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.

Chispa de Rebelion

The eyes are closed. Let the music talk to you. Let the cards your dealt determine what you do. When the game relies on luck. No use in trying to control it. Just respond. Don’t think outside the square. There is no square. Just paths. Sons. Daughters. Lovers. Haters. Money is a tool. Use the right tool for the right job. Sometimes things break. Sometimes we laugh. Sometimes we get frustrated with people we would thank god existed if we believed that god existed. The waves turn the ocean from a deep blue to a bright white when they smash against the green coast. The bus makes more noise than the view ever could and the trees flick the sun on and off. The ocean through the trees. I like this. The volcanos look like shark teeth. White. Against the blue. A backdrop for the road. The clouds hang around the lakes waiting for permission to leave in the afternoon. Black asphalt and yellow paint snake through all of this. Our contribution to this landscape. So we can see it from car windows like television screens. A landscape cut in two. Contrast. Good and evil? Sometimes. I see it, but I don’t understand what I am looking at. Peso’s are spent and forgotten. We backtrack to find them. In the process we spend them again. Time is wasted if your unconscious. I’m trying to keep my eyes open. Blinking clears the dust from the streets of roads that are unpaved. It feels late in life, but I look forward to the second wind against my face. History that’s not mine. It’s theirs, and it might hurt. I wouldn’t know. Twelve executions in a town that everyone has forgotten. Spark the rebellion Neltume. But that fight is over. Another one will replace it. It always does. It might have already started, democracy works for both sides. Fighting? It’s not worth my front teeth, but is it worth someone else's? I’m lost in translation. Lost in Chile. We didn’t even know what was at the end of the lake. Nothing. An abandoned hotel. Elevator shafts survive the decay. I asked about ghosts. There are none. No story, just a bad investment. When you need help, people help. The police become taxis. Drive us out of the country. Very seriously. Without words. Straight police faces in a beaten up police truck. I smiled for the two of us. New countries, new people, new colours, lakes and the other side of the Andes, new accents. Same prejudices. Lack of understanding. Fear. Finally hatred. Dislike. Negative energy. Poor people are lazy and should work harder. Like us. Yeah. They should also choose richer parents. A higher social class. They should also choose privilege. This attitude like a cancer. I’ve heard it every country. Everywhere. On the road. On the road. Card games and bus rides. Small towns and big cities. A bag full of things I don’t use. But refuse to let go of. I do miss the place where I was able to disappear. Even if I left because I was vanishing.

Lazy Man's Risotto

If necessity is the mother of all invention then laziness is the father. A necessity born of hunger, to feed the body, to eat and ultimately sustain existence. Lacking experience and skill in the kitchen one is left with only two options. Restaurant or laziness. Laziness prevails. Time and effort. Rice. While time consuming it can be reproduced with minimal effort. Remind yourself you’ve worked a hard day. Rice. Pot. Water. Stove. While not necessary some flavour is desirable. Chicken stock cube will suffice. Wait. Scratch oneself. Cooking rice depends on three equally important factors. Experience. Knowledge of available equipment. And luck. One seems to always neglect to show itself. Rice becomes gluggy. Retains moisture. Never the less, survival is the key here. Must eat. Need nutrients. Serve with bread. Not enough. Needs more. Tomato sauce will not do. Parmesan. Perfect. Apply liberally. Taste. Lazy Man’s Risotto is born.

A week passes with incident. People live, die, cry and fly. They come, they go. But the same necessity remains. Hunger. This time armed with experience. The lazy man elects the Lazy Man’s Risotto. Same process should equal same deliciousness. It stands to reason that different process could equal different deliciousness. A plan is hatched. Dice Carrots, add to rice with stock. Cook, add parmesan. Consume. Lazy Man’s Risotto just went live.

The lazy and unskilled man has discovered a secret that is too much for him to bear. His mind races. Drunk with the power of creation he sympathises with gods. Like them he too must decide the fates of meals as they pass under his reign. To be delicious or not to be delicious, that is his question. From nothing he created deliciousness. What are the possibilities? Where to next? Add mushrooms. Use white wine. Different rice. Fry bacon, asparagus, ham. Freshly grated parmesan. Herbs and spices and special techniques. Experience lends certain sureness to his hands. Success leaves his hands precise and skilled. Lazy Man’s Risotto just got real.