leisure

the city's sticky with rain and anticipation. when i was a child on rainy afternoons... i can't remember what i used to do. today, i wait. maybe the boy round the corner will come play cowboys and indians with me.

conclusion

if you let enough moments pass you by without doing a thing eventually you will die having done nothing.

surreal

in a parallel life, lawyers are working towards giving me a home. in a parallel world, money is exchanging bank accounts in the night. in a parallel time, i live in a city with no palm trees, i work, pay bills, have responsibilities...

towards punta del este

my friend who's in love asked me if i'd heard the noise. i hadn't. when she asked again, i still couldn't hear a thing. i recalled that urban myth where there is a killer in the back of the car and was about to make some clever quip when i was distracted by a song and let it go.

the sky was steely blue on one side, blossom pink on the other, the sun a giant orange sitting on the horizon. stars started to appear and dark fell slowly on the road. bocas de lobo we call them roads. no lights for miles, no lights at all.

travelling at top speed. i'm daydreaming of werewolves and night creatures when i hear someone knocking on my door. i do not realize this until later but basically i panic, scream and grab the driver's arm like a clamp. immdiately i let go, hysterical, realizing how dangerous what i've just done is. (speaking in english, how weird that primal fear brings me from my native spanish to english) at the same time i'm thinking, fucking hell, there is someone outside the car, on the roof, on the side, in the boot........

we keep driving, can't stop, the noise vanishes.

after a while, my friend recalls the moment, nervous smile, and as if on cue, the knocking starts again. panic. roadblock ahead. the policeman waves us on but we stop the car by the roadside.

another benny hill moment, two girls running round the car, looking under it, on top of it, kicking the wheels, checking the boot (me: before i open the boot, can i just tell you that i'm actually afraid of opening it so that you laugh at me and i realize how ridiculous i'm being? thanks)

no zombie. no werewolf. no killer. just another peal of uncontainable giggles and more road under the stars

towards la paloma

we drove on dirt tracks, avoiding potholes and dodging flying stones. by the side of the road a horse sat impassive under the shade of a tree, sheltering from the sun. having searched in vain for a way down to the sea, we decided to stop there for a picnic of empanadas and pasta frola. the sun was beating hard, so when the horse finally moved from under the tree, we leaped at the chance to get some shelter. a second after we sat ourselves down my friend who's in love spotted a vicious insect just about to bite her leg. tabano! those fuckers can make a horse cry for a week from one bite only. no wonder horsey had cleared out... we get up lightning fast and run to the car, only to find a colony of the evil creatures have chosen to make themselves at home in it. benny hill style scene ensues, with lovely girls running around car, shaking colourful fabrics at invisible monsters, opening and closing the doors, giggling like maniacs and finally putting a piece of cake on top of the car -- to tempt the suckers away, of course! -- and driving off like there is no tomorrow, laughing hysterically, tabanos away...

trust

he cleaned a smudge off my chin, and the ease and intimacy of the gesture petrified me. and i want him to do it again.

the poem

la paloma is sleepy and empty. in the cybercafe, kids relieve their boredom playing mindless games on the buzzing computers. my inbox is full to the brim with spam and bank notices and lawyers and art shows. but buried in the mess i find a poem. poem. as everybody knows here at ladelentes we hate all kinds of poetry. still, i read the poem. read the poem. and i still haven't quite managed to keep a small smile from sitting on the right-hand corner of my mouth. tickling me.

the children

Originally uploaded by ladelentes.

the children walk along the street carrying a rebenque. faces smudged with track dust. clothes tight, loose, random. eyes sparking. voices calling.

where’s your horse? i ask them.

we’re looking for two of them. they are gone, they say, don’t like the life of the city.

i ask them what the horses are called.

one of the children replies, one horse doesn’t have a name... the other child says ...and the other horse, i can’t remember.

i say that’s very strange.

they crumble into giggles.

turns out one horse is called “doesn’t have a name” the other is called “i can’t remember”.

caza-incautos.

they look at me from behind long eyelashes and dirty cheeks. and laugh at me, with me, around me and up and down. clean, clear laughter. right from the belly.

then they show us the way to the hotel through the fields and wave us goodbye.

rescue

today on the beach my friend who's in love tried to rescue a penguin.

the penguin was struggling against the crashing waves when my friend spotted it. she went up to him and eventually took it out to the shore. the penguin was breathing and moving but looked exhausted. small thing, so fragile. we made a shelter for it, called the sea-life rescue. when they came they told us the penguin was dying.

we did all we could. which is, as ever, all that anybody can ever do.

magnetic fields

the funny thing about having a friend from over there over here or viceversa is that suddenly worlds collide, contexts become wobbly, and everything that was neatly separated is merged into who knows quite what.

rebenque, cogotera, fuste

we walked around the fair looking for horse-riding parafernalia. i had to explain "troglodyte" to him. fitting. he looked at me and cracked his newly acquired whip.

this sticky mess

wander round the streets of buenos aires. see the streets through other eyes. wonder if you can live there. daydream of floating in this sticky mess of fumes and dirt, leery men and sexy women, tango and steaks, river, sky, home.

nape

i indulge my hands and let them caress the back of his neck, just below the hairline, as we walk along the streets of calafate, hunting for meat.

