and so they fell, the orange blossoms, with the rain that was precipitated by three days of wind, and the streets were wiped clean to be ready for the processions. and so it's upon us, the resurrection, because when the band members and the nazarenes are in the streets in full costume they're no longer practicing. but they've been practicing for months, and for months the city has lived in fear of the coming of the glory. and it will come again, as it does, and the people will have already forgotten the irony of the demonstrators having taken the same processional route on the morning and afternoon of the general strike that the virgins and the cross burdened jesuses will take to the cathedral during holy week. but, probably, the people moved by the chanting of the strikers will not be the same as the people moved by the bands and the nazarenes, and any traces of the fliers that filled the streets the day of the strike that were later missed by the sanitation workers when they went back to work will have been erased by the rain -- or trampled by the nazarenes. mine eyes have seen.
the friday of dolores. "...for those who suffer." and they name their daughters things like angustias, too... there were seven dolores in jesus' story, and now there are thousands in spain. ready or not, here they come.
"...no me ocultes tu pena...cuéntame tu amargura...dime la verdad."
her mother was preoccupied with not having already bought all of the accessories she wanted for her daughter's feria outfit, and i had my sevillanas class to worry about myself, but as the rains were threatening to start i was happy to swap my tutu for the paper crown that two year old lola had gotten at daycare for her saint's day and spend the afternoon at ease.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
CHICK-A-BOOM
"too much money in too few hands. we'll be on our way once you meet our small demands."
"this whole system's been keeping us down down down." now me and my friends think it's time to turn this bitch around.
"this whole system's been keeping us down down down." now me and my friends think it's time to turn this bitch around.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
THE NAKED CITY
a statue of aníbal gonzález stands facing the plaza de españa built for the iberio-american exposition of 1929 at the parque de maria luisa in seville, the grandest and most widely recognized of the structures designed by the sevillian architect. and in front of the two story brick building at number seven plaza carmen benitez a statue of the cuban singer antonio machín, who found love in seville in 1943 and played his final show in the same city thirty-four years later. but the building could be by gonzález, even if it's not on any of the aníbal gonzález sightseeing routes -- which is to say that gonzález did design some buildings to the east of the city center, generally in and around the neighborhood of san bernardo, and that simple knowledge helps the building to concentrate its vague pertinence to the neo-mudejar style for which gonzález was known in the later years of his career. it's obvious that neither the church of san bernardo nor the (perplexingly buttressed) royal artillery factory behind it were projects of the architect. but, like number seven plaza carmen benitez, the building at number forty-two san bernardo might have been.
although it probably wasn't a private residence, it could, possibly, have been any number of other things. it might have been a library, or the offices of a utility or an administration of the municipality. it might been a school. although from inside it's difficult to tell if the space at the center of the of the edifice between the two lateral wings was always open to the sky or if the roof has fallen, the building is obviously in a state of disrepair; and if it was in fact designed by aníbal gonzález, it's nearly certain that it isn't on any of the sightseeing routes because it's been occupied. it's difficult, however, to argue with the banner on the front door of the autonomous, self-managed social center, which defiantly proclaims to its more expensively dressed (although still crisis stricken) neighbors that when living is a luxury, occupation is a right. the (self-)management of the center would certainly be open to a debate about its raison d'être. but regardless, and even if the center doesn't have anything special to do with the architectural legacy of the city, it's undeniably well situated: the home of the city's alternative bloc in the vanguard of the sexual revolution definitely deserves to have its rear end facing the puerta de la carne (even if the spanish don't get the joke).
by chance (or maybe this is exactly why we follow our own sightseeing routes), last thursday was the first day of the anarchist book fair being co-hosted by the center, and since, by chance, the painting exhibit at the pavilion of the united states in the parque de maria luisa was inexplicably closed, we had the evening free to attend the scheduled presentation on socialism, homosexuality and the spanish state. the presenter, who also wrote the book available at his table in that open air space in the center of the building, wasn't much of a speaker. it was true too, as she had remarked while we were waiting for the presentation to begin in the library of the place that might actually have been designed to be a library, that he looked comically like an actor set in the anarchist book fair scene of some camp film. waiting to be shot: shoulders squared with his elbows on the table in front of him and his hands clasped, seated in a too big chair with his feet only just barely not dangling above the floor (although a stylist would surely have insisted on doing something with the poorly tended mohawk). but since she'd also remarked (earlier, while we were waiting to go wait in the library) that my converse and my handbag didn't seem very dedicatedly socialist -- and that the regular centergoers probably didn't think so either -- i felt encouraged to make her stay and listen to the presentation until its end.
although the presenter didn't speak sevillian, he did speak quickly, and, to complicate it more, his presentation was very self-managed anarchist book fair. the representative of the center seated next to him might have in that it was a bit overly disjointed and went on a bit too long for people to be much interested in discussion. in general, what he presented wasn't much more than a political calendar of noteworthy events in the transformation of political socialism and the laws regarding homosexuality in twentieth century spain -- making sure, of course, to make appropriate references to famous figures like lorca and cernuda for the local crowd. unfortunately, he didn't seem inclined to make any sort of synthesis once he'd arrived near the present in the twenty-first century. he did offhandedly mention the passage of the marriage equality law, but stopped short of speculating on what the subsumption of a theretofore (generally) politically radicalized group into the comfortable confines of the patriarchy would mean for the future of his topic (although he seemed to allude to our understanding that it meant bad news). she, however, was out of the room taking a phone call, and we could argue on our own about that subject later. for my part, if i hadn't been thinking instead on how i would like to have been seated closer to the shelves with the le carre books that i could see two rows in front of me, i might have better caught the anecdote about the establishment (whenever it was) of separate prisons for tops and bottoms. it might have been nice to recycle. once the presentation was over, however, i didn't have the patience for my own question. (and what was stopping me from telling the bar owner whatever i wanted?)
