Maksim Mrvica

My latest source of inspiration:

Dear Emma, how I loathe thee...

From Madame Bovary:

"It is better not to touch our idols: the gilt comes off on our hands."

My Joycean Adventure

I'm really enjoying James Joyce's Ulysses right now... so I'll share some favorite parts as I go along. Here are the first few:

"Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, cleft by a crooked crack, hair on end. As he and others see me. Who chose this face for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It asks me too."

"I am another now and yet the same. A servant too. A server of a servant."

"No-one here to hear. Tonight deftly amid wild drink and talk, to pierce the polished mail of his mind. What then? A jester at the court of his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a clement master's praise. Why had they chosen all that part? Not wholly for the smooth caress. For them too history was a tale like any other too often heard, their land a pawnshop."

The science of Galactica

Here's an interesting MSNBC article on the scientific probabilities of some of the sci-fi elements of Battlestar Galactica, such as the odds that our first contact with extraterrestrials would be with "Robot Aliens," robot-human relationships, and other issues:

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/23955772/

Admiral Adama at Stanford!!

I was perusing the constant stream of event email in my school email box when I ran across this:

15th Annual Cesar E. Chavez Commemoration
Edward James Olmos, Keynote Speaker



Thursday, April 17
7:00 p.m. | Kresge Auditorium
Join us for the year's flagship event as we welcome our esteemed keynote speaker renowned actor, director, and Hollywood activist Edward James Olmos. Also featured: Winners of the Art and Essay Contest, a Stanford student speaker, and the Stanford Spoken Word Collective.

"From the depth of need and despair, people can work together, can organize themselves to solve their own problems and fill their own needs with dignity and strength" - César Chávez
__________________

In case you were blissfully unaware of the best show on T.V., Edward James Olmos currently plays Admiral Bill Adama on Battlestar Galactica. He is really amazing on the show, one of the character's key features being an exceptional ability to give motivational speeches to the fleet. Anyway, I have to admit the Cesar Chavez event announcement was a bit jarring for me as I completely displaced the show and cast from the planet we call home, therefore, without realizing it, completely displaced the actors from their ethnic backgrounds. Seriously, I've never even thought about it. So my first reaction was... "Oh yeah! EJ Olmos is Mexican! I totally forgot!" I won't go into it too much here, but I think that says a lot for the show as a science fiction story and their success at creating a new society of humans. It's also nice, I must admit, to be allowed to forget (completely) our standard ethno/racial characteristics once in a while--on a show where everyone is just human, trying to survive. Some pseudo-racial issues are addressed on BG, but they are taken into different categories, just as a group of people from a specific planet or city (who are actors of many different ethnicities, incidentally).

Anyway, too late to say long story short, but in case you hadn't noticed I am really stoked about going to see EJ Olmos tomorrow. So say we all!

(Oh geez, I hope I don't yell that at the end of his speech)

Taxes...*shudder*

I finished my taxes! Hurrah!

So, I had a bad experience with H&R Block this year as far as their in-office consultation is concerned, and ended up doing the free TurboTax e-file thing. I was overwhelmed, seriously, by how much more info I felt I got and how much more thorough the questions were than the agent I went to previously. Just for reference, H&R Block tried to charge me more for the preparation than the meager amount I'm getting back. And refused to tell me how much it would be until the process was done. Also refused to verbally acknowledge that it didn't make any sense to go through with it. Good thing you're allowed to refuse their filing and not pay. I usually don't feel the need to advertise for businesses, but I was very impressed and relieved by Intuit's TurboTax this year and think they deserve the kudos. It's worth trying there first, before someone tried to charge you some ridiculous amount for something you can easily (and more thoroughly/confidently) do yourself.

Just sayin'.

Ninja Warrior!!!

Well, after spending the last hour ONCE AGAIN trying to log in to my blog (shows how much I post....), I feel compelled, despite my frustrated exhaustion and resentful feelings toward the internet in general, to post in this secure little blog that was quite alike a moated fortress just minutes ago.

