Hotel Joma

Right now I am sitting in the reception of Hotel Joma in Jerez, with my good friend Junquerita on my right, trying to figure out the technicalities of blogspots.

Tomorrow I am traveling to Barcelona and hopefully, please cross fingers, pray, light candles, incense, meditate, rosary, etcetera, but mostly pray that I can finally see Antonio Agujetas Chico and his family in Girona.

I´m sitting in my very warm room in Jerez, debating whether to write or not.

I´m sitting in my very warm room in Jerez, debating whether to write or not.  I have been sitting in front of a blank computer screen for well… three days.  I can´t seem to beat Lorca. 

El sur es mi ensueño
no son tus ojos niño.
Pero con que me sigues mirando
cambio mi sueño por el tuyo.

Luz de tu mirada, chiquillo
son como los farolas del Arenal
que me siguen despertando
anteayer, hoy y mañana

Si tu compañera es tan buena
dime, primito, porque te regañe.
Tus palabras son aguita fesca
pa el calor que no se me quite.

I am stumped with the question of gesture.  It seems to me, that the question of gesture (as defined by Agamben) and as understood by both Walter Benjamin and Ortega y Gasset.  This is perhaps a leap that I cannot make.  Gesture is defined by Agamben as humans in the medium of communication.  It is not necessarily communication itself.  My dilemma is that the process of communication is defined by gestures—each act of communication itself becomes a gesture.  By looking at the structure of the communication, the past the meaning of the words into the organization—a jump Foucault would love—each speech, each essay becomes in itself a positioning, a human in the act of communication. 

At the turn of the 20^th century, many of the artist vanguard communities offered their own take on the events of “modernity”.  As many argue, art itself is political.  However, these artists took the relationship between art, literature and politics to the next level.  The act of producing art was a manifiesto.  The artist at the turn of the 20th century saw themselves as Foucault´s “universal intellectual”; “derive[ing] from the jurist or notable and find[ing] his fullest manifestation in the writer, the bearer of values and significations in which all can recognize themselves” (Knowledge and power, 128). 

A prime example of this are the manifiestos produced by various groups of artists at the turn of the 20^th century.  These manifiestos go beyond the scope of the production of art in itself, and are direct interventions in the political environment of the time.  Read the Futurist Manifiesto, written in 1909 and the political aspect of in this case poetry cannot be more clear.  (Point 3, “Literature has up to now magnified pensive immobility, ecstasy and slumber. We want to exalt movements of aggression, feverish sleeplessness, the double march, the perilous leap, the slap and the blow with the fist.”) A manifiesto is necessarily political, but in the futurist vanguard the poets revolt openly against Italy’s  cultural “gangrene of professors, archaeologists, tourist guides and antiquaries.”

In the Surrealist Manifiesto, written first by André Bretón in 1924, the poet stands against the cultural “realism” of the published word as much as the culture which produced it.  In his introduction, Bretón founds his philosophical process in children’s literature—the sense of the marvelous.  “Poetic Surrealism, which is the subject of this study, has focused its efforts up to this point on reestablishing dialogue in its absolute truth, by freeing both interlocutors from any obligations and politeness. Each of them simply pursues his soliloquy without trying to derive any special dialectical pleasure from it and without trying to impose anything whatsoever upon his neighbor.”

The question of manifiestos and Lorca is one that perhaps isn´t as obvious.  The uniting concept that ties these manifiests together is the concept of gesture.  Each manifiesto necessarily offers a similar gesture—each manifiesto places itself at a critical position with relation to society.  

By placing the artist/intelectual/writer at the crux of cultural preservation.  In all cases, the manifiesto attempts (at least) to reinstate a critical aspect of culture that has been lost.  With the Futurist Manifiesto, the question of newness, freshness, and growth.  With Surrealism, wonder and amazement.  Lorca does the same.  The Concurso of 1922 is his manifiesto against the loss of the "viejísimo elementos nativos."  

"A ellos debemos, pues, la creación de estos cantos, alma de nuestra alma; a ellos debemos la construcción de estos cauces líricos por donde se escapan todos los dolores y los gestos rituarios de la raza."

What is more, García Lorca places the conservation of these songs, of this soul of Spain's soul, within the realm of active political engagement.  As he ends his conference in 1922, García Lorca concludes with a reiteration and direct appeal for the value of cante jondo en contemporary Spanish society. 

Señoras y Señores,

A todos los que a través de la vida se han emocionado con la copla lejana que viene por el camino, a todos los que la paloma blanca del amor haya picado en su corazón maduro, a todos los amantes de la tradición engarzada con el provenir, al que estudia en el libro como al que ara la tierra, les suplico respetuosamente que no dejen morir las apreciables joyas vivas de la raza, el inmenso tesoro milenario que cubre la superficie espiritual de Andalucía y que mediten bajo la noche de Granada la trascendencia patriótica del proyecto que unos artistas españoles presentamos.

 The aforementioned soul is now the living jewels of the race; the immense and ancient treasure that covers the spiritual surface of Andalucia, so as to meditate on the patriotic transcendence of the project that some Spanish artists present. By dressing the epic and spiritual history of the Spanish race with a patriotic jacket, García Lorca is effectively mimicking the goal of the manifiesto.  Mimicking in gesture, what he does not mimic in format.

The view from my bed in Jerez de la Frontera.

Duende

Flamenco lives on the knife’s edge.  The discipline or the study of flamenco doesn´t have a clear resting place within the faux-marble halls of Academia. Neither completely literature, nor dance, it also borders cultural studies, history, anthropology, sociology, perhaps even tours Medicine or the natural sciences.  In a word, flamenco is transient. 

Literary Philosophy, too, is passing through a series of foster homes.  Not quite at home with literature after Derrida read Lacan and declared the word itself to be unstable.  Recently, though not too recently I can say I have just discovered a new philosopher, the quest for stability found the figure of the gesture.  Gesture, physical gesture, gesticulación, gesto.  The use of the body to express an emotion or meaning.  Giorgio Agamben offers a fascinating study of the gesture in the book Means Without End; A study in which the theory of gesture itself is placed as central to the study of meaning.  What a tickling thought, the semiotics of gestures. 