what we mean to say, rather -- in this presentation -- is that the point of the walk is just to see what we say. because no, i didn't much agree with the guy's attitude either, but his pompous spouting off about fags and hookers at the autonomous social center behind the puerta de la carne wasn't without value (i insist, and not just because we had stayed to the end of it at my insistence), even if it was generally without coherence. unfortunately, our conversation on the under radicalization of the electorate and the potential success or failure of the general strike was over radicalized by my personal vendetta against the shoe and handbag comment. (of course being a fag hooker doesn't naturally incline you to socialism, but there are historical and social inclinations working alongside the natural ones.) but seeing as we weren't getting anywhere where we were, after the conversation derailed we decided to leave the wreckage behind and relocate. and the beard might have been working at el pasaje as well.
she did intentionally take us along mateos gago, but only because she prefers the route to santa cruz that follows the edge of the gardens of the alcazar and not because the buildings at numbers twenty-four and twenty-six were designed by aníbal gonzález. that, however, had i known it at the time, would have made for an interesting transition into my interest in the multidisciplinary exhibit on the spirit of the flâneur on display at cicus until the end of the month. as it was, i just happened to mention that i was planning to go see it the next day, and the bulk of our conversation we rededicated to depression and infidelity. and i was listening to her as she talked, i just also happened to be trying to look down the shirt of the beard at the same time. (and the beer he was serving us certainly helped with all of the above.) but with him it's difficult to tell, but i stopped wondering as we were leaving because another police patrol was passing through the narrow street outside, the second in less than an hour. because of the elections, she supposed -- and all the more reason to go to the strike, i thought as i collected my bag to leave.
and the next afternoon, the third or fourth pair of police motorcycles passes onto the plaza de la encarnación outside of the café window in front of which i'm brushing up on my disagreements with the position of the situationist international on urban wandering in preparation for my visit to the exhibit at cicus. "the dérive does not demonstrate the pure submission to unconscious desire that characterised the surrealist wanderings or the journeys of the strolling flâneur." that, at least, is the distillation presented by merlin coverley on guy debord's characterization of that "technique of transient passage through varied ambiences." and i suppose that if abortion of purpose can be considered a purpose in itself then i would gladly have myself subsumed under debord's rubric. his map of the naked city, "clarifying certain wanderings that express not subordination to randomness but complete insubordination to habitual influences." but probably my preoccupations are primarily artistic, regardless of the strike and the vendetta of the shoes and the handbag, at least they were on that day, and in spite of the fact that i didn't even make it to the art exhibit.
we did, however, have every intention of going, and i would have picked up my companion earlier had it not been for the special treatment that the both of us were getting at where we were waiting for the other to arrive. in the end, i went in her direction because she was on our way to the exhibit; but because she was in her direction with someone else it was all too easy for the three of us to submit ourselves to unconscious desire. or conscious desire: to go around the corner in the opposite direction of the exhibit, to go to little italy for a beer. or it might have been the spring and the orange blossoms and the friday evening chance of finding something more than just staring at the beard (although that story still needed to be told).
and i would have left my companions earlier except that she joined us, another one, and still with her bags from the trip. who were we not to wait to let her catch up -- and then to help her with her things through the menacing streets of the center? so later we passed through the throngs doing their holy week shopping around the plaza del salvador, and through the crowds starting to gather at the bars in arenal; and we passed then down reyes catolicos just a block from that section of bailen from which are visible both the hotel londres and the hostal paris, those comically crude references to the most famous cities of the most famous traditions of european wandering.
but what do we care? we pass them, but not directly (although i will hours later on a kind of a way home). and we continue across the the isabel segunda bridge to the lighthouse, driven by unconscious desire. the view, and the fragrance of the orange blossoms, and the memory of holy thursdays past. it's not so bad that night, the one of them says. and the latecomer agrees. it's something undeniably mystical, and it will move you if you're willing to be moved, they say. and then i start to wonder about the positioning of the important parishes of the city, the ley lines of seville, and a probably only legendary story about a tunnel connecting the church of santa ana in triana to the torre de oro across the river brings back fond memories of the vatican caves by gide. but then we're at the lighthouse, and although none of our group would ever cross themselves across from where the inquisition once had its local center of operations, many of the local residents do. because exactly opposite the lighthouse, and crowning the public market where once upon a time not so long ago the defenders of the faith would have tortured and killed the witches and the gypsies and the faggot hookers who today might have been our friends stands the capilla de la virgen del carmen, one of the four religious structures in the city designed by you know who.
although it probably wasn't a private residence, it could, possibly, have been any number of other things. it might have been a library, or the offices of a utility or an administration of the municipality. it might been a school. although from inside it's difficult to tell if the space at the center of the of the edifice between the two lateral wings was always open to the sky or if the roof has fallen, the building is obviously in a state of disrepair; and if it was in fact designed by aníbal gonzález, it's nearly certain that it isn't on any of the sightseeing routes because it's been occupied. it's difficult, however, to argue with the banner on the front door of the autonomous, self-managed social center, which defiantly proclaims to its more expensively dressed (although still crisis stricken) neighbors that when living is a luxury, occupation is a right. the (self-)management of the center would certainly be open to a debate about its raison d'être. but regardless, and even if the center doesn't have anything special to do with the architectural legacy of the city, it's undeniably well situated: the home of the city's alternative bloc in the vanguard of the sexual revolution definitely deserves to have its rear end facing the puerta de la carne (even if the spanish don't get the joke).
