Pigeons swim in trash piles in Montevideo: 10 de enero de 2014
A man walking down the street carries a birdcage with a green parrot inside. Pigeons swim in trash piles. I step outside, turn to close the door, and they hop and chirrup. Dirty papers rustle in the wind. Here there is always a breeze, it seems.
This is such a dynamic city, the clash of worlds is everywhere, slipping in and out of various dimensions, new grows straight out of the old, attached rather than replaced. Personality and character in every single building; no two look the same. Light, color, line, texture. Senses are stimulated and the wheels begin turning. I feel more alive than ever. Trees are wiry coiled springs bursting into fruition, speckled green leaves a clashing salad with a blue background.
I want to be able to go to the street markets and ask for food in Spanish. I want to be able to walk to the beach in Birkenstocks. I want long hair, always in a braid, jewelry, not many clothes, long nails with painted tips, to read a beautifully written novel on the terrace while drinking tea, run next to the sea, stretch on a grassy hill with a view of city buildings, ocean horizon, palmeras and blocky clouds, the contrast somehow strengthened, the colours deeper, richer, more pure than ever. I want to learn to relax, do nothing, read, learn, meditate, stop worrying; to decide what to spend time doing based on how I feel, not what I think I should do.
I want to be a writer. I want to document the movements of other people. I want to use up what can be used up, to continually rid myself of material items. I want to sit quietly and observe the perpetual motions of other life forms. I want to eavesdrop in order to learn new words. I want to let things be ephemeral and transitory, I tell myself I don’t need them to be permanent. Their permanence would only weigh you down, I say.
The beginning of self-analysis in a new place, the click of hooves as horse-drawn carriages pass, bags filled with city trash, a mix of past and present worlds, me, employed in a foreign country; ideas for the future, for the present, for the most beneficial now. Sometimes I think I’m running from something. I ran from boredom and anxiety, the USA, indecision. In my flight from feeling trapped I met uncomfortability, I met a me unsure of what’s happening, staring eyes watching, flowing language sing-songing it’s way around my head until I’m dizzy and confused.