A "Class"-y Affair

Last night I partook in my final dinner in Argentina, not with steak (that was done for lunch with a half a bottle of wine, and a pleasant steak it was indeed), but with a supper club dinner with a chef that uses all local ingredients.  It (feels like it) is a rather new way to dine and feel special since this happens at someone's residence, like at the chef's place this time.  Listening to the folks around me talking throughout dinner at their own tables, I was oddly cognizant of how out of place I always feel at fancy affairs full of pretensions.  My friend was not as uncomfortable as me, so I wonder if it's because of my own confidence issues?

Whatever the case, I ate and was merry with my flight of 4 varieties of wines.  The oil candle steadily burned and the food was consumed course after course.  The night was pleasantly cool, only later on becoming a little more of a cooler spring evening, but by then, the alcohol had begun warming me.  The white place mats held signs of my clumsiness, a splash of green with an imprint upon it revealing an unsteady hand with the place too far away.

Throughout my trip, we have been following rough guide suggestions and not really foraging through the other delicacies that lie here and there.  For a first romp, it was good to be able to go to some places that served exactly what we had been hoping for, and as a credit to our guide, there were plenty of very local places where the path was not quite so beaten down.  Obviously our footprints have left a mark though, so one only wonders how much more the path will be worn down.

In the afternoon, we finally made it to have our Yerba Mate kick.  It's an herby liquid that felt healthy among all the good meats that we have been feasting on.  I've had enough cow to last me for many months, and frankly I'm not sure that US beef can stand to the quality and price that we found here.  The Mate sat idly in the gourd cup after each sip of hot water was poured in, the leaves slowly losing themselves to the waves. 

The whole set of jam, bread, and light crackers was a nice late afternoon delight.  The communal Mate was a nice way to chill and focus on us, though we generally opted to silence and enjoyment of the food and drink.  At a very regimented pace, we left quite promptly to get home eventually to rest and pop onwards to dinner.

Before dinner, we stopped by a vegetarian hippydippy paradise where I purchased all of my Mate, one pack being produced at a co-op. I drank a lemonade spiked with ginger and fresh mint to bring about my insatiable appetite.  My travels in Argentina were coming to a close, and I knew that I had just begun to understand a continent that I've heard about so much, grew up surrounded by stories and families that I never truly engaged in.  The fact that Argentina talks about it's indigenous people so much, but appear so white and European, when I heard that three employees in every Starbucks is from Colombia, the way that white privilege seemed to replay itself in the streets daily, I wonder what is going on beneath the surface here.  I only know that privilege in all it's forms may act or play out differently in various places, but that there is an invisible thread linking things, an undercurrent steering us hitherthither, driving things into motion.   I have begun quite a while ago, but it's more important than ever to make those choices, to sway things into motion that I decide, and to not be mired down.  Peek-a-boo, I can see through...

Beyond the Hills

Driving on the solitary winding road that ran up the hills and into the snow-capped peaks, the wind blew the sands at our car, great clouds of dust and sand raced past, and the Andes stood solid in the distance.  Randomly cars would pass by, speeding on their way into and out of those imposing tips, reminding us that we aren't the only ones around, even if the closest we would ever get is the millisecond glimpse we would catch of one another.  What lay behind those hills stays in our imaginations for now.

After a filling portion of the tastiest pork, we searched for the small wineries as the larger estates were mainly flush with foreign investment.  It was more the fact that large estates served lower quality wines for a lot more money than the smaller ones that we made this decision.  We found a small family winery that served us wine made in very Argentine fashion, fermented in concrete vats sealed with Poxy. 

The old couple served us a tasting of three wines that they produced pretty much all hands on deck.  While it wasn't any stupendous find, the old couple were super cute and talked about their own families' path to the western edges of Argentina as farmers from rural Spain.  Their tale was reminiscent of immigrant stories that I've heard from my own experience as a child of immigrants.  Traveling four months through forests with only some faint idea of what might come to be, or in the case of my family, traveling for hours out to restaurant to apprentice and only be home with family on weekends on holidays.

The machinery they used was 160 years old from Lyon, France.  The tasting room, basically the family's kitchen.  Abuelito told us about how the machinery was French because the Spanish were scientifically behind, not smart enough to create such fantastical tools.  This thought made me sad inside, that people are always challenged by their inferiority to others.  At the same time, I know that people of color, LGBTQ folks, differently abled folks, and other different marginalized communities are challenged by their mere existence, and again, to achieve the status that this elderly gentlemen has is sometimes galaxies away from where I can see myself or what I consider my communities being able to truly reach.  