by chance (or maybe this is exactly why we follow our own sightseeing routes), last thursday was the first day of the anarchist book fair being co-hosted by the center, and since, by chance, the painting exhibit at the pavilion of the united states in the parque de maria luisa was inexplicably closed, we had the evening free to attend the scheduled presentation on socialism, homosexuality and the spanish state. the presenter, who also wrote the book available at his table in that open air space in the center of the building, wasn't much of a speaker. it was true too, as she had remarked while we were waiting for the presentation to begin in the library of the place that might actually have been designed to be a library, that he looked comically like an actor set in the anarchist book fair scene of some camp film. waiting to be shot: shoulders squared with his elbows on the table in front of him and his hands clasped, seated in a too big chair with his feet only just barely not dangling above the floor (although a stylist would surely have insisted on doing something with the poorly tended mohawk). but since she'd also remarked (earlier, while we were waiting to go wait in the library) that my converse and my handbag didn't seem very dedicatedly socialist -- and that the regular centergoers probably didn't think so either -- i felt encouraged to make her stay and listen to the presentation until its end.
although the presenter didn't speak sevillian, he did speak quickly, and, to complicate it more, his presentation was very self-managed anarchist book fair. the representative of the center seated next to him might have in that it was a bit overly disjointed and went on a bit too long for people to be much interested in discussion. in general, what he presented wasn't much more than a political calendar of noteworthy events in the transformation of political socialism and the laws regarding homosexuality in twentieth century spain -- making sure, of course, to make appropriate references to famous figures like lorca and cernuda for the local crowd. unfortunately, he didn't seem inclined to make any sort of synthesis once he'd arrived near the present in the twenty-first century. he did offhandedly mention the passage of the marriage equality law, but stopped short of speculating on what the subsumption of a theretofore (generally) politically radicalized group into the comfortable confines of the patriarchy would mean for the future of his topic (although he seemed to allude to our understanding that it meant bad news). she, however, was out of the room taking a phone call, and we could argue on our own about that subject later. for my part, if i hadn't been thinking instead on how i would like to have been seated closer to the shelves with the le carre books that i could see two rows in front of me, i might have better caught the anecdote about the establishment (whenever it was) of separate prisons for tops and bottoms. it might have been nice to recycle. once the presentation was over, however, i didn't have the patience for my own question. (and what was stopping me from telling the bar owner whatever i wanted?)
what we mean to say, rather -- in this presentation -- is that the point of the walk is just to see what we say. because no, i didn't much agree with the guy's attitude either, but his pompous spouting off about fags and hookers at the autonomous social center behind the puerta de la carne wasn't without value (i insist, and not just because we had stayed to the end of it at my insistence), even if it was generally without coherence. unfortunately, our conversation on the under radicalization of the electorate and the potential success or failure of the general strike was over radicalized by my personal vendetta against the shoe and handbag comment. (of course being a fag hooker doesn't naturally incline you to socialism, but there are historical and social inclinations working alongside the natural ones.) but seeing as we weren't getting anywhere where we were, after the conversation derailed we decided to leave the wreckage behind and relocate. and the beard might have been working at el pasaje as well.
she did intentionally take us along mateos gago, but only because she prefers the route to santa cruz that follows the edge of the gardens of the alcazar and not because the buildings at numbers twenty-four and twenty-six were designed by aníbal gonzález. that, however, had i known it at the time, would have made for an interesting transition into my interest in the multidisciplinary exhibit on the spirit of the flâneur on display at cicus until the end of the month. as it was, i just happened to mention that i was planning to go see it the next day, and the bulk of our conversation we rededicated to depression and infidelity. and i was listening to her as she talked, i just also happened to be trying to look down the shirt of the beard at the same time. (and the beer he was serving us certainly helped with all of the above.) but with him it's difficult to tell, but i stopped wondering as we were leaving because another police patrol was passing through the narrow street outside, the second in less than an hour. because of the elections, she supposed -- and all the more reason to go to the strike, i thought as i collected my bag to leave.
and the next afternoon, the third or fourth pair of police motorcycles passes onto the plaza de la encarnación outside of the café window in front of which i'm brushing up on my disagreements with the position of the situationist international on urban wandering in preparation for my visit to the exhibit at cicus. "the dérive does not demonstrate the pure submission to unconscious desire that characterised the surrealist wanderings or the journeys of the strolling flâneur." that, at least, is the distillation presented by merlin coverley on guy debord's characterization of that "technique of transient passage through varied ambiences." and i suppose that if abortion of purpose can be considered a purpose in itself then i would gladly have myself subsumed under debord's rubric. his map of the naked city, "clarifying certain wanderings that express not subordination to randomness but complete insubordination to habitual influences." but probably my preoccupations are primarily artistic, regardless of the strike and the vendetta of the shoes and the handbag, at least they were on that day, and in spite of the fact that i didn't even make it to the art exhibit.
we did, however, have every intention of going, and i would have picked up my companion earlier had it not been for the special treatment that the both of us were getting at where we were waiting for the other to arrive. in the end, i went in her direction because she was on our way to the exhibit; but because she was in her direction with someone else it was all too easy for the three of us to submit ourselves to unconscious desire. or conscious desire: to go around the corner in the opposite direction of the exhibit, to go to little italy for a beer. or it might have been the spring and the orange blossoms and the friday evening chance of finding something more than just staring at the beard (although that story still needed to be told).
and i would have left my companions earlier except that she joined us, another one, and still with her bags from the trip. who were we not to wait to let her catch up -- and then to help her with her things through the menacing streets of the center? so later we passed through the throngs doing their holy week shopping around the plaza del salvador, and through the crowds starting to gather at the bars in arenal; and we passed then down reyes catolicos just a block from that section of bailen from which are visible both the hotel londres and the hostal paris, those comically crude references to the most famous cities of the most famous traditions of european wandering.
