Sole for soul

You can almost see the heartbeats pushing themselves through the canyons of her ribs. She’s probably exhausted from hauling the cart around from sun up to sun down. Perched atop her chariot of splintered wood and shabby rubber tires are two dirt faced covered boys who seem just as famished as the horse. The most grotesque thing of all is that when people see this they typically feel bad for the horse and overlook the people atop. It’s not her fault she was born into this life of hell, pulling carts around on cracked pavement and cobblestone. She’s not where she’s supposed to be. I’ve seen teams of wild horses grazing in the West Desert of Utah. Also heard there were some in Georgia. They may not be native but they are wild and much more vivacious than the horses of Montevideo.

 

Most importantly I want to make a point that I don’t think poverty is the fault of the people guiding the horses and their chariots of sorrow. Poverty is a systematic disease. It truly is. My heart goes out to the people who have no other choice but to work these horses to death for hey is much cheaper than oil. It’s not uncommon to see children and adults digging through the dumpsters for plastic, metal and glass. They don’t even have the luxury of finding freshly wrapped food that is a couple days expired much like the dumpsters of the United States. Some have no compassion for them at all. It’s the same as it is in the “land of plenty.” Get a job you lazy dirt bag.

En la tierra de los Guachos  I’ve heard a term that is used quite often. It is a word I have come to abhor. Las Planchas. It’s used for the people who beg on the streets. It’s used for people who help you park your car and afterwards ask for money. For the window washers on the corner. For the ones who float outside bars waiting to score an empty beer bottle. For the poor old man who is lying on the street next to a spilled carton of wine. For the dirty kids along La Rambla wearing the newest Nike shoes made in China. Be careful they might steal yours if you don’t watch out. I can’t say I don’t understand why they would do this for “las planchas” souls have been stolen before they even had the chance to steal your soles. I shouldn’t speak so much of souls because I don’t necessarily believe in them so perhaps I should say dignity. Perhaps I should say their lives have been stolen from the day they were born into the slum. Into poverty that is unimaginable. It’s their fault right? They’re lazy. That’s why they are begging to wash your window. That is why the poor lazy boy is heaving himself in and out of dumpsters to find bits of plastic and glass bottles. It seems ironic because I would wager to say less than a third of the people in the United States can do a pull up let alone jump into countless dumpsters. Maybe if there were some McDonalds in there. Consume. Consume. Consume. It saddens me.

Poverty in the United States is generally understood as being brought about by the unwillingness to contribute to society. I would love to see how a person from the United States would cope if they were forced to live in a slum. I often hear people say absurd things to lessen their guilt after seeing the shanty shacks. They would say at least god blessed them with the fortune of life because people can be happy in the ghetto for happiness is just a state of mind. Sadly there is probably some truth to this, that happiness can be found even in the ghetto but it does not make me happy seeing my American brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers begging to make ends meet. I say Americans because I want to play the chord that we are all Americans. Even the ones in the Central and Southern parts. Todos somos Americanos. This is hard for people to see who believe in imaginary lines and adhere to their xenophobic tendencies. 

We are all the same yet the expensive soles are worn while the poor souls in the factory are torn. We should all have nice shoes.

Round faces

We could lay in the dark all night and talk about love but in the end we’ll always be in the dark. Is it so inconceivable to love more than one person at once? You’re dangerous. We are all dangerous. Changing paces. Fleet of foot. Changing faces. I found your face in the dark. I stumbled upon her hair in the chasm. Scraping the walls of this endless cerebral well I found myself pondering about every lover I’ve ever had. I figured out what love was in the dark. The well was deep. Love was beneath my fingers. Then I turned on the lights and realized it had slipped through. The window was left open. Must have gone with the breeze. The winds are strong here in the Rio Plata. Better hold tight to your pretty laden scarf. It might find itself in the well or the river.