It seems sometimes that it is jealousy driving the incessant comparisons I make, and yet, why should these comparisons not be made and unpacked?  Our trip backwards through time to when the world is bustling full of those that do not know one another, where the importance of an individual seems to have receded into the backdrop of interpersonal violence.  As we sat in our semi-camas and reclined slightly, we poured the last of the half bottle of Gran Reserva to lull us into the half bed that would carry us to bed.

In those last moments before the earth was swallowed up in darkness, I looked around outside, seeing the encroaching darkness and encircling clouds teaming up together to shroud the world in their embrace.  As the light faded ever so quickly, I looked back quickly at the retreating Andes, unable to sprint up to me, thinking of the desert loneliness with which they have grown accustomed, and remembered that afternoon.  Looking into the hills and crevices of this monumental mountain range, the sun stretched its arms forth, wrapping us all in it's fingers as best as it could, the snow-capped peaks slowly tearing away their wintery coats through the young green lumps.  Beyond the hills, beyond those mountains, something lies in wait, and yet I cannot know because I have yet to traverse those great lengths to see with my own eyes what lies beyond.  The last fleck of sun drizzled off the bus as the night sang us to sleep, even if it were a fitful sleep, as I hummed my tunes of sadness resolved only with the embrace of one who loves me, waiting for the sadness to be chased away so soon.

Times of Tenderness

Trekking through the countryside in Mendoza has been quite the adventure.  Getting to the correct areas for bikes, finding the wineries that we had planned on visiting, trying to balance our time at each spot, getting back to our hostel, figuring out what we want to eat and how to get there...  And luckily, we were able to hit some places.  The bike tour wasn't quite the ambitious 3-4 per day we had expected, but in the end, it was still a taste of Mendoza's finest.  It was also an experience that put ambitions into perspective, what I could achieve with my friend, and taking the moments in one by one.

A drop of red wine lingered in my glass as I held it up to the trellis above, vines creeping along the interlaced wooden frame.  The sun shone heavily down, and through the glass, I didn't know whether it was the sun's reflections or the clouds passing by as I passed it quickly above, savoring the last sip I took in.  The complexity of the wine's flavors lingered momentarily as a sourness and bitterness rose in my belly to my palate.  A shudder of guilt, pain, angst, and tenderness shot through as the drops rose into my eyes, knowing that I wanted to hug my special someone.

The dogs crept by, dragging along, waiting for me to share those precious bits of fat with them, but better sense told me not to just feed anything to them.  Their idling and whimpering ways resurrected the pangs I had felt moments before, and it was all I could do to not let them spill forth and ruin the idyllic surroundings.  My heart raced quickly as I drew deep breaths to calm down my feelings, because feelings are naturally inhibitive and bad to exhibit in public.  I waited patiently the rest of the day to tell my pillow my true emotions.

The following day of biking led us further south across from the gigantic industrial Bodega Norton.  Directly across was a shanty shack where we entered to rent our bikes for the day.  A tio waved us in, showed us the bikes, and proceeded to give us tips on where we wanted to go; the tinier boutique bodegas (winery, not the NY style ones) where there was better attention and tours were not regimented in clockwork patterns a la Ford.  We ordered a choripan and two empanadas for the road with him, knowing we wouldn't make the lunches at the bodegas.  As we sat enjoying our choripan, I stared at the television and no one other than Psy was beating out his rhymes to Gangnam Style.  I only hoped that the hyperbolic capitalist extremes came across as critique and not aspirational.

The day ended with only one bodega trip as we were turned around by high-speed roadways that were not permissive of bikers.  Bonfanti, off a dirt path behind a tree-lined street which we had to ride under another freeway to get to, was quiet, old, and redone as modern chic.  Olive trees were dispersed throughout the vineyard, a well-rounded approach to keeping the older Italian immigrants safe in case the vines failed.  We went through the mandatory tour before imbibing happily of this smaller scale bodega.  Apparently, as we've heard in more than one place, global wine capital has a heavy hand in the wine business, so we decided to support this smaller bodega with a purchase of 4 bottles each.  Small business is always tricky as nativism tends to come hand in hand, but one can only hope that the lures of capital do not curdle what we are supporting.  

We road back through the roads to the shanty shack to return our bikes to the tio of El Puesto Del Jamon, aching afterwards from our mules' work.  On the way back to Mendoza, we drifted in and out of sleep, and retired to our room to nap before dinner once again.  Monday will be our last trek out to wine country, and we've already arranged for the trip to hopefully go more smoothly.  As with many nights, I look forward to ending with my boo, talking about the day, and drifting off to sleep with the memories of tenderness mellowing my palate as I enter the dark space with the absence of dreams.

