Posted tagged ‘Brushes App’
Last Tango In Buenos Aires? (With Elephants)
May 21, 2011
Coffee in B.A. – Lots of Little Dishes
May 18, 2011
As one of my daughters has noted, one of the great pleasures of getting coffee or tea at a cafe in Buenos Aires are all the little dishes.
This is only one of the great pleasures. The cafes are pleasant in and of themselves, with tables both inside and out, with leafy trees usually somewhere in view, if not directly overhead, with internet service and quiet and nice smells, and, above all, a sense, the minute you enter, of time stretching out before and all around you.
Of course, you do kind of need time if you are going to a typical B.A. cafe. The experience is not susceptible of rushing. Waiters typically take some appreciable fraction of an hour to note of your little fidgeting movements, or large body, at one of their tables. (This is not a complaint. Serving staff is almost invariably kind, and while they do not seem to notice little subdued bleeps of “we’re here,” they also, on the reverse side, never make signs that it’s time for you to go. It seems pretty certain, in other words, that one coffee could allow you to maintain a station in a cafe for several hours.)
Eventually, then, the order is made and one is, eventually, brought all the little dishes– a cup of coffee, a small container of sugar, a glass of water. If you are ordering tea, a small ceramic pot, and pitcher of milk. And then, the coup de grace, a little plate of some abbreviated treat–itty-bitty cream puffs, bite-sized cookies, smidgeons of brownie. (At one cafe, even side dishes holding a small scoop of ice cream.)
The treat is not something ordered by you; it just appears, as if the stimulus of caffeine demands a side of sugar for true absorption.
The best thing about the treats–well, the best thing is that they are incredibly delicious. And always a bit of a surprise. And free. And did I say delicious?
But the next next next best thing is that they are that exact size understood by any diet-conscious person to contain absolutely zero calories. Amazing.
No Plumbing Problems On Trip
May 14, 2011
And then there are those trips where some of your best memories are of the times you broke the plumbing.
I shouldn’t call them”best” memories–how about most unforgettable memories?
(BTW, this is not one of those trips. I repeat, from my couch in a rented apartment in Buenos Aires where we paid a significant damage deposit, this is not one of those trips.)
It really isn’t, actually. I don’t think you can “break” a pipe that’s not joined at all but simply aligned (more or less) with the pipe beneath it, with a big gap in-between, and yes, we have aligned them again.
Of course, there was that restaurant bathroom in Paris where I actually did tear the faucet off of the sink and water would not stop gushing straight up into the air. Onto the floor. Out the door. (How was I supposed to know that you weren’t supposed to push on the tap so hard?)
And I’m absolutely not going to go into any incidents in Mexico, except to say how lucky we were that none of the other people staying at the same house were home that day, and never lose heart.
But here, today, in this rented apartment in Buenos Aires, everything is just fine.
Leaves, Buenos Aires, Draft Poem
May 12, 2011
I am in Buenos Aires, a beautiful and extremely leafy city. I may be particularly conscious of the leaves because it is Fall here, a time in which one is always very conscious of leaves. Fall, and Buenos Aires, also have a wistful quality, which, as a kind of wistful, Eeyorish, person, I am quick to glom onto. Here’s the draft poem of the morning:
My world without you – Leaves
My world without you
is like a tree fallen in a forest;
without you there to hear it,
like a tree that may have fallen
in a forest somewhere, without you
next to me, a tree possibly falling somewhere,
out of my range too; nothing,
in short, feels real
without the warmth of your hand
at my back.
So when we talk of leaving, let it be of leaves (mine)
pressed up to leaves (yours); let it
be of leaves only, grown, blown, each to each,
their veins nearly in line, their
outlines coupling, leaves of a tree
not fallen, swaying gently, mightily.
All rights reserved, as always. Suggestions welcomed.
Traveling to Fall
May 11, 2011
I am lucky enough to have flown deep into the Southern Hemisphere this morning, back, or forward, into Fall.
The immediate transition from Spring (up in New York City) to Fall (in Buenos Aires) is quite striking. It makes one realize palpably how soft Fall is compared to Spring, which is literally, you know, springy. The Fall air in contrast seems veiled in rumpled, oak-aged softness; there’s a bit of blur; the light feels dappled even in bright sun. Of course, this could all be just me. I am definitely blurred and rumpled right now, more aged than usual, and maybe have some spots in front of my eyes. It is very difficult to sleep in coach these days even on a long, late flight.
Trip Tomorrow – Packing?
May 9, 2011
Before Mother’s Day
May 8, 2011
“Warhorse” with Brushes (App)
May 7, 2011
I had the good fortune to see Warhorse last night, a play that shows a slice of the horrors of World War I through the story of a horse and his boy. Based upon the children’s book by Michael Marpurga, as adapted by Nick Stafford, the play is, well, very sentimental in the manner of almost all art that focuses upon the bonds between humans and animals, playing powerfully upon the heart and tear ducts. The emotional force of the story is compounded by the horror of the truth of World War I, the devastation of both the humans and animals caught in its web. (The program notes that 8 million horses died in World War I, as armies learned that a calvary was no match for machine guns, barbed war, tanks.)
One wishes, at times during the performance, that some of the sentiment–the “Lassie” elements of the story–were toned down. Even so, the production is extraordinary–genius found in life-sized puppets–horses, animated by three handlers at a time, whose ghostly and yet matter-of-fact arms and legs and wonderfully subtle but emotive faces spirit the horses across the stage, whinnying, snuffling, hoofing, rearing, stomping, fly-whisking, trotting, being ridden, being shot at, screaming, dying. One loses all consciousness of the puppeteers; one falls in love with the horses.
The lighting, set, costumes, all production values, are fantastic, bringing a sense of a no man’s land (no horse’s land either) palpably to the stage.
ManicDDaily 
Recent Comments