Giorgio Agamben proposes that gesture is “mediality” of being-in-action: the embodiment of being a means of communication. In gesture, we enter into ethics, because the gesture is being in the moment of being in the moment of speech. “The gesture is, in this sense, communication of a communicability. It has precisely nothing to say because what it shows is the being-in-language of human beings as pure mediality” (Agamben 58,9). 

Is the idea of the gerund, or the "ing" in "communicating", "walking". The gesture is meant to collect the meaning, before the spoken or written word. This is why the presentation of Federico García Lorca studiously presents duende. The duende is the time of delivery, to change the "what?" the "aha!!" of the "how?" to "olé!!". You could say, perhaps, that the idea of duende itself is alien to the actual presence of the duende.

The study of duende is like that of British biologist arriving in Tibet, dangling from his lips the question, "Have you seen a yedi?" Yet, while many people in Tibet claim to have seen a Yedi, whether they can be proven to exist is an entirely different question.  For the spectacled British biologist just as for the modern Myth-Buster, the Yedi functions within the Tibetian society by means of spiritual necessity—it allows the supernatural to communicate with the natural world.  They must exist, there is a need for them to exist.  Yet physical existence aside, a Yedi simply is. 

To ask a flamenco performer about duende will provide a variety of answers. In one of my interviews, I spoke with a performer in Barcelona, an excellent dancer and well-known internationally, who said to me that he learned about flamenco from Cuba, Cuban Santería to be exact. My knit brows questioned him as he described the embodiment of spirit in flesh in the ceremonies of Santería and Palo Monte, his breath quickened as he moved on to flamenco.  For this artist, flamenco itself is as spiritual as, well, a religion.

In 1931, Federico García Lorca describes the concept of duence in his conference Teoría y Juego del Duende.  Quoting Paganini, García Lorca describes duende as a " 'Poder misterioso que todos sienten y que ningún filósofo explica'. Así, pues, el duende es un poder y no un obrar, es un luchar y no un pensar."

(Mysterious power that all feel and no philosopher explains. So, as it is, duende is power and not working, it is fighting and not a thinking.)

If it is, in itself, unable to be described, why does Lorca continue? If it cannot be described, what can a poet give that a philosopher cannot? 

Return to Agamben, slightly out of context, and apply him to García Lorca's study is revealing.  Perhaps we have been mis-interpreting duende.  As Agamben states, gesture has nothing to say in and of itself; it is the "being-in-language" of human mediality. Perhaps duende is the same.  Duende itself has nothing to say; no secret found in the stale stomach of a dancer; nothing particularly innovative in the sound from the cantaor's scratched voice.  Perhaps that is the secret.  Duende doesn´t say anything.  It just is.  It is the state where the gesture is no longer being interpreted.  The ra-ca-ta-ta doesn´t mean, "Hey!  Look at me!"  Nor is the ría-ría-pi-ta saying, "Hey, look at that gorgeous man!"  When the people say afterward that there was duende--that´s all you can say.  There are no words. 

If duende is when the mediality of the gesture is embraced and exalted; then without the klinking of glasses of watery sangría, the gesture is not limited to the performer.  The camarero, the bar-tender, the old grandmother with her face powder, and the young naïve couple in the audience forget.  They forget to speak.  The plates and forks stop fighting each other, and gesture triumphs over speech.  "[Duende] is, in this sense, communication of a communicability. It has precisely nothing to say because what is shows is the being-in-language of human beings as pure mediality" (58,9). It is a gag, in the true sense of the word--it impedes... no, it stops language.  

Perhaps this is why, for so many duende is described in spiritual terms.  It is poetically given a form that travels through space and time. Metaphorically, poetically, Lorca concludes his conference with a image of duende.  Is a wind that travels through the cemetary, resting only temporarily in certain places, constantly looking for new landscapes and ignored accents, it can be found within the crushed herb, a child's spittle, a jellyfish. It heralds the constant baptism of the things newly-created. 

"El duende... ¿Dónde está el duende? Por el arco vacío entra un aire mental que sopla con insistencia sobre las cabezas de los muertos, en busca de nuevos paisajes y acentos ignorados: un aire con olor de saliva de niño, de hierba machacada y velo de medusa que anuncia el constante bautizo de las cosas recién creadas."

Ser o Estar??

Dad, this is my boyfriend.

Estar de molestia. Ser una molestia.

Listen

Read phonetically

"Being in trouble." Be a hassle. Being in the way.

"I feel I´m in the way in the house." "I do not want to be a nuissance, ma'am ..." "Sorry for the bother, but I have a question."

It's what I've felt here in Madrid discomfort. Yesterday we saw a… , well a "life-lesson" as Dad loves to say.   

Felipe IV, y el culo de su caballo.

Jeannete and I were walking slowly from Puerta del Sol to the Parque de Retiro slowly, giving little turns and hiccups when we saw a man selling books on the street. The next manzana we found a church with beggars in front.  We found the library, a huge Corinthian building with 8 columns rising from a massive granite staircase, statues of Olympian gods, and almost completely barricaded by stone and iron fences. An building not quite sure of itself--a little insecure, perhaps overcompensating.    

And then we found the Parque del Retiro.  Huge park, stamped with little ponds, lakes and fountains and crested with hedges and green grass.  It is a haven in the city--exactly as the name leads you to believe: Refreshment, Retirement, Withdrawal, and definitely not "job" related.

We finally arrive at the iron gates of the Parque de Retiro. Little retirement or refreshment. We were welcomed by a gypsy from Dos Hermanas, Seville. "Come here pretty! Rosemary. A little rosemary!" I knew it then. I know it. I knew it, but the gypsy Susana had an amazing art. That rosemary cannot be ignored. That rosemary brings luck. That is a gift. Five minutes later, I walk away with a lighter wallet and three sprigs of very expensive and superstitious rosemary.  In five minutes, the sing-song lullaby of the gypsy Susana told me of my long-suffering life, the pains in my heart, the curse of the evil-eye, the future boyfriend (dark-skinned--olé!), the two months time before I come back to Madrid and tell her, the good heart of Jeannete, that I must trust Jeannete as she is trustworthy, that I will have a long life, that I will have a happy life… oh yes, and that Jeannete gets a blond boyfriend.  The most amazing part of this street performance was the both the consistency in rhythm and intonation, but also the rhymes. Each third sentence seemed to rhyme.  And as we spoke with several gypsies that day, each gitana, María, Susana, and Ana (or was her name Isabel) had their own songs.  “Mi nombre es María, ya verás que de mi se fía.”  Or the ever classic: "Como me llamo Susana, dinero no me darás con mala gana.”. La Susana left with 30 euros. And the worst part is that I knew it, I knew it beforehand.

