ON THE HUNDREDTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS

maybe it’s possible (let’s imagine by the graces of inculpable hindsight) that, back on the inmaculada, i actually considered what i said about the nonstop christmas march that would carry the country -- partying – through the arrival of the magi on the sixth of january to be a joke. (it couldn’t possible rage an entire month.) in any case, however, i considered the possibility to be a sensational one, at least until i found myself participating in the efforts for its realization, which might well have failed at any point, but none of the participants ever seemed to let that daunt them, probably because, well, whenever any one of us went belly up, that one of us had the out of insisting that it was all only a joke. but now, with just four days to go until victory, who isn’t completely over christmas? in all honesty, had the portuguese not invaded seville to celebrate the new year, the party might not have even lasted that long -- and we might have even stayed on in madrid, where, although christmas followed, there was a short respite from the demands of the season at home (although, admittedly, not from the parties).

so it was that seville was introduced to the walk of shame (or that term in english anyway) by the sight of mine on the first of january, which truly shamed me for the fact that the person with whom i had slept was a friend and that our activities in her bed were severely limited by my acceptance of her terms for sharing it, namely that i stay on my side and not shift the covers too much. and all the shame of christmas would have been gratefully forgotten by the time i’d finally made it almost home around eleven that night but then ran into two friends on the alameda -- two friends whom i joined for a tea in an outfit that might even have regained some of its elegance of the night before for its brazen shabbiness (it helped me to think). and christmas could have been forgotten by the early afternoon of the next day, and it might have been, if only i hadn’t run into my friend on her own walk through the streets of my neighborhood and sat down with her for a coffee. she’d been away since the twentieth or so, and, although we’d weathered the portuguese invasion together, we hadn’t yet had an opportunity to catch up. so we talked. and i told her what i’d been told to expect myself before leaving the city for the capital the previous week. it’s true. the cathedral in madrid is ugly.

it isn’t, at any rate, the cathedral of seville, which is where i went with two friends to see the midnight vigil mass on christmas eve. maybe a once in a lifetime opportunity. but sitting there, drowning the shame of christmas in my burned coffe across the table from my friend (who admitted that she’d been a bit envious to hear that those were my plans for the night of the twenty-fourth), the grace of inculpable hindsight intervened again, and i admitted that i shouldn’t have expected anything but the drudging formality that the mass was (and that i had felt bad for having had subjected friends to it), but that i really had thought there would be more singing. i thought there would have been more singing of songs that we could have sung anyway, but apart from the adeste fideles that i belted out (in latin of course) while the better catholics went up to the altar for communion, there wasn’t a thing in which the cantor could get all but a few in the cavernous cathedral to join him while the organ thundered out the opening salvos of the dirge to the crucifixion.

i certainly make no pretensions to poetry -- and all that any of us can hope for youth is that it remain generously relative -- but i was obliged to read those letters of rilke’s to that young poet on the night of the twenty-fifth, and in the second, my hesitation over describing that mass:

Irony: Don't let yourself be controlled by it, especially during uncreative moments. When you are fully creative, try to use it, as one more way to take hold of fife. Used purely, it too is pure, and one needn't be ashamed of it; but if you feel yourself becoming too familiar with it, if you are afraid of this growing familiarity, then turn to great and serious objects, in front of which it becomes small and helpless.

again, granted, i didn’t consider myself rilke’s intended demographic and so neither did i consider myself compelled to follow his injunctions to the letter. as it were, maybe i was well beyond help. but still, in thinking about treating that mass given by the bishop (or the archbishop maybe) in that biggest of the world’s gothic cathedrals i felt grateful for rilke’s caution as i found myself confronted with the possibility of a very great irony, and one that might even have allowed an ironic reading of that second letter. there were at least fifteen clergy and servers sitting and standing around the bishop (or archbishop) where he sat behind the altar (the ornate resplendence of the decorations around the altar and of the towering altarpiece i couldn’t hope to describe). apart from the cantor and one very talented young clergyman who chanted the intentions, the rest of the ordained appeared disinterested or ailing, biding their time on the fast track to heaven or, better, a promotion. most of the latin part of the mass seemed to center around the removal and replacement of the bishop’s (or archbishop’s) sparkly hat, one of which the proceeds from the collection couldn’t hoped to have purchased. the ironic interpretation of the bishop’s (or archbishop’s) standard issue homily: spread the word.

our spirits were slightly lifted by our singing of the communion carol, and we might have made our peace with our misexpecations for midnight mass at the cathedral in seville had we not been stayed after the bishop (you get it) officially dismissed us by the recessional, which stopped the crowd from its retreat when it paused at the entrance to the huge ironwork cage that surrounds the platforms that surround the altar. baby jesus, who had been biding his time in front of the altar embarrassedly (though probably not for his nakedness), was taken up into the arms of one of the clergymen, and one by one after the bishop the other clergymen proceeded to put their lips to the statue’s feet as a server wiped them clean between kisses. the clergy recedes, and the crowd follows. not out, however, but up to the cage to leave kisses of its own.

and yes, we stayed, but let that be out of deference to the faithful (who, granted, had us kind of trapped), but let that sentiment have aspersions fall where they’re due. i’m sorry sir, but irony fails to fall away, to become either small or helpless. in all its great seriousness, the church is neither serious nor great. it didn’t even give a good show. and maybe that’s just here in spain, or even just here in seville. i don’t know what midnight mass was like at the ugly cathedral in madrid, but the people pouring out onto the square from the doors of st. mary’s in krakow those years ago had some spirit. seville is, however, undeniably poetic at night, even tonight after more than a week of the children and the idiots setting off those blasted fireworks that could hardly be said to make much fire but certainly make themselves heard. and it was probably because we were out of there, or because we were on our way to recuperate (from which we’d need to recuperate the next day), but as the exploding of the fireworks in the early morning of the twenty-fifth scared the doves away from their perches in the nooks of the cathedral roof and those doves flitted up into the artificial orange light that lit it, there did seem to be, if not sacred, then something romantically marvelous in the air.

it’s too bad those same fireworks didn’t provoke a similar effect in that plaza on san luis as dusk was falling yesterday. they surely couldn’t have unburned the coffee. eyes rolled, eyes narrowed, and another story.