways to the Caribbean and fill-in-the-blank´s summer houses were simply not realistic for my family. What I appreciate about the beach scene is its spontaneity; draped over miles of sand is a mosiac of bright and fiery colors and radiating from the sun is seemingly endless energy, happiness, and relaxation. And when the sun sets, well, spontaneity moves on and penetrates another scene, another realm of living. 

Aside from the beach, Pinamar contains two realms of living. Realm one being the rich scene and realm two being the politician´s scene. The city center is the tourist´s heaven: exquisite restaurants, parrillas, shopping, mini mercados, and even a game arcade line the main street, which stretches into the horizon and seamlessly disappears into the beach. And, interspersed in this panorama are various government institutions, green neon flags with the words "Policia", por todos lados billowing in the wind, and mini groups of policemen situated approximately every two blocks. As I probed around, trying to understand the reason for such a large police and government presence, an elderly couple, owners of a cafe that I frequented as I waited for my friend to get out of work, explained that many wealthy lawyers, government officials, and politicians own summer houses in Pinamar, and so during high vacation season (January-February), Pinamar is densely populated with these wealthy figures. As a result, the police force also grows more dense during this season.

I can´t say I lived the rich scene this past weekend...no, not at all. The "hostel" that I stayed at was actually a colorful purgatory, at best. The external facade was presentable, and the "foyer" alright, but the rest of the purgatory was despicable. When my friend told me he was able to secure me my own room for 100 pesos for the weekend, I thought, Okay, not a bad deal. This is going to be a good weekend. WISHFUL THINKING. PINATROLL. My casita was located in the backyard of the property, tucked behind lines of assorted laundry stretched between poles at opposite ends of the yard. It was clearly a storage house. The key hole in the wooden door had been precisely carved to fit the key and after a few minutes of fidgeting with the lock, the door creaked open. It was late afternoon, so as we managed the door open, some sunlight illuminated the home that we eventually came to call, the ultimate shithole. Occupying the entire length of the west wall were wooden shelves with an incredible amount of boxes, a ladder, and what was later to be discovered (by complete accident), a mind-blowing, undescribable collection of the owner´s speakable and unspeakable "treasures". How about a collection of Brazililan travesti porn videos...just to name one of these remarkable finds.

The weekend was spontaneous, no doubt. Spontaneous in all sense of the word. Perhaps now, we´ve moved a bit toward defining Pinatroll?... 

Fishing in the Wind

The Rio de la Plata was as calm as ever this past Saturday afternoon. The waves quietly absorbed the sun´s beaming rays and the pigeons circled overhead, their black bodies flying in and out of the radius of the sun and creating a scene that was neither "typical" nor unique. I´ve come to realize, I think, that people, places, and ideas are becoming cada vez mas less "typical". As I strolled along Rio de la Plata, lined up against the stone wall that overlooked the river were tribes of fisherman. Tribes in the sense that the fisherman were clearly distinct from one another; some were children not tall enough to set their hands on the ledge of the 4 foot tall stonewall; some were women sleeping under makeshift umbrellas; some were fathers explaining to their impatient toddler children why the fishing rod wasn´t moving; some were alone, sitting on a lawnchair next to their camp, cap pulled over their face, trying to shield the heat. The heat was keeping the fish at bay. The wind also gusted powerfully. The wind was also keeping the fish at bay. Given such unattractive forces, why keep fishing? Why not trade in an afternoon of endless waiting, suspense, and sunburn for an afternoon in the shadows of the shade and drinking mate? The images that I saw time and time again as I moved along the Rio de la Plata that afternoon were not "typical" given the unfavorable conditions for fishing. If, for a moment, we venture outside of our "typical" zones, it will become cada vez mas clear that little of what we see, and how we perceive what we see, remains "typical". It is the atypical scenes-those that confuse us, and those that make us think twice-that feed the curiosity which keeps us exploring, engaging, and experimenting with a beautiful array of landscapes, ideas and individuals.