14 October 2008

Rain as Therapy in Buenos Aires (Lyrical Essay)

Sleep: My body has been craving sleep. Like a teenager surrendering to twelve hours of alternative reality each Saturday, it feels like my mind is inventing another world without broken sidewalks or political protests, battlefields of dog shit and armies of pregnant Porteñas. Sleep has been hitting on me for three days now, trying to seduce me, persuading me to lie down on the bed and close my eyes. Half-naked and murmuring, like a patient undergoing hypnosis. When it rains, sleep tells me to lie down and trust the soft fiction of my dreams again, to surrender to everything that spins in REM cycles.

Comfort Food: I have these irrational and primal needs when it rains in Buenos Aires. I want to eat hot soups and dishes with chilis and curry sauces. I want aromatic breads with soft warm starchy centers, potatoes blanketed in strong cheeses, smooth red wines that stain my teeth. Warm chocolate and cookies. And Tea. Lots of Mate Yerba, enough to fill a small canyon.

R + B Music: the sound of mushy streets gets me down. It makes me want to go back to the beginning of time again when beauty was an accident, and R&B artists sang songs of heartbreak and lust, pain and impossibility, a time when I could sing songs without knowing the lyrics. Now, I have to tell myself that everything is an idea, even a song. And all ideas fall apart, even those with sun.

Laughter: is a celebration of the love ballads we store in the cells of our body and the unfinished worlds we continue living in when we’re stuck indoors. Laughter can be the irony of listening to an old song until it hurts you, or it can be simply humans shedding their own weight, discarding the exoskeleton of desire again.

Sex: someday it will be proven that the vast majority of children were born nine months after the biggest rain spell of the year. When it's gloomy, alternating between bitter and humid, and the sky looks like gruel, the best and only response is to make love. We need to share warmth and reconnect for all the days the sun was plucked from our hearts. For all the days that the coldness lingered in the streets and got stuck in our skin.

The Saddest Days: are the ones where we forget what love feels like, practically begging our girlfriends to give us our vulnerability back. And yet, there is something so warm about the cooperation of happiness, something so magnetic about love, kissing inside a bedroom that has been aroused by a thousand soft lights.


bill said...

I know. It won't stop raining either in the early morning or just after the sun sets. Forecasts have none of this rain in the planning; it just appears.

It adds a certain gloominess here in San Telmo, but I figure it's still better than London.

JACKSON BLISS @ 水と魂 said...

Hi Bill. You're probably right, few places can match the gloom of London. I know what you mean: the discrepancy between the weather forecasts and what actually happens is astonishing. I think I need to stop reading them. They seem to be inconsistently wrong, which is worse than the opposite. In a week, we'll forget all of this happened. Cheers.

stilllifeinbuenosaires said...

A thousand white lights. I'm liking this voice.

There is nothing like a drizzly, gray day to tweak some inspiration. Loved this post, J.

JACKSON BLISS @ 水と魂 said...

Thanks SLIBA. What can I say? Depression is just what writers need: we feel a little gray inside us, then some sadness, and then eventually there's that brutal desire for connection and warmth again, in food, and in people. I've been enjoying your voice as of late too. Funny though that we say voice (like a persona almost) when we could just as easily say "another side of you I don't see enough." Besos.