Despite the various protests, the uncomfortable hand-grabbing, and the awkward hand-extraction, I wed this Madrid-uncomfort with the ancient, primitive, and perhaps barbaric Spanish tradition tradition involving the free (humph!) exchange of money with gypsies for the purpose of superstitious cleansing.  Interesting ritual, and a Spanish custom that has taken, at minimum, three hundred years to form.  The gypsies of Borrow, those of Delacrois, those of Smith, Bird, Valera, Sender, Onetti, to be included in such an illustrious list, even out of stupidity, makes the experience a little sweeter.  Eiko, she didn´t say anything about blue eyes.  But according to María (and this time not Susana), I will have three children.  Gory, aren´t you happy for me!

 

Stuck II

La Chicuela

Flamenco friends and colleagues, I am stuck.

Costumbrist literature in Spain as early as the 1840s describes a typical festival, the sweet wine, sweet oranges, beautiful sunset, sweet women... But always in Costumbrist literature describing the South of Spain there is a very unique role, afforded to those who are somewhat displaced.

Here is an example of costumbrist;
Washington Irving, Cuentos de la Alhambra, "The Journey"

While we were supping with our Drawcansir friend, we heard the notes of a guitar, and the click of castanets, and presently a chorus of voices singing a popular air. In fact mine host had gathered together the amateur singers and musicians, and the rustic belles of the neighborhood, and, on going forth, the courtyard or patio of the inn presented a scene of true Spanish festivity. We took our seats with mine host and hostess and the commander of the patrol, under an archway opening into the court; the guitar passed from hand to hand, but a jovial shoemaker was the Orpheus of the place. He was a pleasant-looking fellow, with huge black whiskers; his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He touched the guitar with masterly skill, and sang a little amorous ditty with an expressive leer at the women, with whom he was evidently a favorite. He afterwards danced a fandango with a buxom Andalusian damsel, to the great delight of the spectators. But none of the females present could compare with mine host’s pretty daughter, Pepita, who had slipped away and made her toilette for the occasion, and had covered her head with roses; and who distinguished herself in a bolero with a handsome young dragoon. We ordered our host to let wine and refreshment circulate freely among the company, yet, though there was a motley assembly of soldiers, muleteers, and villagers, no one exceeded the bounds of sober enjoyment. The scene was a study for a painter: the picturesque group of dancers, the troopers in their half military dresses, the peasantry wrapped in their brown cloaks; nor must I omit to mention the old meagre Alguazil, in a short black cloak, who took no notice of any thing going on, but sat in a corner diligently writing by the dim light of a huge copper lamp, that might have figured in the days of Don Quixote.


The role of the foreigner, as expounded in 1841, hasn´t changed much.  "We ordered our host to let wine and refreshment circulate..."  We are in fact, the patrons.

The patron or señorito was the rich, landed gentleman, often characterized with the debonaire mustache, slight yet contagious smile, and pressed slacks who circulated money and favors among the artists.  The artists are always the working class; the bar maid, the basket-maker who sings while he weaves, the single daughter of a muleteer who is known for her spirited tongue and her beautiful dancing.  But the patron is always a foreigner.  An exile from the city life, a semi-prosperous noble with a taste for country pursuits. A foreign transplant fleeing from the bleak ticky-tack of New York, London or Boston.

What do we do with the modern exiles? The cultural exiles?

The 60s saw American women, made passionate by flamenco singers and dancers, throwing themselves at the first bed they found.  Such is the case of Ramón Sender's La tesis de Nancy, or the autobiographical novel Returning to A, by Dorien Ross.  The men, it seems, found in their plaintive guitar strings, a newly re-discovered masculinity--a world of blood feuds, of chauvinism, and of passion.  Hence, The Wind Cried: An American´s Discovery of Flamenco, or the better known The Flamenco Academy, by Sarah Bird.

Cristina Benítez

The latter novel was published in 2006.  But the story is the same.  Where does an black-red-polkadot-California-ABD-smoker-and-currently-really-trying-to-be-a-non-drinker have to do with flamenco in Barcelona?

I am rematando today with a letra.  Instead of the lover seeking out his beloved, this is the AUGH! of a Californiana al mundo flamenco.

Cuando paso por tu casa
Compro pan y voy comiendo;
Pa que tu gente no diga
Que con verte me mantengo.

Stuck

Roadblocks. Construction. Street light outages. Metro stops. Bus Drivers. The street noises filter through the mustard yellow drape of my rented room.  I am currently lying face down, chin fighting with the pillow over the better view of my computer screen.  I have found the (il)legal sight for watching US tv shows-and I am now more caught up on my series than perhaps any of the other suckers. Such is the week.  Cuevana sounds like a cave in Monty Python and the Holy Grail--not an illegal internet site to view pirated copies of US movies.  It sounds like the Insula of Quijote, or the Utopia of Moore. Welcome to globalization.

The appropriation of non-Spanish products into the Lexicon of well, Spanish is fascinating.  Yew-tuve, Cólgate, Escaype, Kleenex, Weefee, Cesi, or the most popular choice, guiri.

Guiri, is a colloquial term used to refer to tourists in Spain.  And, despite the etimological studies placing its origin in the Civil Wars of the Queen Christina in the 19th century, (please see footnote), the term actually has a less exotic history.  Guiri is a mispronunciation of the American term Greeny--referring to the Green Party and to the now environmentally safe cleaning products.  Greeni--> Guiri.  There is also a possible though less accepted origin of the word, referring to the 1862 American First Legal Tender Act.  In 1862, in the Civil War, the US Government issues its first paper notes--"Greenbacks".  Given the intimate relationship between Americans and the Spanish nation through tourism, an American tourist was also known as a "Guiri".

Footnote:
Nombre con que, durante las guerras civiles del siglo XIX, designaban los carlistas a los partidarios de la reina Cristina, y después a todos los liberales, y en especial a los soldados del gobierno. (DRAE)

Observations at 2 AM, Monday

At two in the morning, the most obvious things are those that hide in a first or second layer of logic.  Not perhaps the zero layer: “This is a bar!” Or even, “This is an expensive bar.”  But the kind of observations that allow you to make sense of the riotous and noisy streets of the city. 

