The Muse of the Argentine

I was looking for her in all the wrong places, and should have known she would find me when she was ready. I should have known I would never find her among the florid, ornate buildings, or the busy avenues of commerce.

Rather, our dear muse is found sitting in the Plaza De Mayo, sipping maté with the mothers who protest for news of their sons and husbands that are part of the ¨desapareacidos¨ who the regime carried off into the night. I should have know to listen for her in the winds sweeping off the pampas, and in the songs of the guachos that fill the nights. Yet I was blinded by that which glitters, and the poisoned materialism that infects and corrupts.

Our Muse has been here for some time. She came with the poor immigrants who came with nothing and sought a better life across the seas: she helped paint La Boca´s corrugated iron houses with the bright paint that remained leftover from the long voyage. Our dear Muse filled the voice of Eva Duarte, and Evita sang and rallied for the decamisados, the shirtless poor workers who were plagued by inequality. She whispered to Borges, and he filled his pages with the graces this enigmatic city holds. She accompanied the young medical student named Ernesto as Ché ventured north, and witnessed the injustices that this continent holds.

She stood with the despareacidos, as the brutal junta took them from their families. More recently, the Muse banged pots and pans with those who rallied in the streets as the financial crisis stole from the people all that they had worked hard for. She remains here with those who are forced to pick through garbage every night to, trying collect enough scraps to earn their daily bread.

The Muse of the Argentine has been here, but I couldn´t hear her till now. But I have found her, and with a little luck, her mercurial glory will remain with me in this city of a thousand splendid spires.

The Muse of the Caribbean

And soon thereafter, she returns. Her sweet words come singing in my ear, on the vibe of a pulsating reggae beat.

Under the plum clouds that cling to, and roll off the majestic Blue Mountains, the Muse´s Caribbean Kingdom lies. Through the lush green jungle, her old pastel blue and white colonial abode is found. Wiry bombaclaat rasta sentinels with natty dreads and wood-handled machetes stand guard, but over a blessed peace offering, they let me pass to find our lady of the Caribbean, our Queen of the Muse.

Under banners of green, yellow and black tapestries, she sits on a bed of pillows. Her natty black dreads lay lightly on her dark shoulders, and she is wrapped in robes of rasta royalty. Her green eyes peer out through a plume of silver smoke, as she sips her june plum juice. With a natural mystic of reggae harmony flowing through the air, she sits in silence. She takes a deep breath, and sings out in a crisp voice the same music that filled the hearts of so many of this troubled island paradise.

It was the words the sang in the hearts of the Treelawny Maroons, as they escaped under a cover of darkness into the dense jungle, away from the British colonial slave masters. They were the words that Marcus Garvey proclaimed as he told his fallen people of their deep-rooted pride. They were the melodies, pure and true, that serenaded Robert Nesta, and that the saintly Bob Marley filled the Trenchtown ghettos. Her message is as simple as it is true: One Love, One Heart.