El verbo America

Si la palabra verbo es conjugar los jugos de tiempo, el verbo América es la historia
y los juegos que allí se enjuagan entre el Mediterraneo y lo que la Europa llama América.
Vínculos y culturas del Mediterráneo, que es Asia, Africa y Europa, con las,
conjugares, araucanas, patagónicas, quechuas, incaicas, tahumaras, hopi, zuni, haida, esquimales y milientas otras del extremo occidente del Pacífico (rusias, coreas, japones, chinas, indias, malayas, sepic, maori, pascuences etc.) porque el Océano Pacifico será el futuro Mediterráneo y las Américas su puente de tierra con la Europa.

El verbo América es conjugar participios pasados con presentes condicionales, es reorganizar todos los pretéritos de las cuentas, cuentos, de indios del Mediterráneo con, los indígenas de América y del Pacífico; es poner bien los dedos en lo que los une, en vez de -preciarse con megatónicas megalomanías.
El verbo América es estrujar la cultura tradicional del Mediterráneo con un probable arte nacional de América.
Todo esto es todavía , una arriesgada convicción,
un proceso de construcción,
una concentrada ficción,
un aparato de recuerdos,
un tormento mítico,
un matrilmonío, cósmico,
un mundo tan reciente que parece escondrijo,
una búsqueda de tierras prometidas,
una gana que carece de nombre,
una amenaza de pecado,
un catálogo de nudoso,
una recreación circular como un puente de tierra.
No importa! lo que parece, pero funda y difunda apareceres.
Que se descubran, que se vean sin trapos los unos en los Otros.
El verbo América, es búsqueda de acontecímientos que no se cuentan en el cuento.
Porque el lago de logos que es el Mediterráneo será el lago del Pacífico, el lago global.

Roberto Matta

Neither on nor off the beaten path.

For some reason, when referring to whether or not what we do or see in a day is commonplace, we tend to think of things as being either on or off the beaten path. What, though, about all the random, slightly bizarre things that make up our everyday lives? Do they jolt us from our stroll along the beaten path, or do they do they simply make that well-worn trail just a little less tedious, only slightly more tolerable?

Here are a few pictures of everyday things that just didn’t seem to fit anywhere else.

I love this mural; it leaves me wanting to know more, like what the woman on the right is doing and thinking.

The sign above the tube reads: "Stop. Under repair."

I'm still convinced this is the best way to get around Montevideo.

Carlos Gardel and his impersonator. There are actually several in this city...

An asado. On the street. Next to a construction site.

4th of July rhymes with Uruguay! (I am SO sorry about this title)

It had all of the makings of a traditional Fourth of July celebration: cotton candy, hotdogs and hamburgers with all the right condiments, hordes of Americans milling about, indiscriminately double dipping and discussing pleasantries, like the weather and the potato sack race taking place outside. The only thing that made my Fourth of July different this year was the fact that I celebrated it on a cold day in July (which still sounds funny to me, if nothing else because it’s slightly reminiscent of another saying we have in English) in downtown Montevideo, Uruguay. To be more exact, from exactly 12-3 pm last Friday afternoon the neatly manicured lawn of the US Ambassador to Uruguay, Frank Baxtor, better resembled the setting of a Tennessee-style barbeque than the residence of an international dignitary.

I arrived to the event uninvited but with my passport in hand, ready to prove that, by virtue of being born in the US—and Texas to boot!—I should be granted admittance to the party. I approached the security officers guarding the entrance and smugly handed them my documentation, knowing full well that my name did not appear on the list. They searched for a second among the Pattersons and the Pottingers but could not find me. Finally, sensing that I wasn’t going anywhere, they simply waved me on to the second phase of security: the metal detector. I was suddenly starting to feel at home in my surroundings.

The day’s celebration had a few aspects that were new to me, though. After passing by the hotdog stand more times than I care to admit (those of you who have attended a Lookout’s game with me know what I’m capable of), I made my way back inside for Ambassador Baxtor’s formal greeting, which included singing the Anthem and a short performance by an a cappella group from San Luis Obispo, California. Baxtor then addressed us directly, peering out over the crowd from the stairs of his home. In a speech more reminiscent of a fireside chat than a Fourth of July salute, the Ambassador reminded us of the generosity of the American spirit, something Toqueville observed in his early writings on America and which still stands true today.

I didn’t stay at the party much longer after Ambassador Baxtor’s speech; I had found the food comforting but was ready to slip back into my anonymity as an undercover American among Uruguayans. All the same, though, it was worth crashing the party just to say I had, spending a few welcome hours and inside jokes among compatriots.