A THOUSAND WORDS - Alex Waterhouse-Hayward's blog on pictures, plants, politics and whatever else is on his mind.




 

Este Sendero No Se Bifurca
Saturday, October 19, 2013



Este sendero no se bifurca
This path does not bifurcate



Biblioteca Nacional - Buenos Aires




Las Night I Dreamt I Was Eva Perón
Friday, October 18, 2013

Anoche soñé que yo era Eva Perón
Last night I dreamt I was Eva Perón








Then, Then & Now
Thursday, October 17, 2013

Nora Patrich & Roberto Baschetti October 2013 Jardín Botánico

Rebecca Stewart 2005

Granaderos de San Martín 2005
Rebecca Stewart Plaza San Martín 2005



Nunca Se Sabrá - No One May Ever Know
Wednesday, October 16, 2013





 Nunca se sabrá cómo hay que contar esto, si en primera persona o en segunda, usando la tercera del plural o inventando continuamente formas que no servirán de nada.  Si de pudiera decir: yo vieron subir la luna, o: nos me duele el fondo de los ojos, y sobre todo así: tú la mujer rubia eran las nubes que siguen corriende delante de mis tus sus nuestros vuestros sus rostros. Que diablos.

No one may ever know how to tell this story.  Should it be in the first person or the second, using the third person plural or continually inventing forms that serve no purpose at all?  If we could say: I they saw the moon rise, or: the inner core of my our eyes hurts, and, most of all: you the blonde woman were the clouds that keep racing ahead of my your her our all of your faces.  What the hell.

Las Babas del Diablo
Julio Cortázar



My Polo Pony Grippe
Tuesday, October 15, 2013






On October 3 I went to Cañuelas, Pcia de Buenos Aires to watch my grand nephew Jorge O’Reilly play polo. I did not notice any sick polo ponies. They were all very beautiful and close-up they were indeed small ponies. I asked Jorge’s father, Georgito why a bunch of polo mallets in Jorge’s dressing room had numbers like 32 and 31. He told me that mallets had to be made to accommodate the different heights of polo ponies.



When I returned to Canada on October 12 I was beginning to cough incessantly. After spending a terrible October 14 (Thanksgiving holiday) in bed I saw my doctor who prescribed antibiotics to fight what he said was pneumonia.




I did not have the heart to inform him that in Argentina there have been a few isolated cases of humans getting Equine Influenza HRN8 in a mutation called Equidaegrippe H7N7 and that in fact I did not have pneumonia but the rarer polo pony grippe.



While I am still alive and recovering I would have been almost happy to succumb to this so classy a disease that only the right people in the right social circles might contract




Vuelvo Al Sur
Monday, October 14, 2013

Portrait d'Ira (1933) Tamara de Lempicka


I would hasten to assert that the ultimate human nostalgia may happen if one dies in bed. While staring at the ceiling waiting for death’s scythe to fall, one’s life (that part that can still be remembered) is one big chunk of nostalgia.

This nostalgia would be the purest and the finest as one would not have a way of revisiting it in person by going to places or seeing people, still alive, in one’s memory. There would be no letdowns, no disappointments or misconceptions of good times that may have been rosier in time now but not so in past reality.

As I lay with my heart pumping much too quickly for comfort in my bed at a Courtesy Inn near the Toronto Airport on October 13 any nostalgia, anything from my past was of no consequence. The only thing important was to survive the hour and day to at long last see my wife and two cats in my home in Vancouver.

My three-week trip to Buenos Aires was one of tying up loose ends and coming to the perhaps drastic resolve that I will not be going back.

I remember that when I first left Argentina when I was a boy that I asked my mother to take me to a toy store that specialized in intricate lead soldiers. I wanted to buy a couple of San Martín’s lovely equestrian soldiers, los Granaderos de San Martín. I did and whatever happened to them is no longer in my memory.


This time around, and before I left Buenos Aires I made sure to visit San Martín’s elaborate tomb inside the Metropolitan Cathedral. Two Granaderos, in beautiful Napoleonic uniforms, are in constant watch over his remains. I took pictures of them knowing they would not speak or even make me aware that they were noticing me.

