La Poesía

I write from Buenos Aires, from a cafe/bar called La Poesia. I chose beer over coffee, and have proceeded to watch a fleeting rain storm drench the parched streets of this teeming city. The bottom floor of the cafe has flooded--I watch with some amusement from the loft as waiters tiptoe over tiles. Thunder booms; there's a pictures of Jorge Luis Borges sipping coffee just downstairs. Yes, there is poetry here.

There's too much to write. Of course. Since my last post Nathaniel and I have
--said goodbye to an unbelievable universe of clouds and rocks and people
--hitchhiked over 1700 miles from Southern Patagonia to Buenos Aires, Argentina
--eaten Thai curry on a friend's rooftop terrace in BA while discussing Nietzsche

Sometimes insufficient lists make me want to run down a busy city street in the rain and bang my head on a bell. I don't think I'll do it, but I'm tempted. I think, my dear readership, that the times call for a promise (what with an imminent trip to Urugray with which to contend): I will write more. Soon.