Random Encounters

[Redpossum]

Thank you all very much for your kind words.

If you want to read the work of a real author, not a two-bit wannabe like me, you need to get a copy of For Whom The Bell Tolls, by Ernest Hemingway. The title is from a quote from John Donne-

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

Set amid the Spanish Civil War, it is the story of a young American Socialist, a school-teacher from the Midwest, who defies the ban imposed by Uncle Sam, and goes to Spain to volunteer with the Republicans. And he does this knowing that he will be black-balled forever, and never allowed to teach again, even if he does make it back alive. Like me, he's not really a very good Socialist, because he can never entirely banish that deep-seated belief in God which was such an integral part of his upbringing. He is, however, very good at demolitions. (Being the 1930's, he doesn't really understand the importance of tamping, but nobody did in those days).

Understand, this is not a history of the Spanish Civil War, nor is it really a war story, though war forms the backdrop. It is a story about people, about love and hate and fear and pride. But mostly love. And it is a story about realisations, of the sort that come to you when you hear the gypsies start to sing, and feel the cold presence of the Dark Sister close behind, realisations about priorities, realisations that never come except in the perceived imminence of death.

I've read it twice, and I cried at the end both times.

 

[GS_Dirtboy]

Has your dire episode occurred there or elsewhere?

In the US.

 

[ghost]

Thank you all very much for your kind words.

If you want to read the work of a real author, not a two-bit wannabe like me, you need to get a copy of For Whom The Bell Tolls, by Ernest Hemingway. The title is from a quote from John Donne-

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

Set amid the Spanish Civil War, it is the story of a young American Socialist, a school-teacher from the Midwest, who defies the ban imposed by Uncle Sam, and goes to Spain to volunteer with the Republicans. And he does this knowing that he will be black-balled forever, and never allowed to teach again, even if he does make it back alive. Like me, he's not really a very good Socialist, because he can never entirely banish that deep-seated belief in God which was such an integral part of his upbringing. He is, however, very good at demolitions. (Being the 1930's, he doesn't really understand the importance of tamping, but nobody did in those days).

Understand, this is not a history of the Spanish Civil War, nor is it really a war story, though war forms the backdrop. It is a story about people, about love and hate and fear and pride. But mostly love. And it is a story about realisations, of the sort that come to you when you hear the gypsies start to sing, and feel the cold presence of the Dark Sister close behind, realisations about priorities, realisations that never come except in the perceived imminence of death.

I've read it twice, and I cried at the end both times.

Wrong. Donne is the real author. Hemingway, meh.

 

[GS_Dirtboy]

Or, we might wander into a group of heavyweights...

William Faulkner
Eudora Welty
Carson McCullers
Truman Capote
Flannery O'Connor
Clyde Edgerton
Willie Morris

These need a long summer afternoon, the shade of a porch, and a weeping glass of cold lemonade.

 

[Bkentfc]

Thank you all very much for your kind words.

If you want to read the work of a real author, not a two-bit wannabe like me, you need to get a copy of For Whom The Bell Tolls, by Ernest Hemingway. The title is from a quote from John Donne-

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

Set amid the Spanish Civil War, it is the story of a young American Socialist, a school-teacher from the Midwest, who defies the ban imposed by Uncle Sam, and goes to Spain to volunteer with the Republicans. And he does this knowing that he will be black-balled forever, and never allowed to teach again, even if he does make it back alive. Like me, he's not really a very good Socialist, because he can never entirely banish that deep-seated belief in God which was such an integral part of his upbringing. He is, however, very good at demolitions. (Being the 1930's, he doesn't really understand the importance of tamping, but nobody did in those days).

Understand, this is not a history of the Spanish Civil War, nor is it really a war story, though war forms the backdrop. It is a story about people, about love and hate and fear and pride. But mostly love. And it is a story about realisations, of the sort that come to you when you hear the gypsies start to sing, and feel the cold presence of the Dark Sister close behind, realisations about priorities, realisations that never come except in the perceived imminence of death.

I've read it twice, and I cried at the end both times.

You reminded me of billie holiday;if i wasnt at work, a fresh scotch would be off the shelves with lady day in the background.

 

[Redpossum]

Why do people talk to me the way they do? I have no real idea. I just ask a few questions, and then shut my mouth and listen.

I was at the Vita Market, the healthfood restaurant I've been talking about. I'd just had a massive plate of incredibly tasty vegetarian food, containing more fresh veggies than the average porteño eats in a week, and a big glass of fresh-made carrot juice. After paying at the front counter, I noticed they had coffee, so I asked for a cappuccino. There was an older gentleman standing there, waiting for something. I said hello and gave him my best friendly-idiot grin. He returned my greeting, we chatted casually about the weather, and agreed that the humidity was miserable. Then he asked me where I was from, and the conversation was on.