Danish on the Bus

On what was supposedly going to be a relaxing overnight trip on the bus to Mendoza, we happened to be loaded onto a sleeper bus with a tour of Danish folks.  Therefore, what was a regularly controlled and simple trip, became a bus full of consecutive interpretation at 5 times the volume of the Argentine server and drunken Scandinavian revelry for an old Dane's umpty-ith birthday.  Though believing firmly in the celebration of life and being able to enjoy one's later years (though why shouldn't we enjoy the earlier ones as well?), it was still a grueling bus trip for many reasons.

It's curious to see how a busload of white people in a mainly white country interact.  The major difference being in language, and the Danes made sure everyone else on the bus heard that they were there.  Well, I'll say that it was the tour guide who made it known.  I jumped every time he interpreted as he found it important to speak 5 times louder than then Argentine, no rolls of my eyes could tell him how annoying it was.  But if it were merely noise, I'd put it off to just that he was trying to help the old-timers hear him better.

What happened was that he broke out their own stash of wines, mixing the random reds with each other and urging the Scandinavian inclination towards drunken revelry.  As the meal passed and red wine became whisky and rum, there was one moment that sparked me.  The tour guide rang out with (in English) "and the bottle, Made in Chiiiiiina!!!!"  He had obviously spotted me and Syd sitting right behind the massively tall frames of the Nordic bunch, so what could he mean by that declaration?  Why did I even need to worry that he was aiming at us?  The whole Danish kingdom roared with laughter, and the embers in my belly burned like a volcano ready to blow.

Obviously, being in a foreign country and trying to enjoy my vacation, I didn't bother.  However, the fact that a bunch of white folks in some foreign country full of alot of other white folks (Argentines are very European, my friend was told that three of every Starbucks employee was actually from Colombia, and if race/skin color were not one of the main identifiers, I'd be surprised.  And I do hope someone will surprise me with some historical smackdown right now) made me angry on a basis of race (you might argue ethnicity, but how the hell would he have known we were exactly Chinese) was messed up.

Then, I though about the fact that this tour was for one Dane's birthday celebration, a whole group of his old buddies able to traverse oceans and imbibe in peace with a large group of his buddies, and how this compared to my parents.  My parents, who have been working since their early teens, through war, poverty, and struggling through lower middle class aspirations that their children would become oppressors in their golden years, would most likely find it hard pressed to enjoy their later years as these white folks. 

The bus trip was eye-opening, and I only hope that it doesn't take such comparisons to see why our worlds are so fragmented and split up into inequitable divides.  But then again, I'm the one with enough to venture as these old white folks and galavant in a foreign country, no?  Sure.  Minus my credit that I'm relying on and forcing my friend to rough it as much as possible so that I can do this.  Whatever the reality is, I know that mine is not part of theirs, and that theirs is on some plane founded on oppression and exploitation.

Soledad

One is the loneliest number. 
But we're all, at the core, just one. 
And that's why we come together,
                  and celebrate the oneness that we are,
        the oneness that we bring,
the oneness that we add,
                                                                                              to go beyond what one means
because math says that one times one times one times one
is inevitably only one
                                                                                                       but only if we stay in our own circlet

The rain didn't stop today, so my plans to run and explore the nearer areas never came about, but it wasn't a problem.  There are those days when I don't want to leave my bed, when the endless amounts to learn, participate, and experience cannot pull me from the covers of my own self knowing that I'm here, and that's all that matters in some moments, that I still exist.

There are also those moments of silence and stillness when my existence questions itself, wonders if it's still here, or if it's only borne of it's own insistence on taking the space and breaths that belong elsewhere more useful, better, somehow more important.  But those days have grown few, grown weak, and been transformed.

Along the way to pick up laundry, I got some snacks, grabbed some empanadas, and watched rain drops splash on the cobbled streets of Guchurraga.  Bobbing umbrellas swayed assuredly through the sidewalks, careful to not collide.  The swish of tires on wet roads squished by near and far, but the tip tap of rain drops never let that deter their jam session. 

The soft glow of a hidden sun brandished along each stone of the streets as I swiftly made my errands in the neighborhood.  In the evening, my friend returned from a day of work, and I was complimented on my good wifely ways.  Sometimes I doubt the beauty and power of my domestic prowess, but I am proud of what I can do in the home. 

