I am now in Buenos Aires, Argentina, where I am discovering again how much I love a travel with purpose, with unexpected people and conversations, with time enough to venture forth but also to come back to a warm bed and reflection. I also want to speak - however hesitatingly and brokenly - this beautiful language, and experience more of this world that has been so far from me and yet that I have brushed with the tips of my fingers early on, flipping through the works of Borges, Cortázar, Vargas Llosa and friends (or frenemies). I am also journalling somewhat frequently (I spelled that frecuently and stared at the red squiggly for a while not knowing why - I take that as a positive sign that the phrase con frecuencia is becoming less foreign to me) for my program in Spanish, so perhaps when all this is over I will post some translations here. Needless to say, my thoughts unfold themselves more unelegantly than normal in Spanish, but I try my best.
Read this today: A list of 50 great love poems from 30 different countries and was struck by quite a few. Glad that I can use here the word "globalizing" in a sense that is menos mal than how us hipster pseudo-intelligentsia would use it. I am profoundly aware of the presumption in my self-deprecation, and as a result confusion reigns. But anyway:
Before You Came
Before you came, things were as they should be: the sky was the dead-end of sight, the road was just a road, wine merely wine. Now everything is like my heart, a color at the edge of blood: the grey of your absence, the color of poison, of thorns, the gold when we meet, the season ablaze, the yellow of autumn, the red of flowers, of flames, and the black when you cover the earth with the coal of dead fires. And the sky, the road, the glass of wine? The sky is a shirt wet with tears, the road a vein about to break, and the glass of wine a mirror in which the sky, the road, the world keep changing. Don’t leave now that you’re here— Stay. So the world may become like itself again: so the sky may be the sky, the road a road, and the glass of wine not a mirror, just a glass of wine.