Monday 2 AM I had several of these observations.  The first being the nature of cultural and national identity. 

            You do realize that a nation isn´t impervious—a geographical space is constructed of numerous alternate spaces and identities.  I think the most glaring example is that of physical space: Embassies, etc.  A physical and tangible space that doesn´t legally belong to the surrounding nation. I thnk that there is a similar phenomenon that occurs with tourist locals.  On Monday, Ira and I went looking for flamenco.  We found Los Tarantos.  For those not familiarized with the flamenco scene in general, I haven´t been to a traditional flamenco show that has started on time.  Ever. 

Knowing this very important fact the two single ladies arrive elegantly late, and the show is almost over.   

Moral: In the country of tourists, the punctual is king.

Second anecdote:

The Ramblas in Barcelona asserts its identity by its almost endless supply of Hasish, Mari, artists, prostitutes and street performers.  A typical weekday at midnight finds international travelers gawking at immobile persons dressed as tin men, mimes, and the assorted array of Spanish kitsch.  Toreros are popular.  A smallish woman dressed in quincenera garb and with blond ringlets toying with her fake eyelashes, evoked the scene from Velazquez’ Las Meninas.  Two hundred yards toward the Port of MareMagnum offers a similar semi-circle of Japanese and Belgian spectators debating the price of cans of San Miguel, the local beer sold out of backpacks and plastic bags on every corner.  The irradescent lights comingle with the cries of the working immigrant, selling free “chupitos” and Disco tickets. 

Ira and I were walking to get a gofre, the luscious treat of the midnight voyeur or clubber found in a particular stall at the entrance to Calle de Infierno.  An old man, dressed in a one-piece bear costume, complete with fuzzy ears, is suddenly at our side. Mimicking our walk. Swishing his waist and holding out his hand to hold an invisible cigarette.  We both stopped and looked at him.  Two little tattoos on each side of his mouth reminded me of the whiskers on a teddy bear, but as I looked at the man, the wrinkled, puckered mouth, weathered eyes, and the mastery of imitation, the effect was disconcerting.  The hombr-oso was too close, and both of us grabbed our purses and watched him watching us. Walking away as he walked closer.  After the endless 15 seconds, he found a more interesting group of tourists and repeated the experience.  The two of us walked away, safely. He didn´t go for our bags, and never touched us.  Ira asked me, “Was he a street artist?  A performance artist?”  5 minutes later we agreed…

Moral: The difference between a street performer and a crazy person… is TEETH.

What makes each of these two anecdotes apropos is the manner in which they serve as a measure of performance.   There is a very clear relationship between class, authenticity, performance, and audience.  In the first local, Los Tarantos, the authenticity of the environment is suppressed for the Ford-like capacity of the assembly line.  Each tourist leaves having seen “authentic” Spain: an “authentic” flamenco show that starts promptly at 6:30, 7:30, 8:30, 9:30, 10:30 and 11:30, and “authentic” Sangría—all for the authentic price of 8€ (6€ if you buy your ticket online).  It all leaves me thinking: to what extent does the performance of flamenco relate to the question of the performance of the “national”?  To what extent does the market determine “national identity”? 

The second experience also leaves me with a series of questions.  The man-bear did not in any significant way differ from any of the other street performers in Las Ramblas.  Perhaps, you could say that while he was mobile (walking up and down the Ramblas), the others were not.  And, while they had means of accepting and encouraging payment, he did not.  To what extent does the artist need to be paid to be considered artist?  Man-bear had no teeth, the other artists did. Therefore, there is an entire formulation that can be derived from the access to medical care, health, personal hygiene, etc, that leads to the conclusion “Crazy Man-Bear” instead of “Man-Bear-Artist”.  How does this relate to the construction of flamenco?

The sights and smells

Each metro car has a different personality. I got in one today, where the floors were clean; three of four people (seated) were reading their own book, or over someone else’s shoulder. One thing about the Barcelona metro that I don't understand is the percentage of people who refuse to ride to the end of the line. The percentage of people significantly diminishes, more than half of the people (70%) get off on the train at the second to the last stop. Perhaps its just an anomaly, or is there a fear of commitment? Almost, just almost... I think I can. Augh! Nope.

Each metro stop has a different air about it. There are some that pass the ticket to the right, while you walk to the left. In others, the dyslexic designers placed the ticket on the right, and like a torero, you are forced to slide the ticket at the precise moment the doors close in front of you. I haven´t yet perfected the art of bullfighting the metro stops. I am working on it, though.

I am continually surprised at the difference in scenery between the different Barrios of Barcelona. Coming from a small country town of 17,000, the differences in ambient are significant. There are stops that lead you to empty plazas, surrounded on four sides by two story businesses. There are stops that afford the best view of the phallic tower Aïguas de Barcelona (yes, ladies! No don't laugh!). There are stops that lead you to the antipodal mix of prostitution and vanguard theatrical performances. And then there is my stop. Mercat Nou. A working part of Barrio Sants where the common odor seems to be of hot oil and stale urine. I am not sure, but I think that they import dogs to pee in the streets here. (Sometimes I hears sporadic bands of dogs barking and running through the 4:00-AM-streets.) Perhaps the grudge I bear my own Mercat Nou is that it doesn’t strut. The station itself is quite clean, but leaving the 20m² of the station either direction is horribly seedy. To the left, you pass under the metro line, attempt to hold your breath while stepping around dirty puddles, and finally are hushed down a walkway by two walls of heavily graffitied tin siding. To the right, past the perennial group of 5 men with long hair seated and standing outside Bar La Vanguardia, is the scuffy back alley. The construction site (of what I am still unsure) leaves muddy footprints and yellow mud potholes that polkadot the street. Three treacherous callejones, and you turn right to go under (again) the dank metro line. Perhaps interesting to note is that each passageway has its own particular smell: while the first is mostly of dusty piss, this second passage (leading to a cute plaza) smells like musty urine and empty cellar. It even sports empty wine bottles—a rustic touch.

I got off on in the wrong metro station today and was late for an interview.

Bulería de la parada equivocada

De me a donde vengo
te digo a donde voy
Que no en Badalona
sino en Boc de Roda estoy.

That’s all for today.

My reflux is acting up.

All names have been changed to protect the innocent...

