Stone Legs

I return home, leaning on the gate, with that look in my eye: ahora - me muero. I collapse on the forest green sofa in the living room and swim with the stars on the ceiling. How do you explain this feeling in Spanish? Mi mente está moviendo en circulos. I wail in pain when my legs and butt cheeks turn to stone. I call my medico by my side and she feels my forehead and neck - I am on fire. I can´t tell if it´s the sunburn seeping into my bloodstream or if I´m falling deeper and deeper into the cosmos.

I had used every drop of energy. While I arrived home last night with my body in ruins, I was happy I did what I did.

I begin my Saturday in the morning with another round of tennis with the old guys. This time I move like shining dulce de leche, leaving a river of sweat on the clay court. After a much needed shower, I join the group in the club house for a gigantic lunch with Canelones - an Italian pasta dish - as the main attraction. The old foggies talk so incredibly fast that I am surprised even they could understand each other. Vermouth and wine is constantly poured down my throat, and my mind begins to slow - the men start talking despacio; I can understand more; the food tastes delicious. Beneath their comb-overs, wrinkled faces, and greying mustaches, I could see the boys within all these men.

I return home around 4 o clock almost asleep, but force myself into another shower and out the door. I drag each leg in front of the other with my guitar weighing down my back. Slowly slowly moving forward. Slowly slowly towards the train. I jump into the cabin as it takes off towards Tigre, and when I land, I hear a group of musicians at the other end jamming out: a rapper spits his flow as the drummers squat low and bang out a rhythm. On my end, another guitarist is noodling off nonsense by himself. I join him and we begin jamming out the nonsense blues for the whole ride. We get off in San Isidro and walk together for a litle while. When we split ways, I encounter a Peruvian guittarist/cane flutist busking alone on the sidewalk. I join him and we play Hotel California...(I hate that song). But, we make 5 pesos in about 3 minutes and I give him a satisfactory look. He fires back a cold stare and I can tell he wants nothing of me, so I scurry along. Slowly slowly towards the feria.

When I arrive, there is an explosion of life: a magic show, a drum circle, lines of tents, and the smell of roasted almonds. I move past the show towards the drum circle, but dont stay long. I find my buddy Sergio at his headband stand and we greet with a cheek kiss and big hug. Sergio is a beautiful soul. He plays the violin like a dove, and we sounds great together. We whip out the instruments and jam out renditions of Man of Constant Sorrow, Youve Got to Hide Your Love Away, Jean Genie, and Another Brick in the Wall. But in the middle of a jam, a lady in a nearby tent faints and everything comes to a sudden halt. I wander over to my friend Cora, who is sorta like my Argentinian Jewish aunt, and we talk for a while.

I meet more and more people. Luis, a robust bassist, rocks out a heavy blues riff and I improvize Spanish love lyrics over it. Lucas plays Where is my Mind by the Pixies and we all howl at the moon. I meet a semi-rastifari named Marcus and I buy a headband from his stand. We talk about immigration, Mexican hooligans, and learning from the streets. I leave the feria with superb happiness and close to zero life. I meet a man in the train station and we get to talking about Bjork, marionetts, and sarcasm. Right before my stop, another man says something to me about destiny and I feel a reaffirmed light pass through my soul. But, when I get off the train, I can hardly move a muscle. I climb up the hill to my house with such little energy I barely reach the top. When I arrive home, I am ready to drift into a thousand dreams. What I learn is that I have a fever and I need to rest. With Elvira as my doctor, she orders me around: take a shower, Ill make soup, lie down, change into these clothes...and so on.

I awake feeling refreshed. In the city of life, its not hard to run out of gas.