I had some juicy morsels saved up from books I've been reading lately, but instead, in rebellion against academia, I will post a couple of clips from the latest obsession in my household. Seriously, these Japanese shows, Ninja Warrior and Unbeatable Bansuke, along with Battlestar Galactica, keep my faith in television entertainment. Maybe that's sad, but man do I love it. Not sure how much these random clips I found on YouTube exemplify it, but one of my favorite things about these shows are the off-the-wall, melodramatic subtitle translations of the commentary.

This first shows a shot at the next-to-last course by one of the most frequent, and most popular competitors on the men's side:



This one shows, I believe, the first woman to make it through the entire series of courses in Women of Ninja Warrior. I saw it in the G4 American version with subtitles... but I'm amused by this British (I think?) commentator.



Here is one of the obstacles on Unbeatable Bansuke, the stilt walk (there's also a handwalk, a crazy bike obstacle course, and many other random obstacle courses that are very nearly impossible to beat). I couldn't find video of this awesome old guy who actually beat the stilt course, but I did find one of this kid doing it:



Yep, this is how I choose to waste time. Among other things.

Staving Off Bilingualism

...in the sense that:

1. I am putting off writing an essay on why sometimes bilingualism causes more conflict than polyglotism
2. The essay is a composition I am writing for my Catalan language course, in which I continue my quest to speak as many languages as can fit into my brain, which I am starting to feel is filling to the point of utter confusion. I grow more and more astonished at the mental capacity of people who can speak, say, seven or nine languages.

So, I will procrastinate by writing this blog in English. First of all, I will throw you a bone and keep (somewhat) good on my promise to begin each post with a list of random things I did today.

Today in my everyday I:

1. Felt sick and tired (actually) and therefore stayed in in the morning.
2. After the sick-and-tiredness wore off, did some cleaning/ironing stuff. Not because I'm a wife. Just because it needed to be done.
3. Read about poetry.
4. Went to my evening class.
5. Talked to someone about marriage, religious ceremonies and related issues/complications.
6. Walked on a treadmill.
7. Ate chips.
8. Procrastinated on Facebook.
9. Continually checked email.
Bet you were expecting a number 10, weren't you?

Now, in the spirit of bilingualism, and by request, here is one translation of the essay "Borges y Yo" (see previous blog) by Jorge Luis Borges.

"Borges and I"

The other one, the one called Borges, is the one things happen to. I walk through the streets of Buenos Aires and stop for a moment, perhaps mechanically now, to look at the arch of an entrance hall and the grillwork on the gate; I know of Borges from the mail and see his name on a list of professors or in a biographical dictionary. I like hourglasses, maps, eighteenth-century typography, the taste of coffee and the prose of Stevenson; he shares these preferences, but in a vain way that turns them into the attributes of an actor. It would be an exaggeration to say that ours is a hostile relationship; I live, let myself go on living, so that Borges may contrive his literature, and this literature justifies me. It is no effort for me to confess that he has achieved some valid pages, but those pages cannot save me, perhaps because what is good belongs to no one, not even to him, but rather to the language and to tradition. Besides, I am destined to perish, definitively, and only some instant of myself can survive in him. Little by little, I am giving over everything to him, though I am quite aware of his perverse custom of falsifying and magnifying things.

Spinoza knew that all things long to persist in their being; the stone eternally wants to be a stone and the tiger a tiger. I shall remain in Borges, not in myself (if it is true that I am someone), but I recognize myself less in his books than in many others or in the laborious strumming of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him and went from the mythologies of the suburbs to the games with time and infinity, but those games belong to Borges now and I shall have to imagine other things. Thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him.

I do not know which of us has written this page.

Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths: Selected Stories and Other Writings, New York: New Directions, 1964, pp. 246-47.

Borges y Yo

This is an audio file from one of the best literary "artifacts" I've ever come across -- a CD of Jorge Luis Borges reading/reciting his own works, mostly poetry and short essays, in his own voice. It's called "Borges por si mismo." The first time I listened to it in Buenos Aires was very emotional. There is something so personal about a writer reading his work--a transformation from the "image" or "myth" of the writer to an actual, real person. Being confronted with the reality of a writer whom you have read, loved, studied, dissected, spent hours getting acquainted with, and listening to the proximity of his voice, which traverses the temporal boundaries, is a nearly surreal experience in its reality (if that makes any sense whatsoever). Borges's voice is particularly amazing in its richness and depth.

