late stories: buenos aires rocks

it is impossible to resist.  volcanic-level creativity.  the shadows of old brilliance; the piling-on of the new; the traditional marries the cosmopolitan marries the commercial.  robot dinosaur-bugs.  gateways to everywhere.

we cruise through the traditional produce market on the corner of carlos calvo and defensa, housed in an arcade built in 1897.  fruits, vegetables, raw meat and hanging housemade sausages all crammed up cheek-by-jowl together with depression-era glassware, pillboxes, fur and leather jackets, hand-painted army figurines, watches, jeweled knives, yellowed photographs of weddings and parties and civic events, the participants almost certainly long-dead.  i am amazed that there remains so much old stuff in the world to continually populate so many antique stands.  isn't there a finite amount?  don't we run out of old stuff eventually?  in the center of the arcade, tourists snap pictures of a freestanding kitchen encircled by a counter and wooden bar stools, filled to capacity with old portenos sipping strong coffee and eating crepes stuffed with jamon and covered in thick bechamel.  past the market, we stroll down defensa street, past the design boutiques and cafes, to the plaza de mayo, so named to commemorate the end of spanish rule in may 1810, and the presidential palace, from whose pink balconies various demagogues and dictators have raised various iron fists.  o, and this lady named evita.  she looks sort of like madonna -- have you heard of her?  there is a veteran's group camped out in the plaza -- another set of old men talking and sipping coffee -- but it's unclear what, if anything, they are protesting.  what's that sound of thunder, of drums, of chanting?  it's a labor protest, unions marching in colors like ancient guilds, music and majorettes and art cars constructed to look like a graffiti'd neighborhood street corner, full of boombox music and the lounging unemployed.  at bolivar, we jump on the subway towards the palermo district.  some local music is part of the ticket fare, in the form of a handsomely trashy young guy, all smooth muscled skin and tangy body-smell, sounding beats on his backpack-cum-chair-cum bongo set.  in the crush, tom's wallet departs our company and chooses to join up with someone else's cause.  around the corner, here is the xul solar museum, a man who i would love to claim as our own, but who am convinced is neither dead nor fully human.  i am rolling in it, observing it and loving it and claiming it. 

it just bursts out of everywhere.  why resist?