I’m just going to drop everything here. This will be my wastebook, archive, notebook, my first draft, my forgotten desk drawer…
I like the look of words, bold on a page or screen. Ink or pixels are the same. Type. I like the way they chime in my reading mind even as I write them. And they are chiming in your mind too right now as you read them.
I dream of Ohio, I live in Buenos Aires.
I like the word Ohio and I love the word Buenos Aires.
Sometimes you go to a place and stay because you like the name of that place. Like is not the right word. The word chimes in your mind and you hover in that place, as I am hovering now in Buenos Aires. That feels more like love.
No crow call here, no autumn now. Spring begun but the city is full of machines. They don´t know the difference between each season but they fill your days and your nights with their noise, like surf breaking on a long beach or wind moving through the trees in the middle of a forest. Interminable.
Except for one moment, unpredictable, usually in the center of the night, when everything goes quiet. It is only a second, if that, but when you hear it, it lasts a long time. That strange silence.
If you come to Buenos Aires by plane from the North, from outside of the country —from America, say— you will look in vain for baseball diamonds as the plane begins to land over bland green fields. Everything is flat, like in Ohio. Perhaps you will hear the pilot say over the cabin’s speakers: “Good morning. We will soon be landing in Buenos Aires airfield…”
If you leave Buenos Aires by plane from the downtown airport look out the windows when you make the turn to go north or south or east or west, for you will be amazed. Concrete as far as you can see. A massive slab of a city of concrete. A grey still sea —at night lit up by people in their rooms, all of them, each one. And next to it a brown river seemingly as broad as the sea itself.