a bit too much

I had a story once, you know. I was going to write this big thing about corruption. At the end, there might have been redemption, just like at the end of all of it, there might be redemption. So life the story, as I would have left off when the protagonist takes his first towards redeption--dare I ruin the suprise--possibly his last. But that's kind of not how it works. Every day we have the option to forgive, to forget, to be cheated or to cheat back. Every day, in every moment, we take steps. We are not stationary beings.

And now for something not entirely different.

The municipal building, the city hall, if you will, of Bahía Blanca is stately, european. It is a tall building, but much wider than tall. It is a wide building, but not awquardly so. It stands sombrely, housing everything from the disgruntled, antisocial employees who handle zoning to the disgruntled, antisocial employees who mark bus routes. It is cold to the eye--chalky blue up to the roof, where the slate slats imported, archetectually speaking, from France, from England, from everywhere but Argentina take over. Its a building that makes you shudder and chove your hands into your coat. It seems out of place, right now, across the street from the central plaza, with its northern palms and lush lawns. It looks better when all you see are the white taxis circling it, the black asphalt moat, the cloudy atlantic sky above and behind it. This is the hub of the city. Today it is on fire, as we change from summer to autumn. The trees beside it release a chute of yellows, absurdly bright yellows, beside it. The building cannot compete with the leaves, whose slow spirals make them everything the building isn't. For all its stately slate, for all its harsh and eternal winter, city hall can't hold a candle. The leaves fall with caprice, burning their way into the soles of the bahiense below.
Watching them fall, I feel like the oldest man in the room, watching The Wizard of Oz in colour for the first time.

lo que pasa

My cat goes ape-shit nuts for moths. She loves to watch them, she loves them. She talks to them, but not in a whiny ''feed me'' kind of way. She coos at them, as if these insects merit a voiced purr. She chases them--jumping on counter tops that make me irate. I do, incidentally, mean to say that the counter top makes me irate; it's an un-glued, wobbly thing that has cost me more than the odd cup of coffee and clean shirt. When you wash your clothes by hand, you really hate things that stain shirts. Anyway, the point is that the cat, she runs, she jumps, she maws and mews, all for these moths. And when she has them, she kills them and eats them. There is no cherishing in the animal kingdom.

Ghost reader

I am the worst friend ever.

My friends are all brilliant. They write books, they teach grad school, they have worldviews, etc. They are going places, like Germany. They are doing things, like publishing. They are productive, and thoughtful and they are polite. And they talk. They talk to eachother, regularly.

I know all this becuase I stalk them online, which is creepy as fuck. I read all that they write, I follow their development as one follows Barry O. Leaving a line of response--litterally, one line--takes me 15 minutes. I'm trying to find that perfect tenor: 'Hey, we're still friends, but I'm still smart, ironic and branché.' That's how I roll, I would have said, back when I rolled. Now I sit, I monitor, I hibernate--and please, a question: if hibernation is a covert perparation for a more overt action, what am I going to do, Ralphie? Well then, out the hole! descend (or reascend to) the superiority complex, to contact, to communication: fuck this.

Beatniks, my friends, I miss you.