I need not ever return to know that those two or their almost identical replacements will stand guard over a nostalgia of mine, of experiences that cannot be re-lived in the exact same way as my remembrances of them in my cluttered mind.

I can listen to Piazzolla playing Milonga del Angel and no matter how many times I do it cannot bring back Susana from the grave even though I remember her gently placing her hand on mine as Piazzola began the beautiful song at the Teatro Florida sometime in 1967.

Returning to Buenos Aires brought the reality that my city had changed and I could almost not recognize it in spite of the landmarks looking mostly unchanged. The city seemed bigger.

Living for three weeks with Nora Patrich and her partner the sweet Roberto Baschetti had me taking a rail line I had never taken before. This was the Ferrocarril General San Martín. I boarded the train at Bella Vista and took it 12 stations and 50 minutes later to the downtown station at Retiro. The end station was not the cavernous and beautiful Victorian station of the Mitre Line or the smaller but still beautiful one of the Manuel Belgrano Line. It was a metal roofed shack. On my first trip in the San Martín train I came to understand that the Buenos Aires of my youth followed the edge of the city that lies by the River Plate, like a long shoestring and that the shoestring was the Mitre Line. It was a thin realm of reality.  My nostalgic Buenos Aires was now modified by knowledge of a city I had never experienced. My view had been a privileged one in which I rarely ever saw poverty or masses of cabecitas negras (little dark heads), as the Argentine well-to-dos call those with aboriginal blood. My Buenos Aires had been one that included afternoon tea and scones..

Finally at age 71 the new reality, a huge sprawling Buenos Aires supplanted a romance all but gone.

But now I know that nostalgia is what you feel of a place when you are not in it or of it (and it can be awfully rosy) and that the reality of the place seen now destroys and supplants that nostalgia of old. I do not feel any sadness as long as I remember that every moment of my present existence, my now, will someday be the nostalgic when of those I love. They may not notice now that when they visit Rosemary and me at home, that these moments will someday pass to be their nostalgia.

My present will rapidly become their future rosy past. And I will not mind when the scythe falls. 


Vuelvo al Sur
Lyrics by Fernando “Pino” Solanas
Music by Astor Piazzolla
Defintive version sung by Roberto Goyeneche

Llevo el Sur,
como un destino del corazon,
soy del Sur,
como los aires del bandoneon.

Sueño el Sur,
inmensa luna, cielo al reves,
busco el Sur,
el tiempo abierto, y su despues.

Quiero al Sur,
su buena gente, su dignidad,
siento el Sur,
como tu cuerpo en la intimidad.

Te quiero Sur,
Sur, te quiero.

Vuelvo al Sur,
como se vuelve siempre al amor,
vuelvo a vos,
con mi deseo, con mi temor.

Quiero al Sur,
su buena gente, su dignidad,
siento el Sur,
como tu cuerpo en la intimidad.
Vuelvo al Sur,
llevo el Sur,
te quiero Sur,
te quiero Sur...

I am returning to the South

I am returning to the South,
the way love always returns,
I am returning to you,
with my own wish, with my own fear.

I carry the South,
like a destiny of the heart,
I am the South,
like the airs of the bandoneon (instrument).

I dream the South,
immense moon, heaven on earth,
I am searching for the South,
the open time, and everything after.

I love the South,
its good people, its dignity,
I feel the South,
like your body during intimate moments.

I love you South,
South, I love you.

I am returning to the South,
the way love always returns,
I am returning to you,
with my own wish, with my own fear.

I love the South,
its good people, its dignity,
I feel the South,
like your body during intimate moments.
I am returning to the South,
I carry the South,
I love you South,
I love you South...