Today (dimartes), has been a day of beautiful false starts.

Class was canceled today. A very formal man, checkered shirt, who with the gravity afforded by only the best Catalán speakers, informed the mix of hodgepodge students that Profesor R* had injured his back yesterday lifting books. Lifting books! Imagine! Now, I am saying this with the utmost respect, as I too am an aficionado of the literary persuasion, and book upon book does follow the laws of gravity... ...but books? Why blame the innocent party for another, perhaps less erudite, excuse. As us hodgepodge group wound down the staircase to the ground floor, it was decided. I (me--why I am not quite sure) am supposed to bring whiskey to class tomorrow to make sure that Professor R* is in a good mood. Will keep informed.

I was psychoanalyzed today. Go figure. I was told by a Brazilian duo, that my personality is heavy enough for large amounts of children. I sure hope they were referring to my magnamousity, magnamity, magnanimity... err, my charismatic presence, my disarming smile, and my, well... my sense of style. I was also told I was seductive. I´m not sure where that comment was going, but I accepted it with the disarming smile I am told that I have. The heavy personality I am assuming refers to my capacity for negotiating with a lot of children--(classroom setting), and I have decided to accept this rather odd looking compliment. As I mentioned in my last post, piropos are a natural part of the development of the psyche. I have decided to accept them (as long as they fall into the MPAA rating system PG-13). So, I was psychoanalyzed today.

I met a Romanian woman today. This one I actually did look for. Walking with my friend Ira (from the Portuguese, Ira) in the direction of a local supermarket we casually brushed past a very large sign: Romanian Products. As I am trying to learn Rromaní, I bit the figurative bullet and went into the store. Lilí (from the Romanian Liliana) was soon attending us with gifts of small eliptical wedges of very soft sausage. A lively conversation shortly ensued. Lili must be in her late 40s, striking blue eyes, olive skin, and dark hair. And yes, she is Romanian, and she owns a Meat Shop, but as she said to me with her very heavy 'h's --"Jyo, no ssoy ningjuna putá". We discussed the state of the State, the state of the youth, the state of the economy, neighbors, the Spanish culture before finally getting to ask my very important question. "Do you know anyone who could teach me Rumano?" With a look between a half grimace and a wink, she took my card and said that her daughter (Natasha) could perhaps, teach me a little Romanian. In exchange for English. Well, such is life. We did leave with a new Romanian Product store, a cut of sausage the size of a tennis shoe, and some good stories. Gentlemen, anyone reading this blog, Lili told me to look for a good man (American) who wants to marry a very pretty Romanian woman. I am told she can cook very well.

To conclude today's self-reflective monologue I would like to remit to a short selection of Facebook chat you will find quoted below. A friend of mine was explaining the intricacies of Chinese cooking when all of a sudden...

"Sorry, I´m back."

"no, worries."

"I had to take a drunk old Portuguese man off my Facebook friends list."

"damn it why!"

"He wasn´t making any sense."

"haha"

"I asked him if I knew him, and he said you know me how!!!!

'You... Woman... US...'
"YEAH!!!!!!

You know I do how!!!!

(I think he was referring to the USA?)

He might have said

"You... LA... Woman..."

Yes, I think he did.
Then I think he was typing heavy breathing--or something. I took him off my friends list."

It was a very brief moment, that I guess, could have been the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

I´m not sure what else is customary to say at such times.

La revedere--good bye in Romanian.
And to the rest too!

The art of seduction

This has been an intense week... I was reminded today that I haven´t mentioned in depth what I´m doing here. My mission is three-fold. First, learn Catalán. (In the process of being checked--so box checking in progress) Second, investigation for my Dissertation. Third, Interviews. Interestingly enough, my dissertation and the interviews are evolving hand in hand. The interviews are allowing me into a part of my psyche that has been strictly avoided for several years. Mission Impossible is now in progress. I also happen to be taking a singing class. (Angie y Juana--les debo estos nuevos cojones que acabo de encontrar). El señor, respetuosamente gaditano, is named Joaquín Herrera-and he has a mastery of guitar, voice, and well--piropos. Piropo:
(Del lat. pyrōpus, y este del gr. πυρωπός).

1. m. Variedad del granate, de color rojo de fuego, muy apreciada como piedra fina.

2. m. Rubí, carbúnculo.

3. m. coloq. Lisonja, requiebro.

The colloquial use found in the tertiary definition is specifically the style of piropo I am growing accustomed to. Piropo is above all a compliment that man directs to a woman. They can be anywhere from attractive
Ve por la sombra, que por el sol derrites, Bonbon!
To witty
Si encima sabés hablar, sos un monopolio.
To what my maestro de cante is telling me in class.
Mira si cantamos por arriba, que por abajo no debemos.
or
No estás casada? Mejor que no tenemos que huirnos juntos.

I had my last class on Thursday. I am working on a sevillana.
Soy del sur.
De aquí fueron mis abuelos
Se formaron mis mayores,
Aquí nacieron mis padres
y nacieron mis amores.

And I am on 7 por arriba. Jodé! Let me repeat, I was singing a sevillana on 7 I never thought I would be able, ever.

I have decided to publish here some of the poetry I´m writing. I am more than a little embarrassed... but that´s what I´m doing here... so here you go. Feel free to comment.

No quiero tu tutela
que falta no me hace
tus palabras son duras
tan dura como el esmalte
---
Al valsar me asustento
de entenderme con los demás
cual es la borde Dios mío,
entre el yo-yo, y el yo de más
---
Día y noche que yo viva
más me quiero ilustrar
lo mío es lo de una fuente
es tu voz en el viento al pasar

Two news stories...

Last night I was watching the Telediario (generic word for News) and two stories ran back to back.

Watching the news, I learn that 10% of the Spanish population has never left their province. 48% of Spaniards have never left Spain. Aside from the utter absurdity of a largely immobile population, the irony is that there is a surprising abundance of international anecdotes. I was on the metro a week ago, and I heard a young group of teens telling each other scary stories. "Did you know that there was this Russian man who was declared dead. During his funeral, he woke up, and the shock of being buried gave him a heart attack and he died on the spot. You´d think that the priest, at least the coroner would be able to tell". The next day, I heard the same story from my roomate, only that the Russian was a woman, and she was in this state for several days before they buried her. Although I am not surprised by the the access one has to international news-scoop, what still shocks me is that there is so much about the Spanish press that the news itself reports to be false. Ironically, such a critical commentary on press coverage, creates a fractal community, who is callously (or perhaps connivingly) self-critiquing. (Sorry! I got stuck.)

