Broken Routines and Twin Walnuts [FF Vol. 24]
Much like my routine I describe below (or rather lack thereof), my appetite for writing will disappear for weeks and then resurge in full at a moment’s notice.
I don’t believe in creativity striking. The best writers are the ones capable of sitting down without fail day over day until something slightly better than dribble hits the page.
Likewise, I doubt any of those illustrious writers has ever turned down the rare blessing that is… when inspiration strikes.
Today was one of those lucky days.
Small Town Habits 🤝 Big City Chaos
I was having a hard time reconciling with my inevitable spiral away from the simple, habitual life I led in the States.
Living abroad and prioritizing experiences is not conducive to anything resembling a routine.
For a while, that caused an identity crisis. So, I wrote about it.
Meditations While Meandering (August 1, 2024)
Consistency sans Friction
"This is no argument in favor of complacency. Nor do I encourage anyone to aim for less than their best any given day.
It’s a call for perfectionists, optimization-addicted automatons, and the all-in-or-all-out types to take a breath.”
Cue Banjo Music
I submitted this story for a writing competition—it didn’t win.
A year ago, that might’ve been a massive blow to my writer’s ego. Now, I don’t really mind either way.
I write for my future self. If it appeals to others enough to garner praise and a bit of extra dough, then my future self gets an extra couple of dry martinis down the line.
If not, then I still maintain my writer’s integrity. That’s what I value most.
Told From the Road (July 26, 2024)
I Walk the Line: Caught Between Borders in Patagonia
“Once parallel with my counterpart, I can size him up better: a young face, a black beanie to match his outfit, and a backpack twice the size of mine. If rubber were to meet the road with this fellow vagrant, I resolve that I could buy myself some precious seconds by simply pushing the man in black onto his turtle shell of a bag and render him harmless.”
Barrio Chatter
I cross fewer borders than I used to now. While my world is reduced to a handful of blocks some days, it would be disingenuous to assume there are fewer stories to dig up. When the scoop is there, I’ll share the latest on-goings from my barrio (neighborhood), hot off the presses.
There are a few stereotypes here in Buenos Aires that I’ve find withstand for fair reason.
Your laundry will likely be pressed a Japanese dry cleaner. The nearest fruit stand has a high chance of being Venezuelan-run. And your cheapest grocery store for all things from rice to toilet paper to wine is called a chino.
Why are they called chinos? Because they are mostly owned and operated by Chinese immigrants.
They’re not always the easiest to crack either…
*boop*
The Chino places my olive oil next to my three sponges and pack of paper towels with his right hand. In his left, he rolls two walnuts together in an infinite cycle. His gaze is fixed on his monitor.
Me: How much is it?
Chino: …
He gestures to the computer screen with the non-walnut-occupied hand. My total flashes below the manifest of all of today’s transactions. There are two above mine. It’s 4 PM.
Me: 17,100 pesos?
Chino: …
Me: Ok.
The Chino’s eyes remain on the monitor. Other than the two walnuts rotating in his hand, he could fool me for dead.
Me: Here you go.
I pass 18,000 pesos to the Chino.
Chino: …
The cash register springs open. Without looking away from the screen, the Chino counts out 900 pesos and hands it to me. The walnut hand does not move save for the three fingers he uses to twirl the twin nuts.
Me: Gracias.
Chino: …
I gather my items. The Chino remains lifeless. The walnuts roll on.
Thanks for reading Ferg’s Focus! My goal is to share the occasional glimpse of life on the road as I know it. If you learn something along the way, then I’m even better for it.
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Until the next,