Many rivers currents are determined by the amount of snowfall in the winter. It’s different every year. The river you’re so fond of might not flow as fervently as it did last season. I’m blaming this one on climate change. Human made of course.  Ostensibly it is a completely different river. I’ve been lost in the desert amongst red, orange and black striped boulders countless times. This creek is the creek I crossed last spring. I’m not lost but I might be. Can you truly know it’s vigor if you don’t swim in it? I think so. That’s like saying you can’t know what intimacy is if you don’t make love to someone. Just half your foot in the frigid creek is all it takes to redden your five little toes. Lay next to someone for hours without ever kissing. Some say sleeping is just as intimate as sex. I read that in The Paradox of Love by a French bloke named Pascal Bruckner.  I’d concur too. Dreaming next to each other for the recommended eight hours of sleep. What’s more intimate than that? Well, I am not going to go there. You can jump in or you can admire the rivers vitality however you please. Either way you shouldn’t be ashamed of loving someone even if you haven’t kissed them or if you have forgotten the lines the creek has carved along your fondest bend. You can always discover another secret spot along the creek. Just get lost.

We all think we’ve found it. But what is it? Forget it and embrace it. I am not ashamed to say that I don’t know what it is. I don’t need an answer for it. It ebbs and it flows. Cliché. I should let you know I’m a cliché.  Just eat grapes and be happy. You could make wine from the grapes too. Then things could get real wild. I’m a wild grape nourished by the rivers of the Willamette Valley. I am tired of writing about wine. This is the last of it. I swear to the god I don’t believe in. In this case I’m throwing up hail mary’s to Dionysus.

Ciclos. Cycles. Circles. Round and round. Round faces. They all have about the same form. When I kiss one round face I find the same shape in it that I found in another. It’s because they are all round. Round and round the rivers bend. Don’t turn on the lights because you will realize you don’t know who or what it is. Perhaps the least I had discovered in the dark was that my nepenthe was her lips speaking a language I am slowly coming to understand.

Jacaranda

Just the typical day in Montevideo. A truck outside is blasting Beethoven. It’s transporting fuel to distribute to the neighborhoods. Fuel on wheels. I’ve only seen it occur here. Things seem so different here but it’s only because I haven’t disrobed the mystery yet.

A little stroll along La Rambla. Every time I encounter someone new. People are pleasant here and people are pleasant there. They see in me the same mystery I see in them. It brings us together.

It sometimes gets lonely when you aren’t in the land of your tongue.  But I’m charmed by this loneliness because I know it will bring a verdant future much like spring after an arduous winter.  I adore the dead purple blossoms resting on the brick sidewalks dropped by the Jacaranda tree. You should see the Ceibo and her blossoms. Just one. I have to take just one flowers life. Slip it in my ear to feel her red fingers touch my cheek. It is just what I feel like doing. To be a part of the mystery

How many sentences are uttered in a conversation over wine? Cabernet sauvignon from the vineyards of Uruguay along with the mystery of a language not yet fully known. Red teeth, red tongue. Shame comes from the fact that I have a piece of paper that says I should understand it. Hand gestures and the little vocabulary we know uncover the thoughts we are trying to express. To speak. Hablar. It’s much harder than you think. But the red wine eases my tongue and allows me to roll r’s without shame. In the land of the trees and mist I haven’t listened well. I haven’t been so zen in the desert either. Escucha. I’ve realized that while being in Villa Dolores. How ironic. Dolores is a very common name. It’s a very common feeling as well. Pain. Dolor. The realization that I’m not as good as listener as I thought brings this one on. An old lover that I hardly know anymore told me this recently. It hurts to get slapped in the face with that one. I am listening now. Trying to understand every word from the mysterious tongue of Spanish. It’s so beautiful. So elusive. I thought I was elusive. Try learning a language you don’t know. It’s a good thing I’m in love with mystery otherwise I’d probably turn my back on her. I want to grasp her and understand every word that comes from her mouth. In time. Patience. Like I’ve expressed I don’t understand a lot of what people to say to me. Through hand gestures, miscommunication and laughter we paddle through the ponds of languages we both don’t know. I understand her eyes though. They speak to me. They tell me it’s safe to swim around in her language. At least I can float. That’s a start.