So I called up Concha Vargas on Thursday night and asked if I could come and live in her house.

Before you start thinking I must have gotten a lobotomy, or fallen and hit some other more essential part of my body than my hand or foot, or have somehow changed my essential nature in one afternoon, I must explain there is a precident.

Sachiko is going to go study in Lebrija with another Japanese girl in September and when I mentioned interest, she told Concha there would be three girls, and there were arrangements being made for us to live somewhere - in her house, or perhaps also at her sister's. My friend Mai is already living there. I had intended to go down to Lebrija a while in advance and take a class and talk to her in person, but I couldn't go Wednesday cause I'd already committed to taking Juan del Gastor's class. Friday was the only day left, so I'd set it up to go down there that day.

I spent this week without dancing, sending in resumes and generally working harder than I have for a year. Academies start classes anywhere from Sept. 1 to half way through October. I realised on Thursday that unless I wanted to possibly have my month in Lebrija with Concha cut short, I'd better go during August. I had no idea if it was possible, if she might be taking holidays, and didn't realise Mai was staying. I rushed to the internet place, sent off 3 resumes in Word (which I can't do from my computer), grabbed some beach stuff, and with her phone number in hand, ran to meet Ricardo.

We headed off south to the beach, and several other locations that changed as we went. "Tell her we'll come and have a coffee with her. These interactions are always better done in person, in Spain."
I thought perhaps I might suggest that, if it seemed like it made sense, but I made myself understood despite being unsure of whether to use Tu or Usted, and with a few clarifying questions, she said sure, that she could take me for a month, and ended with, "Abrazo, cariño mio, Adios".

Yesterday I got up and looked after a few necessities and then tried to contact Fernando, who I'd told a few days before that perhaps now I wanted to stay in August, but I wasn't sure, and maybe even September. He and his family were leaving for holidays either Friday or Monday, and he told me to let him know by Friday. As I was running out the door to get the train, Fernando came by and I told him I would not be staying, so we agreed to talk today and figure stuff out.

Mai, Concha and her husband Rafael met me at the train station in Lebrija. It's a bigger town than I realised, passing it on the train between Jerez and Sevilla. This is a very flamenco town, they said. That chica is the sobrina of Joselero, Concha said, pointing at one of the girls I'd met on the train, who said she'd studied with concha for about 6 years. There are several little towns in the provinces of Sevilla and Cadiz that are not well known outside of Spain, or in circles where people aren't serious about flamenco. But for those of us who respect the tradition and where flamenco came from, these places are like gems, and those who practice flamenco in their families in a natural setting are the true maestros of the art. I've read about and listened to some of the people who live in Lebrija, and have connections to Moron and Utrera. They are the ones without big names in the wider world, but from whom the big name artists have learned, and who the big name artists want to hang out with, and whose feet they sit at. They are just as important to those of us who know their value as artists, as the famous ones.

We hung out until it got a little later and less hot. Concha and I talked, asking each other questions about our lives. She laid out her approach to teaching in a clear and emphatic way. I already sensed or could see in action, part of what she told me. The rest was what I've been looking for and not finding, for a long time.

I've never had such a simple lesson. We did Solea palmas and worked them into an entrada or salida, just sitting down, for most of the lesson. This is going to challenge me more than anything else. It is going to require breaking down and getting rid of the trauma that formal education has caused me. I cannot learn without fear, tension. I can try to turn it off in my head, try to calm myself, but anyone truly astute can read it in my eyes, can see it in my posture and when you are dancing flamenco, that becomes really obvious. She knows it. She said many teachers cause their students trauma, showing them complicated moves that they can't master except in a competitive rush. That they can't execute with soul, and with grace.

I've don't remember any teacher telling me to learn slowly and learn well. Perhaps there may have been one, but not someone who looked in my eyes and could tell what was going on, not someone who could help me see the difference between keeping time rapping my hand on the table in a relaxed and happy way, and doing the same thing with a rigid, nervous stance. I am unsure if the difference can even be heard by the ear. I am not even sure if there is a difference to the ear, but certainly it can be seen, watching a performer. And in the end, the person accomplishing the same task in the rigid manner may be able, by sheer willpower and determination, to make the same sound at the same speed, but will not be able to let creativity flow. And at that point, the difference becomes audible.

This is the story of my life, and one of my biggest obstacles. This issue is part of my family's legacy. This is why, when my formal accomplishments are praised, I don't like it. This is why my life has come to a standstill as far as work. Why I have run screaming inside, from my job, never to return. Why I have not worked for a year and can hardly stand the thought of going back to fit into a world that demands, and that I respond to by closing my heart and soul (and actually, the other physical and mental faculties directly required to meet such demands!), and jumping to attention to accomplish whatever is required by sheer mind power, dragging the rest of my being along, numbed and shut down and only half available to do whatever work it is I am trying to do.

