{ Comments }
Puerto Madero; Reserva Ecológica de Buenos Aires; jueves, junio 04, 2009
All along the concrete border
between pavement and pampa, thin
white clouds of chori-smoke and carbon roll
over the heads of puffed-up pigeons huddled
on the balustrades. One, bold, samples and pecks
at a bowl of salsa criolla, only one in a buffet
of condiments outside nearly every carrito,
lined up like prostitutes on the esplanade:
Su Parrillon, CHORIMOVIL, Tu Parrillada.
Opposite one, a stencil on the concrete
states: YO DECIDO, on a big pink
ass. But, Mi Parrillon is closed.
Farther along, middle-aged men paddle
a fluorescent ball back and forth, on a dirt
court, trading laughing taunts and jibes
at every short shot, every cursed fault;
while a black and white dog writhes, exults
in the good, funky smells in the grass.
I take a break, smoke a menthol, watch
the overdressed gay men file past me
one by one, in and out, alone
among the anonymous green.
Wiping my mouth free of chimi,
I watch a skinny, shirtless
boy in trackies jog by and wink,
his happy trail sweating
under a daylight moon.
{ Comments }
I’ve started blogging part-time for, and in, Art Factory Hostel. So, combined with all my NSFW blogs, I am finally a full-time blogger, fully supported by it.
Just barely.
Although the Art Factory blog is a way of branding and promoting Art Factory, and also Buenos Aires in general, I have great leeway to write about what I want, how I want. The owners have basically said yes to everything I’ve said and asked for, including a place to stay. That’s a first in my life. Me and the owners of things usually don’t get along. Buenos Aires is turning out to contain exceptions to a lot of patterns that I had mistaken for rules. Most positive, some negative.
In addition, living in a hostel forces me to interact with people every day, something I avoid in my natural state. Good therapy, as my shrink and Ceci have said. (Unless I’m talking to silly some American who levels the socialism charge at Obama in front of me. That wasn’t a pretty sight.)
What I’ll do with this blog I don’t know. Maybe I’ll let it go even gayer than it already is, or maybe I’ll just let it go. I don’t have much time for personal writing between the two projects, and this particular one has never generated much interest. For me, either.
I always feel like Amazon and Google are watching me over my shoulder. Is this the real me? No, this is the real me, for good or ill.
{ Comments }
“Now, Rick, have you ever thought about committing suicide?”
That was not the first question asked by the sweet Argentinian shrink, whose sibilant voice and tiny, persistently encouraging smiles reminded me of every woman teacher I ever liked, and therefore wanted to please, but it was both the first question I decided I would open this post with, for dramatic reasons, I guess, and it was also the first question I related to Jose when I told him about my visit, my first ever, to a psychiatrist.
His answer was typically José: “Well, man, who hasn’t thought about suicide? I mean there must be something wrong with you if you haven’t.”
We laughed like drunk losers at that, and our shared attitudes must have been why I chuckled before I answered the shrink and said, “Yes, heh heh, of course. Often.”
She scribbled something, as they all must do, apologizing as she did.
Trying to remember now, I believe the actual first question she asked was if I had ever been depressed, which also seemed a “well, duh,” question, as deserving of a chuckle as the other one.
Before I could answer she felt she had to qualify.
“Now, I don’t mean the normal times of sadness that everyone goes through; no, I don’t mean that.”
She didn’t realize she was dealing with a professional, despite my never having met a professional, like her anyway, from the other side of the illness.
I told her I had struggled with depression for most of my life, and no, not just occasional bouts of feeling like shit, but crushing weights of immobilizing… no, wait… the immobility comes first. Despair comes after not being able to move, or after feeling panicked or filled with doubts at the most mundane tasks - like taking a shower, or going to the grocery store, filled with desperate people buying things, or walking two blocks to the laundry. Panic like hurrying around a corner and finding yourself face-to-face with the guy whose boyfriend you stole, or stepping, wide-eyed and wakeful, out into city traffic and, regardless, almost getting hit by a bus.