The second item that caught my attention is that involving the British news agency "News of the World", Hugh Grant and the British Prime Minister. Apparently, the agency "News of the World" uses illegal and invasive means ("intervención telefónica"--telephone hacking??), to dig up dirt on anybody they take a fancy to dislike. As the journalist spoke to the me from the orderly town of London, her English heels correctly placed at the modest 30 degree angle, her scarf ever so slightly moving in the negligible British breeze--she said, "Este caso subraya una tendencia documentada hacía mucho tiempo: la coincidencia del Poder, la Prensa y a la Politica. Los tres Ps."

The relationship between an increasing awareness of the international world, the so-called "globalization", combined with the increasing awareness of media bias leads to interesting results.

The first day I arrived, I sat down to watch la tele and get used to listening to Spanish on a daily basis. The first thing Teodora said to me was, don´t trust everything you see on TV. The way they describe the "movimiento de los indignados" is not true. The people complain of the "indignados": they are filth, ruffians, they steal and smoke pot all day. When they organize committees, the committees themselves don´t make any sense: a committee to decide whether to grow tomatoes or onions. A committee to decide whether to give henna tattoos or tattoos without anesthetic or antibiotics. A committee dedicated to Risoterapía--laugh therapy. The smell that was coming from the Plaça Catalunya, main plaza in the center of Barcelona where the Indignats were indignantly camped for almost a month, was strong and very unpleasant. I also have to say that personally, despite my very unexpected experience with naked men and sand, I am not interested in seeing men and women hanging out in well-worn "anti-capitalist" clothing and yelling things at me when I am going to Corte Inglés to charge my phone. Eating is even worse. As I sit sipping my very expensive cortado, I can´t help to analyze the magnetic display of angst. The dirty clothes are now exchanged in the Barcelona heat for moss-colored briefs. The kind with the little sag in the butt and oddly grotesque stains.

A second coffee in Plaça Catalunya is out of the question. The Indignats don´t pretend to have any organization, no central organizational body, no leaders, no purpose.... they are there to be indignant. To complain. To shout. And to make a public performance out of their frustration.

What is profoundly epic about the Indignants is the self-expression. It is poetic. Instead of dressing, washing, and appealing to Parlament, the expression of distress becomes the opposite: brushing teeth becomes a sublimely political act. When, if ever, has lethargy been so extremely political? So radically political?

I find it telling that the expression of poverty has become the expression of Indignation. Not rage, but just indignation. We are a "Post" generation; reacting to the previous philosophies, but finding fault with all. We define by our negation. Affirm by our disaffirmation. It seems logical to camp out in Plaça Catalunya; to shout and make noise; to protest even if we don´t know how or what to change.

Walking back through the streets of my barrio, I find a surprising smell of fresh bread, sweet pastries, trash, and dog pee. I don´t think I´ll be camping out in Plaça Catalunya until they get at least minimal showers... oh yeah, and hot water.

Entrevistas

Reflections regarding the interviews:

I am astounded, mouth-open, stammering, neither English or Spanish, astounded at the range of responses I am getting from my interviews.

As you know, I am working on a Living Archive for Flamenco trying to find out what people think flamenco is, why it is, what it means, where it comes from, and where it is going. Like any 50s news paper reported, with my straw fedora tilted at an acceptable but slightly rakish angle, "Ma'am, the facts. Just give me the facts." I am trying to get a diversity of respondents--a few days ago I interviewed a group of the most lovely and slightly buzzed older women. The middle, Filomena (?), was a fount of very sincere answers, the woman seated on the right, María--with very red lipstick, was a doll. Giggly, giggly, and well, very endearing. The left, had a few teeth missing but was very kind as well. I notice that if I am approaching someone I don´t know, an "aficionado", I tend to talk to older women. If the person is an artist, they tend to be a younger man. The younger women don´t seem to want to talk to me (I´m not quite sure why), and I´m a little scared of "single", "older" men. I am still a little sensitive from Jonny Blue Eyes.

I notice that most of the respondents who are Andalusian immigrants or charnegos, children born to Andalusian parents in Catalunya, describe their appreciation for flamenco as something being taught in the blood, something learned from the cradle. Filomena, talked about her earliest memories being copla and pasodoble. Joaquín Herrera, spoke of his mother giving him a uklele at the age of 5, because he wanted to play guitar. On the other hand, Santi, the professor, discussed his interest of flamenco coming from his son and a friend, who explained the lyrics of flamenco to him.

Where I have seen the most variation are on two questions. Who or what does Flamenco represent? Spain, Andalusía, the gitanos...? The most fascinating aspect of this is that it seems to differ according to the interviewers position in the "world of flamenco." The artist or teacher, defines flamenco as an international art, one where the student, regardless of nationality, is able to find an individual means of expression for flamenco. On the other hand, the audience views flamenco as a strictly cultural and therefore unique (geographically, culturally, etc.) form of expression.

The second question "Where does Flamenco come from?" also has had a varied answer--though not to the same extent. I find that there are repeated answers, "Flamenco as something without past", epic, mythic (although these are my words). Something that has always been present in society. Edu Cortés had the most interesting and perhaps unexpected response. Flamenco can trace its origins to the historical division of the orchestra, when the guitar and voice were separated together.

Well... those are all of my thoughts for the night. It is almost 1 AM, and despite the fact that I am struggling with my "Spanish-weird-ness" again, I should go to sleep.

In the words of Beethoven, Plaudite, amici, comedia finita est.

Besitos y abrazotes!

VID00012.MP4

Edú Cortés-Guitarra
Joaquín Gomez "El Duende"-Cante
David Domínguez-Cajón
Manuel Masaedo-Batería
Isabel Orozco-Baile

¡QUÉ ARTE!

Identity Crisis

Spain is a land that furnishes the American imagination. So rich in culture, in language, in culinary adventures. There is a special relationship between American students and the Spanish nation--one whose governmental support was affirmed with all the smiles and plastic that went into a visit from my Secretary of State to my local capital.

