In which a city that never sleeps burns out.

It'd seem a simple force of nature if not for the presence of so much un-naturally stamped in blue-gray columns and rows 'round the rotting monuments of this mass they've had the gall to call metropolis. The life, at night, is not a wave, not a pulse, there's nothing resembling life amidst the artifice of fun strung out of tiny concrete blocks and confused bands offering grotesquely butchered tributes to the lovely people who live somewhere else. "Let's Dance" has a bad trip on a fucking bongo drum while half its words are lost in mumbling over the emitter's disinterest, enthusiasm miraculously rediscovered once the murder's over and he can insist everyone clap because, please keep in mind, he's working. We leave them a love note on a napkin and pour ourselves back into the swamp, knowing full well that's the best show on tap that night.

Downtown beautiful buildings sit plumply in their pastry case and cast their glitter on the water; still, it's silent except for the garbage trucks and folks who follow them, groupies of the grunts and squeaks and smells of twelve million people's worth of junk. Their parties do not don the contemptible pretense of not starting 'til the day's clock has run itself out, and I suspect whatever they're drinking is superior to the club sludge. I suspect their conversation, for being mostly absent, outshines the paying sort too. There's no circus here to run to, but pools and pools of "fuck it" with open invitations to join in. Just a toe.

The barrios they say are full of things to see. And it's true for a week, for a glorious week in which you'd think what you're seeing is a grand edifice that must house even greater things. And on the eighth day, you will see the light, and it will not be good. For there's nothing inside aside from endless "todo bien?"s and incomprehensible failures, people with no idea what they're doing or why but they'll demand your respect (in words alone of course). Wouldn't you like to support them? Wouldn't you like to sit there, in the windowed cell they've got, and pretend with them that jack shit is just sublime?

There are no horses at the hippodrome, all they've got are slot machines. "The Palace" here is a beautiful old building full of tents that sell knockoffs of boring brandname clothing, littered with disused racecars and plastic booths where no one waits to "service VIP clients". Shops along the main avenues keep their doors permalocked and post-it note plastered, please press the buzzer and wait five minutes for entry, for the sake of "seguridad". I used to ask the keepers what they were securing themselves from. The answer invariably was that nothing really happened.

Nothing really happens here. I've never fallen out with a city so fast, a curious thing to me. Over the last year it's become clearer the problem is all the pretending, which could've been fun in itself if it were about anything other than having fun. The only way to enjoy yourself here is to go out knowing you're to entertain yourself, to reflect on nature, to push something until you're completely exhausted. Nothing here will impress itself upon you, in other words. You must impress yourself upon it.

It's hardly the worst problem to have, until you miss the old gods of your youth and can't help yearning for someone talented --at anything that's real-- to take you somewhere routeless.

Leave a Reply