|553> how the present belongs to anon I'm us, riding w/ Mao II in a car missing a door thru Silvery, Good Air|
16 Oct 2017 | Buenos Aires> had a ½-day @ home after Rome before heading back out to the airport, grabbed Delillo's Mao II to read on the plane, 1° to Miami then to Buenos Aires... «People bind themselves into numbered seats and fly across time zones and high cirrus and deep night, knowing there is something they've forgotten to do. The future belongs to crowds.» Amen. Anon I'm us couldn't agree more... lots of good stuff on masses vs. individuals, communism vs. capitalism, notoriety vs. anonymity, how photography + fame usurps the soul—∀ll taken as advice on how to make ourself further disappear... «we're all drawn to the idea of remoteness. A hard-to-reach place is necessarily beautiful, I think. Beautiful and a little sacred maybe. And a person who becomes inaccessible has a grace and wholeness the rest of us envy.» + how to cope in this moondough moderno, even tho writ in '91 rings true 2+ decades later: «we're giving way to terror, to news of terror, to tape recorders and cameras, to radios, to bombs stashed in radios. News of disaster is the only narrative people need. The darker the news, the grander the narrative.» The only way to fight it is to stop reading news, become inaccessible, don't let yourself be photographed, remove yourself from body to objectively observe, become 1 w/ the crowd «jampacked, and i think of how they merge with the future, how the future makes room for the non-achiever, the nonaggressor, the trudger, the nonindividual. Totally calm in the long lens, crowd on top of crowd, pedaling, trudging, faceless, sort of surviving nicely.»
Took a break before part 2 to watch Cool Hand Luke which we'd never seen then jumped back into Mao II, radical shift in 3rd person @ beginning of part 2, ∫um of the best language ever we've seen put to page, Delillo the maestro of both language + story... «There was no one to remind him who he was. The days were not connected. The prisoner sensed the vanish of the simplest givens. He began to identify the boy. As all his voices fled he thought he might be somewhere with the boy. He tried to repeat the old stories, sex with a shadowy woman on a passenger jet crossing the ocean at night (and it has to be night and it has to be water) or encounters in unexpected places with women in tight things, crisscrossed with black straps, sealed for his unsealing, but he couldn't seem to do it, braced and cinctured, women stuck fast in the middle of thought. No one came to interrogate him. He looked through the missing door and there were kids playing in the rubble and a gun at the side of his neck and he kept telling himself I am riding in a car with a missing door.» No way better to talk about Delillo sides just quoting him. Astonishing how many good books Delillo has written, greatest living writer far as we're concerned. «Beckett is the last writer to shape the way we think and see. After him, the major work involves midair explosions and crumbled buildings. This is the new tragic narrative.» Delillo carries the torch thru the 80s + 90s to post-911... tho we have yet to read Underworld or Falling Man. Where does he find time to write these? We can't even find the time to read them.
Was reading the last page as the wheels touched down in Buenos Aires... hours of waiting, for our gate to clear, thru immigration, customs, taxi line, throngs of teenage girls screaming when we exit, mistaken us for some 1 famoso. The celebrity appears + mayhem breaks loose, a moving, hectic mass of paparazzi + girls gritando, in the middle of it can see just bodyguards, red in the face, yelling, covering the celebrity, the chicas that caught a glimpse break out in tears, our entertainment in the taxi queue, finally a taxi, on a dark highway, thru dark streets, to a shitty hotel in San Telmo on via Colon (that Columbus connection again)(+ also today is dia de la Raza in Argentina, which like our Columbus day they've changed to «Indigenous people's day» to be p.c.). Arrived past midnight + up + Adam at 6 a.m. to shift hotels, to where his bedder-½ has her conference. Couldn't check in so our patron Cal put bags in storage + walked around to kill time, back-tracked to San Telmo since he/we didn't get a chance to see much of el barrio where we slept. When they told the desk clerk they was gunna walk the few miles to their next hotel, he advised against it so they took heed + hailed a cab + walking now, even as it started to get light, we can see why... definitely a sketchy ciudad. Bands of hobo-punkabestias loitering, drinking cerveza, sum of them aks him the time, but he knows the score, no tengo reloj, no tengo telefono... tho he does + also a passport since they couldn't check in. Desolate Sunday morning, except for the Buenos Aires marathon was going on, road closures all over added to the desolation as we veered into sidestreets off the racecourse, joining back up w/ the runners from time to time to feel like we was racing w/ them. Walked non-stop for a few hours, went back to the Sheraton but room still not ready, so went back out, instead of south, this time due west ... thru El Centro, Recoleta + to Palermo, by this time parks full of runners + bikers, lots of green space, lots of folks exercising, perfect weather. Cal's Argentine nephew lives in Palermo so call him up, he meets us at the monument to the Carta Magna, we stroll thru El Rosedal, rose gardens + ponds w/ paddleboats, sit + share a pitcher of beer, then walk more, guacamole in a rooftop terrace in Palermo where lives el sobrino, then to his apartment, met up w/ his gf + drove to La Boca, an old barrio mas sur even then San Telmo, colorful tin shanty shacks, tango dancers, todo moondough out on Sunday, dia de la madre, dieron un paseo, then drove round the more upscale Puerto Madero, then met Cal's bedder-½ + L who we'd just had dinner w/ in Rome a few nights ago, went to have a parilla—huge board w/ all sorts of carne in the middle of the mesa every 1 grabs at meats, downed w/ Malbec, then to bed w/ a belly full of carnage, 1° full noche of sleep in a spell.
|552 <( )> 554 > Manifesto of neglected solar script w/ cryptic decrepit crypts + antiquated luxury|