Something in Buenos Aires

And this is what it must feel like to create something. Something artistic, something real, something that breathes, that will be understood by others. Interpreted and criticized. Revered, respected, misunderstood or feared. Something that changes as it gets older. Changes as the world changes around it. Something that was intentional but not planned. Unpredictable but inevitable. Something beautiful in it’s flaws and flawed by it’s beauty. Contradictions and nonsense. Lost in the corner of the room, in the bookshelf, or on the wall, lost amongst the screaming of life in the city. Ignored, traumatized, dusty. Yearning for fresh eyes, fresh ears, fresh touch, taste and smell. Appreciation of nothing where nothing is ever appreciated. Where nothing is never appreciated. Close your eyes and listen. Cover your ears and look. Pick up the world that exists at your feet. Surrounded by this. Consumed you get dragged along. People just like us. Just like us. I’m like us and I like this. I saw options. Paths, and journeys. Like a roadmap. Freedom, needing fuel and a decision. I was at the beginning of the end scratching my head. Looking for a direction I now find myself in the middle of the ocean. No path. No road. No control. Only those which I impose on myself. I am the key, and the door wasn’t even locked. I decide against paragraphs. No time to pause, thinking won’t help me. I’m too indoctrinated. To damaged and traumatized. Like so many others. Wage slave. Consumer. Safety in safety. Reassurance in the ordinary. Jealousy of the extraordinary. What I’ve done not good enough. Too much fear to do anything about it. I speak for myself, but I see my reflection everywhere. So in the heat of this city, I drink her water, and eat her food. Sleep under her sky. I see her people, and live my life in this context. Something will be born of this. A manifestation, we come together, and we create. I couldn’t do it without her, but she will continue to do it without me.

The Courtyard

The courtyard becomes a different place with your eyes closed. The creaking of my fingers against the side of a coffee mug as birds sing to one another. Backwards and forwards. A split second delay lies between them. It doesn’t sound like a song. It’s broken. A conversation. They talk about their day above the city. Their song is as beautiful as the city must be through their eyes. Theirs is a place beyond the noise and madness. Maybe cities make more sense from up there in the sky? Humans built this city and while we made these buildings and these roads we can only participate in the unknown that brings the life to this place. We can’t create that knowingly. We are vital but we don’t see the forest from the trees. The birds will educate and entertain anyone who can hear their lectures. I hear them everyday. But I rarely listen. Maybe I should start. After all they see something I don’t so they know something I can’t.

Behind the birds comes the dull hum of traffic. Consistent and steady. A car horn sounds. Aggressive. Upset. It signals the beginning of the cresendo. A bus roars. More horns. Only this time playfully enjoying the show. A motorcycle engine tries to cut the tension and weaves through the movement but the horns respond with rapid fire and it all fades into the distance. The crescendo continues down the road, but for me, it is over and the symphony returns to a hum. So many people in a hurry to be somewhere else. To do this. To do that. To do nothing. Something about it doesn’t make sense. I’ll ask the birds. The opera interrupted by a conversation behind me. Spanish is a passionate language. More often than not spoken by passionate people. The sheets in the spare bedroom need to be changed. I am implicated. Guilty. I repent. Beg forgiveness by righting my wrongs. My blind show is over for now.

As the shops close and the schools end and the offices turn out their lights the music will grow louder. Until the birds find a place to vanish and the people get home carefully placing their instruments away in garages and car spaces the show will go on. Tomorrow morning the birds will return to the trees, to the sky and we, the composers, will return to the stage. Be it the metro, the buses, or the road. Our lives are lived somewhere between the symphonies.