I'll add more later about this piece in particular, and why it's one of my favorites. Mainly questions of identity.

Get this widget | Track details | eSnips Social DNA

The Last Pin-Up

Pin-ups have traditionally been prominently featured in the chronicles of the lives of boys. However, not everyone who writes about youth pays attention to the fact that girls also feverishly collect pin-ups, clipping pictures of cute boys from teeny magazines and tacking them all over their bedroom walls, ceilings, closets, and mirrors. I didn't quite go all out, preferring instead to reserve my pin-up privileges for what I considered a select few. I particularly had a thing for the brooding artists, especially if they looked like they were brooding in the photograph.

A couple of months ago I went back home to spend the holidays with my parents, and as I rearranged myself back into my old room, I looked around and smiled as I noticed that although my mom has repainted the walls, changed the carpet to a wood floor and arranged the artwork on the walls in a more pleasing way, this particular photograph was still up on the wall. I just found out that it was apparently taken by Kwaku Alston. I remember when I tore it out of a magazine--it was featured in a photo shoot promoting Heath Ledger's new movie, A Knight's Tale. I loved the picture because of the pants. I already thought Heath was cool, but I couldn't get over the awesomeness of a young guy brave enough to wear those embroidered green pants for the world to see. They looked great, of course, because Heath had this particular style that absorbed what he put on and gave it some kind of magical cool aura.

Ever since we first saw him in 10 Things I Hate About You opposite Julia Stiles, my friends and I swooned over his Aussie accent and rebellious-but-sweet attitude. I've seen a lot of his movies since then, and gotten to watch his journey as a serious, talented, risk-taking actor. It was much too late in my life for me to be obsessive about movie-star-fandom, but I always retained a place of preference for the boy who was my last pin-up ever. He never disappointed over the years, always taking interesting and challenging roles. I just read that he had recently been working the role of the Joker in the next Batman movie. Now that he's gone, I have to say that it will be bittersweet. I am overjoyed that an actor I respect and enjoy is going to play such a difficult and well-defined role in one of my favorite superhero stories, and yet not looking forward to what I anticipate will be a feeling much like watching Brandon Lee in The Crow. The eerie capturing of life obliviously in its last moments.

I am so sorry about Heath Ledger. I am so sorry for his family, for his baby girl. I realize that I don't actually know him, that he was a person traveling within a different orbit. But one time, those many years ago, that orbit crossed mine through that photograph. He has made me smile, he has made me ponder, and he has probably made me cry. He was only 28, just around my age. He seemed like one of the good guys...just a decent man making a living doing what he loved and enjoying the company of those he loved. I won't speculate on what happened; I just feel sorry, no matter what, about this very young life, cut off. Here's to my last pin-up.

Heath Ledger, 1979-2008

Rain on the Peninsula

For the one or two of you who might read this post, I will point out needlessly the changes I have enacted to the end of making this blog more aesthetically agreeable, motivated mainly by the inferiority complex I am developing (yes, another one) while reading other people's fabulous blogs. "Like which?", you ask (btw, I am currently debating with myself on how to accomplish this interrogatory-quotation-to-continuing statement punctuation. Let me know if you know how it's done). Well, if you would merely consult the handy new links list to the left of this bloggerific block of text, you can easily navigate to a few of my pals' ongoing virtual narration experiments. They include a SoCal-ler who plays a human man in real life and a tiny female gnome warlock in World of Warcraft, and is king of all randomness-seekers in the world of crazy videos and outrageous links, as well as a graduate lit student-slash-knitting machine who sports a hip hairdo and posts pictures of delicious food, and a roaming English teacher and marathon runner currently adventuring in Turkey for two years with her cat and husband. I'll let you sort out who's whom. Although, chances are, you are one of those three people.

I know I promised a post on my last apartment as a single person, but I must uphold my tradition of letting down my readers and talk about other things that are nearly completely unrelated.

First, I will state my intent to start each post with a list of everyday meaninglessness, just to make sure that, right off the bat, you get some stereotypical "these are the everyday things I did today that you care nothing about and have no relevance to anything whatsoever" blog action. Once we get that out of the way, I am free to write about anything at all without feeling that I've somehow deprived you of some hidden benefit you may reap from knowing about my mundane activities.