We watch Mai dance, after the lesson. Mai is a 21 year old Japanese girl who took a class with Concha in Japan and had to come and study here with her. She's only been dancing 3 years, but she already has more than just a pretend proud gypsy look on her face. She's travelled 3 times a week to Lebrija from Sevilla, during June, and in July, moved to live with Concha. Mai and I talk for a while after our lesson, and I try to explain that I can speak both English from England, and American English, because they are the same language. I finally realise she means the accent. She loves my deep south imitation, and says it sounds more like English in the movies, and is quite please with my imitation of the Queen. Not that I know what the queen sounds like but I do my best to make a "hoity-toity" sounding voice, which is my subconscious stereotype of a British accent. Sorry, British people!

A friend on Facebook posted this clip from a Monty Python movie. This describes in a quite profound but very exaggerated way (like something the subconscious would come up with in a bad dream), the kind of pressure, especially the time pressure, I am talking about. No boss ever acts this way, but in a subtle and hidden way, this is exactly how the world feels at times.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zP0sqRMzkwo&feature=player_embedded#t=12s


Here she is:
Concha

Did you ever think that maybe you are in Sevilla because you are like the Virgenes? You are a good woman, crying. A good woman who is sad and in pain because of thoughts. Jesus has physical pain from being on the cross, but the Virgen is crying because of his pain.

Icky patriarchy has not been able to destroy the power of women in this society. Women's value, even in something as aesthetically conscious as dance (well, this dance), is not subject to some kind of superficial thing. When a woman is still allowed to show off with pride at a ripe age, there is something happening right.

angelitaaaa!

Juan del Gastor is right. She has arte. I have watched a thousand young beautiful women dancing and I am bored.

tangos

more tangos

my grandmother's habitual comment about "ungodly hours of the night" are a product not only of her religious piousness, but of geography.
i've finally gotten used to the schedule here. you do not know it but how you live your everyday life as far as overall organisation of daily tasks is dictated by your latitude on the globe, and the climate.

it goes against all instincts to close the windows and pull down the blinds from 11 am to 7 pm. this feels instinctively horrible for a canadian. no matter how much i love heat and boast about never using an air conditioner, even in the hottest parts of china, or here in spain, i now batten down the hatches. my natural way of organising my day, if it is free to organise as i choose, is to get up at 10, spend time on breakfast and then on working on some project, and finally leave the house around 1 or 2 in the afternoon. then return before dinner at 5 or 6. cook and eat around 7 or 8. go out or invite friends over around then or a bit after.

i now do it in exact reverse: up at 8, to the studio at 9. back home between 11:30 to 2 pm. stay in the house for lunch, getting stuff done, sleeping, until between 5 to 9. go out shopping anywhere between 6 to 8. or wait to go out until 9 or 10 if i don't need to buy anything. go out to meet people or stroll and read by the river around 8:30 - 10:30 and come back anywhere between 11 and 2 or 3, depending on whether i meet friends. randomly eat dinner or a snack; sometimes twice.

people head out to have dinner outside on terraces or on the sidewalk starting when the sun goes down. right now that is around 9:30 or 10. that's when it starts to get busy.

if she was andalucian she might has said that noon was ungodly!

ni hao, i managed to get it out. i spoke to the owner of the restaurante chino palacio oriental the other day and asked him, "ni shi zhongguo ren shenme difang de?" but today we spoke only in spanish. very weird for me. the first thing he told me was to elevate my arm a little more.

sevillan guys are polite and shy compared to the ones in the rest of andalucia. at least that's what it seems like after 6 months of living here. one struck up conversation about my hand tonight on the seawall (river-wall) and told me the same thing.

sling fell on the cockroach part of the floor while i was unloading groceries. i've washed that part of the floor a few times since i last saw one but the floor is just dirty... so i had to wash it and go around with a heavy arm. i feel like lazarus coem out of the tomb, it stinks and is dirty. except i can drop some oregano oil down it and poison everything in the vicinity, and smell like pizza.
besides the cast is broken now cause it's only plaster on the top. want to take it off myself but am tryignt ot stick it out till thurs

job advice from oscar: make a plan and then do it. ricardo: follow your dreams. why don't you try teaching flamenco in china? this makes me want to find out what other people think. i should start a survey. what recommendations do people have for me as far as what the heck to do.

drinking wine again en vez de vegetables and fruit. no queda none in the fridge.

i bought 3 liters of olive oil today. 1 for fryigns tuff and 2 for tostadas (using instead of butter - almost forgot tat butter exists)

ever tried doing anythin while your wrust is tied to a board? with one degree of freedom. can rotate onl8y at elbo, and hand is pretty much stuck too. tips of fingers can move, thm and forefiner.
my hand hurts and im goign to go read some of isabel allende before i sleep.

