Hola! I'm writing this from a balcony high above Buenos Aires. I've left my studio and flower-filled garden in PIttsburgh and set out once again to collect stories for An Unrealistic Life. Unrealistically, of course, I put my house on the market, and began examining all my STUFF, tossing clothes, books, long unseen models of art work, Pakistani tablecloths, willow baskets, and so-called cherished mementoes on the floor and tables in preparation for the studio/garage sale. Confusion and a psychic re-examination ensued. Which stuff is truly important? Will I need this where I live next? Am I the same without the stuff I thought was precious? I'm an artist....I could make things out of this stuff! George Carlin and his riff on stuff had nothing on me.
In the end, I sold and donated all but the basic furniture, and dishes, packed the artwork in the loft and rented the house for a year. So begins my new blog on my nomadic/unplanned travels through South America for the next six months. And I'm supremely lucky to be here, reveling in spring as North America leans into fall. Insouciantly photographing markets and savoring flan and empanadas.
Yet it's a Dickensian scene in the world right now: the best of times and the worst of times. I dance tango here and try to ignore reports that the USA is going down the financial drain. (Is that carpe diem or carpe noche?) Argentinians view this crisis with sardonic smiles. It's deja vu for them. And understandable with 3 pesos to the dollar that numerous Americans like me are open to finding a new place to live, whether here or in another country.
No matter what, it's always art that enriches my life. Besides tangueros, I've been fortunate to meet several poets, Esteban Charpentier and Juan Daniel Perrotta. More photos of Esteban's recent birthday party are posted on my Facebook page, but here I am with Esteban and Daniel in the wee hours after the party.
It seems appropriate to include Perrotta's poem on the USA here:
I LOVE AMERICA
I don’t know who said
that the truth doesn’t hurt.
The truth hurts me.
It hurts me to discover
at this point in my life
that I love America.
I drool after Gershwin
and Copland
and Joffre
Bukowski makes me want to pee
until I’m empty.
A terrific pleasure.
Steinbeck was my first love
as were Hemingway and Whitman
It makes me nauseous to say this
but I love America
and its circus like spectacles
known the world over as
Korea
Vietnam
the Gulf War
Operation Freedom
Who is not moved
by its legendary cowboys
and Republican superheroes
Reagan
Superman
Monkeybone Bush
Batman
Richard “The Penguin” Nixon
Or those pornoDemocrats
who have left their footprints
in the erotic anals
of Constitutional guarantees
Scardick Bobbit
the brothers who gangbanged Marilyn
cut down in their prime
blowjob Clinton
still alive
Still
after reviewing recent history
and a past
illuminated by burning crosses
explosions over Hiroshima and Nagasaki
almost on the brink of hurling
embarassed as a hooker’s bridegroom
I am ashamed to admit
that I love America
© Juan Daniel Perrotta
(Translation by Paul Pines)