La Noche Boca Arriba
Sunday, October 13, 2013



Y ante el vacío que avanzaba hacia él a medida que su sangre se escapaba, buscó una razón para haber vivido, algo que le hiciera valedera la serena aceptación de su nada, y de pronto como un golpe de sangre más que el que le hubiera, el recuerdo de Ana la Cretense le fue llenando de sentido toda la historia de su vida sobre la tierra. El delicado tejido azul de sus venas en sus blancos pechos, un abrirse de las pupilas con asombro y ternura, un suave ceñirse de su piel para velar su sueño, las dos respiraciones jadeando entre tantas noches, como un mar palpitando eternamente; sus manos seguras, blancas, sus dedos firmes y sus uñas en forma de almendra, su manera de escucharle, su andar, el recuerdo de cada palabra suya, se alzaron para decirle al Estratega que su vida no había sido en vano, que nada podemos pedir…
La muerte del estratega
Álvaro Mutis



 The emptiness was approaching him. Inexorably as his blood drained he sought a reason for having lived; for something that would validate his serene acceptance of his nothingness. Suddenly as an even greater wound of bloodletting he was filled by the memory of Ana the Crete which brought him a purpose all his existence on earth. There was the delicate weaving of blue veins on her on her white chest, the opening of her pupils with amazement and tenderness, the soft clinging of her skin to watch over his sleep, both of them breathing and gasping between so many nights, like a sea palpitating eternally; her safe hands, with, her firm fingers and her almond-shaped nails, her way of listening as he walked, the remembrance of every word  she uttered, all rose to tell the Estratega that his life had not been in vain, that there is nothing that we can ask…
La muerte del estratega
Álvaro Mutis
My translation

On Sunday, October 13th I arrived in Toronto from a long flight from Buenos Aires. It was four in the morning and I managed to make it to a nearby hotel that my Rosemary had kindly found for me. I had a 12-hour wait for my trip back from Toronto to Vancouver.

I managed to crash for two hours, in spite of a terrible cough that was later to be diagnosed as pneumonia. I woke up suddenly. My arms were numb and my chest felt restricted. I was short of breath. My immediate thought was not fear of death but the fear that I would never see my wife Rosemary again or my two cats. I was in a sort of calm panic. I managed to get up and make myself a pot of hotel-room coffee. The little heart action subsided.

I recalled immediately the beautiful story by Colombian poet and writer Álvaro Mutis who died at age 90 on September 22 in Mexico City. That calmed me down. But there was another story that did the opposite. This was Julio Cortázar’s La Noche Boca Arriba (The Night Face Up) about a young man who has a terrible accident on a motorcycle and is having a horrific nightmare in his hosptial room. He dreams that he is a prisoner of the florid wars in ancient Tenochtitlan and that the Aztecs are carrying him up to the top of a pyramid for his eventual sacrifice. It is only at the end that Cortázar reveals to the reader that the dream is the strange world of motorcycles, cars and red and green traffic lights and that the reality is that indeed an obsidian knife is about to be plunged into the poor dreamer’s chest. 


I managed to get enough energy to take a picture with my new Fuji X-E1 of the two Argentine books I was reading on the plane. I had finished the one of Eva Perón and was in the middle chapters of the second one on Juan Perón.

I did get back to the airport and back to Vancouver. I have been in bed ever since relishing and enjoying every moment of being with Rosemary and my two cats. Unlike Mutis’s Estratega I don’t have to be bleeding to death from an arrow shot in battle to realize that my life indeed has a purpose.



     

Previous Posts
Guillermina Santa Bárbara Cheers Me Up

Mona Lisa - Overdrive

Two Evangelists & That Important Severed Right Ear...

A suo piacere

An Odalisque in 3200

La Verdadera Cara de los Ángeles

Jessi McMath, Curtis Daily, Robert Studer & Willia...

