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.

Balancing

Everyday, we balance our senses between our reality and our imagination. Balancing is a concept that involves the individual and his/her immediate and abstract environment. And by abstract environment, I mean intangible and infinite spaces that the human senses make no deliberate attempt to see or touch. They´re for those who know where to look.

I haven´t deliberately tried to discover these spaces. What I have discovered, however, is that searching for balance, especially in the physical sense, has been gratifying. I think that if we are to conquer balance, we must aim for the ultimate goal of mental balance. Mental balance, however, seems as abstract as that environment of intangible and infinite space. Instead of wallow at our inability to establish a mental equilibrium, a mental yin and yan, which even a lifetime cannot guarantee, why not shift our focus to the physical equilibrium? In the process of acquiring that physical balance, the body suffers, and the body endures bruises, broken bones, and scars. These hits to the human body serve as a reminder that the physical body suffers, but ultimately, survives. Mind over body. This is the universal saying we are supposed to embrace, to follow almost religiously--three very un-uncanny words that are supposed to get us through the trivial and insurmountable difficulties presented by the minute, the hour, and the day. Yes, mind over body. However, there are times when the human body cannot conquer physical space, balance, through mental conviction alone.

My first full day back in Buenos Aires was spent largely outdoors. As I walked down Uriarte, towards Santa Fe, crossed Plaza Italia, walked the full length of the Buenos Aires Zoo before crossing Avenida Libertador, and finally entered los bosques de Palermo, I was being burnt alive by the sun, but the gentle and yet strong winds graciously picked up on my between-season-change-from-winter-to-summer distress. As Dave Matthews sang into my ears, his voice couldn´t help but be drowned by roars from the cars, taxis, and buses. Oh, city noise, the same in every corner of the world. Walking into the most popular section of los bosques, I had to quickly move to the side of the road to make space for novice and amateur rollerbladers, skateboarders, longboarders, runners, bikers, and the most interesting of them all, a man on rollerblades, dressed in all black, slick black hair pulled in a low and tight ponytail, eyes that had been mascara-ed and lined, clicking finger cymbals as he sang a Spanish flamenco tune loud and proud. And he even had a few elderly fans cheering/constructively jeering from the benches.

Slackline hadn´t even crossed my mind until I was mezmerized by two guys slacking not too far from the curbside. Without even the slightest hesitation, I walked over, set down my bag by one of the trees, and sat on a wooden stump and watched them slack. A few minutes passed before either I or them said anything. Then I asked if I could give it a try, and the rest was history, as they say. Nearly three hours passed--some people stopped to marvel, and some decided to give it a shot and then went on their merry way, content perhaps that they had conquered one of their many fears. We didn´t slack the entire time--some of the time was spent chatting about the gorgeous weather, New Years Eve parties, and how I felt to be back in Buenos Aires after one year. As I slacklined, I forgot that I was in Buenos Aires and that it was summer. It was just me and la cinta, nothing more. She supported me but also challenged me, making my return to slacking not an easy one at all. I will continue to find my balance through slacklining this month. And if I don´t find it? Well, it never hurt anyone to drift on the optimistic side of the current.

Summer Days

It's December 3rd and it's only slightly chilly outside. Some of the trees around campus still have browned and wrinkled leaves clinging, fearlessly, to the branches. Maine, where is the below 18 degrees winter havoc that you have greeted me with for the past 3 years? Well, if you can hold off on the foot loads of snow, hail and murderous icicles for just a bit longer...25 days to be exact, it'd make my return to the U.S. at the end of January slightly easier to bear. Yep, soon enough I can stop longing for summer days. The average temperature in Buenos Aires for the past weeks hovered around 80 fahrenheit, perfection. By the time I land in the city, however, the heat spell will likely have peaked 98 (consider that a conservative estimate if you're a Buenos Aires native). I'm not expecting a beach vacation in the tropical south this JanPlan, but I expect to drug myself on sunlight, gentle breezes, greenery, and no need to mention, alfajores and some fine Argentine wine.

Breathing Time

Water follows the natural course that it shall follow. The water shall flow, and it will crash against other bodies of water.  Water is the source of life, but it is also the source of anguish for those that water is not accessible to. And what about time? Time is pure beyond the purest forms of life that exist in nature and the universe. Time has never been tainted, polluted or harmed. When water stops flowing on that one particular day, the world will stop and ask, how will we carry on? People will die, trees will wither and disappear, and life forms will vanish. Until then, time will proceed as usual, and be the last to witness the disappearance of a world enslaved and ruined by its own naiveté. We can fight against the current with every last ounce of energy in our bodies, but we can't stop the current--and we can't stop time. We are slaves of time.

Ebbing Back

The countdown has resumed anew. In three months, I should be reading this post from a friend's house in Palermo, Buenos Aires, Argentina. This time, no strings attached. I'll be returning alone, FLACSO will be closed for summer vacation, and pretty much everyone I know will have escaped from Buenos Aires's summer heat spell. So, what do I have to look forward to? Well, to make the story short, a lot. A lot will have changed there, but change has taken place in here, too. So in short, January, you couldn't come any sooner.