Little Epiphanies

This piece hails from the vault. It is a true story peopled with some colorful characters from the Argentine cultural scene: an artist who used to hang out with Andy Warhol and built a Parthenon of books and an impresario who lived in a glam church. It also hails from a time when three pesos still meant something.

I have an old pair of cowboy boots. They have ridden long in stirrups, rested heavily on gas pedals across entire continents, and crunched over countless other miles when I had neither horse nor car to my name. They are the relics of a life lived on two feet.

he sign, rimmed in neon, beckons from across a wasteland. The vast pampa may have promised wealth and sustenance in exchange for callous hands – but I wanted none of that. Give me a place to sit and write and contemplate and I will be...

I am drawn to the things I cannot see
Pieces just out of perceptual reach
What is well-lit does not interest me
What is hazy and hard to discern
And makes my stomach quiver
Fascinates

“We’re just higher primates,” Rodolfo was saying, “and if anyone wants to argue with me, well then I’ll just bring in Pamela Anderson as exhibit number one. I remember when I was a manager, we’d be sitting around the table discussing...

Montauban-sur-l’Ouvèze, FRANCE – The call came from a neighboring farm: “Could you help us round up a herd of cows and take them to high pasture? Oh, and one more thing: Bring as many people as you can.” Our friend in the village where we are...

I’m not certain that I would even begin to read a piece titled, “Life in Art.” (So if you have gotten this far, I congratulate you.) I know I would be put off by the fulsomeness of the proposition that lay ahead. I would expect the writer to...

It seems a long time ago, another life. We sat in a restaurant of starched white table cloths and talked. Long after our plates were removed and we were coaxing the last drops of champagne from the night, we talked. And talked. The other diners left. The...

By Kevin Carrel Footer 3 June 2018 It is widely assumed that taking a taxi is preferable to riding on a cramped bus. Why then do passengers in taxis look longingly at those in passing buses? Buses are rowdy, awkward and prone to pickpockets scrounging...