That Béla Bartók Girl

A Kitsilano Sun

The Order of Generals



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2/3/13 - 2/10/13

2/10/13 - 2/17/13

2/17/13 - 2/24/13

2/24/13 - 3/3/13

3/3/13 - 3/10/13

3/10/13 - 3/17/13

3/17/13 - 3/24/13

3/24/13 - 3/31/13

3/31/13 - 4/7/13

4/7/13 - 4/14/13

4/14/13 - 4/21/13

4/21/13 - 4/28/13

4/28/13 - 5/5/13

5/5/13 - 5/12/13

5/12/13 - 5/19/13

5/19/13 - 5/26/13

5/26/13 - 6/2/13

6/2/13 - 6/9/13

6/9/13 - 6/16/13

6/16/13 - 6/23/13

6/23/13 - 6/30/13

6/30/13 - 7/7/13

7/7/13 - 7/14/13

7/14/13 - 7/21/13

7/21/13 - 7/28/13

7/28/13 - 8/4/13

8/4/13 - 8/11/13

8/11/13 - 8/18/13

8/18/13 - 8/25/13

8/25/13 - 9/1/13

9/1/13 - 9/8/13

9/8/13 - 9/15/13

9/15/13 - 9/22/13

9/22/13 - 9/29/13

9/29/13 - 10/6/13

10/6/13 - 10/13/13

10/13/13 - 10/20/13

10/20/13 - 10/27/13

10/27/13 - 11/3/13

11/3/13 - 11/10/13

11/10/13 - 11/17/13

11/17/13 - 11/24/13

11/24/13 - 12/1/13

12/1/13 - 12/8/13

12/8/13 - 12/15/13

12/15/13 - 12/22/13

12/22/13 - 12/29/13

12/29/13 - 1/5/14

1/5/14 - 1/12/14

1/12/14 - 1/19/14

1/19/14 - 1/26/14

1/26/14 - 2/2/14

2/2/14 - 2/9/14

2/9/14 - 2/16/14

2/16/14 - 2/23/14

2/23/14 - 3/2/14

3/2/14 - 3/9/14

3/9/14 - 3/16/14

3/16/14 - 3/23/14

3/23/14 - 3/30/14

3/30/14 - 4/6/14

4/6/14 - 4/13/14

4/13/14 - 4/20/14

4/20/14 - 4/27/14

4/27/14 - 5/4/14

5/4/14 - 5/11/14

5/11/14 - 5/18/14

5/18/14 - 5/25/14

5/25/14 - 6/1/14

6/1/14 - 6/8/14

6/8/14 - 6/15/14

6/15/14 - 6/22/14

6/22/14 - 6/29/14

6/29/14 - 7/6/14

7/6/14 - 7/13/14

7/13/14 - 7/20/14

7/20/14 - 7/27/14

7/27/14 - 8/3/14

8/3/14 - 8/10/14

8/10/14 - 8/17/14

8/17/14 - 8/24/14

8/24/14 - 8/31/14

8/31/14 - 9/7/14

9/7/14 - 9/14/14

9/14/14 - 9/21/14

9/21/14 - 9/28/14

9/28/14 - 10/5/14

10/5/14 - 10/12/14

10/12/14 - 10/19/14

10/19/14 - 10/26/14

10/26/14 - 11/2/14

11/2/14 - 11/9/14

11/9/14 - 11/16/14

11/16/14 - 11/23/14

11/23/14 - 11/30/14

11/30/14 - 12/7/14

12/7/14 - 12/14/14

12/14/14 - 12/21/14

12/21/14 - 12/28/14

12/28/14 - 1/4/15

1/4/15 - 1/11/15

1/11/15 - 1/18/15

1/18/15 - 1/25/15

1/25/15 - 2/1/15

2/1/15 - 2/8/15

2/8/15 - 2/15/15

2/15/15 - 2/22/15

2/22/15 - 3/1/15

3/1/15 - 3/8/15

3/8/15 - 3/15/15

3/15/15 - 3/22/15

3/22/15 - 3/29/15

3/29/15 - 4/5/15

4/5/15 - 4/12/15