THEREFORE...

Today in my everyday I:

1. Watched a hyperactive Catalonian TV personality explain the different Catalan words used particularly by gypsies.
2. Walked in the rain under an umbrella.
3. Was cold.
4. Sat in traffic with my husband (heretofore referred to as A). Twice.
5. Talked about WoW with A.
6. Nursed a headache
7. Went to Costco to find a Nintendo Wii. Didn't.
8. Ate a hot dog to console ourselves.
9. Read about poetry.
10. Worked on my blog.
    

Wow, I am already reaching my blogging limit. And here I had all these grand ideas about what I was going to write today (see labels). Well, maybe I'll get to it later. We'll just have to see, won't we?

To be continued...

Forget comebacks... they're overrated

WARNING: This blog is beginning under a certain amount of extreme annoyance, brought on by the fact that I've slacked off on writing in it for so long that I forgot ALL of the information needed to sign in. Yes, I spent most of the last hour trying to think of any possible combination of words I could have had in mind in April. But, the important thing is, here I am. Back again. With no fanfare.

I won't lie... I am still scared to death of this blog, and it's ability to repel me endlessly from the writing escapades lying sadly dormant in the inner, dark, cobwebby corners of my non-academic brain matter. A certain friend I will only name as "Emerys" has shoved me back into the blogosphere thanks to his heartless promotion of my non-existent verbage, thus forcing me to writing something here. Anything. All I care about at this point is to register dates on the left side-bar. So don't expect any kind of quality standards--I'm way past that now.

Needless to say (or is it?), large volumes of happenings have, well, happened since I last wrote an entry in the Buenos Aires humidity. Much too much to even attempt to narrate it in any kind of coherent way, but here are some highlights:

• Accepted University X's offer of admission, and started a doctorate in Comparative Literature
• Moved to the sunshine state, sitting in a new, totally packed Toyota Prius with my now ex-military sweetheart
• Got engaged
• Started school
• Planned a wedding
• Met some people
• Played some World of Warcraft
  
• Wrote some papers

And that brings us to last Saturday, when I got married. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am now officially to be referred to as "Mrs." At least for the next 4 1/2 years or so ;) (because of the degree, not the husband). Although that bulleted list doesn't look like much, it has probably been one of the most eventful years of my entire life. Go 2007!

That's all I can handle for now (I know... pathetic), but I will return with... drumroll... turning in the keys to my last single apartment!

To be continued...

The Weight of Blogging and Lightness of Being

I am currently struggling with another dilemma of the writer, the solution of which continues to elude me. How should I choose my audience? It would be one thing if I were writing a fictional novel (which still has its personal hazards, as I will explain later, if I remember), but I am writing that beast of modern computer culture known as a blog, a voluntary submission to what used to be one of the most-feared atrocities in my ten-year old life, the breaking of the fragile little lock on my brightly-covered journal, revealing the emotionally-ridden musings of a mind caught up, inextricably, in a tangled forest of growing pains. Worry not, I have since learned my lesson, and have no plans whatsoever of revealing intimate secrets or painfully embarrassing confessions, as many bloggers tend to do. I am a great believer in the maintenance of at least the semblance of privacy.

Thus, I am not laboring over my audience in terms of whom I should reveal my innermost life to, but rather, and somewhat mundanely, whom I should subject to my ramblings on the outer occurrences of my life, in this case, my month-long stay in Argentina. Another reason I am a disappointment to writers everywhere. I can’t even take the most miniscule step of expanding my readership beyond the count of one—my boyfriend, Alex, who in all likelihood is the only one reading this, and already knows most of what it will contain because I’ve already told it to him. Be patient, though, potential audience. As I have said before, I’m still in the warm-up stage of my endeavor to prove myself worthy of the title “writer,” which I now carry with a certain amount of guilt.