wild cows ahead

Originally uploaded by ladelentes.

the ferry ride is endless and the coffee still hasn't removed the remnants of our morning crank. the american rails against the guide, who repeats for the infinitesimal time that glaciers are made of compacted snow, that the colour depends on the density of the ice, that they are overspill from the icefield between the mountains, that the icebergs float with 80% of their size below the water level...

at the shore, we go off the beaten track, avoiding further repetition. he didn't believe there were wild cows until we found one, dead, bloated, legs up in the air, belly torn to display rotting innards, tongue lolling out, kingdom of flies...

i like that he doesn't look after me, he ploughs ahead through thorny bushes barely looking behind. he knows i'm there. this suits me fine...

later we have a 'double date' with other travellers. they don't turn up, but nonetheless more dead cows are surely eaten.

observation III

in the morning, reluctant to rise up and leave its comfy place in the horizon, the sun plays hide and seek behind the ring of mountains as the bus weaves its way towards chaltén

observation II

people take holidays to hang out with their mates, so in the face of incredible beauty, they sit around sipping hot cups of weak coffee, gossiping about auntie ellie's latest beau and wondering if they should send little jimmy to this school or that...

observation I

patches of snow look like cut-outs in the mountain, against the white-grey sky

meandering

coffee
dogs
flamingos
blue eyes
neruda

todo glaciares

Originally uploaded by ladelentes.

one dead cow is a shame. two dead cows is avian flu. run for the hills!

the american

his loud blue eyes come out of the shower proclaiming it the best there is. profound words tattooed dark on wet skin. these things i notice, wet eyes, wet skin, blue words, blue eyes, best shower, hiding behind a book, painting stories across this presence.

the glacier

the guide tells us the glacier is basically overspill. which doesn't really do justice to the magnificent (there really is no better word, sorry) wall of ice that stands solid in front of me. sitting on the bottom of a bottomless lake. ocassionally letting go of those chunks of ice that having watched the tourists come and go, have developed a feverish wish to go travelling down the icebergs canal.

at the end of the world (almost)

i look to my left, look to my right, look behind me, search under the bed. no-one has followed me here.

how curious.

if i was a pessimist i would conclude that, in spite of what some have said about me, i am not a woman men will follow to the end of the world.

however, i am an optimist, so taking all the evidence in my possession into account, either i shall have to wait to pronounce judgement until i do indeed get to the end of the world (that'd be ushuaia, 600km south from here) or conclude that, actually, all the single men i know are a bunch of senseless sods.

mmhmmmm. that must be it!

welcome to el calafate!

sunset, from a plane

a single star shines above a cloudy desert. inappropriate thoughts wrapped around inappropriate people accompany me on the journey. distractions from. an. empty. heart.

you're it

you say you want to do this, you say you want to do that, and really all you want to do is just lie in some corner in a hidden spot in the city and die.

sopa de uruguayos

ingredientes:

• uruguayos (de cualquier género, con mujeres sale mas picante, con hombres un poquito más pesado)
• lluvia

para comenzar deje que la lluvia caiga por 4 días consecutivos. después de este período, someta a los uruguayos a fuego lento por un día, peferentemente a temperaturas de 30 grados, y con húmedad al 90%. pase a lluvia otra vez. disfrute con un kilo de carne asada como acompañamiento.

quiet

sitting in the garden, meditating on a sunny afternoon, behind the noises of cars and grass mowers and children playing in the school behind the house i hear a grillo and a cigarra, chattering across the street. they've been chatting away since the evening, all through the night, during the morning, still, in the afternoon. i do wonder what they're saying. what are they saying? are they saying can you see that girl, sitting on the grass, cross legged? can you see her eyes quivering under her closed eyelids? can you see that she's missing a home? can you see?

awake

freud turned on his grave and muttered to himself. i'd better go to england and tell some of these people that my writings and my case studies were meant to be explanations for behaviour, NOT a how-to diy manual.

goodbye camera

uh-oh. camera's gone. never to come back? lost an arm. not to mention trust in mankind. although that had been a little battered already...

cheery

ok, the bbc, thankfully, is always there to lift my mood with the news that matter

desasosegada

i wake up with all my joints creaking. the moon was red the other night. my eyes are heavy and i'm going nowhere. i feel old and out of place in this place. parallel lives. tired looking what-ifs hanging out on every corner, having a good old chat with all the what-ifs i left behind, sharing a drink with all the what-ifs that are coming coming coming.

el pony pisador or the timewarp or midnight

yesterday i visited the place where i had my first kiss.

my friend had planned to introduce me to this friend of his. he said he was a tall guy, perfect for me. my friend was one of the "bad" kids and had decided we could only be best friends as anything else would damage his reputation (really, this is uruguay and you just can't go out with a girl who's the school nerd AND way taller than you. no matter how long those legs may be) so that night, after the usual sneaky beer on the beach, we got to the club and he introduced me to his mate.

and 5 minutes later he had second thoughts, kidnapped me to a dark corner and snogged me so bad i couldn't stop running after him for the next 4 years...his friend then ran after me for the next 4 years.

and that's exactly how it was.

spam reading

dear, good mood to u

fuck

fuck