Monday, December 24, 2012

I somehow made it to Buenos Aires. I had to do a lot of last minute errands, I forgot a lot of things, and I was completely unprepared in a way that is not like me at all. But I packed for this trip last Sunday in the midst of impending loss, and it's a miracle I ever made it to LAX in the first place.

I am sitting on my little bed on the floor at my friend Tayla's apartment. It feels like no time has passed since I was in this same apartment over a year and a half ago. Driving through the city from EZE airport yesterday felt like driving through my hometown. This is my third trip to Buenos Aires since 2010. This is my Southern hemisphere home.

Somewhere over Peru, I woke up on the plane certain that we were crashing. I had ear plugs in and an eye mask on, so I was somewhat sense deprived, but the plane was moving so fast and it felt like diving instead of flying.

Last time I came to Buenos Aires, I had a hard time reconciling all the change in my life that had occurred between my first and second visit. I was so emotionally overwhelmed that I made the taxi driver pull over so that I could throw up in the gutter. This time, I feel like a ghost moving through familiar spaces that I am hardly a part of anymore. I'm finding it difficult to be present. Or maybe I'm finding it too easy to be present. I'm not sure which. Either way, something in my mourning process has been disrupted. Because my life here has absolutely nothing to do with my life up north. I don't even use my native language, so unless I am writing or talking with people at home, I hardly even think in my native language either. It's a respite. Or a delay. I guess those are the same thing anyway.

I know I can't think my way out of this one. Or even write my way out of it. So instead, I sit in an overheated apartment, under an open window that only breathes hot air, and I read Mario Benedetti short stories just miles away from where Benedetti wrote and lived, and I think of Colorado, and I think of Berlin, and I think of the Hudson River Valley, of my loves alone in the snow.

It is Christmas Eve. It is summer. You are still and always passed on.

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