but what do we care? we pass them, but not directly (although i will hours later on a kind of a way home). and we continue across the the isabel segunda bridge to the lighthouse, driven by unconscious desire. the view, and the fragrance of the orange blossoms, and the memory of holy thursdays past. it's not so bad that night, the one of them says. and the latecomer agrees. it's something undeniably mystical, and it will move you if you're willing to be moved, they say. and then i start to wonder about the positioning of the important parishes of the city, the ley lines of seville, and a probably only legendary story about a tunnel connecting the church of santa ana in triana to the torre de oro across the river brings back fond memories of the vatican caves by gide. but then we're at the lighthouse, and although none of our group would ever cross themselves across from where the inquisition once had its local center of operations, many of the local residents do. because exactly opposite the lighthouse, and crowning the public market where once upon a time not so long ago the defenders of the faith would have tortured and killed the witches and the gypsies and the faggot hookers who today might have been our friends stands the capilla de la virgen del carmen, one of the four religious structures in the city designed by you know who.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
PROCESS; or, HOW TO MAKE THE MOST
the orange blossoms are blooming, and for four days now a delicious smelling veil over the low hanging stink of shit. a briefly intoxicating respite before the impending april shit storm. drink it in and forget that they're coming. even the yearly saga of christmas is just a distraction from the demands of the holidays of spring, and in the second week of january the city is already a well of inquietude, and not for remorse over already ruined resolutions but for the universal apprehension of holy week and the feria. the mushrooms on sunday afternoons in winter are giant balloons of anxiety. and now, already the third week of march and the fifth of lent 2012, it's get your work done or wait until may. but that doesn't always go as well as it might, because so much attention on wailing and wardrobes in this case isn't necessarily conducive to inspiration. and so...the march. and so march is forced.
but to work nonetheless. and up at...twelve-thirty, with every intention of starting -- starting with the intention to finish -- and making it brilliant.
but just like the night before, there are other things that come to mind, things that, if they don't necessarily need doing, might as well be done now. (there were already so many of them on the list the night before that it was impossible to sleep until six -- at which point they still hadn't all been done.)
for example, the floor will always need sweeping -- again. (and the mop seems to do more harm than good.)
the coffee is cold, and more needs making. and which of the cakes goes best with the coffee? one at least will need a glaze that will need to be matched with sparkling wines. so make another cake. but in the time that takes, another percolator of coffee will be cold.
with fresh cake and fresh coffee and clean floors, it should be possible to write. but the thing is that there are also facts that need checking, and on the way to the room where the wifi signal is stronger there's a mirror and there are other things to check.
tweeze nipples.
...sweep the floor.
it's impossible to concentrate after so much coffee. or after so much cake.
go running.
go to the store, because it's about to close and there is as little ready to eat in the kitchen as there was in the shower (besides cake).
writing is work. buy ingredients for a more challenging cake.
crumbs. sweep the floor.
do not make another percolator of coffee.
forcing it now is just going to make it turn out poorly.
if it's going to turn out poorly anyway, it might as well turn out poorly after some sleep. and there's more coffee after some sleep.
ice ankles.
notice the crumbs that are only visible in the natural morning light and sweep the floor.
more coffee.
it might turn out to be a crap article, but it's going to be a hell of a brunch.
but to work nonetheless. and up at...twelve-thirty, with every intention of starting -- starting with the intention to finish -- and making it brilliant.
but just like the night before, there are other things that come to mind, things that, if they don't necessarily need doing, might as well be done now. (there were already so many of them on the list the night before that it was impossible to sleep until six -- at which point they still hadn't all been done.)
for example, the floor will always need sweeping -- again. (and the mop seems to do more harm than good.)
the coffee is cold, and more needs making. and which of the cakes goes best with the coffee? one at least will need a glaze that will need to be matched with sparkling wines. so make another cake. but in the time that takes, another percolator of coffee will be cold.
with fresh cake and fresh coffee and clean floors, it should be possible to write. but the thing is that there are also facts that need checking, and on the way to the room where the wifi signal is stronger there's a mirror and there are other things to check.
tweeze nipples.
...sweep the floor.
it's impossible to concentrate after so much coffee. or after so much cake.
go running.
go to the store, because it's about to close and there is as little ready to eat in the kitchen as there was in the shower (besides cake).
writing is work. buy ingredients for a more challenging cake.
crumbs. sweep the floor.
do not make another percolator of coffee.
forcing it now is just going to make it turn out poorly.
if it's going to turn out poorly anyway, it might as well turn out poorly after some sleep. and there's more coffee after some sleep.
ice ankles.
notice the crumbs that are only visible in the natural morning light and sweep the floor.
more coffee.
it might turn out to be a crap article, but it's going to be a hell of a brunch.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
SPRING FEVER ESPAÑOLA, part 2; or, DONDE ESTAN LOS TODOS CHICOS AT, part whatever
they were all hiding at the factory stores. and don't ask, because i have no idea what cruel twist of temp agency fate condemned them to the side of the highway by the coca-cola depot (and the awesome farm with the hay bale towers that look like the ruins of a cappadocian termite city). but don't worry, because reason or not for their being there, there's a free bus that will take you to visit. and you'll probably want the roberto verino jackets too, but half off still means a hundred and fifty euros, and your friend didn't spend so much on gas that you feel quite so obligated. and even if there's no zara, the rest of the conglomerate's brands are available in an array of price-quality combinations. the jackets at lefties ain't got nothing on the roberto verinos, but damn if they don't fit with unexpected smartness nonetheless, and even if you don't think that polyester is worth the thirty-seven euros, you might as well ask the sale staff for some help getting another size or color out of one of the displays. and damn if those asses aren't doing a fine job of filling out the back of them pants (which aren't from lefties). bend and stretch. do they recommend that their customers buy their shirts as small? theirs probably wouldn't button at the neck, but it's better that they're open anyway. these guys must have done something wrong though you're sure. unless they've been sent to model jail wrongly accused. there's another strip of conglomerate stores at the mall in front of the stadium, and i have no idea who would have to do what to get to work in one of those. but i'm distracted by the wave of barcelona jerseys heading the opposite direction down the avenue. they get their two goals in twenty-five minutes, but i don't realize that the home team had played the international favorites until the late night television recap. piqué did those ads for the recently relaunched menswear line by mango, but the mango store at the outlet mall only has stuff for women. well, here in seville we only buy galician anyway. and who dresses guardiola? "our love," scream the fans. but it's probably more like his wife's... shit, though, did he just throw a water bottle at one of the medics? and in our own house. and i start thinking about insurance, but less because of the dangers posed by visiting football clubs than because of the commercial. if i buy from bbva, maybe iker will ask for my autograph too...