The rain continues into the early evening, most likely here to rock me to sleep.  Dinner is yet to come, but my day of solitude has been refreshing.  I'm glad to have reveled in my own being, to know that I keep on existing, if to no one else at all, I'm here for me.  And even then, I'm here for all my friends and fam, I'm here for my love.

Lluvia y Claridad

The rain pitterpatters outside the bookshop as we, well I, conclude an afternoon of shop hopping in Palermo, the boutiquey part of BA where I'm staying.  It's also cheaper housing for people that want to rent someone's apartment for days/weeks/months at a time, and therefore why my cheap ass finds its way into a rather bouge neighborhood.  Well, I could find my way into these places other ways as well, of course.

With my spiffy shoes on, I hobble after my friend slowly on the streets as it has no padding and no shock absorption, my knees taking in the micro-vibrations sucking the jelly outta my knee caps.  The price of trying to look nicer.  Cobblestone streets don't make this any better for me, but we strive forward, checking out that knickknacks and kitchy items in stores.  The price of items in this area are just as expensive as any other major metropolitan city, obviously with the local breaks and hidden gems, but on the whole, well plugged in to the global capital network.

In the evening after dinner, a couple from Austin buddied up with us to take in some ice cream and some light company.  The gelato/cream was delicious, the taste of bitter chocolate melting dreamily into the tramontana, laced with dulce de leche and other flavors that teased the palate.  We parted after light chatter and headed home in the rainy evening, drops splattering my left arm and my friend's right arm.  After a few days of bar-hopping, meat/wine debauchery, and soldier style moving through our lists, we finished a day of mostly leisurely strolling.

Tomorrow, the weather promises to continue it's incessant drizzle, and I will partake in a day of self-care.  By self-care, I'm trying to align myself with an article I read today about reframing the concept of self-care.  When I care about you, it's because I care about myself too, and how we are connected together.  It's the greater love, and I hope I can continue to learn about spreading this feeling outwards.  When you're stronger, so am I. 

Pathways and Origins

Late afternoon we walked out of the Museum of Contemporary Art of Buenos Aires, a streak of brilliant sky blue mounted behind the cathedral of what was once the ultra-bouge part of town, San Telmo.  The deep pastel grabbed me for a moment, pulling me into a flash of the future that lay ahead patiently for me.  Pictures can't relay the true vivid color of the sky, there's something missing in the photo, something missing in my words, and if only closing your eyes and seeing the striking blue grab hold of your soul could let you feel that instance of capture.

I was held hostage in its grips, hoping only that my lunch of cheap, chargrilled, delicious grass-fed filet would anchor my human's body to the earth.  With the caffeine coursing through my bloodstream to waken me from post-lunch itis, I dropped my head into a stream of thought that never connected with my contemporaneous being.

The wall-painted current exhibition was a jumbled representation of the day's feelings.  A mix of hopeful joy and depressed possibilities, with all the fire and gusto of that which has fled the depths of a fire pit of hate and torture into the light of the moon, wandering about in search of what the experience meant.

And so I put some words to these feelings.  Something that cannot express what it is I'm feeling since it is beyond me where my body and mind is yearning to be at...

破樓簷下圖像活
橫影食光扉門沒
風靜穹空睇遠方
鐵橋蓋擋途仍濶

River Created, or River Self-made?

Making our way through the botanical gardens and a delish chocolate tort with fresh cream and berries, I found myself on a bridge over a river.  The park/garden was made in a European style of symmetrical patterns and shapes, mirrored reflections with an occasional lop-sided island off a wonky lake or two.  The river was man-made as obviously was the park, and the greenish waves rippled in the calm spring breeze.  The waters ran through the concocted streams, flowing as they were told to flow, but from those same streams, they ran through to where they guided themselves, to where they were to go, because the waters can't be guided by people, as much as they wish they could.

How are we each individually shaped by all the screwiness in life, in the environment, and consequently in ourselves?  How much do we bend to the will of something that is not good, something that turns us in the wrong ways, that hurts us rather than harms us?  What choices can we make to ensure we are improving ourselves and not succumbing to something that is not water-like, to a new way of being in which we are empowered by working with people rather than against?

In the evening, we attended a wine tasting, all the glasses were empty.  Each one shimmered delightfully as we slowly worked through tainting each clear glass with drops of golden and crimson liquid. I listened to the gentile talk floating freely about as folks chatted about politics and the absurdity of the obvious choices, and wondered how obvious they were if so many people were swayable. There's obvious work to be done in changing ourselves to understand why people would be so adamantly opposed to what one calls reason if that itself is not able to sway them.