Spain furnishes the American imagination. Last night... ??...yes it was last night, I remembered the very familiar schizophrenic feeling of a first-time American student to the peninsula. The schizophrenia that you find common among "young" students (among which I do still include myself); in particular the college students that happen to pick up a non-Texaaaaan accent in Spanish. You get schizophrenic. In one part of your brain, your overloaded receptors note heavily, the beauty of a Roman archway, and you begin to cry. In the other, the more logical and rational side, you understand that after years of counseling and breakups that what you are feeling is euphoria and will pass.

Well, last night, while recording very attently the diverging opinions of Rafi and Santi (a married couple visiting the festival Nou Barris to see Mayte Martín sing), I realized that I could give a flying f*@$! (sorry Mom) what Dr. of Spanish Literature Santi thinks about the US. Much less the American sister-in-law that lives in Berkley. I am honestly up to my... well you get the picture. And David on the metro, cute brown-eyed David, I am so tired of "pues claro que hay buena gente en América", I am turning patriotic. (Gori, this goes out to you!). I am so ready to get up into someones face, and swaggering a little back and forth say, "What?! You mean in all of "America", we might have some good people??"

I´m tired of people explaining things to me. Part of it due to the questions I am doing for the interviews, but I am so tired of being seen as the...

Que creo que he llegado al punto de desilusión tan común con los extranjeros al llegar a un país tanto deseado como agobiador. Que es el punto en que ... por decir lo tan educadamente... "francamente, me da igual." Me agobia el tío, que cree, como tantos americanos lamento decir, que por la fuerza y la energía de su gesticulación me va a hacer entender. Este tío, que por gritarme, me pasa toda su sabiduría del flamenco catalán. Me llega al colmo que mi profesor tan linguisticamente catalán, no entienda mi español. Y que este mismísimo che, venga de Argentina. En un país tan re-de-qu-educado en su propia cultura, que llegue la presentadora de la tele y atreva a nombrar a Hugo Chavez el segundo liberador de Venezuela. Querido público, he llegado. Con la amargura de la tristeza y la frustración, me sonrío al espejo. Mi imagen tine la misma expresión.

Estoy para cantar el tango por tiento:

Vecina dame limones
dame sal y perejil
toma este beso
de cal y jazmín
toma este beso
de cal y jazmín

I´m sorry for those of us who are not Hispanofiles. Here is the link to google translate.

Tuesday... well, tuesday.

Pugeu!! Pugeu!! Oi, noia, com ets dius? Mira, posa't aquí i vas aquí darrera per donar suport als braços de Javi. Has d'estar molt enganxada al Javi, per si de cas caigui la pinya!!

Go up, go up. Oi, girl, get here and go here to support your arms behind Javi. You have to be very attached to Javi, just in case falls pinya. (Translation thanks to Google Translate, but pretty close to how it would sound in English.)

The words of the colla (castell) leader,
(can't remember his name).

Well, Tuesday I was bored. Uninspired. Busy.

Then, I went out. It started with the Castells. I met Regina, 21 years old... with the eyes of a thirty year old. We traded stories, her history of medical insurance of Spain, private practices, physiotherapy, for stories of Newport Beach blonds with butt implants and bleached smiles. After the third phone call, and the 2nd cigarette we rambled over to the castell itself, found some faixas (fajas-kind of like a cloth girdle) and got into the pinya. It was pretty impressive, if I can say so myself, because the whole castell moved about 30 feet (a human tower of three people) and climbed a stair. All without falling. A person standing on another person's shoulders... yes standing, and then another person climbs on the first person's shoulder. So you have a person standing on a person's shoulders who is standing on a person's shoulders. And then moving, 53 feet, and then climbing a stair.

And then, I went to las Ramblas. And Cafe Royal, and met Antonio Agujetas Chico, "El Puchero", and first, let me say that this man is talented. Segundo, Guapa (ya sabes a quien me dirigo), que tienes un sobrino super majo, y buena gente. ¡Qué arte tiene!

I met Rafa again, found a producer un tal Claudio, and after the party... Club Siete. Ishmael, a very kind Pakistani, let the flamencos come in after their show. Geronimo Maya, who I met in the street in the Barcelona Ramblas. I can´t tell you who else. Iñakí Márquez, Gloria Belen, Edu Cortéz and his father, Gabriel. Joaquín Gómez, "El Duende", and I hope this coming week to interview Paca García, José de la Vega, Gabriel de la Tomasa...

I am exhausted.

Catalá

Well, yesterday was the first day of class. Good. Great! I have absolutely no complaints. Except, it starts and 9 am. It has never been harder to get up in the morning--between the heat, the mosquitoes and the well, the Spanish night--waking up is difficult.

I have not felt more uninspired today to write. A thick lethargy has overcome me. I am uninspired to leave the house. I am bored watching dubbed American television programs. Friends, Psyche, and I have just found the Ghost Whisperer. Wow, today is made.

I have to say, that perhaps the only event that was even relatively interesting was this unpleasant clerk (owner) in the flamenco store Flora Albaicín. Yesterday, I am looking for some castanets at a good price--not diamonds, or titaniam or even gold. Wood, perhaps plastic. But good quality. After waiting for 15 minutes while he discussed the arrival of a certain dress, a specific fabric, the delivery to a certain client, a specific time-table, the certain distributor...all the while ignoring a specific client who was waiting very patiently in the door way. The shop was so full that there was perhaps only 5 sq. feet of open space. Two racks of dresses, one low one high, with ruffles that created a fabric wall a yard from the wall.

Waiting...

Patiently waiting...

"Hola. Bon dia. Com et ajudo?"

"Hola, estoy buscando unas castañuelas. No tan caras, pero tampoco de guiri-guiri turistas."

Como las quieres?

"Pues pequeñas, no tan grandes. Me gustaría ver lo que teneis."

And now began the derision. "Pues tenemos muchos."

Okay, pues una muestra.

The only pair of castanets that he showed me were €55. Little too expensive for my budget--worth it or now. With a look of pure disgust, he grabbed it back and turned his back. I walked out, and that was it.

Well, I have a concert tonight (Flamenco) hopefully get to meet Agujetas Chico. Before which, I´m going to help with the Castells and practice Catalán.

Platja Nudista

For those dear friends and family members who are following this blog... I have a wonderful piece of information.