Friday, March 16, 2012
SPRING FEVER ESPAÑOLA
after the concert, at dinner with the quartet, it wasn’t difficult to convince the musicians that i was crazy. and that without even having gone through with the plan to convince them that i was a concert pianist. it’s in the air. but i would have had trouble feeling embarrassed in front of a group of classical musicians living in vienna, because even if i hadn’t my own concert career, i had read “the piano teacher” (and seen the movie too). who were they to think me strange? it was true, however, that i didn’t know anything about the music. but for the second consecutive week i hadn’t managed to get myself to the free monday night “pianos de la primavera” concert at the san bernardo campus of the university, and so i felt happily obliged to accept an invitation to one of the performances in the contemporary music festival happening at teatro central. and just crossing the barqueta is much easier than walking all the way to nervión. although we must not have seen the programs as we were going in. thankfully though, the woman on the viola announced as soon as the musicians were on the stage that the program had been shuffled and that two of the quartet’s regular members had been replaced by substitutes. at least we’d be somewhat less less prepared. but then, and whether it came from the audience or from the stage (from a musician or from his or her instrument), then apparently there was the fart. and she started laughing…and so i did as well. not having identified the sound as such myself i laughed because she did…and moved my glasses to my knee so that i could cover my face with my hands to wipe the tears and stifle the sounds. but without my glasses I wasn’t able to focus on the movements of the musicians, which made the stifling easier but not my appreciation of the show. how was something like this (meaning any of the four pieces played by the four musicians) scored? with stage direction? (how the musicians moved as they played was apparently just as important as what they were playing, and, to be honest, i wouldn’t have purchased the soundtrack to listen to.) but was the moth flying in the heavy white light stage light above the quartet throughout the two pieces before the intermission part of the act? the broken bowstring so deftly removed and cast away by the woman on the first violin? this is what i asked at the intermission in order to gauge the stupidity of the questions before putting them to the musicians themselves (although i more or less approximated answers to most of them for myself when the woman on the first violin showed me the score to the final piece at the restaurant.) still, we had the second half of the performance to go and needed to comport ourselves intelligently after having met the festival programmer. but regardless of how the majority of the crowd seemed (to want) to interpret it, the man on the cello was hilarious in that one scene. and this time it was the woman behind us who started laughing, and this time i decided to let myself enjoy it. i mean, it was funny. we were the ones with our tickets paid for and invited to eat with the quartet. (don’t look at me like that: it’s funny.) but i did feel bad for the young man sitting next to the woman who started the wave in act two, surrounded by laughers but finding nothing funny himself. he, however, took advantage of the muffled noise to try to muffle the noise of his opening a bag of something much ruder than a laugh (if the laughter was rude at all). then i though i’d take advantage and try to silence him by reaching back and grabbing his crotch (were these pieces maybe scored for audience participation?). but for as much as i realized right then how much the first piece had made me focus on his package where it was behind my left shoulder one riser up, i also realized in my contemplation that i had become particularly sensitive to smells and that the smells in the theater seemed to have made me sick. i needed to be careful: i might already be pregnant. it was in the air. but it would seem that with these things, as with most, you like what you like and you don’t what you don’t. more specifically in this case, you hear what you want. “um, i don’t think you’re listening.” “no,” she said, “this is the man with whom…” “no…no. this is the men’s restroom. you probably shouldn’t follow me in.”
Friday, March 9, 2012
THE STREET WHERE WE LIVE
calles torres, gonzález cuadrado, divina pastora, pedro miguel, clavellinas, infantes (and then right onto infantes and left onto infantes) onto calle castellar onto espiritu santo, jog left onto sister ángela de la cruz, right onto alcázares onto plaza de la encarnación. off the plaza to the southeast and onto that one street with the cluster of boutiques and that street art outfitter before there's the one interesting looking restaurant with the white stools and then the bars just north of plaza de la alfalfa. plaza de la alfalfa where the one guy, that is, some guy who works at bar whatever is playing the typical sevillano and tearing into some other guy (a customer?) about how could he not be familiar with santa cruz. for all he's concerned, there's only that neighborhood and nervión, which is where that other guy should go and see the stadium, the stadium where sevilla f.c. plays, because for all he's concerned (the first guy) there are only two teams in spain, sevilla...and...barcelona? on down toward santuario (fuck santuario) and left onto cuesta de rosario, leaving behind all of the women who've left work early to get a late start beginning the fittings for their feria dresses. straight hipster tapas, gay hipster pizza. calle argote de molina? (abades goes further down behind the cathedral.) the alley of the texas lone star with the view of the giralda. the fountain. plaza del triunfo! (and then right onto plaza del triunfo and left onto plaza del triunfo.) miguel mañara? ...vincent van gogh? avenida de la constitución. to the right, down the grand avenue behind the puerta de jerez, a grand view of the torre de oro. ha. coño de. was the center so picaresque before? around the back of the hotel alfonso xiii (almost refurbished) and left across the entryway to the san telmo palace, a statue of velázquez balanced on the opposite side of the entryway with one of daoiz. (daoiz appears again in plaza de gavidia, but which plaza belongs to velázquez?) in the park across the avenida de roma a statue of cayetana, which someone has graciously labelled for spanish speaking tourists as seville's monument to inequality. palos de la frontera! almost to portugal. across maria luisa and into the park. was the architect of the plaza de españa the same as the one who did all those buildings in nervión? the occupied church? la catolica. and then we've arrived. it's the street where we live. and his bust faces the plaza through the trees. to his left the three graces, seated, swoon at each other's shoulders as cupid takes aim. to his right, cupid, aged, dead by his own hand: the third grace, the love that dies. the man himself, thirty-four when he died. the poet dies young, looking old for his age. the park was so beautiful in memory -- and almost perfect in its presence -- but nothing makes a good picture. the buildings and the pillars and the fountain of the plaza de las americas: too much sky. the shade plantains. too much shade? but still, outside of this sunlight, was the city ever so beautiful? the love that lives...although they've drained the moat around the bird island. fountain maintenance. la catolica. palos de la frontera. avenida de la constitución...