Fast forward to another night and day later when I had consumed two more steaks, 1.5 bottles of wine, and strutted around Buenos Aires looking for the scene.  On reflection of what National Coming Out Day means for myself, I think there is still so much to come out about.  Coming out means dealing with who one is, trying to be better, and not letting our dark histories and skeletons in the closets become a hindrance.  And that requires transformations so deep inside us and others, it's a scary process.  But it's what we owe ourselves to truly shine in our skins as we exist here.  We owe it to our ancestors, to our people, to the earth and skies that nurture us daily.  As I struggle to accept and love the inner beauty that everyone has to offer, including myself, I hope this week has provided a platform for more than the transformation of LGBTQ folks into "creatures" of the day, but that all of us can come to terms with what we might think is the ugliness in our past, and forgive and learn and grow together. 

Is it a river created or self-made?  It's the waters inside that flow through us and outwards that cannot be held by the bounds of what is created to enclose us that contain the true substance.  It's self-made by our daily choices, bounded by the rules created, and yet free to traverse the distances between, me, you, and beyond, it's whether we can bring it to that higher level of realizing our power.  Love to y'all always.

Parilladas y Bebidas

The gloominess and drab of my departure from NYC opened up into clear skies and cool warming temperatures in Buenos Aires.  It seemed the dread and doldrums were passing, but I couldn't help looking at the lonesome looming cloud drift in the distance, threatening to lead a pack of mates over.  As I stared warily at that threat from such a distance, Syd pulled me back to the present reality of the sabor of my cafe con leche, growing cold from my neglect.

Today we set down our foundations, got into the apartment, scouted the area for wine shops, phone shops, food/fruit shops, and banks.  In addition, we purchased our first bottle, got a corkscrew, and situated ourselves on the eastish/westish axis that the city of Buenos Aires functions.  It was a getting to know ourselves day, getting to understand the connections between us and the city’s pulse, the living arterials of feet and wheels, following the flow of a live and kicking urban area.

During dinner, we imbibed and masticated tender meat happily with our 40% happy hour discount.  Caveat was just getting the bejeezers outta there before the one hour limit, and that was no problem.  Bottle of wine?  You got it mesero!

We took an after-dinner stroll through Plaza Serrano and marked down shops to peruse over the next few days, plotting out food spots to hit up, and worked out enough to digest just enough to fit a quarter kilo of gelato/ice-cream into our so-starved bellies.  Dulce de leche, chocolate con almendras, tramontana, y merenguetta.  No shit, the real deal y’all.  Now if I can get the data working correctly on my phone tomorrow,  I will be sure to make you jealous of my meat tomorrow.

On returning home, the day seemed to coalesce into a pot of reminiscence and appreciation, dabbled with my own internal fears and hopes.  It’s a time to be strong and present not only for myself, but for all those out there who went through the silence I grew up with.  My focus has not been on being or coming out, but I will make sure to think more deeply about that and share more.  Just as the sun must come out and shine eventually, we gotta step out and show our faces out there.  Power to the people and those who survive in the face of insurmountable odds.

Airport (Leg 2)

A soft fog covered the brightening day, revealing a mountain that approached in the distance as the moon retreated.  Odd shapes in the distance separating the mountain from the airport windows lurked and arched.  The Chilean morning seemed fresh and rejuvenating, but that could only be a guess through the windows. 

The monetary unit here numbers in the thousands, and I pass by the encroaching restaurants and coffee shops of US origin, bucks and Tuesdays obviously are very important.  Havanna is also apparently the expert in dulce de leche, a little different from the single ‘n’ that I associate with cigars.  My stomach churns with anxiety as the collision settles uneasily.  There’s nothing to do but wait now, wait for my flight, wait for my return, wait for the sun to rise brighter, wait for what Argentina brings, wait for tranformations in life.

The nice lady I sat next to on my flight over lives near my old high school, and she warned me of the dangers of Buenos Aires, especially if they smell my foreign stank.  I don’t think much of it as I’ve grown up enveloped in my own shroud of foreign mystique, a foreignness as different as the plague that continues to deplete the Americas.  Plague.

Airport (Leg 1)

The morning started off with a cloud of hazy rain and gloomy clouds, breaking into an afternoon of open skies and fluffy clouds wandering aimlessly.  I arrived at the airport, checked in, and witnessed the security folks allow a few white passengers into a lane that was opened to speed up the boarding process, stopping at the Asian lady right in front of me.

