Where There is Smoke

(photos of me by Diane Schutz)

There's an age-old philosophical debate that is near and dear to my heart – does meaning exist or do we create it? Is it part of the innate nature of things, or is it something we imagine? Or maybe what we imagine IS part of the innate nature of things? And what’s more, do our thoughts then determine what we end up experiencing, for better or for worse? There may be questions of greater import that I could be working on. . . but then, who’s to say what’s important? My preoccupation with these existential dilemmas could be the result of my upbringing, or maybe my ‘alternative’ education, or is maybe is just an effect of my nature. Who’s to say, and does it really matter? No. So what does matter? To be discussed over cocktails. . .

I feel like there’s been a particular kismet that has framed and fueled my entire trip. I've been enjoying these subtle and not-so-subtle signs along the way that seem to be directing my inner and outer journey, and have also been trying to understand their source. I’m not sure who should be receiving a lovely little thank you note on Crane’s stationary. God? The wind? The employees of Andesmar bus company?

On my first weekend in Argentina, there was a windstorm, coupled with a prophetic commentary from a cab driver about how the winds of Buenos Aires sweep through you, cleansing your spirit and bringing new things into your life. Perhaps you remember. I left Argentina on what was allegedly the worst day of smoke that engulfed the city of Buenos Aires and various parts of the province, owing to the northerly winds that carried the smoke into the city. News reports and the government have chalked it up to negligence on the part of the farmers, who burn the fields routinely in order to renew the soil. I can’t help but wonder – reader of the spaces between the lines that I am – if there might be some connection between the on-going conflict between the farmers and the government, and this unusual occurrence of field fires going so grossly out of control. Basically – and you should consult a real news source if you’re interested – the Argentine government imposes taxes on the farmers for exporting their goods, supposedly in order to control the price of goods. The farmers are pissed about paying such high taxes, so they put up some road blocks and prevented the transportation of several agricultural products – including the one that is by far most important to most Argentines – meat.

I like the fact that Argentines take to the streets and start banging on pots and pans when they feel their government is doing them wrong. Whether or not the field fires were an act of protest is unclear. Either way, there’s something about being uncomfortable that is distinctly motivating, and that kind of discomfort is distinctly lacking in our culture in these days of plenty. I think it’s too bad.

Being a little uncomfortable is also what’s so interesting about traveling – where things like going to the grocery store, doing laundry and finding a place to sleep go from being banal inevitabilities to exciting adventures. The discomfort has an awakening effect.

I have to report that I did not end up having my show with Jorge in Salta; he stayed out too late gambling the night of our impromptu jam session to rehearse the following day. He did ask me to sing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” for his 90 year-old father (the owner of the Hotel Colonial) – and of course I did. What I didn’t tell Jorge is that Dorothy’s tune, made famous by Judy Garland, was in fact one I sang in my high school drama class for a performance test. Perhaps you also recall the film and the tornado that initiated Dorothy’s adventure? All things come full-circle. Anyway, we tried to reschedule but missed each other a couple more times – I was riding around the countryside on a motorcycle and Jorge was placing bets on our birthday (27) and the sum of our birthdays (27+27). The winning numbers, he told me when we finally did meet up before my departure, were the numbers of my room, backward and forward – 210, 012. There’s no place like home.