After at least 20 years of feeling this way, to one degree or another, if unexpectedly and not all the time, what I realized I really wanted to know, and what must have lead me to allow Cecilia to drag me to this shrink, against a stack of prejudices, was: Can you, please, prescribe me something so I can stop being afraid of everything?
“You’re suffering,” she said, and all my ideological defenses collapsed underneath me, as easily as a salesman’s mores at the top of a pyramid scheme.
Most of the psychiatrist’s questioning, and my answers, took me by surprise. Sadly, I found I really wanted to talk about how miserable I was, and how much I loved beer. I had thought I was there to see if I could get some pills to help me sleep, and that answering by rote would simply be part of my payment. Due to a racing mind and ceaseless anxiety, I was getting an average of 3 hours sleep per night. I hear that can make you confess to all sorts of bullshit - about taking over the world and such.
I found myself confessing that, yeah, I could use her help, and that yeah, I thought my remaining family had neglected me, and no, a woman had never given me an erection. That put my defenses back up. Imagine a straight man being asked if a man had ever given him one. Not an uninteresting question to ask, but I don’t see what it has to do with anyone’s mental health. Sexual repression, really, has never been one of my problems. Not getting enough expression, oh yes.
I’m not sure I’ll be able to remember to take these pills at the right time of time of day - a time of day when I’ve usually only been asleep for a couple hours - or whether those pills will do any good. Whatever I’ve read, a reasonable consensus says that: Maybe, but probably not.
I’ve heard that before. But I’ve made provisions this time.
{ Comments }
I don’t have my own computer at the moment, the details why I’ll leave vague…
(At Julia’s request, I’ve redacted her over-the-top, impromptu rant. Unfortunately, it’s still in the feed.)
… so I’ve been coming into Art Factory and using their computers until I get mine back. I know everyone and it hasn’t been a problem, even to the point of staying all night, in the wee hours, with new, and it must be said, cute employee Fernando and doing what I have to do to continue making money on the Interwhatsits. Jose or somebody vouched for me and Fernando explained to some new guest that I was, ” a friend of the house.”
I certainly have been, up ’til now, with many posts dedicated to the hostel and the events taking place there. My posts have caused at least 5 people that I know of to book Art Factory instead of some other hostel recommended by Lonely Planet. (And no, I’m not giving out free links anymore. This is the link-stingiest and most bourgeois group of bloggers and sites I’ve ever encountered.)
Today I heard through my friends that I was not allowed to use the computer in the reception anymore, an edict handed down through Fernando. I’d seen Manuel the night before, during the weekly movie night (Donnie Darko was shown; one of my favorite films and selected by Ceci.). He’d been typically friendly with me and sold me some burgers and beers.
For idiosyncratic reasons, I prefer interacting with Manuel to Javier, another young owner of AF, but only because we’d bonded over Nick Cave Drake, and during the New Years Party I had called Javier a “muscial fascist” because he had told me to stop playing punk rock after midnight. Yeah, I am a contrarian, and a lovely drunk, in all ways and in all fields. But, also, yer getting a DJ for free; a handful of 3-minute crashes of guitar noise is not going to kill you.
So, I was surprised that Manuel had not told me himself.
I was also surprised that mentions of Art Factory Hostel in Buenos Aires, all positive, via my tiny little blog, ranked number 9 on Google search results.
Without my even trying.
{ Comments }
Years after retiring, the two greatest soccer players in history are suddenly in the midst of a nasty pissing match:
Blabbeando: Homophobia in soccer, part. 71: Maradona vs. Pelé
{ Comments }
Just noticed this:
Steve Ralls: A Study in Contrasts on “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”
Earlier this morning, the government of Argentina, an increasingly welcoming South American country when it comes to lesbians and gays, officially ended its prohibition on open service in the armed forces. Under the leadership of President Cristina Kirchner, the country rolled out a welcome mat for gay troops with an official policy of open service. “[W]ith this new system, gay men or lesbian women who wish to train in the forces should encounter no impediment, nor any military retaliation areas,” AG Magazine reported today.
One of us?
{ Comments }
The Saturday Profile - In Argentina, a Camera and a Blog Make a Star - Biography - NYTimes.com
This really put a big smile on my face.
{ Comments }