the fresh rosemary lining the floor of the open courtyard was worth the E20 to get in. i left sevilla at 6 with sachiko and danielle and arrived in puebla de cazalla a while later to find that there was only one hotel in town. we walked down the lifeless streets and crossed the roundabout leading to the highway, found the hotel by the gas station, "completa". i really wondered what we were thinking trying to get a hotel room in the only existing hotel a few hours before a festival. i considered calling ricardo and begging him to rescue three flamenco dancers in distress, on his way back from jerez. despite being completa, they decided they could give us one remaining room.

i have never seen so much security at a flamenco show, and in a tiny pueblo. i wondered if it had anything to do with the history of the town, which i've been reading about. one of the singers on the bill has been a vocal activist all his life and in particular, at the end of franco's reign. the town has seen some bloody times, and had some difficulties between rich land-owners/police, and the poverty stricken.

there is not a lot of music besides flamenco for which i can describe my reaction as being riveted. this happens to me commonly here, particularly with good singing. there are moments where i become perfectly still, with everything in me glued to what i am seeing and hearing.
flamenco cultivates rawness. if that is not a total oxymoron. it is the antidote to the things that dull my life and attempt to take it away from me.

the festival started at 11 and lasted past 5 am. we left while jose menese was singing a solea. the large courtyard was still full.

diego clavel stood out the most for me. a white haired man with a face like my uncle al. he wore a very smart suit with cufflinks (they dress well, in festivals of this sort). he sang unusual letras like stories or parables, that i've never heard before - beautiful. he had a number of long melismatic bits, in a soft voice, which would occassionally end in a sudden, gut-wrenching voice of fury that he grabbed from somewhere inside himself to tear away all else on the surface and be exposed.

we loved cancanilla, a festero (fun, joking, combining his singing with some well placed dance moves) from malaga. pretty much everyone who took the stage had an illustrious string of flamencos they'd worked with or toured the world with. diego del gastor's grand-nephew danced. to me his face bore a strong resemblance, despite being a grand-newphew and likewise his absolutely calm, rock- like solidity in dance is how i would describe diego's guitar playing. i liked it but my compañera did not. it seemed to go back to older times when stance and attitude meant as much as fireworks. his movements were completely economical (control). rubito hijo was awesome. we heard a lot of incredible siguiriyas. none of us were as impressed by la moneta (the only female dancer) as we'd expected. she was still incredible, and totally different from any other dancer.

last night i loved andalucia so much.

"i have really good digestion," says ricardo, who is sitting across from me at a bar in my neighborhood where i never go. "i have a stomach like a goat." He takes the empty plastic bag from the picos, and crinkles it up, pretending to stuff it in his mouth and eat it.
"you are a nervous woman," he replies in answer to my statement that he is lucky, and that i always have such problems.

ricardo arrived here a few days ago from germany where he was doing a tour. i have gotten a few pep talks since he arrived. i also got introduced to andres (marin) a well known dancer and choreographer and buddy of ricardo's, who does very modern shows. "no, not modern," says andres. they come from his experience with the more pure flamenco that almost doesn't exist any more. he just doesn't do the same old thing like farruquito, all the time.

the guy is going ooo-eee next door. my cheek burns slightly from a spicy pepper. i can tie my dance shopes but cant put on a bra. can drnk wine but cant take out garbage. can still put on makeup but cannot mop te floor.

alicia cut up my loaf of bread. i tried leaning on it with my rught rm and cutting w. left. very hard. cutting cheese also impossivl. at the abaceria the cut it for me. today and yesterday been cooler than normal. good because tking a shoer 3-4 times a day isnt feasible. danced this morning and then picked up 2 dresses that arent indecent without bra. clothes vthese days are not all woven cotten like the 60s. literally cant do that any more with spandexy rayon or whatever. tired of typing goodbye

ps doing dishes is possible but very difficlut very funny. try pushing a sponge across a rotating plate or along a moving knife.

1 armed flamenco dancer

still have other one, it  is just in a cast.. worse, its actually my hand. jumped off a fence and weight of upper body landed on hand bending fingers backwards farther than i thought possible without dislocating or breaking sth.

was just about to rent a piano, ironically. virgen macarena hospital looked after me well, not much wait at 9am (happened last night and while it freaked me completely out and i did realise immediately the danger for long term ligament/tedon health, nothing seemed broken). worase in the night and realised it had to be looked at. luckily hospital contacted insuarnec comp. directly so had nothing to pay out directly.

was intending to go to beach today in cadiz w/. amanda.
not much point taking classes like this. impossible to turn, except for a few limited technique exervises. suppoose i'll be practicing a lot of footwork.

going to be very hard to do anyrhing at all. thius is not easy, attempting to cover entire keyboard w. left hand, but it is much easier than doing a lot of other things w. only one hand.

try cutting cheese w. only left hand, brushing teeth, pulling on clothes or even wiping bum. and i cant get it wet. incredibly it is cool today, frst time in more than a month. going to be hard to bear lack of easy showering in this heat.