Saying nothing at all about Argentina, I answered his question, and chatted a little about San Diego. I asked if he was a porteño, and he said no, he was from the west, but had lived in BA most of his life. I talked some about the USA, he asked about the border situation with Mexico, I explained and added it it was not justice. Then he said something odd. He asserted that Justice does not exist. I agreed that it doesn't exist in a perfect state, but that I felt it was still a goal worth striving for. But his assertion was that Justice does not exist, cannot exist, and that the best we can hope for is for everyone to suffer an equal and hopefully minimal degree of injustice.

The conversation got warmer and more friendly, and at one point I felt it safe to ask, "Then you must remember the" (desperately avoiding the D-word) "años oscuros", the dark years. He made a snorting sort of a noise, like an annoyed horse, and replied, "Lo recuerdo de adentro". I remember it from inside.

He had been a soldier during those years, and talked a little bit about how horrible it was to watch those things happening, and be unable to do anything to stop it. He didn't go into any detail, but he said, "We had to watch every word. You said nothing to anyone". At this point I realised the restaurant staff had all moved down to the other end of the counter, and were pointedly not looking at us.

My step-dad was a lifer in the Corps, and I've seen a fair bit of what's called PTSD today, though it's had many other names over the years. But it's still a bit spooky to watch a veteran go back inside his head like that, eyes seeing a world 30 years gone, voice gone flat and exp<b></b>ressionless, face as bleak as winter in Siberia. He really didn't have a whole lot more to say, but I heard him out until he ran down, and then turned the subject back to happier subjects and the current day, at which point the staff drifted back to our end of the counter and re-joined the conversation. We ended on a happier note, talking about his grandchildren, then I shook his hand, offering the usual effusive courtesies.

As I was walking home I was thinking all the way about how history is all around us. Eye-witnesses abound in every grey-haired man and woman on the street. As I was saying about Howard yesterday, the things they have seen, the stories they could tell. But most of us never really take the time to talk to older people.

 

[internationalguy]

Probably because they sense you care. I experience similar things. It's hard to explain. He probably felt like he could open up. When people have small talk it's very apparent that some people don't actually care. When someone elderly sees that someone young truly cares about what they have to say, it must be a very rare, yet great thing for them. Kind of like get the most out of it because you don't know when it will happen next.

 

[Napoleon]

^ ^ ^ THIS ^ ^ ^

This happens to me with older people, but especially older women. (And to a lesser extent, lesbians of all ages.)

 

[Redpossum]

^ ^ ^ THIS ^ ^ ^
This happens to me with older people, but especially older women. (And to a lesser extent, lesbians of all ages.)

This morning after breakfast and my usual leisurely cappuccino over the newspapers, I walked up Florida further north than I've been before, and discovered another pietonal called Lavalle that crosses Florida and runs East-West. I turned Left and headed back West toward 9 de Julio. There were all sorts of interesting shops, and this one fairly short little dead-end pietonal off Lavalle to the North that seemed to be lined by what called themselves "Sex Shops", although a casual glance revealed nothing more risque than women's naughty underwear, (understanding, please, that I use the word "naughty" in a thoroughly approving and most appreciative sense). But the one that made me laugh was the "Rey David Sex Shop", complete with a big magen david in the window. I just never associated David with sexual adventure before. I was thinking, wasn't that more Solomon's thing, with Bathsheba and all? Perhaps that bit about how Uriah "was always in the forefront of the battle", was actually an allegory for something more personal?

Anyhow, I kept going West and I saw the cutest couple. The one young woman was doing the old classic "making an arm" thing, with her left hand on her hip, and her elbow sticking out. Her girlfriend was holding her arm, and they just looked so radiantly happy together it was really sweet. More than enough to make a silly romantic old fart like me a little misty-eyed. And the odd thing is, this was only a couple hours ago, but I have no clear recollection of what they looked like, only that they were so obviously delighted in one another's company.

 

[internationalguy]

This morning after breakfast and my usual leisurely cappuccino over the newspapers, I walked up Florida further north than I've been before, and discovered another pietonal called Lavalle that crosses Florida and runs East-West. I turned Left and headed back West toward 9 de Julio. There were all sorts of interesting shops, and this one fairly short little dead-end pietonal off Lavalle to the North that seemed to be lined by what called themselves "Sex Shops", although a casual glance revealed nothing more risque than women's naughty underwear, (understanding, please, that I use the word "naughty" in a thoroughly approving and most appreciative sense). But the one that made me laugh was the "Rey David Sex Shop", complete with a big magen david in the window. I just never associated David with sexual adventure before. I was thinking, wasn't that more Solomon's thing, with Bathsheba and all? Perhaps that bit about how Uriah "was always in the forefront of the battle", was actually an allegory for something more personal?

Anyhow, I kept going West and I saw the cutest couple. The one young woman was doing the old classic "making an arm" thing, with her left hand on her hip, and her elbow sticking out. Her girlfriend was holding her arm, and they just looked so radiantly happy together it was really sweet. More than enough to make a silly romantic old fart like me a little misty-eyed. And the odd thing is, this was only a couple hours ago, but I have no clear recollection of what they looked like, only that they were so obviously delighted in one another's company.

I'm just wondering how much of an exaggeration you made by using the term old fart?