The blog is tricky as far as audience, because if I open the floodgates and make it public, everyone and their dog (which is a lot, here in Buenos Aires… see last blog) will be able to read it, and I’ll be proportionately more self-conscious about what I write, which will, inevitably, quickly and tightly shut off the tap until my stream of written consciousness slows to a trickle, and then back to the comforting, albeit guilt-ridden, silent space of nothingness.

On the other hand, choosing my audience implies an actual process of selection, which is what has me in my current dilemma. It means physically sharing the link with those I have chosen, thus handing them the tiny bronze key to the diary, which also implies having to analyze closely the status of my friendship with them, are they blog-worthy and all that, when I myself am not sure I am worthy to be wasting their time with this blog (By the way, isn’t blog a horribly ugly word? If you think of a substitute, please feel absolutely free to suggest it. Until then, forgive me for subjecting you to its use). Or, for example, should I give the link to my parents, who would find it interesting, amusing, maybe even clever (because sons and daughters are often thought very clever by their parents), or should I declare potential self-censorship and deny them access, at quarter-life, with that old teenage terror of parental surveillance. Which all leads later to the anxiety, once I know I have given a few people the link, with which bloggers frantically check for comments, a two-word to four-line affirmation of their efforts, proof absolute that someone out there is reading, when the original dilemma was whether or not I actually wanted anyone to read in the first place.

You see, this is why I do not write. Or maybe why I have volumes of private journals on my shelves, with lines and lines of creativity I refused to share with anyone but myself. And now refuse to share even with myself, evidenced by the last journal entry, which I’m sure must have been dated at least three years ago, referring with guilt to the previous one, probably written two years before that. I should probably also reiterate the nature of my failures as a writer have nothing to do with the actual act of writing words, seeing as how I just turned in to the Dean of the Graduate School a master’s thesis of about 140 pages. Oh, I write. But it doesn’t count, because although it has to do with me in some metaphysical, psychological or cultural way, my thesis has nothing at all to do with me, the daily me (no, let's not get into that whole debate). The creative writer me. That is the precise stage on which I find myself mute, like in that recurring dream I used to have, in which I had finally won a coveted role in a play, only to realize a moment before going out into the spotlights that I could not remember one of my lines, and in fact had never actually learned them at all. I’m a procrastinator, you see, even in my dreams.

Now that I have most likely lost my one potential reader (sorry, Alex) with my complexes, I will launch into it at last. I have exhausted myself with explanations, and now have no energy to plunge into the cold pool (which I HATE doing, ask anyone) and resort to my usual way of first putting in a tentative toe or two. In that spirit, here are some of the things I am up to today in cosmopolitan Buenos Aires:

1. 1. Listening to/watching the rain. Yes, I am here in Buenos Aires, sitting on my bed, as the rain pours steadily down in serene cascades, slicking the sidewalks, which I promise you, at least in this part of town, were made from something like tile, or marble. Walking in the rain around here implies a constant battle with equilibrium and absolute surveillance of the relationship between the soles of your shoes and the surface of the ground.
2. 2. Listening to Beethoven. I am listening to some of Beethoven’s piano sonatas, currently to the Pathétique, on my iPod, while happily I can still hear the pattering and splashing of the rain outside my open window. This work of Beethoven’s never fails to make me emotional, I warn you, and it’s even worse when I’m playing it myself. There is just something about the way the notes and dynamics work together that reaches in and talks to something inside of me I can’t quite place. I just had to choose between the music and this writing exercise, since the current existence in my bedroom of only one outlet, and likewise one converter in my possession, allows me to only plug in either my iPod or my laptop. The iPod, belong to that first generation of models to come out, has a pretty spent battery, and typical only endures about 15-40 minutes of my musical adventures. The laptop doesn’t last long either, mainly because thanks to the electrical discrepancies across international boundaries, it never charges to its full potential in Argentina, and dies at about the same point as the iPod. As you can see, I have chosen the laptop, at least until the iPod battery runs out.
3. 3. As to my choice of Beethoven over say, the collection called Bella Tuscany (since I am in a classical mood) or some Vivaldi, it is simply because my eye was led to it on the thought impulse suggested by repeated references to Beethoven (a different work of Beethoven's, granted, that I do not possess to my knowledge) in the pages of the book I am currently reading, Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being, the pages of which I closed reluctantly in order to write, but also in a vain attempt to impede my usual habit of devouring books in their entirety, leaving me with no material for some pleasant plane-reading on my return to Texas in approximately two weeks. It will be a failure, I know it. I am supposed to be reading Borges, as part of my studies here, and I will probably return to him before much time passes today, but I made the mistake of allowing myself to get ensnared in Kundera’s masterpiece, which on top of it all is in English translation (as I have not yet decided to learn Czech) and I can read with great speed and facility, unlike Spanish, which although I can read quite well, I still labor over and must read more slowly. I may return to Kundera at a later point.
4. 4. Postponing my entrance into the outside world. I am still in my lounging clothes, at 2:19 p.m. It is a luxury I am relishing as part of my “working” vacation, a supposedly no-guilt time to relax, as well as sightsee, after the continuous stress of months of thesis-writing and degree-acquiring. However, as you have no doubt deduced by now, guilt is something I find difficult, at best, to purge from any of my activities, and I still have that nagging feeling that I should go get properly attired and venture out, rain or not, into the city I have been walking faithfully for three weeks.
5. 5. Finally, deciding whether or not to write more verbal photographs. My plan was to offer you at least one or two more like the one yesterday about the pooches, but I fear I have overstayed my welcome for one writing excursion, and fear that I will never be read again if I don’t somehow curb the length of my ramblings, held back so long by the fear of writing.

