[Graffiti in Mendoza]
The heavy air of Buenos Aires is antique and electric. The history of this country is calloused from being run over and reconsidered so many times by the memories of millions.
In Mendoza, Argentina, the exhaust is eaten up by the city’s many trees. Here, conversations, steak and wine remind me that political ideologies should be chewed and digested, changed, altered to conform to the flux of everyday life, the view of the mountains up close.
I have visited friends in this city often over the years so that now their bookshelves represent to me a kind of mini-museum; each time I visit I end up leaving books from my backpack. Now these books represent the expectations and plans of each crossing of the equator, what story I hoped to write, history I hoped to learn, boomerangs in time.