I have found, well... discovered... I was led to, err (*cough cough)... well, a wonderful beach. The sand is a beautiful mix of imported and uniform grains and whole seashells. The salty and warm Mediterranean sea is crystal clear. There are no jelly fish. The boardwalk of Barcelona is populated with little chiringitos, sea-side bars, situated with flawless precision to neither clutter nor leave its patrons with want. The vistas are... well, I would say that they have the potential to be other-worldly.

Yes, ladies and gentleman, I have found the nudist beach.

Hold on, I know. I would be happy to show you which metro stop (Poblenou). I would be happy to accompany you to the 7 blocks--transversing the crowded streets. It would be my pleasure to point out the interesting sights, the remains of an old Francoist factory, the gelatería... but please, señores y señoras, take care when entering the beach.

From Poblenou metro station, you head east about 10 blocks and you enter a small park. Palm trees and sandy spots in the grass advert to the presence of the beach. After climbing a small hill (that I climbed), you can get a beautiful view of the populated coast line--the skyscrapers and apartment buildings that line Barcelona's eastern boundary. I turned right. I wouldn't advise it. After carefully walking along the ridge of the small hill, I gingerly looked for a break in the fence and was more than a little surprised to find three older men washing off the beach sand "neked as jay birds."


I looked down and walked past them. (Ladies, there wasn't anything photo-worthy). The great quantity of nude men was astonishing. Nude men under umbrellas. Nude men sitting on their heels. Nude men walking to the water. Nude men; nude men and water. The Weather Girls, aside. I must have walked a half mile (burning sun, burning sand, eyes burning a little) before the medium vesture reached acceptable levels. I layed out my towel, and turn around to take off my shirt (I was wearing my swimsuit), and of the group of clothed men behind me--there is a young, but good looking African man changing from his pants into his swimshort-(just one).

Well, I spent about an hour of unsuccessfully trying to read a book about the legends and myths of Cataluña, ¡¡Dios sabe porqué!! Then dedicated myself to people watching. The man who suns himself on a public beach in the buff has to be a certain extent exhibitionist. Also the variation between reclining, face-down, face-up, standing, offer variations of the strip-tease. Only the movements are much more abrupt (my roomate would call this the Impulse Function) and I won´t mention the difference in pole.

The women on the other hand, seemed to offer more of a variation. I offer two different categories as extremes--the unblushing adamite (converts to helioatry) and the frustrated conservative. These two groups are largely recognized by the position of the torso with relation to the hips. If the torso of the upright female figure is convex--naturist. If convex, frustrated with something.

Well, I hope my experiences and digressions were amusing to you, whoever you are.

Let me know who is following this blog.

Després Sant Joan

Reflections on the night of Sant Joan.

According to the blog peliculasdelaguerracivil.blogspot.com/, there have been 28 films made about the Spanish Civil War since 1990. What I don´t understand is why it seems that every 24 of June, they sell so many noisemakers.

I have never, ever, heard any noise like the petardos of Barcelona. In all honesty. There is more of an explosion than just a noisemaker. It is like a small concussion bomb that sends old women and empty bottles flying with surprising animation. The use of this guerrilla tactic affects all levels of society in the greater area of Barcelona, small blackened circular stains litter buildings and sidewalks all over the city. During 3 days of the year, it sounds what I imaging Belgrade or Tel Aviv sound like when in war.

The city experiences a radical change: from very "straight-laced", correct and city-look-disinterested--to a loud, impulsive, and almost collegial. I refer to this last word, collegial, because as an American (read-Californian), with an artistically Andalusian accent, struggling with Catalán, there is a notable difficulty in finding a group of friends. Add, the oddity of my accent wearing off--and you have a very easy 30 seconds of conversation. I am learning to recognize the look of torpidity a good ten seconds before the habitual "Doncs bé..." and the heel turn to gyrate 90 degrees and find another source of information. Who thought that in Catalunya, there are people who don´t know castellano. "Vés a saber...!"

Cell Phone Number

Hey y'all.

I am giving my cell phone number in Spain. +34 600.655.476

Rose-colored glasses off... and to beat, a broken nose.

The orange-blossom scented nights of Seville. The fierce driving wind of Cadiz. The small town passing by in seconds as you sit in your slightly stained seat on the AVE.

Rose colored glasses.

Well, I have officially been here over a week. And the rose colored glasses are off. I don´t think I like Barcelona.

To be honest it has had a weird kind of reception planned for me. From Mr. Mickey Blue Eyes in Sants, to the well... to two nights ago.

About five in the evening, already in the street, I decided that to hell with the vacation, I need to start working on my project. I didn´t feel lucid enough to write, but to surf the internet and find names and addresses of flamenco studios--kinda. So at 5 o'clock, I find myself at the Centre Cultural toying with my phone and reading a book in Catalán which only served to infuriate me more given that the important word in each paragraph was incomprehensible.

I found the studio of Lucero Cardenas, a very cool Mexican girl from Guadalajara who is going to (maybe) give me lessons. Walking around the city, getting lost countless times, sweating like a debutant, and in the end, getting lost in the Ramblas of Barcelona.

On my way to the Café Royal, where I was going to meet Antonio (El Puchero) Agujetas, the buildings became a labyrinth of dirty sidewalks and questionable doorways. A poor mulata, standing mid-block between two groups of leering men was negotiating a "completo" with a man who was greedily scratching his balls. "¿Me haces todo por treinta?" The affirmative, and the mismatched pair disappeared into the stained linoleum of the hallway.

Turning right on the corner, the familiar tourist sights of flamenco dresses for little girls and Barça scarfs didn't seem too reassuring.

After another hour of "Ey, nena! Disco tonight? Gew wanna party?", of expensive food (a pita with a coke cost me almost 9 euros), I arrived at the Café Royal to the familiar jaunt of "Aquí, toma. Primer copa gratis."

Really?

Well, interesting environment. A bar, style 90's with stark European lighting and dark stone tables. The back room (I know! I almost had a coronary!) is a bar with peachy lighting panels and stools on two sides of the room. I met Rafa there, a friend of Agujetas, who bought me an extra copa of Kas Limón.

So no... no broken nose. Just the painful experience of having rose colored glasses forcefully removed.

Here are some videos from the night! The light is bad, and I couldn't figure how to use the camera, but just listen to the music!!

Mariano de Sant Roque, Eduardo Cortés, y caja en Café Royal 6/23/2011

Video 2.
Video 3.