And so, I leave you for now, and I will go outside, at least into the hallway, then probably into the world outside, with a tentative promise to return to you with some delightful written photographs (and maybe even some visual ones, as a tantalizing treat) in a later entry.
Hasta luego!

P.S. As you see, I actually did forget to expand on the hazards of writing the fictional novel, as I said in the first paragraph, as well as about Kundera, not five paragraphs ago. That, also, will have to wait.

My big introduction, errrr... confession

I really must be the worst writer in the history of all writers. Why, you ask? One very simple reason: I DON’T WRITE. For some reason, at times best suited for wild outpourings of creativity, I can’t bring myself to write about it. It’s like I feel it will be spoiled if I start writing about it. At those times, priceless moments I should take down on paper, I only want to take it in, let it seep into my system, enjoy everything about it without having to verbalize or record it. Maybe I shouldn’t even call myself a writer. I get great ideas all the time for things I should write, or maybe I should say that “someone” should write, but I rarely, if ever, sit down and do it. This is my big confession. What could be worse than a writer who confesses that she doesn’t write? Yes, I realize I’m writing right now, but it’s out of sheer cathartic impulse, driven by the guilt of my creative failures. I have seen so many amazing things, been told countless stories that will never be repeated, filed away idea after idea, all lost to the black hole in my mind labeled “Well of Creativity.” Oh, trust me, things go in. But they never come out.

Take my current situation, for instance. I am in my third week of five living in Buenos Aires, Argentina. I have had a great time of it here, with more experiences worthy of recounting than I can count, especially since I didn’t write them down. Any normal person of my creative credentials would at the very least write in a journal, or make a blog, SOMETHING. But I just sit there (or stand, or walk by) speechless, sometimes thinking “there’s no way I’ll forget about this” or “wow, I should really write a story about this.” Ah, something else to throw in the well. The purpose of this writing exercise is to somehow warm up into recording at least some of my experiences in Bs.As. before they all disappear, sucked mercilessly into the inner reaches of my mind (where nothing reaches, least of all my creative impulse). I’m very good at critiquing other people’s writing, books and such (if I do say so myself) and have gotten compliments on my reviews, literary essays, etc. And boy, do I appreciate good writing. I even think I’m a fairly good “writer” myself—when I write, that is.