4/12/15 - 4/19/15

4/19/15 - 4/26/15

4/26/15 - 5/3/15

5/3/15 - 5/10/15

5/10/15 - 5/17/15

5/17/15 - 5/24/15

5/24/15 - 5/31/15

5/31/15 - 6/7/15

6/7/15 - 6/14/15

6/14/15 - 6/21/15

6/21/15 - 6/28/15

6/28/15 - 7/5/15

7/5/15 - 7/12/15

7/12/15 - 7/19/15

7/19/15 - 7/26/15

7/26/15 - 8/2/15

8/2/15 - 8/9/15

8/9/15 - 8/16/15

8/16/15 - 8/23/15

8/23/15 - 8/30/15

8/30/15 - 9/6/15

9/6/15 - 9/13/15

9/13/15 - 9/20/15

9/20/15 - 9/27/15

9/27/15 - 10/4/15

10/4/15 - 10/11/15

10/18/15 - 10/25/15

10/25/15 - 11/1/15

11/1/15 - 11/8/15

11/8/15 - 11/15/15

11/15/15 - 11/22/15

11/22/15 - 11/29/15

11/29/15 - 12/6/15

12/6/15 - 12/13/15

12/13/15 - 12/20/15

12/20/15 - 12/27/15

12/27/15 - 1/3/16

1/3/16 - 1/10/16

1/10/16 - 1/17/16

1/31/16 - 2/7/16

2/7/16 - 2/14/16

2/14/16 - 2/21/16

2/21/16 - 2/28/16

2/28/16 - 3/6/16

3/6/16 - 3/13/16

3/13/16 - 3/20/16

3/20/16 - 3/27/16

3/27/16 - 4/3/16

4/3/16 - 4/10/16

4/10/16 - 4/17/16

4/17/16 - 4/24/16

4/24/16 - 5/1/16

5/1/16 - 5/8/16

5/8/16 - 5/15/16

5/15/16 - 5/22/16

5/22/16 - 5/29/16

5/29/16 - 6/5/16

6/5/16 - 6/12/16

6/12/16 - 6/19/16

6/19/16 - 6/26/16

6/26/16 - 7/3/16

7/3/16 - 7/10/16

7/10/16 - 7/17/16

7/17/16 - 7/24/16

7/24/16 - 7/31/16

7/31/16 - 8/7/16

8/7/16 - 8/14/16

8/14/16 - 8/21/16

8/21/16 - 8/28/16

8/28/16 - 9/4/16

9/4/16 - 9/11/16

9/11/16 - 9/18/16

9/18/16 - 9/25/16

9/25/16 - 10/2/16

10/2/16 - 10/9/16

10/9/16 - 10/16/16

10/16/16 - 10/23/16

10/23/16 - 10/30/16

10/30/16 - 11/6/16

11/6/16 - 11/13/16

11/13/16 - 11/20/16

11/20/16 - 11/27/16

11/27/16 - 12/4/16

12/4/16 - 12/11/16

12/11/16 - 12/18/16

12/18/16 - 12/25/16

12/25/16 - 1/1/17

1/1/17 - 1/8/17

1/8/17 - 1/15/17

1/15/17 - 1/22/17

1/22/17 - 1/29/17

1/29/17 - 2/5/17

2/5/17 - 2/12/17

2/12/17 - 2/19/17

2/19/17 - 2/26/17

2/26/17 - 3/5/17

3/5/17 - 3/12/17

3/12/17 - 3/19/17

3/19/17 - 3/26/17

3/26/17 - 4/2/17

4/2/17 - 4/9/17

4/9/17 - 4/16/17

4/16/17 - 4/23/17

4/23/17 - 4/30/17

4/30/17 - 5/7/17

5/7/17 - 5/14/17

5/14/17 - 5/21/17

5/21/17 - 5/28/17

5/28/17 - 6/4/17

6/4/17 - 6/11/17

6/11/17 - 6/18/17

6/18/17 - 6/25/17

6/25/17 - 7/2/17

7/2/17 - 7/9/17

7/9/17 - 7/16/17

7/16/17 - 7/23/17

7/23/17 - 7/30/17

7/30/17 - 8/6/17

8/6/17 - 8/13/17

8/13/17 - 8/20/17