“The camera is an instrument that teaches people how to see without a camera” — Dorothea Lange
“The relation between legal interpretation and the infliction of pain remains operative even in the most routine of legal acts” — Robert Cover
THE NEW YEAR
A Bogota, a tiempo. Una vibración inmediatamente aparente — ropa negra, tatuajes, ‘piercings’… un poco mas ‘dread’, un poco mas ‘sick’… Mis primos se fueron al ‘gate’ después de otra penal de Mbappe (eterno). Hermanito fue después de nachos. Padres despues de darme a luz. Siempre un poco mas adelante. Pasamos adelante ahora por carreras tan grandes y encontramos una biblioteca al mismo tiempo que la lluvia empieza bajar desde las alturas de los Andes. En la bibli, la gente lee y escribe y lee, como no ves en algún lugar en los states. los pesos aqui tienen las caras de sus artistas; pienso que no tengan teléfonos… La gente lee y la lluvia baja y el aire es lleno—
“Los abogados defienden los ladrones,” our taxi driver Carlos tells us as we pass away from El Dorado. So he told his daughter in Madrid to be an engineer instead. No tiene nada que ver con eso. The rain falls on reflecting pools through inlaid floor-to-ceiling vidria in the brick bibli, tranqui. Small streetside metallic low circular tables and chairs expedite mutual recognition—
“You are a brick,” the rainman intones to the unremitting remittance man, who scowls and turns aside, his cowl covering the rocking crow’s nest, perilous on its lofty height. “Que haces tio?” pregunta el ciego al ladrón. “Stealing back your eyesight,” robin hood crows—
“Parks to learn how to live,” park sign says. Bogota, 9k ft, giving eucalyptus fog-chilled mountain, thinner jungle vegetation, california. A lot of simple, full-faced fun being had, everywhere, dispersed in Parque Simon Bolivar. Slow walkers and visions of shakespearean jugglers up shady hill in misty sunlit clearings. Mothers in trees. Long nodding curious gazes with strangers. Non-efficient civic design, Seussian. Laughter flows from open-air friendships. Time to catch a cab downtown, see if there’s any tourists here. The Dideon style v the Iowa school. Post-war, with reconciliation museums and matrix-y multi-level clubs, like some postcolonial south american berlin—
The wild tripper born nowhere wakes us with whispered demands for visions quests in the greater metro area (mclean), unexplained deliveries of rainbow trees of life, and i roll over, bump, dislodge phone tumbling down onto hungarian sheets. Dude literally in the bottom bunk the next day after bumping into him on chaotic street corner night before, post-vaca y -papa on plate, pinning us entirely wriggling. Y Laura selling her plastic bags in the rain and radiant y la ciudad es dura, ella dijo, smoke wreaths rising up, and forgetting, cellular-less: Galerias, Chapinero, tejo... tired shaking clay-caked hands y vendes agua? Claro. Animo—
Back in laberinto, no place to go Plenty of patience, ain't gotta know-- Is this shit safe? wonder people in cola If it don't scare the cows, it's better than coca. Barefoot pilgrimage, one aching toe Backpackers fast, bogotanos slow All people kneel down, Christ up arriba At panting breath stop, she told me Bendiga--
Something is happening and we barely know what it is, do we? The woman of Oz descending in red, gracing the steps, passing full-blush as we climb Monserrate barefoot in penance. The country of Marquez, after all, y Botero y Jattin, Ciro Guerra y Margarita García Robayo—
Bus rides from Bogota to Medellin take up to 15 hours and you only stop once / if night u like, book advance / Only so much time here so already pilgrim mode / mate for breakfast after animal fat wings last night late night salsa joint ‘round corner / French girl making fun ‘merican accent when spanish. / “This being human is a guest house” (Rumi); “Eres bieeen chevere!!” (Rubi); this place is magic; venture out n see—
Standby tickets to Medellin, que gonorhea. Gabriel nos mostró Guatapé por taxi. Double booked hostels and lank gringos stalking streets in khaki-ed crews, in search of el proximo ‘angry fix.’ “Plastic & fake,” the 30-day aya tourist/survivor intones, coughing, over ginger tea. “This country is beautiful but the people hide so much sadness.” Sweet burgers, wet; canchas y magic sticks, dry. Como Brasil o Hong Kong o Los Angeles. “Las chicas en medellin…” dicen todos los hombres aqui y todas las mujeres alli. Unrealized plans at hostel, saliendo como un grupo — basta, strike off. Can’t find no food though. Empanadas will have to do, otra vez. It’s getting later, tiredness y nuevo año funk. They say it’s more in the hips. Aguardiente at a record bar out in the street. “Zero is death” is metaphor, and we’re so close to zero. Y no te olvides: the lumberjacks are coming—
Medellin mornings. Bright light in plastic bnb above street side disco bower. Too soon, these creaky eyes, but in the end timeless and tending, really, toward weightlessness. Key in balcony door stirs up insouciant suggestions in service of the beyond. She agrees, Bogota es un poco mas interesante: mas de la cultura, el arte—
Que chevere. Me gustan las fotos.