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
LA KOUTOUBIA
the design for the tower of the koutoubia mosque in marrakesh was not based on the tower of the mosque in córdoba. if i had ever seen it, i wouldn't have made the bet, she said. as it turns out, the tower of the koutoubia served as the model for the design of the giralda in seville, and it goes without saying that having seen the both of them i probably shouldn't have made the bet. i was nonetheless sure that i had read something or other about córdoba in one or another explanation of the history of the koutoubia, and as it turns out (or as i remember reading in one or another description of the koutoubia on the internet after i lost the bet), the pulpit of the koutoubia mosque was in fact built in córdoba, and the order for the building of the entire structure was handed down by abd al-mu'min, the first caliph of the almohad empire, which by the time the building of the koutoubia was first ordered in 1147 might have been on its way to having its capital at córdoba as well. my memory, evidently, isn't perfect. still, it was true that i hadn't seen the mosque (the mosque-cathedral) in córdoba, and i'd lost the bet so i thought that i should.
we didn't set out for there directly upon arriving to the city, but all the roads in the center of the old city more or less lead there -- with a guide, anyway -- and the route we took to the plaza that might as well have been the alameda of córdoba led us directly past the ruins of the roman temple. before the mosque-cathedral was a mosque, the visgoths had something there, but for whatever reason they decided to start their own tradition and build closer to the river than the romans had. the government of córdoba at one point found the site of the roman temple suitable enough, however, and it was on the plot adjacent where it built its current city hall, a middling sized building in the architectural tradition of the developers who filled florida with resorts and retirement communities in the second half of the last century. across the street, the wall painted with the anti-capitalist mural has been re-tagged with an anarchist love poem made of letters from a label maker. also, something in french.
the pillars and foundation of the roman temple in córdoba certainly form something more easily imagined into a complete structure than the three pillars near the giralda that were apparently once part of the much grander roman temple that once stood in the city that is now seville. but maybe it's exactly for their nebulousness that the pillars in seville work more magic in the imagination. plus, they're larger. córdoba is -- and to say so isn't at all to diminish it -- is in many ways a smaller seville, and its concentration into a smaller population and geography has, in some parts of it, made its character all the stronger. the albas may only have a small park bearing their name in córdoba (which might not even be the size of the driveway at the casa de las dueñas in seville, but the smaller city definitely has more (creepily) androgynously (fascistically?) dressed toddlers. the building across the street from the albas' park is deserted and ramshackle. it probably reminds me of lisbon, she says. and it does.
earlier, we'd talked about the similarities between córdoba and seville in a place called café málaga where the coffee we were served was from portugal. the tapas restaurant where we had a fine, fine lunch (other than the flamenquin, my guide said) is named for its specialty dish, which i really couldn't distinguish from morrocan shakshuka. the couple that had been standing behind me at the bar had a good laugh with us when the waiter returned my card and told me it had been an honor to serve a family member of the chancellor's. i told him that i would pass the kind words on to my cousin, but the joke hadn't made up for all of the elbow jabs i got in my back throughout my meal. i can't remember what was across the street, but odds are (and we all know i'm betting) that there was a church on the adjacent plaza.
we didn't see the plaza de toros, but if the interior of our lunch spot (think la estrella in seville?) would lead you to believe that córdoba has a hardened soft spot in its heart for its local talent. and that would definitely have led me to wondering over lunch why the duchess didn't have more of a presence here, but we hadn't yet seen the albas' park. but for all i know, although that's an exaggeration because everyone knows what the duchess looks like just like everyone who doesn't like bullfighting knows about the famous bullfighting dynasties of córdoba...but for all i know she might have been walking around the city that day with us, because the other day in seville i wouldn't have been able to tell that noble from one of those darling toddlers if a friend hadn't pointed him out to me in the plaza del salvador. i don't think that you can see the giralda from there.
but there's a grand view of the mosque-cathedral of córdoba from across the guadalquivir, and i was told that the newly restored bridge and rampart are roman. we, however, approached it from the city side, earlier, although we did eventually make our way across the bridge. (the arch on the mosque-cathedral side is not original.) and we were near the other bridge later as we were looking for another coffee, not far from the plaza where cervantes once lived and which was featured in "the greatest novel of all time." (the plaque in seville only commemorates where cervantes was in prison.) we had also been able to buy a single stamp (the city was sold out of stamps for cards to any other country than portugal) and after only a little trouble had found the postbox too. and although we ended up at the famous cake shop and ice cream parlor on the other side of the center, córdoba seemed to be full of stylish (ironically cosmopolitan city style) cafés where clients seemed to be encouraged to linger over what they'd ordered -- a certain rarity in seville.
