It's a stoned, starving bus ride on the 110 out to Palermo. Off on Scalabrini Ortiz, through the park, to the big windows and the worn wood chairs and square tables to match. The temperature in here is just perfect. The light's just right. The mood's fit and I'm hungry to write. Not before some eggs and salad though. I got a front row seat.
The old soft-cover's done. I've written it's last pages. For now anyways, and so it's on to this new hardcover for good now. Too be true, I already started it. It's been a back and forth. I've never done that before, start a new notebook before the old one's done. Well, people change I guess. Sure, boys will be boys, but those boys got to turn into men someday.
It's a shame the music stopped. I was just going to start writing. Oh wait, there it is. Soft jazz. I can barely hear the bass and the loud keynotes only, and the trumpet when it's there. But it's most certainly there. Behind a high chorus of life around me en español.
Stevie Nicks, thank you for helping me see the light. And the white pinto bean of a car across the street too. Thank you. Old Citroen, thank you. Classic sticks around a little longer here in Latin America.
People still read books!
Less cars are new, and more are older in condition. Of course there's a number that are absolutely wrecked, on cinder blocks in the street. There's also no stop signs on many intersections. They're smarter than that, I guess.
It's the Wild West(South) out here. Á Helena's Resto.
