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.:Friday, December 08, 2006:.
Dias de lluvia

Bogotá is a city of sinners, remmants of wilderness have been left behind. Through these great sunken mountains you can traverse the city, beneath the streets. Look up to the floating neigbourhoods, full of a significant presence in the city’s literature.
I dove into Bogota’s sunken rooms of green sunlight. Then, I found out I was still half a city away. Again and again I saw green before me and the eye had to search along the wall of sky to the smoke of burnt tobacco across bridges and streets. They all connect the dots together. It was a moment of cubism.
It’s a rainy city, winds and rains sweep the fictional city, gathering and sorting detritus: leaves, lost papers, a winter’s accumulation of words.

All winter I wore the city like the skin on a still body of water; it floated above me and I breathed it in as if through gills. It weighed upon me, like water measuring the weight of souls. But in this season I rise through it, muddying the water, breaching the surface. The winter has made me feral, and now I roar through Bogota with my teeth bared, biting at the wind.

I am voracious.

All at once the city is suffused with light, and alive with its own shouting narratives. The mood in the cab line is festive; you feel fierce joy at the way people scream their brains out at the margins of the highway. Even dog shit is amusing, for now.

Bogota quickens, until its stories spill out in a gush of muddy water and cigarette butts. Newborn, they are unkempt and demanding. They scream for attention. They grow to monstrous adolescence in days, writing coarse poems in the red buses laneways. Security guards follow them in galleries, protecting a so called painting, true art. They have no regard for history.

But at night they curl at the base of bridges by numbers…
they curl, warmed by the vibration of the city’s traffic. It pulsates in them, and by dawn they have memorized the urban cadences. A lightbulb pops at the hacienda and someone is there to record it, knowing that small tragedies are metaphors for the large ones. A contruction site reveals a row of bottles, pipe stems and fossils, and suddenly the city grows a memory, for now. Two stories pass on breakdown buses, a glimpse of love found, lost, or ignored. But that’s all right: there’s always another one coming along, dawling infront of the fruit stall, feeding stale crusts to pigeons and sparrows, grabbing a hot dog before the evening ends, drinking Jack before midnight, walking headlong through the traffic, or being wheeled along in a public little bus, ejecutivo.

Bogota is liminal. It is also alluvial, vulvar and valvular. You might add: it is vulgar. And I would reply: it is learning to speak, let it.

Few of us can say we were born in this city, but we give birth to it everyday.



Plaza del Che

MamBo's view

Parque Nacional


.:Lo wrote this at: 7:19 PM:.