i might even have said that people seemed encouraged to read at the cafés there, because then i would have had my transition back to the koutoubia, the booksellers mosque, but then i remember that the mosque and córdoba (or at least the mosque in córdoba) have almost nothing directly to do with each other. you really do have to see it, though. the one in córdoba. and we had, much earlier in the day. i would have said something earlier, actually, except that you really do have to see it. the photos hardly do it justice at all. and it's not just that it's incredibly more massive than you would have believed before getting inside, but that writing things like how incredible is the light from the renaissance cathedral built out of the center of the thing (and how strangely different from but seamless with the moorish arches of the muslim prayer hall it is) really, well, it just doesn't shine with the same incredibility. and on that point my memory is keen.
i did, however, also have a certain image of the tower of the koutoubia in my mind, and that image may have been warped by time and intention, but before going into all that incredibility inside the mosque-cathedral i did inspect the bell tower, and really, the two seemed not so unlike each other to me. the giralda could look like either of them. maybe. but i did lose that bet. i'd well forgotten it, though, by the time we got to the synagogue...although now i couldn't tell you exactly when that was.
we didn't set out for there directly upon arriving to the city, but all the roads in the center of the old city more or less lead there -- with a guide, anyway -- and the route we took to the plaza that might as well have been the alameda of córdoba led us directly past the ruins of the roman temple. before the mosque-cathedral was a mosque, the visgoths had something there, but for whatever reason they decided to start their own tradition and build closer to the river than the romans had. the government of córdoba at one point found the site of the roman temple suitable enough, however, and it was on the plot adjacent where it built its current city hall, a middling sized building in the architectural tradition of the developers who filled florida with resorts and retirement communities in the second half of the last century. across the street, the wall painted with the anti-capitalist mural has been re-tagged with an anarchist love poem made of letters from a label maker. also, something in french.
the pillars and foundation of the roman temple in córdoba certainly form something more easily imagined into a complete structure than the three pillars near the giralda that were apparently once part of the much grander roman temple that once stood in the city that is now seville. but maybe it's exactly for their nebulousness that the pillars in seville work more magic in the imagination. plus, they're larger. córdoba is -- and to say so isn't at all to diminish it -- is in many ways a smaller seville, and its concentration into a smaller population and geography has, in some parts of it, made its character all the stronger. the albas may only have a small park bearing their name in córdoba (which might not even be the size of the driveway at the casa de las dueñas in seville, but the smaller city definitely has more (creepily) androgynously (fascistically?) dressed toddlers. the building across the street from the albas' park is deserted and ramshackle. it probably reminds me of lisbon, she says. and it does.
earlier, we'd talked about the similarities between córdoba and seville in a place called café málaga where the coffee we were served was from portugal. the tapas restaurant where we had a fine, fine lunch (other than the flamenquin, my guide said) is named for its specialty dish, which i really couldn't distinguish from morrocan shakshuka. the couple that had been standing behind me at the bar had a good laugh with us when the waiter returned my card and told me it had been an honor to serve a family member of the chancellor's. i told him that i would pass the kind words on to my cousin, but the joke hadn't made up for all of the elbow jabs i got in my back throughout my meal. i can't remember what was across the street, but odds are (and we all know i'm betting) that there was a church on the adjacent plaza.
we didn't see the plaza de toros, but if the interior of our lunch spot (think la estrella in seville?) would lead you to believe that córdoba has a hardened soft spot in its heart for its local talent. and that would definitely have led me to wondering over lunch why the duchess didn't have more of a presence here, but we hadn't yet seen the albas' park. but for all i know, although that's an exaggeration because everyone knows what the duchess looks like just like everyone who doesn't like bullfighting knows about the famous bullfighting dynasties of córdoba...but for all i know she might have been walking around the city that day with us, because the other day in seville i wouldn't have been able to tell that noble from one of those darling toddlers if a friend hadn't pointed him out to me in the plaza del salvador. i don't think that you can see the giralda from there.
but there's a grand view of the mosque-cathedral of córdoba from across the guadalquivir, and i was told that the newly restored bridge and rampart are roman. we, however, approached it from the city side, earlier, although we did eventually make our way across the bridge. (the arch on the mosque-cathedral side is not original.) and we were near the other bridge later as we were looking for another coffee, not far from the plaza where cervantes once lived and which was featured in "the greatest novel of all time." (the plaque in seville only commemorates where cervantes was in prison.) we had also been able to buy a single stamp (the city was sold out of stamps for cards to any other country than portugal) and after only a little trouble had found the postbox too. and although we ended up at the famous cake shop and ice cream parlor on the other side of the center, córdoba seemed to be full of stylish (ironically cosmopolitan city style) cafés where clients seemed to be encouraged to linger over what they'd ordered -- a certain rarity in seville.
i might even have said that people seemed encouraged to read at the cafés there, because then i would have had my transition back to the koutoubia, the booksellers mosque, but then i remember that the mosque and córdoba (or at least the mosque in córdoba) have almost nothing directly to do with each other. you really do have to see it, though. the one in córdoba. and we had, much earlier in the day. i would have said something earlier, actually, except that you really do have to see it. the photos hardly do it justice at all. and it's not just that it's incredibly more massive than you would have believed before getting inside, but that writing things like how incredible is the light from the renaissance cathedral built out of the center of the thing (and how strangely different from but seamless with the moorish arches of the muslim prayer hall it is) really, well, it just doesn't shine with the same incredibility. and on that point my memory is keen.
i did, however, also have a certain image of the tower of the koutoubia in my mind, and that image may have been warped by time and intention, but before going into all that incredibility inside the mosque-cathedral i did inspect the bell tower, and really, the two seemed not so unlike each other to me. the giralda could look like either of them. maybe. but i did lose that bet. i'd well forgotten it, though, by the time we got to the synagogue...although now i couldn't tell you exactly when that was.