Yet I keep procrastinating, even now, in a effort to delay the icy plunge into the cold pool of words, images and memories I must somehow keep myself afloat in, force myself to stay in, until the point of comfort (which is also the point of numbness, no? Ah, an accidental Pink Floyd reference. Which reminds me of something really funny. The son of the family in whose apartment I am renting a room, 18 years old and lover of American rock-and-roll, circa 1970/80ish, has been walking around all day singing my favorite Pink Floyd song, “Wish You Were Here,” but in that way you do it when you have headphones on or the music is really loud, and you don’t know the words, so you just say every fifth one you know and mumble or make the sounds of the rest—but he does it all by himself, in complete silence, as if he were actually singing it! I love it, he’s a very plucky fellow. Right in front of us, too. You should really have been there. But not at the other times, when every time he gets home he turns on Aerosmith full blast for at least an hour. Every time. Seriously. I tried to talk to him about music today, with Pink Floyd as a starting point. But apparently the music that is wildly popular here is the old school music in the U.S. For 18-year old boys anyway. He asked if I went to concerts, to which I proudly replied in complete coolness confidence, “Oh, I’ve been to lots of concerts, I used to go all the time.” He asked me to name some, so I did… got nothing. He asks if I’ve been to see Guns ‘n’ Roses. No, I say. Bon Jovi? Um, I have a record… The Rolling Stones. Give me a break, kid, those tickets are pricey. How come? Because they are rock ‘n’ roll legends, silly. Legends as in they have been around FOR A REALLY LONG TIME. Rage Against the Machine? Ah, that I can relate to. But sadly, I have the unused ticket in a drawer, because some jerk who was supposed to drive us, didn’t. Kid walks away. I walk to my bedroom, no longer confident in my coolness, defeated by a list of random bands from 20+ years ago.

Where was I? Oh, right…). So I figured I just need a warm-up, a running start, and the torrents of words will come pouring, spitting out of my fingertips in torrents, slipping and sliding all over the keyboard (but not actually getting wet, since it’s a borrowed laptop) and splashing joyfully over the blindingly white surface of my Microsoft Word document. By the way, don’t you find the Word interface creatively deadening? I hadn’t noticed it much before (since I don’t write), but it doesn’t quite cut it like the handwritten journaling in a leather-bound book, pen scratching out lines in a maddening scrawl to keep up with my thoughts. Which is why I am using the computer. My pen usually can’t keep up with my thoughts, and since the point of doing this is that I’m losing them, why would… oh, nevermind. I do so love to procrastinate. Ask anyone.

One thing I do like is taking photographs of fun things I see, so I’ll start with that. Written photographs, meeting the minimal requirement of at least recording certain events or occurrences that stand out.

Photograph 1: DOGS IN THE PARK
I am starting to think there are more dogs here than people. Or at least a nearly equal amount. They are everywhere. One of the more popular professions for 20-somethings appears to be dog-walking, which to me, looks terrifying. One solitary person holding tightly to the leashes of at least eight dogs, most of them medium size to extremely large. They are pretty docile, following their walker in a pack, waiting patiently at the stoplights. I don’t understanding this strange phenomenon of canine behavior. I do find amusing that in every group I’ve seen, the smaller dogs stay in the middle of the pack. My guess is that they feel protected when the big dogs are on the outer edge. Sometimes you can’t even see the little dogs, which is probably how they like it. I really started noticing the dog phenomenon on my walk to class one day (I walk almost everywhere here, distances I’d scoff at sitting in my San Antonio apartment). My usual route takes me past a little wooded park, of which there are many in Buenos Aires. The second time I walked by, I stopped in my tracks and stared. There, in a circular area marked off by a railing around its circumference, kind of like the ring in a circus, were dozens of dogs. At least thirty, probably more. It was like a big dog party, like a giant play date for every dog within a five-mile radius (although now I know there are more than likely 200 dogs in a five-mile radius here). The majority were tethered in some way to the railing, walking around, socializing, resting, licking themselves, chatting about the weather, doing their business, you know, dog stuff. I’ve never seen anything like it. I was in a rush, so I quickly kept walking, craning my neck to keep looking at the dogs. A few days later I went that route again with my camera, and there were dogs there again, but not as many. I took a picture anyway. I’ve walked by at other times, and there is no one there. Maybe there is a dog-walkers association and they have a set meeting-time in the morning, at that particular park. Quite a sight, I have to say. I am not quite sure whether I should add the actual photograph. Probably not. That will be an excuse not to verbalize. Must not enable myself.

Alas, weariness overtakes me, due to the overwhelming strain of actually writing words. My words. Tangibly. Enjoy, at least with the knowledge of the rarity of the occasion. Adieu!