Before that, the morning ensued in a buzz of activity to pack, get to a training, and worry about a spat that I had the evening beforehand.  With a bright red shirt on, I headed into the day with the goal of letting go of my worries and being as bright as the red dye on my threads.

As I wait patiently for the flight, my world dissolves into an open expanse of nothingness and everything colliding.  And all I can do is wait until the end of my trip to see what the big bang brings with it.

今宵告別君子

送別

涼風微漂月不明

白菊一瓣秋香剩

餘伴夢歸雲仍集

黯然湮滅破淚聲

夏霛其一

炎陽通透樹蓬頂
冷月哭笑微風聲
掃目尋星忘空懷
定眼飄葉深秋成

唐人街的拱門

數日前，有聞華人遊客在紐約唐人街在找唐人街的拱門。他們在找唐人街的典型標誌。可惜，紐約唐人街沒有立上拱門，所以我就告訴他們這裡沒有拱門。紐約唐人街是我父母公婆漂雲過海到達的地點，而聽到他們來到這裡找拱門引起心底的波動。他們在找紐約市唐人街的墳墓。

拱門往往出現在唐人街變爲旅遊觀點的標誌，因爲華人社區自從清朝都沒有自立拱門為榮耀的標誌。拱門表示這塊地以往住過華人社區，而現在其蹤跡遺留著拱門及幾家商店餐廳。拱門是釘在墳蓋的最後兩釘子，標誌著華人留下的微少沉澱。

貴族化，不但使唐人街日益衰弱，其後果也在很多唐人心中深刻絕望的痕跡。即是民衆跟富有鬥爭的現實是慘敗。

但是唐人街還沒到這個絕望的現實。釘子還沒砍下。過去十年中，紐約市唐人人口增長了30%以上。紐約市唐人街卻減少了10%。皇后區和佈碌輪區的唐人去增加的人口很快。表明貴族化在影響紐約市唐人街的住民，而其住民在力奮富有財產的壓迫。幸而有組織（如CAAAV唐人住客協會）在推動唐人街的市民來爭取其權益，團結奮鬥無所不爲、貪財好奢分子。

我爸媽告訴我，不要忘記自己的來源，不要忘恩負義。唐人街是華人社區的重要基地，而我不想看到墳蓋最後兩個釘子給砍下來。爭取的是工作階層的基地，爭取的是人民的力量，爭取的是生命樂趣的基本--即作爲人的互相資扶的基本責任。

Pigeon Poop

On quite the quiet afternoon of non-committal meetings, I walked in the park off 8th avenue.  Whereupon entering the park, the fortune of pigeon poop on my head touched lightly on the front fluff of my hair, shielding the green splatter from oozing down my face.  And thereupon I sat down, unfluffed by my good fortune, opened my bag, and cleaned up the pot of gold dumped on me.

For some melancholic reason, today's been a reflective one, of the past that never ceases to dump upon me again.  Yet, each time my reaction differs from the previous, and I believe some call this development.  Funny that development doesn't necessarily mean progress and improvement as it is generally understood in modern day parlance.  Or maybe that is what people are insinuating when they note this.  Nonetheless, I can't believe that development necessitates progress and improvement as our lives today clearly indicate.

Looking through blacked out glasses, I read for a bit, and then looked up to watch the leaves wavering thoughtfully as clouds stretched and distorted in the background, finally bursting into clarity, through which I saw the clear blue sky that I probably did not have to see, in fact, to know it was there waiting for me all along. 

On that note, a pigeon wafted not so ungracefully up to the branch floating above my head, and I hesitated as the bough seemed to weigh pensively under the weight of its new visitor.  I zipped up my bag, readying to flee the scene in fear of another lucky charm bestowing itself upon my head.  But I waited and stared upwards at the fowl anus aimed directly at my face at that moment, just to tempt the fates and fortune.  A breeze blew by and the pigeon fluttered off, and I relaxed.

While I stared intently at the various muses that stopped or floated by to inspire my insipid thoughts, I breathed slightly and crossed my legs, lifting them from the shallow puddle under the bench.  As I remained uninspired, another pigeon happened upon the same bough above, and I again stared fate in the ass.  Unfortunately, I wasn't so brave as to be too much the temptress, so this time I did pack up and leave promptly, smiling to myself at the decision to leave that fortunate spot, fortunate enough to avoid the mess.  Some might call this development, but, again, I'm not so sure it was the right action to take, and not so sure that consequences would have been as unfavorable as I thought they might have been.