Monday, March 5, 2012
TRANKIMAZIN; or, HOW TO GET RIDDEN HARD...AND JUST PUT UP
before the beginning of our divorce week festivities, it seemed to me that the leaving of my second wife should have been less difficult. we had, after all, both been around a block or a few, and, what's more, there had been no contention or uncomfortableness over either of us acknowledging out loud to the other that all of the shopping and the dinners and the parties were to be in celebration of our demise. (things didn't go nearly as smoothly during my divorce weekend in newport, which i spent arguing with my first wife over my having unilaterally decided to call it that before suggesting that she might take the bus back to the city so that i could try to fit that ridiculously underpriced mid-century danish chair in the rental.) but that's love (modern, and maybe just differently so in both cases). there might be a few more scuffs now on the patent leather, but for the most part the cameras just got laughter and the funny faces that were made for the cameras. then, however, the contract was over, and as much as the picture of that week might have convinced us that the two of us might have been able to pull off a good picture, we pushed through it laughing for the very reason that we knew that the contract was ending and that we both needed another trip around another block. it was mostly for her, anyway, i tell myself -- and i told myself as she told our mutual friends (which is to say the friends of hers who had met me) to call me from time to time after she was gone. and i think that i had something to tell her, too, something that seemed like it could wait through the shopping and the dinners and the parties, but that left me when she left me her keys. her taxi came to collect her at that very special hour just before the golden one of the evening in the light of which the tablecloth that had been covered almost completely for almost the entire week with dishes, bottles and glasses coming and going from the corridor and the kitchen seemed not just unmagical but disgustingly soiled, all of the walls looked stained, and the dull reflections off the floor showed it to be embarrassingly in need of a mop.
dramatics and hysteria. i hadn't realized that there was so much dust for my second wife to bite. but instead of clearing the traces and taking advantage of my solitude (which had also been forced to wait through the week of shopping and dinners and parties), i escape it. or, rather -- and rather dramatically and hysterically -- i welcome the rest of the world to join me there. (the legacy of my second wife.) there are cakes and dinners and laughter and dancing. the disgustingly soiled tablecloth is covered again with dishes and bottles and glasses. that we should all live every day as if it were our divorce weekend! and it's the last of the last bottle of sherry that our mutual friends brought us to toast our end, but i've just learned that pfizer markets xanax here under the most darling (and very practically straightforward) trade name -- and that they push it over the counter. it's certainly cheaper to get with a prescription, but that (haha!) might require another marriage. you might be living every day like it's your divorce week, but one way or another you're going to pay the price of intellectual property (or just make do with what your friends bring you).
it's funny (and not only the picture of a country popping trankimazin to forget the anxiety of the possibility of developing an anxiety disorder). she left, and, i swear, all of a sudden it's springtime. and the last place in the city that i thought i'd ever be is the one that makes me happy. it's full of foreigners -- and cheese (that special kind that foreigners like) -- and we all know that the authentic core of the city lies in its foreign pretenders' ostentatious denunciations of their other countrypeople's inauthenticity (and especially in the flamenco ring). most blocks, in other words, and wherever you find yourselves walking them, are disappointingly the same. but strangely, that older anybody who played his guitar for the seven or so of us who stuck around la carboneria after the main event was finished on friday night made me wonder if there wasn't something left for me in seville in the wake of my second wife's leaving me. he seemed refreshingly without aspirations to local authenticity. and even unabashed: "ne me quitte pas. ne me quitte pas." and sure he was probably singing it for the two french girls, but i let it work for me nonetheless. you've got to do what you can with where you've got it. if there was a pharmacy on the block, it wouldn't have been open for hours anyway.
dramatics and hysteria. i hadn't realized that there was so much dust for my second wife to bite. but instead of clearing the traces and taking advantage of my solitude (which had also been forced to wait through the week of shopping and dinners and parties), i escape it. or, rather -- and rather dramatically and hysterically -- i welcome the rest of the world to join me there. (the legacy of my second wife.) there are cakes and dinners and laughter and dancing. the disgustingly soiled tablecloth is covered again with dishes and bottles and glasses. that we should all live every day as if it were our divorce weekend! and it's the last of the last bottle of sherry that our mutual friends brought us to toast our end, but i've just learned that pfizer markets xanax here under the most darling (and very practically straightforward) trade name -- and that they push it over the counter. it's certainly cheaper to get with a prescription, but that (haha!) might require another marriage. you might be living every day like it's your divorce week, but one way or another you're going to pay the price of intellectual property (or just make do with what your friends bring you).
it's funny (and not only the picture of a country popping trankimazin to forget the anxiety of the possibility of developing an anxiety disorder). she left, and, i swear, all of a sudden it's springtime. and the last place in the city that i thought i'd ever be is the one that makes me happy. it's full of foreigners -- and cheese (that special kind that foreigners like) -- and we all know that the authentic core of the city lies in its foreign pretenders' ostentatious denunciations of their other countrypeople's inauthenticity (and especially in the flamenco ring). most blocks, in other words, and wherever you find yourselves walking them, are disappointingly the same. but strangely, that older anybody who played his guitar for the seven or so of us who stuck around la carboneria after the main event was finished on friday night made me wonder if there wasn't something left for me in seville in the wake of my second wife's leaving me. he seemed refreshingly without aspirations to local authenticity. and even unabashed: "ne me quitte pas. ne me quitte pas." and sure he was probably singing it for the two french girls, but i let it work for me nonetheless. you've got to do what you can with where you've got it. if there was a pharmacy on the block, it wouldn't have been open for hours anyway.
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