On The Road Again

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)