the spacey frontier and a missing lobe

I have been having quite the difficult time with my schedule. I keep showing up to class at the wrong times, and if it wasn't ridiculous already it is nearing the realm of the unacceptable. I have taken up coffee again which is doing me good for class, but it still doesn't put my brain into optimal overdrive. I suppose even a girl who switches spaces would stay spacey afterall, wouldn't she?
The opera is a silly affair, and that is what I like the most about it. Humans are inherently absurd, and the opera best exemplifies this inherent absurdity. A fun fact about the opera: the screens located right next to the stage served a culturally practical purpose during a different era. People, namely women, in mourning who wanted to socialize or enjoy themselves after suffering a loss would still attend the opera but in secret. I watched an opera called something after class yesterday and didn't giggle like I expected but drew things during intermissions and made up dialogues in my head. I also played the staring game with members in the orchestra and tried to count how many times I saw the diaphragm of the lead convulse.
Fried chicken exists here, which I will obtain soon. So do cocoa pebble-like cereals, which I am eating for breakfast. I have also stopped recycling neurotically (but don't feel any less guilty about it). I have taken up drinking mass amounts of coca cola on top of everything. Pistacho ice cream is a must at all times of the day, and I have spotted the most perfect cheap place for choripan just one block away from my home. I am looking forward to a weekly or bi- or tri-weekly, pushing it of course, round of mid-day choripan. It's just hard to be a happy person when you are constantly searching for organic and healthy fare in Buenos Aires without scouring the entire city. In an effort to retain my much valued happiness, I have resorted to eating things I would have dismissed in Iowa.
I went to the most enormous annual march in Buenos Aires the other day. When I first arrived, I locked eyes with one of the Mothers of the Plaza (of Mayo). She was wearing one of the infamous white scarves on her head, denoting her relationship, and we smiled at each other. Something about the genuity of it was really flooring. I nearly burst into tears but got ahold of myself.
I was able to hold onto the banner with all of the known people who were kidnapped/tortured/killed during the military regime. Most of the time I held onto the picture of a girl named Elina, and she could have been my best friend. The march was kind of a mess, but people are people. I think the number of people in attendance came somewhere around the 40.000 mark, but I cannot be sure. It went for blocks and blocks and blocks and blocks. The age range and the diversity of those in attendance was astonishing. After being in the middle of everyone in the streets, I found a nice spot in the sun to listen to some of those speaking. I made friends with a toddler who kept bumbling around the hill and using me for balance and a receptacle for beans and blades of grass he would find on the ground. I tried to give him a fuzzball that was once a feather, and he didn't know what to do with it so he just stared at me for a long time.
People have been on my mind constantly. That is, people and what it means to be a person and what it means to value life and what it means to violate life and what it means to be fanatical and what it means to transition from the valuing of life to the valuing of ideals. I have also thought a lot about emotions and what takes people from point to point. The most recent cycle of these thoughts stemmed from one of the most powerful, disturbing, and real films I have seen in a long time called "This is England." Toward the middle when emotions get twisted, I clutched the pillow and couldn't let go. Then I went to bed listening to the most recent installment of This American Life entitled "I didn't ask to be born" which made me writhe even further. The following day in my Human Rights seminar, we watched a documentary called "Breaking the Silence" detailing the experience of torture victims through out the world. My professor was one of the people on the screen, and it was interesting having already known he was a victim of torture watching the reactions of people in my class when they saw his face in the video for the first time. I have been taking the edge (created by these intense emotional catalysts) off by frequenting the Twitter of Christopher Walken. I recommend it.
Today marks the beginning of the International Film Festival, my career as a trapeze artist and tight rope walker, and the weekend. Pocho is still stupid, so that's nothing new, but he began sharing the bed with me earlier in the week, which is. Tomorrow my Human Rights class is visiting a navy outpost which I believe was one of the sites of the secret detention centers during the military regime. I may need to rush to the horse stables to take the edge off afterwards but only time will tell.
There is interesting political shiiiit going down here, and I suggest you look into it if you can.
El fin.